Gulan’s lips pulled back from his teeth.

“What?”

“Some say it’s time for you to marry.”

“Marry? Why in the world would I want to do that? I’m only twenty-two, for pity’s sake.”

“You’re the crown prince. You’re expected to produce an heir.”

“Has my father talked to you about this? Behind my back? Did he tell you to put this in my ear?”

Gulan drew back a bit. “No, of course not. But there are rumors in the court. I hear them.”

“There are always rumors in the court. That’s why I hate it so.”

“You’ll have to get used to it someday.”

“Not anytime soon. Maybe never—maybe I’ll perish gloriously in battle before it comes to that.”

“That’s not funny, Treb. You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’ll go to court soon, see if he’s planning on saying anything to my face. And if he won’t give us the men to go to Arenthia, maybe he’ll let us go north to train. There are plenty of bandits up around Cheydinhal. It would be something.”

Gulan nodded, and Attrebus clapped him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, old friend. It’s just that, when it comes to matters like this, I find myself unaccountably irritated.”

“No harm,” Gulan said.

“I think I’m okay here,” he said. “I’ve subdued her. Go to bed.”

Gulan nodded and vanished into his room. Attrebus stayed at the rail, contemplating the night sky and hoping Gulan was wrong. Marriage? It could be forced on him. Would his father do that? It didn’t really matter, he supposed. He wouldn’t let a wife keep him home, away from his proper business. If that was his father’s intention, he was going to be disappointed.

A faint whir caught his attention, and he turned to find what at first seemed a large insect darting toward him. He leapt back, suppressing a cry, his hand going for a weapon that wasn’t there.

But then it settled on the balustrade, and he saw that it was something much more curious—a bird made all of metal. It was exquisite, really. It sat there, staring at him with its artificial eyes. It seemed to be expecting something from him.

He noticed that there was a little hinged door, like an oddly shaped locket.

He reached, then hesitated. It could be some sort of bizarre assassin’s device—he might open it to find a poisoned needle pricking him, or some dire magic unleashed.

But that seemed a little complicated. Why not put poison on the bird’s talon and have it scratch him? It could have done that if it had wanted to. Still …

He went back into his room, found his dagger, and returning with it and standing to the side, flipped the locket open.

The bird chirped a bright little tune, then fell silent. Otherwise, nothing happened. Inside was a dark, glassy surface.

“What are you?” he wondered aloud.

But it didn’t answer, so he decided to leave it where it was and have Yerva and Breslin examine it in the morning—they knew a lot more about this sort of thing than he did.

As he turned to go, however, he heard a woman’s voice, so faint he couldn’t make it out. He thought for a moment it was Radhasa, waking, but it came again, and this time he was sure it was coming from behind him. From the bird.

He went back and peered into the opening.

“Hello?” the voice came.

“Yes, hello,” he said. “Who is this?”

“Oh, thank the Divines,” the woman said. “I had almost given up hope. It’s been so long.”

“Are you—ah—Look, I feel silly talking to a bird. Can you get to that right off? And perhaps talk a bit louder?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk louder. I don’t want to be discovered. That’s Coo you have there; she’s enchanted, and I have this locket with me, so we can speak to one another. If it were lighter, we could see each other as well. I can sort of make out your head.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Yes, it’s pitch-dark here.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“We’re still over Black Marsh, I think. I’ve only had a few glimpses of the outside.”

“Over Black Marsh?”

“Yes. There’s a lot to explain, and it’s urgent. I sent Coo to find Prince Attrebus …” The voice faltered. “Oh, my. You are the prince, aren’t you? Or else Coo wouldn’t have opened.”

“Indeed, I am Prince Attrebus.”

“Your highness, forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar manner.”

“That’s no matter. And who might you be?”

“My name is Annaïg—Annaïg Hoïnart.”

“And you’re in some sort of captivity?”

“Yes—yes, Prince Attrebus. But it’s not me I’m worried about. I have a lot to tell you and not much time before dawn. I believe our entire world is in terrible danger.”

“I’m listening,” he replied.

And he did listen as her husky lilt carried him through the night across the Cyrodiil and fetid Black Marsh, to a place beyond imagination and a terror the mind shuddered to grasp. And when at last she had to go, and the moons were wan ghosts in a milky sky, he straightened and looked off east. Then he went to his wardrobe-room, where Terz his dresser was just waking.

“I’ll be going to court,” he told Terz.

Titus Mede had been—and was—many things. A soldier in an outlaw army, a warlord in Colovia, a king in Cyrodiil, and Emperor.

And to Attrebus, a father. They looked much alike, having the same lean face and strong chin, the same green eyes. He’d gotten his own slightly crooked nose and blond hair from his mother; his father’s hair was auburn, although now it was more than half silver.

His father sat back in his armchair. He removed the circlet from his curly locks, rubbed his thickly lined forehead, and sighed.

“Black Marsh?”

“Black Marsh, Father, that’s what she said.”

“Black Marsh,” he repeated, settling the crown back on his head. “Well, then?”

“Well what, sire?”

“Well, then, why are we discussing this?” He turned his head toward his minister, an odd, pudgy man with thick eyebrows and mild blue eyes. “Hierem, can you tell me why we’re discussing this?”

Hierem sniffed. “I’ve no idea, majesty,” he said. “Black Marsh is rather a thorn in our side, isn’t it? The Argonians refuse our protection. Let them deal with their problems.”

Something swept through Attrebus so strong he couldn’t identify it at first. But then he understood: certainty. Before there was a question about who Annaïg might actually be, what her motives were. She could easily have been some sort of sorceress, tricking him to his doom.

He’d wanted to believe her—his every instinct told him she was genuine. Now he knew his instincts were dead-on, once again.

“You already knew about this,” he accused.

“We’ve heard things,” the minister replied.

“Heard th …” He sputtered off. “Father—a flying city, an army of walking dead—this doesn’t concern you?”

“You said they were moving north, toward Morrowind and at a snail’s pace. Our reports say the same. So no, I’m not concerned.”

“Not even enough to send a reconnaissance?”

“The Synod and College of Whispers have both been tasked to discover what they can,” Hierem said. “And of course some specialists are on their way. But there is no need for a military expedition until they threaten our borders—certainly not one led by the crown prince.”

“But Annaïg may not survive that long.”

“So it’s the girl?” Hierem said. “That’s why you want to mount an expedition into Black Marsh? For the sake of a girl?”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Hierem,” Attrebus warned. “I am your prince, after all. You seem to forget that.”

“It’s not the girl,” his father snorted. “It’s the adventure. It’s the book they’ll write about it, the songs they will sing.”

Attrebus felt his cheeks burn. “Father, that’s nonsense. You say it’s not our problem, but when it’s made everyone in Black Marsh and Morrowind into corpse-warriors, it will then turn on us. Every day we wait its army grows stronger. Why not fight a small battle now rather than a huge one later?”