Read Online Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel by Greg Keyes - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Keyes
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spines were puffed out and he was giving off his fighting odor. He tried to calm himself.
“What’s this about, Glim?” she asked.
“It’s about me,” he said. “It’s about my people, and why they died.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “But I can see how upset you are. Can you explain?”
Glim thought about that for a long moment. Annaïg would tell him not to trust the girl; she didn’t trust anyone on Umbriel. But Fhena had only ever helped him.
“I would like to explain,” he finally said. “Because it might mean something to you. It might make you think of something. So don’t be afraid to interrupt me.”
“I won’t,” she replied.
“I’ve told you before; I’m from a place named Black Marsh. My people call themselves the Saxhleel, and others call us Argonians.”
“I remember. And you said all of your people are the same.”
“The same? Yes, compared to your people. We all have scales, and breathe beneath the water, that sort of thing. Umbriel chooses your form when you are born. Mine is chosen by—ah—heritage.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not important right now. We can talk about that later. What’s important is this; there is another race in Black Marsh—the Hist. They are sentient trees, and we are—connected to them. They are many and they are one, all attached at the root, and we, too, are joined to that root. Some say we were created by the Hist, to see for them the world where they cannot walk. They can call us or send us away. When we are named, we take of the sap of the Hist, and we are changed—sometimes a little, sometimes very much.”
“What do you mean, ‘changed’?”
“A few twelves of years ago, our country was invaded from Oblivion. The Hist knew it was going to happen, and called our people back to Black Marsh. Many of us were altered, made ready for the war that we had to fight. Made stronger, faster—able to endure terrible things.”
“I’m starting to understand,” Fhena said. “You’re saying the Hist are much like the trees of our gyre.”
“Yes. But not the same. They don’t speak to me as the Hist did. But you say they speak to you.”
“Not in words,” she replied. “They dream, they experience, they communicate needs. I can’t imagine them making a plan, as you describe.”
“But their sap can alter things, like that of the Hist.”
“Oh, yes. But as I said, usually they have to be told.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I still don’t understand why this is so upsetting to you.”
“The Hist are supposed to be unified,” Glim said, “but at times certain trees have gone rogue, broken away from the others. It happened long, long ago in my city, and I think it happened again, not long before your world entered mine. A rogue tree helped Umbriel somehow, do you understand? It helped kill many, many of my people so they could serve Umbriel as dead things. And now I think it may have helped summon Umbriel here in the first place. Can you remember—”
But Fhena’s eyes had become unfocused with memory. He stopped and waited.
“We were in the void,” she said. “Nothing around. And then the trees began to sing a strange song, one I had never heard before. They sang and sang. It was beautiful. No one could remember such a thing happening before. And then we were here. They still sing it, but quietly now. Listen.”
She took his hand and pressed it to the bark. It was strange,the roughness of the tree and the supple warmth of her hand, and for a moment that was all he experienced. But then she began to hum, and something seemed to turn in his head, and the soft burring that was all he had ever heard from the Fringe Gyre before suddenly sharpened and he heard it in tune with Fhena’s humming, a faint, rising and falling tone, along with a thousand harmonics, as if each seed and leaf had its own note to add. And he knew that melody, had known it since before his birth. The Hist sang it.
But the
“What’s this about, Glim?” she asked.
“It’s about me,” he said. “It’s about my people, and why they died.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “But I can see how upset you are. Can you explain?”
Glim thought about that for a long moment. Annaïg would tell him not to trust the girl; she didn’t trust anyone on Umbriel. But Fhena had only ever helped him.
“I would like to explain,” he finally said. “Because it might mean something to you. It might make you think of something. So don’t be afraid to interrupt me.”
“I won’t,” she replied.
“I’ve told you before; I’m from a place named Black Marsh. My people call themselves the Saxhleel, and others call us Argonians.”
“I remember. And you said all of your people are the same.”
“The same? Yes, compared to your people. We all have scales, and breathe beneath the water, that sort of thing. Umbriel chooses your form when you are born. Mine is chosen by—ah—heritage.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not important right now. We can talk about that later. What’s important is this; there is another race in Black Marsh—the Hist. They are sentient trees, and we are—connected to them. They are many and they are one, all attached at the root, and we, too, are joined to that root. Some say we were created by the Hist, to see for them the world where they cannot walk. They can call us or send us away. When we are named, we take of the sap of the Hist, and we are changed—sometimes a little, sometimes very much.”
“What do you mean, ‘changed’?”
“A few twelves of years ago, our country was invaded from Oblivion. The Hist knew it was going to happen, and called our people back to Black Marsh. Many of us were altered, made ready for the war that we had to fight. Made stronger, faster—able to endure terrible things.”
“I’m starting to understand,” Fhena said. “You’re saying the Hist are much like the trees of our gyre.”
“Yes. But not the same. They don’t speak to me as the Hist did. But you say they speak to you.”
“Not in words,” she replied. “They dream, they experience, they communicate needs. I can’t imagine them making a plan, as you describe.”
“But their sap can alter things, like that of the Hist.”
“Oh, yes. But as I said, usually they have to be told.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I still don’t understand why this is so upsetting to you.”
“The Hist are supposed to be unified,” Glim said, “but at times certain trees have gone rogue, broken away from the others. It happened long, long ago in my city, and I think it happened again, not long before your world entered mine. A rogue tree helped Umbriel somehow, do you understand? It helped kill many, many of my people so they could serve Umbriel as dead things. And now I think it may have helped summon Umbriel here in the first place. Can you remember—”
But Fhena’s eyes had become unfocused with memory. He stopped and waited.
“We were in the void,” she said. “Nothing around. And then the trees began to sing a strange song, one I had never heard before. They sang and sang. It was beautiful. No one could remember such a thing happening before. And then we were here. They still sing it, but quietly now. Listen.”
She took his hand and pressed it to the bark. It was strange,the roughness of the tree and the supple warmth of her hand, and for a moment that was all he experienced. But then she began to hum, and something seemed to turn in his head, and the soft burring that was all he had ever heard from the Fringe Gyre before suddenly sharpened and he heard it in tune with Fhena’s humming, a faint, rising and falling tone, along with a thousand harmonics, as if each seed and leaf had its own note to add. And he knew that melody, had known it since before his birth. The Hist sang it.
But the
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