Occupy yourself. Keep an eye out for Umbriel. I’ll find the sword.”
He watched Sul pick his way across the island until he vanished behind an upjut. He looked off across the waters south, toward where Umbriel ought to be, but saw nothing but low-hanging clouds, so he sat down and went through his haversack, looking for food.
He was chewing on a bit of bread when Coo cried softly. He pulled the mechanical bird out, and to his delight found himself staring at the image of Annaig’s face. Her eyebrows were steepled and she looked pale, and then her eyes widened and she started to cry.
“You’re there!” she mumbled.
“Yes,” Attrebus said. “I’m here. Are you all right?”
“I didn’t cry until now,” she said. “I haven’t cried since before any of this began. I’ve kept it locked … I—” She broke off, sobbing uncontrollably.
He reached forward, as if to comfort her, but realized, of course, that he couldn’t. It was heart-wrenching to watch such pain and not be able to do anything.
“It’s going to be fine,” he ventured. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
She nodded, but kept crying for another long moment before finally regaining control of her voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still sniffling.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I can only imagine what you’ve been through.”
“I’ve tried to be brave,” she said. “To learn the things you’ll need to know. But I have to leave this place now. I thought I was fine until I saw you. I thought I wasn’t afraid anymore. But I am.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Treb soothed. “Can you? Can you leave?”
“I’ve re-created the solution that allowed me to fly, and I’ve found a way to Glim—and he’s found a place where we can get out. I … I don’t think I can wait until you reach us. We’re leaving tonight.”
“But that’s perfect,” Attrebus said. “I’m in Morrowind. I think you’re coming straight to us.”
“You’re in our path?”
“My companion thinks so.”
“Well you can’t stay there,” she said. “I told you what it does.”
“Don’t worry about us,” he said. “When you escape, I’ll find you. I’ll let you know which way to fly. Yes?”
She nodded.
“I thought you might be dead,” he said. “I kept trying to contact you—”
“I lost my locket,” she said. “But I got it back.”
“So you’re leaving tonight?” he asked.
“That’s the plan,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“And are you alone right now?”
“For the moment,” she said. “Someone might come, and then I’ll have to hide the locket.”
“Fine, I’ll understand when you have to go. But until then, tell me what’s been happening. Tell me how you are.”
And he listened as she told him her tale in her sweet lilting voice, and he realized how very much he had missed it. Missed her.
Sul trudged to the other side of the island, trying not to let his rage blot out his ability to think. It wasn’t enough that the ministry fell; the impact caused the volcano that was the heart and namesake of Vvardenfell to explode. Ash, lava, and tidal waves had done their work, and when that was calmed, the Argonians had come, eager to repay what survived of his people for millennia of abuse and enslavement.
Of course, those that had settled in southern Morrowind were likely regretting it now, as Umbriel moved over their villages.
That didn’t help, though, did it?
He looked again at the size of the crater. How fast had the ministry been traveling? Did she feel anything? Had Ilzheven known who killed her?
Find the sword. Kill Vuhon. Then it would be over.
He remembered the ingenium exploding; it had expanded and distorted first, and then all he had known was a sort of flash. Then he and Vuhon were elsewhere, in Oblivion.
In his vision, Azura had shown him that again, shown him Umbra hurling the blade through the vanishing portal—and then the scene changed, and he’d seen the sword, lying on shattered stone. He saw it covered by a few feet of ash.
But he and Attrebus had come through the weak spot left by the portal, just as he had a few years earlier, just as the sword must have. It was a tricky spot, because the ingenium had been exploding at the same instant the ministry finished its ages-long fall, so rather than a spot or sphere, the rift was more like a shaft, most of it underground. If he hadn’t seen the sword on the surface, he would have imagined it entombed beneath his feet.
But it hadn’t been where he’d seen it; there wasn’t enough ash, and then there was what looked like an excavation. He hadn’t had time to notice that when he appeared in the midst of the Argonians, but this time it took only a few seconds to realize that someone had already taken Umbra.
He could almost hear Azura laughing, because she knew what he had to do next.
His lover formed like a column of dust, like the whirlwinds in the ashlands, tightening in circumference as her presence intensified, until at last each delicate curve of her face drifted before him. Only her eyes held color, and those were like the last fading of a sunset.
“Ilzheven,” he whispered, and the eyes flickered a bit brighter.
“I am here,” she said. It was a mere wisp of sound, but it was her voice, the only music he remembered from that long-ago life. “I am always here. A part of this.” Her face softened.
“I know you, Ezhmaar,” she said. “What has happened to you, my love?”
“Time still passes for me,” he replied, angry at his voice for the way it quavered. “Much has happened to me in its grip.”
“It is not time that has hurt you so,” she said. “What have you done to yourself, Ezhmaar?” She reached to touch his face, and he felt it as a faint, cool breeze.
“Is it still there?” she went on. “The house where we learned each other? In the bamboo grove, where the waters trickled cold from the mountains and the larkins sang?”
His throat closed and for a moment he couldn’t answer.
“I haven’t seen it since we last were there together,” he finally managed. But he knew it couldn’t be. Not as close as the valley had been to the volcano.
“It is still here,” she said, lightly touching her chest. “That place, my love—our love.”
He touched his own breast, but couldn’t say anything for fear of undoing himself, just when he most needed all of his strength.
“I don’t have long, Ilzheven,” he said. “I need to ask you something.”
“I will answer you if I can,” she said.
“There was a sword here, in the ash. It fell after the impact. Can you tell me what became of it?”
Her gaze went off past him and stayed there for so long he feared he couldn’t hold her present any longer. But then she spoke again.
“Rain exposed the hilt, and men found it. Dunmer, searching this place. They took it with them.”
“Where?”
“North, toward the Sea of Ghosts. The bearer wore a signet ring with a draugr on it.”
He felt his grip loosening. Ilzheven reached for him again, but her fingers became dust and blew off on the breeze.
“Let it go,” she whispered. “Do no more harm to yourself.”
“You don’t understand,” he said.
“I am part of this place,” she said. “I know all that happened, and I beg you for the love we shared, let it go.”
“I cannot,” he said, as her face was erased by the wind. He stood there for a long time, fighting his shame,
