Chapter 21

"Well?" said Lybiad impatiently. Tracks-Too-Well came to a halt in front of the others, breathing only a little faster from the ground-covering lope in which he had approached.

"The tracks diverge," said Tracks-Too-Well. "They are nearly parallel, but the priest and the girl are no longer following the demons. This one thinks they have a destination in view."

"Gods damn it," said Lybiad under his breath. Marcus sighed. Neither of them exactly outranked the other, but there really was no decision to make.

"We'll stay on the Dremora," said Marcus. "We have to. If Tychicus Varen isn't after them, he can wait until later."

"Right," said Lybiad.

"Both we and the priests have been narrowing the gap," said Tracks-Too-Well. "They were not here so very long ago, no."

"Doesn't fit," said Lybiad, folding his arms. "Dremora travel fastWe were chasing them down for weeks after the gates closed." Marcus nodded shortly. He and the other Imperial exchanged a glance. Marcus didn't particularly like Lybiad, but there was no denying they had things in common. None of it matters. We're Blades. We'll do what we have to do so that the Empire can go on.

"So this one has heard," said the Argonian calmly. He scratched at his nose with a clawed fingertip. Most of him was dark green, but toward the end of his muzzle he was graying, the scales losing color. It was the only sign of aging Marcus could identify, and he had had considerable practice even with that very alien race. "But it is true all the same," the tracker said now. "We are traveling very fast, even though this one is not as quick as those of, hm, other training." He showed his sharp teeth, but the short crest on his head was unruffled; Marcus recognized it as a complacent expression. "They are slow. This one suspects it is because the larger of the two demons is usually carrying the other one."

"Carrying it," said Lybiad. "Why? Daedra don't care about their wounded."

The three of them looked at each other. Tracks-Too-Well shrugged. "You two are the possessors of the special information, yes. This one is with you because of the very little he does know about the demons, and that is not much – a mere matter of surviving one or two encounters. This one suspects, however, that the it to whom you refer is in fact a she."

"You can tell that about Dremora?" said Lybiad suspiciously. Marcus frowned. The Argonian had previously identified the Dremora only as daedra. Was he exaggerating? Trying to inflate his own perceived expertise?

"Not with great certainty," said the Argonian. "The stink of fire and brimstone and other things is very strong. But this one perceives more as he grows accustomed to it. They two are different in small ways. And..." He waved a hand at the two sets of nearly-invisible prints where someone had briefly stood. "The one who carries is much heavier than the one who is carried. He is armored, certainly, or he is nine feet tall (and his feet are too small for that). But even with that, they are very different in size. Look at the prints. Even the Imperial, the one who leaves almost no marks, his feet are a little bigger than hers."

"I'll take your word for it," said Marcus, who had in fact been taking a closer look at the prints as the Argonian spoke.

"It seems like she – if it is a she – would've healed up or died by now," said Lybiad. "They've taken in enough blood between the two of them. Dremora heal fast." Marcus nodded.

"This one thinks perhaps it is some sort of illness," said the Argonian. "Many times I have seen the shape of two bodies in the earth where they stop to camp, and these creatures do not sleep. The larger one never lies down, never. This one has told you so."

"Yes," said Marcus. "He's keeping guard on the other two. To keep the Imperial from escaping, perhaps?"

"This one doubts it," said Tracks-Too-Well. "The few marks that the Imperial leaves are not always close to the others. He moves around them, before and behind." The Argonian's tail twitched once. "This one does not like that. Not at all."

"I don't like it, either," said Marcus. "First Tychicus Varen, and now this. Maybe it is some sort of mind control."

Lybiad snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Dremora don't do mind control. They think it's beneath them, and anyway they're terrible at Illusion."

"These two aren't acting like Dremora normally do," said Marcus slowly. "Demons don't show any regard for their dead. They kill their wounded, or leave them behind. This one's going to an awful lot of trouble to hang onto the other one. And he can't be keeping the Imperial around for food. They're sharing."

"None of this really matters," said Lybiad. "We'll catch them, and then we'll stop them. That'll be an end of it."

"No, this matters," argued Marcus. "We need to know what we're going to find when we do catch up. We know we'll have a footsoldier to deal with – well and good. We've dealt with that before. But these other two..."

"Some sort of invalid and one Imperial," said Lybiad firmly. "Nothing to worry about. We'll make our report and we'll get this over with. After this, the two priests should be a cakewalk one way or the other."

"There is something else," said the Argonian.

"What is it?" said Marcus.

"Up over the next rise," said Tracks-Too-Well. "I found something you will wish to see."

---

"You don't belong here," said Tychicus Varen. He said it calmly, but the charge of magicka radiating from his body raised the hairs on Laure's spine. "Why are you here, Dacha?"

The flame atronach twitched its head from side to side. The flames died back. Its skin glowed without burning. The tall coif on its head fell down around its mask, luminous threads instead of coherent fire. With no small uneasiness, Laure recognized the imitation of her own cropped hair.

The voice that emerged in answer to Brother Varen's question was a little less inhuman. Laure was hesitant to say more human, because she doubted that was possible.

"The Master calls me Akhanad," said the flame atronach. "I would not hear the ancient name on the lips of your kind, Kheised."

"Then I am Varen," said the priest. He glanced quickly at Laure, as if remembering for the first time that she was there. "Akhanad means burning coal in the tongue of the Dremora," he said quietly, looking back at the other atronach. The supernatural echo faded from his voice, under tighter control now. "I took my name voluntarily. She was given hers to bind her to summoning."

"Yesss," said Akhanad, and the last sound stretched out like air escaping. "Filthy kynaz." She was looking at Laure now, and suddenly her mask and armor vanished, drawing back into her body as if they had never been there. The features under it were immediately and awfully recognizable. Because they're mine, Laure thought faintly. But this was Laure as she would never be in this life – Laure with perfect symmetry and a flawless body, featureless as a statue; Laure as a goddess sculpted in burning jet. It reminded her of every flaw she had ever tried to forget, and she felt faintly sick as she watched.

"I have no business with you," said Akhanad. She was obviously making an effort to speak normally, but sibilants would still creep in. "I needed a place to land, and there are no more gates."

"But why are you here?" said Tychicus Varen patiently. Something had changed in the last few moments, and Laure was not able to understand how. She struggled to maintain her composure; she dared not look again at the naked flame atronach, and she dared not look at Varen, and she dared not speak and introduce another factor into a tense situation. She folded her hands tightly in front of her and stared at the ground.

"Seeking another kynaz," said the atronach. From the corner of her eye, Laure saw her face change as she spoke, growing more attenuated and hollow and, thank the blessed gods, less familiar. Laure let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "My Master wants to know where one of the strange ones is. The krynvelhat who walk the Void at will."

"The Sleepers," said Tychicus Varen. "Why?"

There was a pause. Akhanad folded her arms, still solid black and glowing faintly. Laure raised her head slowly, watching as the atronach's hair grew into tendrils about her shoulders. She looked nothing at all like Laure now; her face was slim and pointed, sharp in every feature. Her fingers and toes were still innocent of anything so complex as a nail. Presently she tipped her head, imitating Varen's gesture. "I have no need to tell you," she said. "And I would be punished."

"You are bound to a kynaz," said Varen. "There is no escaping punishment until her next death. You know this."

"You are different," the other atronach said, as if to herself. They stared at each other a moment longer. Laure raised her head, looking from Varen to Akhanad. The priest's eyes were brown again. Akhanad's were black and slick as oil. "You serve one whom I do not know."

"Arkay is an aedra," said Varen.

"Yes. The closer of circles. I remember," said Akhanad. She shook her head once. "But there is nothing you can do, even if you would – and you are Kheised. I have no more time to waste with you." With that she turned and ran away up the path, leaving only a pair of steaming black footprints where she had stood.

"We'll meet again," said Varen into the silence. Laure heard him take a deep breath. Then he turned to look down at her, and that sudden and close attention nearly broke her. "I'm sorry," he said. "They're not a polite race. I'm afraid we were fortunate she didn't attack me on sight."

"She... wasn't as good at changing shape as you are," Laure managed. Varen turned and began walking up the path again, and Laure moved to stay beside him. The inside of her head had the stuffed-with-cotton feeling she normally only got from weeping.

"I've had lifetimes in which to practice," said Varen. "I think that was her first attempt at anything resembling a human form." He smiled slightly. "I'm afraid my race has traditionally seen the Dacha as undisciplined. I've met a few in Vvardenfell who were very reasonable, but all of them were nearer my own age." The smile vanished abruptly, replaced by the look of distant consideration that was normal to him. "I'm more concerned about why she was sent here. Someone was clever enough to think of sending her into Nirn, and I can't imagine she's supposed to kill a Sleeper on her own."

"Whoever it is wants to know where those Dremora are," said Laure. "The same ones we're looking for. That's the direction she's headed."

"Yes," said Varen. "It makes sense. Few krynvelhat can extend themselves far into the Void without dying, and that is the only way to scry into Nirn – except for Sleepers. I think Akhanad is meant to be the link between worlds. The sorcerer's anchor."

"Then perhaps we'd better walk faster," said Laure.

"I agree," said Tychicus Varen.