Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel

by Greg Keyes

  But he knew soon enough he was either going to bleed to death or drown in his own blood.

  Letine must have known or guessed where the stairs were—they hadn’t been on his map. He doubted it was a coincidence that the steps began at a hidden door in Hierem’s chambers; the minister must have been thinking about this moment for a long time. Colin guessed the secret stairway was hidden just below the much broader, higher staircase that led up from the Emperor’s quarters to the summit of the White-Gold Tower.

  He moved slower now, but knew he couldn’t stop again.

  He heard her before he saw her, or in fact saw any light at all. She was talking to herself, but he couldn’t make out the words. Presently he encountered a flat surface, and after a little searching found the catch that opened it.

  He’d expected to be on the summit of the tower, but instead saw a large, low-ceilinged room. Signs and sigils were painted all over the floor, familiar to him from the diagram he’d seen in Hierem’s chambers. Fires of strange colors flickered on some, while arcane objects of various size were on others. Letine stood in the center of the room, what was probably the very axis of the tower. Beyond her, a long, broad window showed him a little sky but mostly a vast rocky surface that resembled a mountain—except it was moving, steadily growing in size.

  “Come here,” she was saying.

  “You mean to steal its power,” Colin said, on his knees on the floor.

  Letine spun to face him, surprise evident on her face.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I knew I should have …” She started to walk toward him, but seemed to think better of it.

  “Should have finished me off,” he replied.

  She shrugged. “I’m usually more efficient. I think I must have let my emotions cloud my judgment this time.”

  “So you do love me,” Colin said with a rueful chuckle.

  She took him seriously. “I might have,” she said, “under other conditions. But I know you would have tried to stop me.”

  “Hierem tricked Umbriel, didn’t he? He planned to use all of this to siphon off the souls the city collects. And you used me to get it.”

  “I didn’t know exactly what he was up to,” she said. “Not until a few days ago. Hierem imagined it would make him a god. I don’t know about that. But I do know I’ll have enough power to never be afraid again, to take what I want from this life, this world.” She looked out the window.

  “It’s almost here, Colin. Once it happens, there is no need for you to die. I can fix your body.”

  “Maybe,” he said, crawling forward on his hands and knees. “But the things I need fixed, you can’t do a thing about.”

  “Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

  “If you’re not right in the middle, it won’t work, will it?” he asked. “What if this isn’t right here?” He reached to move a crystal sphere with silvery wire wound about it.

  Her eyes rolled back as she started to summon something.

  He yanked the knife from his chest; blood from his wound gouted onto the floor. He sat back on his heels, cocked his arm, and threw.

  Letine looked up at the ceiling and took a step back. He thought he’d missed, at first, but then she toppled back and he saw the hilt of the dagger standing from her eye.

  He sat there, watching her for a moment. The air crackled, and rainbow colors flickered about the construct she lay in. He heard what might have been voices, calling from far away.

  Outside, the rock face was so near he could almost touch it—then it seemed to turn sideways, before it vanished, leaving behind a boom like a thousand thunders at once.

  “Attrebus,” he murmured. “Good for you.”

  He managed to get to the window. It was solid, thick as stone, but transparent. He wondered idly if it was transparent from the other side as well, or if it appeared as stone.

  He looked out across the city and Lake Rumare, to the green valley beyond, and watched it as his eyes dimmed.

  He felt the breeze on his face, heard it sigh through the willows. He put his little boat in the stream and watched it carried away, and wondered where it would go, wishing he could be with it, share its adventures. He dipped his hands in the stream and took a breath that went on and on, filling him, at last, with peace.

  They met up with what was left of the Twelfth Legion a few hours from sundown and pushed the wormies into the wall. They cleared the gate and set up positions to defend it from another siege.

  Mazgar and Brennus found themselves on the western flank of the action, where little or no fighting was going on.

  Umbriel was closer than Mazgar had ever seen it, blocking most of the sky, casting a shadow east that she couldn’t see the end of, the strange light of its soul-stealing filaments dominating her field of view. What would it feel like when she was beneath it? If she grabbed one of the things, would it pull her up? Had that been tried?

  She heard a commotion off to the west, and Brennus swore. She started to ask what the matter was but then saw.

  Wormies—thousands of them—were swarming from the west, pushing what remained of the cavalry before them. That wasn’t enough for the gods, apparently—more were pouring from the lake and from the east, as if every single one of them had been called to this one place on the wall.

  “Why?” she grunted as they hastily tightened ranks.

  “This is where Umbriel is crossing over,” Brennus said.

  “So? There’s no gate here to breach.”

  “Not yet,” Brennus said.

  Mazgar growled, raised Blondie’s shield, and locked it with her companions on the left and right.

  The wormies came at a dead-on run, in nothing resembling ranks. They reminded Mazgar of ants, converging on a bit of offal.

  The first shock slid them back two yards, leaving a pile of the enemy like a low wall before them. But that didn’t deter the foe in the slightest; they scrambled up over each other and tried to run over the line, using the soldiers’ heads and shoulders as steppingstones. They needed spearmen, but those were mostly at the gate, where the main assault had been until moments ago.

  Mazgar roared her battle cry and sent Sister chopping over her shield. Maggots and putrefaction spattered on her face; she could taste them on her tongue, and like a tide coming in, more and more of them rolled out of the water.

  “The wall,” she heard Brennus gasp.

  She had a second a moment later to spare a glance to see what he meant. Their left flank had collapsed, but instead of rolling up the line, the wormies were throwing themselves on the wall, building ladders with their bodies. Above, the sky was bright with eruptions and incandescences, making a strange semblance of daylight that revealed the rotting faces leering at her, making colored jewels of their filmed eyes.

  Another wave of wormies hit, and they were pushed back almost to the wall itself, and more of them were ignoring her completely now as they tried to join their comrades in their insane climb.

  The man on her right fell, and as four wormies poured into the gap, she felt a bright and terrible pain in her side. Howling, she swung her shield and decapitated one as she slung it off, then took Sister two-handed to slay other wormies.

  Above, Umbriel passed over the wall, undeterred.

  Brennus cried out and fell against her from behind. With a grunt she swept one arm back, found him, and retreated until his spine was against the wall. A semicircle of blue flame arced out around them, and she braced for the wormies to come through, but they didn’t. More likely they were just going around.

  It was over.

  Brennus lay against the stone, heaving ragged breaths. She saw his wound, and felt her heart go cold.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she replied.

  “Right,” he coughed. “But I’ll bet this is good enough.”

  “Brenn—”

  “I know,” he said. “I know what you have to do.”

  “Don’t worry,
” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “It’s been an honor,” he said. “I may have said some things …”

  “You were right,” she said.

  The look of surprise on his face almost made her laugh. “About what?”

  “Children. I would have liked to have done that.”

  “I hope you know it wasn’t a proposition,” he replied weakly.

  “Yeah,” she said. The fire was starting to die. “I’ve gotta do it now.”

  He nodded.

  She raised Sister, fixed her gaze on Brenn’s throat.

  Then the sky seemed to crack, and her ears popped before a wind from above slapped her to her knees.

  Ears ringing, she fought back to her feet. Something had changed. She looked out over the ebbing flames and didn’t see any motion. Wormies were everywhere, piled against the wall as if blown there. But not a damn one of them was even so much as twitching.

  She lowered her sword.

  “What do you think happened?” she asked Brennus.

  He didn’t answer, and when she realized he wasn’t ever going to, she slid down next to him and wept, unashamed, until the sun came up.

  EPILOGUE

  Attrebus tapped his fingers on the sill of a high, narrow window in time to the jubilant music drifting up from below. The streets were filled with color and life, the air with delicious scents of roasted meat, fried fish, and pastry. In the wake of the vacance of Umbriel, his father had thrown open the storehouses, flooding the city with food and wine. Across town the arena hosted spectacle after spectacle, and tonight everything would culminate in the Emperor’s appearance and the presentation of the heroes.

  “There you are, Attrebus,” a strong voice behind him said.

  “Hello, Father,” he said, turning. The elder Mede hadn’t yet changed into his formal costume, but wore a simple robe over shirt and breeches. He seemed distracted by something, a bit unsure of himself, and that, to Attrebus, was a very strange thing.

  “I apologize for not seeing you alone earlier,” his father said.

  “You’re the Emperor, father,” Attrebus said. “I know you have many burdens.”

  “That’s true. But … I am a father, also. I forget that sometimes.”

  Attrebus nodded, uncertain how to answer. His father looked away, then took four quick strides and, to his astonishment, took him in his arms and wrapped him in a bear hug.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said. “I was sure of it. And my entire fault, for encouraging—allowing—the situation to develop as it did. I never meant you any harm, son. Quite the contrary.”

  “I know that, Father,” Attrebus assured him.

  “And look at you now,” the Emperor said, stepping back. “A man. A hero.”

  “I’m not a hero,” Attrebus said. “Whatever all of this has taught me, it’s that I’m not that. Sul was a hero, and Annaïg, and Mere-Glim, and the countless soldiers who died outside of these walls. I was frightened, I made mistakes, at times I wasn’t even sure what I was doing or why I was doing it.”

  “And yet you did it anyway,” his father said. “What in the world do you think a hero is if not someone who does just that?”

  “I’m not the man in the songs.”

  Titus Mede rolled his eyes. “Of course you aren’t. Neither am I. We’re both better than those guys.”

  “You were the real thing,” Attrebus said.

  “In a way, perhaps. But you saved the Imperial City, perhaps all of Tamriel.”

  “You really believe me, then? About what happened?”

  “You were never the dishonest one, Attrebus,” his father said. “The lies never came from you. It has always been in your character to tell the truth. And in this case, the story is really too fantastical to have been made up. Besides, there were witnesses to the flight of you and the girl from the city. Never fear, tonight you will be given your due. The people will know their prince was their salvation.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I’ve had time to think,” the Emperor said. “I’ve changed my mind. The Synod and the College of Whispers may wish to claim credit for this victory, but I will not let them, not at your expense. Our people will know the truth.”

  “They shouldn’t,” Attrebus said.

  His father gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’ve never been very interested in politics, Father, but I’ve been catching up these past few days. With Hierem dead, you have a dangerous situation on your hands. You need the support of the council, and to have that you must have the support of the Synod and the College of Whispers. Besides which, those two groups have been at each other’s throats for years—here, they are claiming to have worked together. Perhaps it can be a start to their reconciliation.”

  “Are you saying I should give them credit?”

  “Yes,” Attrebus said. “Gods know I’ve gotten the credit for so many things I shouldn’t have—I can stand to relinquish what little I may be due here, if it’s what’s best for the Empire.”

  His father stared at him for a moment, and Attrebus swore he saw a bit of moisture film his eyes.

  “You really have returned a man,” the Emperor said. “More than that—a prince.”

  “Maybe not yet,” Attrebus said. “But it’s time I started trying to fill that role the way it should be—don’t you agree?”

  “Very much,” his father replied.

  Annaïg twitched the reins of her dappled gray mare and enjoyed the play of light and shadow in the forest around her. Attrebus rode a few feet away. It was strange to be with him, to see him, and to be silent; when they had known each other through Coo and the magic locket, every moment of contact had been filled with words.

  The silence went on a bit longer, but inevitably Attrebus broke it.

  “How are you feeling now?” he asked.

  “I hardly know,” she replied. “It’s all very strange, isn’t it? To be so afraid.”

  “Afraid?” he said, sounding puzzled. “I—well, I’m hurt. I grieve for Sul. But I don’t think I’m afraid.”

  “You are. You’re afraid of talking to me, as I am to you. Strange, isn’t it, after all that time we strove to keep each other’s company, to have a single word between us. And now …” She shrugged.

  He stroked the mane of his horse. “Things happened to me,” he said. “Things I don’t want to talk about. I thought at first I was broken in a way that could never heal, that the best thing I could do was die. That’s how I felt when we finally met. I didn’t have anything to say to you because I didn’t have anything to say to anyone. And I know you had experiences that—”

  “Yes,” she said, cutting him off.

  “And now …” he began, but did not finish.

  She felt a sort of heaviness in her heart.

  “Now what?” she said.

  “I’ve begun to see that one day I will feel human again. I may never be the same, but I will have something to offer—ah, to someone—if they could be patient with me.”

  “Someone?”

  He nodded. “You, of course,” he said softly. “I’ve never learned anyone the way I learned you. I’m not sure what I thought love was before. I’m not sure I can define what I think it is now. But I cannot imagine life without you. I want to know you better and better as the years go by. I just need—patience.”

  She felt a little smile trying to lift the corners of her mouth, and perhaps it did, a very little.

  “I’m not a patient girl by nature,” she said. “I tend to rush into things or fall off of them. But if you can be patient with me, I can be patient with you.”

  And so they fell silent again, and let the music of the forest entertain them.

  Far away, another man and woman listened to a deeper, stranger music and watched the luminescent films they had named wisperills do their slow, colorful aerial dances, as if welcoming them. The trees hummed and murmured, not as before, but with the strength of
the millions that spread out and away in the strange land, whose great boughs supported the island when it could no longer fly and helped settle it deep in boggy ground.

  Fhena leaned back against Glim and exhaled deeply. “This is a nice place,” she said. “I like it.”

  “So do I,” he said. “What I’ve seen of it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that I don’t know where we are. At first I imagined that we would be returned to Clavicus Vile’s realm, but although I’ve never been there, I don’t think this can be that place.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “This is where the trees are from, not Umbriel.”

  “But where is it?”

  “Home,” she said softly.

  “Well,” he said. “Now.”

  “Always.”

  He smiled, and surrendered for a moment to contentment—after all, it surrounded him. Everyone wasn’t content, of course. Down below, with the lords gone, the chefs and others who considered themselves elevated were doing their best to kill each other. But the skraws and fringe workers were free, and many of them had already left the city to find their livings in the lush world around them.

  “What do you think that is?” he asked, pointing to a sort of spire near the horizon.

  “I don’t know,” Fhena said. “A rock? An old building? What about it?”

  “Tomorrow I think I’ll walk over and find out,” he said.

  “Fine,” she replied. “But tomorrow.” And she nestled deeper in his arms, and they watched the wisperills dance.

  For Richard Curtis

  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.