Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel (19 page)

Hours passed and no one came down, so she bid Yeum goodnight and went to her bed.

Sleep eluded her, however, despite her fatigue, so instead she rose and went to her old workbench in the kitchens, where the tree-wine vats were, and idly sifted through the powders and potions while she thought.

She was a chef now, master of a kitchen, and not a negligible one. But for how long? She doubted there was anywhere to go from here but down. She might have tried to poison Umbriel, but she knew in her gut that any such attempt would fail, and she’d lose any chance she had of accomplishing anything. But if Attrebus was right, if Umbriel, the ingenium that kept it aloft, and the Histlike trees Mere-Glim had discovered were all connected by a flow of soul-force, then she ought to be able to poison the whole system. Lord Umbriel was likely untouchable; she knew where the ingenium was, but Glim hadn’t found any way to reach it other than through the apparently deadly connexion at the bottom of the sump.

But the trees—them, she could reach.

And so she began making a poison.

Some believed that poison was the antithesis of food, but Annaïg knew better. Most food was poison to one extent or another, especially plants, many of which had to be pounded or soaked or boiled or all three to divest them of enough toxins to make them even edible. Too many beans eaten raw could be fatal—the same was true of almonds, cherry pits, apple seeds. Nutmeg, when taken in large amounts, could give strange visions, and in higher doses, death. Alcohol, while pleasant, was indisputably a poison. The body dealt with these things, but over time, eventually, the body failed. Everything one ate brought one closer to one’s last meal, and not just in a metaphorical sense.

So while she hadn’t made much in the way of poison, it came as naturally to her as cooking or concocting tonics to allow flight
or breathing water. And in learning how to use the stolen souls that pulsed through the cables of Umbriel, she now had the knowledge to create a venin of a more than merely physical nature. She could blacken the whole system if she did things right. And she could make gallons of it—tons, maybe—before anyone questioned what she was doing, now that the kitchen was hers.

She worked almost until dawn, when she had something she was almost happy with. The only problem was testing it, and she couldn’t think of any good way to do that. In the end she knew she would have to take a risk.

She hid it in her cabinet. Tomorrow she would work on it a bit more, and then set up a larger production in the tree-wine vats—and then, well, she would see.

She had sent Slyr to certain destruction. She had killed Toel. Neither were good people, but if in the end their deaths didn’t serve some higher purpose, she didn’t think she could bear it. If she was now a murderer, it had to have been for something.

And maybe, as Umbriel died, she and Glim might find a way off of it. Maybe. But if not … such was life. Everyone died.

When she reached her room, she found two men and a woman waiting for her. They wore simple robes of gray and white. They didn’t seem armed, but when they asked her to go with them, she didn’t argue. They took her directly to Toel’s balcony. Two of them gripped her beneath her arms, and she gasped as they all lifted silently into the night air, rising up through the glittering, shifting web of glasslike strands she had only seen from below, and farther, to a fragile-looking spire, the tallest in the city. Umbriel was a massive inkiness below, and above, the stars were glorious. Masser was a gargantuan opal dome on the horizon.

They took her through an opening in the spire and put her down. Then they left.

It was more a gazebo than a room, with a floor of polished mica and a dome of nearly black jade supported by silvery filaments pulsing with souls. A single figure welcomed her, a Dunmer with a long white braid, dressed in a robe similar to the ones her escorts had worn.

“I haven’t had a meal like that in a long time,” the man said.

“I hope it pleased you, lord,” Annaïg replied. The words were hardly out before she wanted to suck them back in; the man had spoken in clear, perfect Tamrielic, not the strange Merish dialect of Umbriel. She had answered in the same language.

He chuckled softly, probably at her expression.

“I thought so,” he said. “The references to the cuisine of my homeland were rather too obvious.”

“Are you Lord Umbriel?”

“I am Umbriel,” he said. “I am me, I am my city and my people. You aren’t part of me, though. And yet I didn’t invite you here or have you captured. They’ve been hiding you from me, down there in the kitchens. Using you in their little intrigues, I expect. Where are you from?”

“Black Marsh,” she replied. “From Lilmoth.”

“Everyone in Lilmoth is supposed to be dead, certain particular Argonians aside. How is it you are here, and alive?”

“It was an accident,” she replied. “I made an elixir that gave my body flight.”

“And you chose to come here?”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied. “I was trying to flee, actually. Anyway, I was south of Lilmoth, not in the city.”

“I suppose you lost family there? Friends?”

“My father,” she said, trying to keep calm, to keep away from where her feelings lived. She wondered if her invisible knife could kill Umbriel. Six steps, a swift swing …

“And you’re angry with me about that?”

“At first, yes,” she said. “But I have learned a certain pragmatism. I have done well here in Umbriel. I have risen to a fairly high place in a short time.”

“Indeed you have,” Umbriel replied. “You made no attempt to poison me last night, which can be interpreted in several ways. One would be that you’ve no wish to harm me. Another would be that you were too smart to try.”

“Or perhaps a little of both,” she replied.

“That’s an interesting answer,” Umbriel said. “I like it.”

“My father and I weren’t close,” Annaïg told him, “and I had no real love for Lilmoth. I always dreamed of leaving, going somewhere exotic and exciting.”

“And here you are,” he said, a neutral little smile at the edge of his lips.

“Yes, Lord Umbriel.”

He tapped his forehead, and the line of his mouth flattened out. “What bothers me is
this
,” he said, his voice rising a bit. It was shocking, like seeing a shark fin break the surface of a perfectly placid bay.

“Part of me, long ago, was Dunmer. How in all of the worlds and not-world could you have known that?”

“I did not know it, lord,” she said.

“And yet several of your dishes were obviously inspired by the high cuisine of Morrowind. Why would you make such things if you had no inkling of my history?”

His tone was very dangerous now, and she felt herself trembling involuntarily.

“Lord, since I’ve been on Umbriel, the familiar components the taskers have brought me were first from Black Marsh and then from Morrowind. I was inspired by the ingredients, my lord. Marshmerrow begs to be made into hluurn or echar, urgandil into vverm. I learned something of Lord Rhel’s tastes by asking questions of those who know him. I could find no one to question
about you, so I guessed that Rhel, as your valet, would have discrimination similar to yours. There is no more to it than that.”

“There isn’t?” He seemed to be calming a bit.

“No, my lord.”

“Well,” he said, pacing suddenly like a caged tiger. “Well, in that case, there is this other thing.”

“What is that, lord?”

“There is an Argonian in the sump. Did you know that? Did he come with you?”

She was paralyzed for a moment, but she knew that if she dissembled and he knew she was lying, it was all over. A lot of the people who had actually seen them arrive together were dead, but she could not be certain they all were.

“Yes,” she said. “He is my friend.”

“Did you have him kill Toel for you?”

“My lord—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, waving her off. “The chefs are always murdering one another. But it seems your Argonian friend is up to a bit more than that. He’s organized some sort of rebellion among the skraws. That’s going to stop.”

“Are you asking me to talk to him, lord?”

“No. I’m asking you to kill him.”

Her throat closed, and for a second she couldn’t breathe. “L-Lord?” she stuttered.

“He’s hard to catch, this one, and the skraws are loyal to him. And even if I were to really bend my mind to it and catch him, killing him would only make him a martyr. I don’t need that at the moment, any more than I can afford to slaughter all of the skraws and start again.”

She tried to still her shaking, which had grown worse. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“He’s the only Argonian in the sump. It should be simple enough to introduce something into the water that will kill him
without affecting anything else. I want it to look as if he died of natural causes. Do that for me.”

She tightened her mind, pushed herself further out—away from her weak corpus—and met Umbriel’s gaze squarely.

“I will, lord,” she promised.

And so she returned to her kitchen, and she made a poison.

After another two days of mostly silent trudging, Attrebus smelled salt air, and the land dropped jaggedly until they emerged onto a strand of black sand where gray waves lapped halfheartedly at the shore. Up the beach, perhaps a mile away, he could make out what appeared to be crenellated towers rising from a promontory.

“Do you think that’s it?” he asked.

“Well,” Sul said, “it’s someplace.” He turned and set off toward the castle.

For a time they saw only sea birds and occasionally odd three-tusked creatures sunning on some of the rocks. They had slick but hairy hides, paddlelike forelimbs with three toes, and no hind limbs at all, but instead a tail shaped like that of a shrimp. On land they were clumsy, but once in the water they seemed at ease, even elegant. Attrebus’s stomach was quite empty, and he found himself wondering if the things were edible.

They reached the castle a few hours before sunset, or at least the rock it stood on and the small village between it and the sea. There wasn’t a dock as such, but a number of boats pulled up on
the beach—some with substantial keels—suggested deep water offshore. A group of mostly women was crowded down near the boats, picking through fish lying in a couple of large troughs. Most had the flaxen hair and pink cheeks of Nords, although he saw a young Dunmer woman among them.

The village was no more than about twenty buildings, one of which had a placard with the promising words char bucket printed on it. He and Sul made their way there.

It was a tight little place with walls of undressed stone, a shake roof, and no windows, but inside it was warm and smelled pretty good. The oldest elven man Attrebus had ever seen watched them enter with obvious curiosity.

“You want to eat?” he asked.

“That would be good,” Sul told him.

“Do you have money?”

For answer Sul tossed a couple of coins onto the counter. The man nodded and left through a side door, returning a moment later with two steaming bowls of something and some bread. It turned out to be some sort of chowder, and despite some unfamiliar flavors, Attrebus thought it was the best thing he had eaten in a long time, possibly because he hadn’t eaten
anything
in a long time.

A few moments later two flagons of spiced mead joined the stew, and Attrebus felt officially happy.

He looked up and saw the old man still regarding them.

“It’s okay?” he asked.

“Delicious,” Attrebus replied. “My compliments.”

“You come up from Oleer Mar?” he asked.

“Down from the mountains,” Sul said. “Not much to see.”

“What is this place?” Attrebus asked.

“The village?” the man asked. “Sathil, after the castle, I guess. We don’t call it much of anything.”

“Sathil? They were allied with house Indoril, yes?” Sul said.

“Not Hleryn Sathil, not for a long time,” the fellow said. “Declared himself independent when he came here back in ’sixteen.”

“Why?” Attrebus asked.

“Why not? If the Great Houses couldn’t stop the wrack of Morrowind, what good are they?”

“I see your point,” Attrebus replied, although it actually made very little sense to him. “Did you come up here with Sathil?”

“No, I settled here a few years ago when my ship wrecked on the coast. I like it up here. It’s mostly quiet, not like the city. A few raiders now and then, but Sathil is still capable of handling that.”

“Still capable? Is something wrong with him?”

“Never mind,” the man said. “I talk too much.”

“Do you think he would mind if we pay him a visit?” Attrebus asked.

“Sathil?” He looked surprised, then contemplative. “Well, you never know, do you? He might. Do either of you have any sorcery?”

“A little,” Sul said.

“He used to entertain a lot of sorcerers. Not as much lately. Anyway, his gates will be closed by now, but you could go up there in the morning. In the meantime, how about a couple of nice beds?”

“And a hot bath?” Attrebus asked hopefully.

“Now, that’s just crazy talk,” the fellow gruffed.