by Greg Keyes
“I meant only to free her,” Sul said. “If you hadn’t fought me, the ingenium would never have been damaged.”
“You put yourself and your desires ahead of our people, Sul. And all you see is the result.”
“You’re twisting it all up,” Sul said. “You know what happened.”
Vuhon shrugged again. “It’s not important to me anymore. Did you find the sword?”
“What sword?”
Vuhon’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you didn’t find it. My taskers certainly haven’t.” His voice rose and his calm broke. Attrebus suddenly seemed to hear boundless anger and violence in the Dunmer’s tone. “Where is it?” he shouted.
“What do you want with it?” Attrebus asked.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I think everything about you is my concern,” Attrebus snapped back. “Whatever happened in the past, you’re many thousands of times a murderer now. All those people in Black Marsh …”
Vuhon sat back, seemed to relax. His voice became once again maddeningly tranquil.
“I can’t really deny that,” he admitted.
For a moment Attrebus was stunned by the casual confession.
“But why?” he asked finally.
“Look around you,” Vuhon said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Almost against his will, Attrebus once again took in the sight of Umbriel.
“Yes,” he was forced to confess.
“This is my city,” Vuhon said. “My world. I do what I must to protect it.”
“Protect it from what? How does destroying my world save yours? Are there no souls to feed on in Oblivion?”
Vuhon seemed to consider that for a moment.
“I’m not sure why I should waste my time telling you,” he replied. “I’ll most likely have to kill you anyway.”
“If that’s so, why haven’t you done so?”
“There are things you know that might be helpful to me,” Vuhon replied. “Or, if you could be convinced, do for me.”
“Convince me, then,” Attrebus said. “Explain all of this.”
Vuhon ran his thumb under his lips and shrugged.
“Sul told you how we were cast into Oblivion? How we met Umbra, and the deal I made with him?”
“Yes,” Attrebus replied. “And how you tortured him.”
Vuhon’s grin turned a little nasty. “Yes, but I grew bored with that. I could never torture him as much as he tortured himself.”
“A problem I won’t have with you,” Sul said.
“Ah, Sul. You really haven’t changed.”
The red bowls were gone, replaced by skewers of slowly writhing orange caterpillars.
“Vile had made it impossible for Umbra to leave his realm, and after your escape, Sul, he tightened his walls further so that I couldn’t leave either, even if I’d had the means. The only way to escape was to circumvent his restriction, to remain in his realm, at least in a way. I built my ingenium, I powered it with Umbra and the energies he had stolen from Vile. I turned our city, wrapped those circumscribed walls around it. Twisted it like a sausage maker twists a casing to form a link, the way a child might an inflated pig’s bladder to form a double ball. Twisted it until it broke loose, like a bubble.”
He bit one of the caterpillars, and it exploded into a butterfly, which he caught by the wing and devoured.
“That was a long time ago,” he went on. “We’ve drifted through many realms and places beyond even Oblivion. We cannot leave the city—Vile’s circumscription still surrounds it. Nor would I want to leave it—I’ve come to love this place I built. To survive in those long spaces between the worlds, we had to become a little universe of our own, a self-sustaining cycle of life and death and rebirth, a continuum of matter and spirit—all powered, manipulated, mediated by my ingenium. We’ve moved beyond the inefficiency some call ‘natural,’ and in doing so approach perfection. Everything here is in a real sense a part of everything else, because all flows from the ingenium.”
Sul—off to the right and in the corner of Treb’s vision—made a sudden gesture with his hands. Without turning his head, Attrebus shifted his gaze the tiniest bit. The Dunmer’s lips moved in an exaggerated fashion.
Keep him talking, Attrebus thought he was saying.
Attrebus put his full focus on Vuhon, who didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Not so self-sustaining,” he countered. “Your world feeds on souls from the outside world.”
Vuhon nodded. “I said we ‘approach’ perfection. Beyond Mundus, our need for sustenance is minimal. In some places, not necessary at all. Here, on this heavy plane of clay and lead, much more is required.”
“Then why have you come here?”
“Because this is one place that Clavicus Vile cannot pursue us, at least not in the fullness of his power.”
“Then you’ve won,” Attrebus said. “You’re free. Why are you still running? Surely there must be some way to land this thing—in a valley, a lake—someplace?”
“It’s not that simple,” Vuhon answered. “Vile can still work against us. He can send mortal followers to assassinate me, for instance.” He nodded pointedly at Sul.
“Sul’s not an agent of Clavicus Vile,” Attrebus protested.
“Do you know that? He was in Oblivion for a long time. And he hates me enough to make whatever bargains he thinks will get him his revenge. But that aside—Umbriel isn’t fully in your world yet.”
“Yet?”
Vuhon shook his head. “No, we remain a sort of bubble of Oblivion in Mundus, and as such we’re vulnerable. But I’ve found a way to change that, and to be free of Clavicus Vile forever.”
“And you need this sword of Umbra to do that?”
Again, that sudden uncharacteristic rage seemed to rise up in Vuhon.
“No,” he all but snarled.
“But you do want it,” Sul said, breaking his long silence. “It can still undo you, can’t it? Where is Umbra, Vuhon? You said he powers your ingenium. If Umbra is re-imprisoned in the sword, what becomes of your beautiful city?”
Vuhon seemed to be actually shaking with rage. He closed his eyes and drew long deep breaths. When he finally did speak again, it was in even tones.
“We didn’t come just for the sword,” he said. “I came to repair the rift into Vile’s realm, and now that’s done. Umbra wanted to find the weapon, and we shall still look for it, but we have other agents that can do that. If you know where it is, I will find out, I promise you. But it’s time to turn my attentions elsewhere.”
“Why didn’t you use these other ‘agents’ of yours in the first place?” Attrebus asked.
“They couldn’t have sealed the rift. Besides, this little meander gave me time to build my army. It’s already marching, you know. The walkers need not remain near Umbriel—they can go where I choose.” He scratched his chin. “And here is where you might prove yourself useful to me, Prince Attrebus,” he said.
“Why should I want to do that?” Attrebus asked.
“To preserve your own life, and the lives of many of your people. And to finally be the man you want to be.”
A little spark traveled up his spine. “What do you mean, ‘the man I want to be’?”
“I mean I suspect that your adventures have probably caused you to learn that much of your fame is based on fraud.”
“How do you know that?” Attrebus asked, backing away. “If you’ve just come from Oblivion …”
“Don’t you see?” Sul shouted. “He has someone inside the palace. That’s who tried to have you killed.”
“Is this true?” Attrebus challenged.
“Your fame was the problem, apparently. My ally feared you might create popular demand to attack Umbriel before we were ready, and to make the siege more bitter.”
“Siege?”
“Regrettably, I must attack the Imperial City. I suspect they will resist.”
“Why must you attack the city?”
“I need
the city,” Vuhon said. “Specifically, I need to reach the White-Gold Tower. Then all of this can end. The dying can stop, and I can bring Umbriel to rest somewhere. If you want to save lives, all you need do is convince your father not to fight—better yet, to evacuate.”
“My father spent his life putting the Empire back together. There’s no way he would surrender the White-Gold Tower. I certainly couldn’t convince him.”
“You could try. It’s the offer I’m making you. I have gifts for you, the kind that only a god can bestow. You can return to Cyrodiil and lead your people to safety. You can be a real hero.”
Attrebus looked at Sul, then back out at the city.
“What about Sul?”
Vuhon ate another butterfly.
“Sul is mine. I’ll learn what he knows and then he will die.”
“If you murder Sul, I’ll never help you.”
“Think carefully, Prince. I could have lied to you and told you he would live. I didn’t. If you don’t help me, you’ll die, too. And then I will still take what I want at whatever cost of life is required.”
Annaïg felt sheer exhilaration as she rushed through the air. The first time she’d been too terrified to even begin to enjoy it. This time she felt it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever done.
She glanced back at the receding bulk of Umbriel. Nothing was following them. No one seemed to have noticed, and no one would until Toel came looking for her. By then she and Glim would be a hundred miles away.
She gripped Glim’s hand harder, just a friendly squeeze, but something about it felt strange. She glanced at over at him.
At first she thought he was surrounded by a stray wisp of cloud, but then she saw it was him, starting to bleed like a water-color that had been spilled on.
And, looking at her hand, so was she.
Attrebus fell silent for a long moment. Sul could practically see the thoughts turning in his head. The boy he’d rescued from kidnappers wouldn’t have thought about it at all—he had believed himself the hero the ballads spoke of, and that man would never turn on a companion.
But he knew that Attrebus was a little more pragmatic now. He might even be capable of making the right decision, to sacrifice him, buy himself time.
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t die, not before he killed Vuhon. And Vuhon had made a mistake just now.
And Attrebus had given him almost all the time he needed.
Sul closed his eyes.
“How long do I have to make my decision?” he heard Attrebus ask.
“Not long,” Vuhon said. “Sul, what are you—”
Pain jagged through Sul, crippling, nightmarish hurt that once would have paralyzed him. But he’d felt it before, and worse, and all he had to do was reach through it, past their confinement, through the walls between worlds to find it there, waiting. Angry.
“Come!” he commanded.
“You shouldn’t have told me we were in Oblivion!” Sul shouted.
And all around them glass whinged and shattered.
Colin had to run. Out the window, down the street, away. Everything in him screamed for him to run.
That’s how mice die, the small sane part of him thought. They see the shadow of the hawk, they run …
He remembered the man he’d stabbed again, the confusion in his eyes as the blade struck him, the desire to live, to breathe just a little longer. Had he been the hawk then? He hadn’t felt like one.
A boy was once born with a knife instead of a right hand …
He felt tired. He wanted to give up, get it over with. But there was a rot in the core of the Empire, in the palace itself. And only he seemed to care.
So he drew himself in, held the darkness to him closer than a lover, and tried to clear his mind as he heard the thing come around the corner.
He felt its gaze touch him, but he kept his own on the floor, knowing that if he saw it, he would lose all control. The stairs creaked beneath its weight, and he felt it brush by him. It paused for a long moment, then continued up.
A few moments later it came down, turned back around the corner. After what seemed an eternity, he felt the air wrench again, followed by the quiet opening and closing of the door. The house was still.
He sat there, unable to move, until the smell of smoke brought him out of it. Heart thudding, he ran downstairs.
The fire was already everywhere on the ground floor, but he could still see that the bodies looked almost as if they had exploded. It would take hours to figure out how many of them there were.
He went back up and out through the window. He wished he’d been able to search the house, to find some clue as to Arese’s reason for wanting the prince dead.
And for that matter, why she hadn’t killed the prince herself.
A few questions in the right places would tell him which crime lord had just died, but that was moot at this point. No, he’d found out what he really wanted to know—Arese arranged the massacre.
The next question—the most dangerous one—was whether she was working alone, or just the point of a larger knife.
Attrebus had the barest glimpse of something horrible before he found himself suddenly free of both detention and support; he was falling. He reached out desperately and caught one of the broken tubes, which was whipping about like a dying snake.
He turned his gaze up and saw the thing again, a phantasmal mass of chitinoid limbs and wings that felt like scorpion and hornet and spider all together. A lot of the strands—including those holding him—had been shattered by its arrival, but plenty were groping at it now from farther away, trying to wrap it up as it surged toward Vuhon. It tore through them, but they slowed it down.
Vuhon—still supported—stood, and a long whip of white-hot flame lashed out at the thing. One of its claws fell off, but the same attack sheared through the protecting tubes.
Attrebus was now below and behind Vuhon, and the tendrils seemed to have forgotten him. He sheathed Flashing so as to free both hands. The tube he held was now swaying rhythmically; when it came nearest Vuhon, he grabbed another and began climbing toward him. The nearer he got, the easier it was, for the web was still thickest beneath the enemy.
Another flaming chunk of beast fell past him, and he tried to climb faster. If Vuhon was distracted by the thing, he might have a chance, but if he wasn’t, that whip of flame would turn on him.
He was still twenty feet away when what passed for the daedra’s head came off, and Vuhon’s quick gaze found him. Suddenly the tendrils became rigid again, and Attrebus howled in frustration.
That was when Sul came hurtling down from above and smashed into the glassy foliage that held him. Attrebus had a glimpse of him, of the blood on his lips and the drooling from his nose, and then Sul’s wiry hand pushed through to grasp his shoulder. The Dunmer’s eyes were tortured and his voice cracked.
“Not now,” he said.
The falling-everywhere-at-once sensation hit him again, and Umbriel vanished.
EPILOGUE
Annaïg sat with Glim for an hour weeping, turning her gaze out to a world that wouldn’t have her anymore.
“I don’t understand,” Glim murmured. “We weren’t born here.”
Annaïg looked at her friend’s forlorn face, sighed, and wiped away her tears.
Enough of that, she thought.
“I don’t understand either,” she said. “But I’m going to.”
“What do you mean?” Glim asked.
“We can’t leave. We have to go back, and I have to figure out how to—cure this, fix it, whatever’s causing this.”
“Everything doesn’t have a cure or a fix,” Glim replied. “Sometimes there really isn’t any going back.”
No,” she said softly, thinking of Lilmoth, of her father, of a life now more like the memory of a dream than anything that had ever been real. She had been dreaming, hadn’t she? Playacting. This was the first real thing that had ever happened to her.
“No,” she repeated. “Glim, we
go forward. But I promise you, forward will one day take us away from here. Just … not now.”
And so they sat together for a while longer before going back down to the dock, and there they said their goodbyes.
Coming out of the pantry, she stopped at the threshold. Even the hobs were gone now, and the kitchen—for another few hours—would be truly silent.
And she imagined she saw herself again, that ghost of her with that faint smile on her face, looking confident, effective, filled with secrets.
“Okay,” she said, softly. “Okay.”
And she entered the kitchen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Meridian, MS, 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, GA, where, in addition to full-time writing, he enjoys cooking, fencing, the company of his family and friends and lazy Savannah nights. 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 bestselling Star Wars novels in the New Jedi Order series.
The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2009 ZeniMax Media Inc. ZeniMax, Bethesda Softworks, Bethesda Game Studios, The Elder Scrolls, Oblivion and Morrowind are trademarks or registered trademarks of ZeniMax Media Inc. in the US and/or other countries. Used under license. All Rights Reserved.