Dry Lightning

Chapter 1

He was not human. That was the one thing he was sure of. He had felt the power of the storm, the tearing winds and driving rain, as it burst into being. But it was more than that. He had caused it. He was angry and in pain, and he had wanted to hurt them as he never had before. Then something had snapped and a pocket in the back of his mind flooded open. The storm flared with the explosion of energy. Blue lightning flashed, and thunder followed it. The tempestuous winds roared, and the rain began to fall in thick curtains, soaking everyone and everything instantly. It had reacted to the intensity of his passion. There had been no motion, no words to invoke the spell, just a rush of pure, undiluted power. Then he had collapsed, and the world faded to black.

"Efrain!" a familiar voice called, drawing him back into reality. He opened his eyes. The voice sighed its relief. "Thank the gods, Efrain. I thought they might have killed you. But here you are – not dead."

Efrain blinked and the world cleared. A young man knelt over him, concerned hazel eyes set in a gaunt face like a scarecrow's. It was Zylen, probably the only man in the entire place who still had it in him to care about someone else. His nose was long and hooked, and his eyes were too far apart; but when he smiled it was still the most contagious smile Efrain had ever seen. His lips twitched briefly upward. He swallowed with some difficulty, clearing his throat.

"Is it still raining?" he asked impulsively. Yes, he thought, answering his own question. Yes it is.

He could still feel it, he realized. That sense of power lingered at the edge of his mind, waiting to be called upon again. More than that, though – it wasn't just energy or power; it was information and intuition about the air and weather as well. He shivered with nervous anticipation. He could use it more than once. Maybe the information wouldn't leave him and he could reach for it all day long. His mind had transformed, and he felt as he never had before. Magic was not human in nature, and none less than this, but it was not foreign to Efrain. It felt as if he had lost some part of himself when he was too young to remember, and only after regaining it did he realize it had been missing.

Zylen laughed. "I welcome you back from the edge of death, and you want to know if it's still raining? Well, it was when I dragged you in."

Efrain pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as the lash marks tore. "It's the last thing I remember. I was just curious," he lied.

Zylen nodded, accepting his friend's answer. "At least you didn't ask if I got you…lilies," he joked, picking a flower at random.

Efrain grinned wryly, "Lilies are for death; and, as you pointed out so observantly, I am most certainly not dead. Roses, on the other hand – Did you get me roses?"

Zylen rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I beg your pardon, sire. I shall try harder in the future," he apologized sarcastically, faking an elegant bow.

"You must. Giving of flowers – the proper ones – is a serious affair, and nowhere more so than here," he responded. Zylen flashed a quick smile.

Blood started to run down Efrain's back. He could tell by the stickiness of his skin that it had run in rivulets while he was unconscious. Red roses, he thought absently, not for love, but for the stain of blood and a tainted life. Why had he been punished, again? He went back to the most basic reason he could think of. He was a slave. He had been sold into slavery when he was a little boy, and even before that he could not remember a family. He tried to remember why slaves were punished. Disobedience, obviously. But what had he done? His eyes snapped shut as he tried to recall.

The boy fell beneath the weight of the cart. He was perhaps thirteen and small for that age. The drivers should never have assigned him that job. His legs twisted frantically beneath the wood and heavy load as he tried to kick free. The head driver, the cruelest of them, grasped his shoulders and jerked him away, ignoring his cry of pain. Then, he threw him to the ground and kicked him hard in the stomach. The Head drew back his leg to kick again, but Efrain moved faster than he thought possible and flung himself in front of the boy. He collapsed in a burst of pain, and curled into a ball, waiting for a second kick, every muscle tensed with the nervous dread of retribution. Instead, the Head lifted him upward and studied him with cold, grey eyes.

"You'll take the boy's punishment, then?" he asked, a smile curling sadistically onto his face.

Efrain met his eyes steadily. "I'll take his punishment. Sir." He spat the title so that it was more insult than respect.

The Head's eyes narrowed, his expression setting with anger. "You'll take the boy's and your own for breaking from your work. Very well, then."

"Are you all right?" Zylen asked, dragging Efrain from his memory.

He nodded – unconvincingly, as the nod was accompanied by a tight grimace. "I'm fine. I was just remembering why I was flogged."

Try as he might, he couldn't guess how many lashes he had taken. Sometimes he tried to count, but the pain always overwhelmed him around twenty and disrupted his reckoning. He would start to lose consciousness a while after that, which was what had been happening when the storm started. It could have been twenty-five or forty-five – he couldn't really tell. After the first drops began to fall, it hadn't mattered anyway. He couldn't feel the pain, just the sensation of energy exploding through him and around him, like the bolts of lightning that he had caused. Then that rush of power had started to fade, draining his energy with it and dragging him into darkness.

Zylen smiled shakily. "That was the single most idiotic and noble thing I have ever seen you do, and I've seen you do a lot of things. I mean, I swear if you get any nobler or stupider you have to be the long lost king of somewhere or other. Whatever made you do it?"

Efrain held back a smile. Most slaves privately disrespected authority, but few did it as excellently as Zylen. Only he could compare a slave and royalty and have the slave come out on top. Still, he stifled his amusement and considered the question, which gave him pause. He couldn't name a reason, exactly. It had felt right. Or, rather, watching the Head torture the boy had felt wholly and completely wrong. The boy had been helpless, and he hadn't actually been entirely to blame. It wasn't his fault that his strength was insufficient for the task. Maybe Zylen wasn't the only person who cared about someone else. Only, this felt more like a form of caring for his younger self.

"I suppose," he answered slowly, "that the boy only reminded me of all the times I was punished for things I couldn't control when I was young here. I used to wish that someone would take the pain for me. So when I saw him fall, I was thinking that he felt the same way – and he was so small and childish – and maybe someone should step in for once. I was the only one who moved."

"You are not much older than he, no? Why should it be your responsibility to protect him? You might not want to remember, but you were that small not so long ago," countered Zylen carelessly. Efrain was his friend, and that was where his sympathy ended.

It was true as well that Efrain was still a boy himself. He estimated that he was fifteen, although it was difficult to keep track of the days in a place like this. Not to mention, he didn't feel fifteen. He felt often like an old, worn man with white hair and a curved spine. He was a lonesome man on his deathbed; no one stood on watch near him because he had outlived anyone who cared. He was desolate, but his last moments were no more miserable than his first. In fact, he welcomed the change, the new road that would soon spread out ahead of him because there was nothing left for him on the earth. Feeling like that made him respectful and protective of youth, which had influenced his decision as well. Still, he couldn't expect Zylen to know that, and he didn't have it in him to explain at the moment.

"It was the right choice, Zylen. Just trust me on that," he replied.

The young man's bulky shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "You're strange through and through, Efrain, Son of None."

"More than you know," Efrain replied, thinking of the storm.

Zylen looked at him quizzically but didn't press the issue. Efrain was glad of that. After all, what would he tell him? Friend, I caused the storm today. I don't know how, but I'm sure it was me. That would go over well. Anyone, including Zylen, would be sure that the continued hard labor and small rations had addled his brain. This form of magic – if that's what this was – was unheard of, even in fairytales. Those spoke of elves and dwarves, dragons and riders, and even monstrous creatures called Urgals; but none of them to his knowledge could manipulate the weather. Mysticism lay around all the elves, and yet every human child knew that they must have limits. All the same, Efrain had not imagined his new ability.

The door of the barracks grated open and one of the other drivers stepped in, followed by a timid female slave who had their rations. Efrain pushed himself into a full sitting position, his mouth watering. The girl handed out the bread individually, but the driver stopped her with a sharp command as she reached Efrain. Her hands shook nervously as she feared she had done something wrong. In many ways, punishment would be worse for her than it had been for him.

The driver only said, "None for him. Keep moving."

She relaxed and continued, but Efrain cursed inwardly. He had seen this coming, of course, but he was starving nonetheless. He looked at his spidery hands. If they had a little more flesh on them, they might have been long and elegant, but he had none to spare. It looked as if he barely had enough to stretch across his body, actually. The hunks of stale bread they received every day were already far too small. He tried to convince himself that it was a negligible amount and he would not miss it later. His stomach instead informed him that it was a woefully inaccurate lie.

The door groaned its protest as the driver shut and barred it, and then an elbow nudged Efrain's arm. He was already unstable from the pain of his lashes and nearly fell when Zylen jostled him. The young man offered a pitifully small taste of bread, about half his ration. Efrain shook his head. While he was perfectly content to offer food to others, he hated to take it away. For one thing, he was probably more used to starvation – he had been in captivity something like eight years, much longer than most of the others – and for another… he just didn't like it.

"You're being noble and stupid again. I think they're the same thing," sighed Zylen, waving the bread in front of Efrain's nose.

"Fine," he snapped, snatching the bread. "Just this once, but never again."

He stuffed it in his mouth, not caring that it was extremely stale and possibly moldy. His mind drifted back to the rain still pattering lightly outside. No one in living memory – which, in slavery was not very long anyway – could remember someone who could even use magic, let alone cause a storm. In order to find out what he was, though, he needed living memory. And he needed to find out, or he would never forgive himself. Worse than that, he might never be able to control himself. What good would it be if he could cause tempests but only when he lost his temper? He could easily kill someone like Zylen or the boy whose reprieve he had paid for so dearly. No, he needed to find someone who could both explain his new ability and help him learn to harness it. So he would find the elves. He had to admit, he believed the stories now more than ever. He believed they were real, though he may have to search for a lifetime to find them.

Of course, there was still the matter of trying to escape the Compound, which is what the slaves all called their master's grounds, but he would find a way to do it. There had to be a way out, and if that was blocked, there must be a mistake or oversight somewhere that could set him free. He would search every day for a sign until he knew what to do, and he would be vigilant until he saw an opportunity. Zylen passed him the small pail of water they all shared, and he drank mechanically. As he did, he tried to remember weaknesses, places where there were no drivers or guards to be seen, places where it would be possible to hide until the way was clear.

Efrain passed the bucket to the next man and turned away from the pool of blood that had accumulated behind him. Gingerly, he let his hand bear his weight, and then bent his elbow, lowering himself to the ground.

"The stars look lovely tonight," proclaimed Zylen in their typical pre-sleep exchange.

They absolutely did not. It was still too cloudy outside to see the stars, Efrain decided. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and the dark clouds persisted. Virtually no starlight passed through the thick cover and into the world. He smiled slightly. Every time he accessed the new section of his consciousness, it made him feel complete and almost happy. He opened his mouth to tell Zylen about the stars and then realized that he was about to sound insane again.

Efrain, recovering himself, only answered with his customary reply, "And the moon. The wolves will howl tonight."

"Another night in paradise. I couldn't ask for anything better," Zylen chuckled.

"Well, how could you? You have my company." He had perfected his tone of false superiority over the years.

"Yes, you put me right to sleep, Efrain."

"What was that? I think I must have dozed off, Zylen."

"Good night, kid."

Zylen always called him that at night, in memory of their first meeting. Efrain had been about twelve and still very boyish, but Zylen was sixteen and already a man. He had towered over him then, even more than he did now. As he looked down at the boy, Zylen hadn't been able to believe that anyone that small could work. The next day, Efrain lifted and pulled a heavy load of stones when Zylen couldn't. Ever since, Zylen had respected him and called him "kid" or "boy" as a jest at his first disbelief.

"Good night."

Efrain closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep. He hadn't even considered Zylen when he decided to escape. Supposing he succeeded, Zylen would be trapped here while Efrain wandered freely, searching for elves that he couldn't be positively sure existed. If he failed, the master would have him killed, and Zylen would still be a slave. The friends would never share their nighttime conversation again, and Zylen would have no friend in this hellhole. Leaving would be selfish. But staying would destroy him. His desire to know his identity would consume him, and his newfound powers might become unruly. One decision, the decision to help that boy, had changed him irrevocably. He would leave Zylen to learn about that change. There was no choice to make, only a compulsion to follow.

When he learned what he was, Efrain comprehended, he could very well find out who his parents were. He had no parents when he was plucked from the streets and taken as a slave, and he could not remember a time before he became a street rat. He was seven when he was captured, and though he remembered the time since with surprising accuracy, he could not remember his life before he was five. It was like there was a wall there, and pound as he might, the stone held and his memory was hidden away. Nervously, Efrain began to drum his fingers on the cold stone floor. Had he had any siblings? Had his family loved him? Soon he might know. He had tried to imagine his past all his life, but that would no longer be necessary. As the tides of sleep carried him away, he smiled one more time, eager to remember.

It was dark and cold and everything hurt. There was a dull thud and a cry in his father's voice. He gasped and twisted towards the sound. That was his father, his papa, and someone was hurting him. He tried to call to him, but he was bound and gagged, and barely a sound issued like a whimper from his lips. Someone turned at the noise and crouched down next to him. The man's breath was foul and full of alcohol.

"So you're the boy all the trouble's about, aye? Efrain -. Little name, little scum like you can hardly be worth the trouble," he slurred. He was clearly inebriated. Efrain tried again to squirm the other way. This man was evil; this man wanted to hurt him.

A sudden pressure crushed his chest so he couldn't breathe. The man was kneeling on his chest to keep him from calling out to anyone. He wheezed and choked, but no air would come to him. In the fading distance, his father cried out again. Then everything was gone.

Efrain jerked into wakefulness, every muscle tensed. Efrain. What had that man said after "Efrain"? It had sounded like a name, a surname like a lord might have had. But as he spoke, something seemed to obscure the word so that Efrain couldn't hear it; couldn't quite grasp it. Yet, it had been there, he was sure of it. His father must have been important to have had a surname, and he must have been worth something to make those men torture his father. That was something, more than he had known in ten years. The memory brought bile to his throat, and yet the knowledge was… satisfying. His own contentment sickened him, but it would not leave him. He wanted to close his eyes and did not dare to do it for the same reason: the dream-memory might continue. Realizing he would not sleep again, he tried to sit up but found that his back had stiffened during the night. His bare skin felt hot and the torn flesh throbbed painfully. He took one fast breath to allow himself to panic and one long breath to calm himself down. It was a pain suppression technique he had perfected years before. Then, taking slow, measured breaths, he cautiously raised himself up until he sat upright.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, but there wasn't much to see, anyway. The men were ragged and worn, down to the last of them. Their clothes were ripped and threadbare, and some – like Efrain – were bare-chested because their shirts and tunics had long since given way to the awful beatings. In those cases, their skin was damaged and sunburned; their ribs showed grotesquely through the thin layers of flesh, and the dirt and grime seemed inseparable with their bodies. All their hands and fingernails were lined and caked with soil. Many of the men were bruised and bloodstained. Some, again like Efrain, had bled during the night. A few of them would wake up still feeling faint from blood loss. It was nothing remarkable – it was the way the barracks looked every morning before the other slaves woke. In Efrain's eyes, it was a day like any other.

He stood up carefully, stretching to relieve the stiffness in his limbs. Whatever work he would be assigned always went better if he was as limber as possible first. Admittedly, he was not going to be agile as usual today, but anything was worth the effort. Efrain twisted his torso and bit his tongue, doubling over and choking on the sudden, searing pain. However many lashes he had received, it was more or more vicious than they had ever given him before. Probably, Efrain decided, wincing, it was the latter. Clearly, the Head did not like to be interrupted in the middle of his perverse games. Zylen was right – it had been stupid of him to save the boy. Not wrong, but stupid nonetheless.

The door scraped, warning Efrain of the Head's arrival. He dropped quickly back to the ground to avoid being noticed. Usually, the Head's call to work seemed urgent; a call to immediate and necessary work, obeyed to avoid excruciating punishment. Today it was monotonous. He used the same words every day: Up! Up, rats! Quickly! Get in line and move! And then he would kick whoever was nearest to the door if he wasn't fast enough to his feet. No creativity, no originality. Just dull, domineering repetition. Efrain slowly pushed himself back to his feet, suddenly regretting his decision to lie back down. A new scab ruptured, and his blood started to trickle again. With utmost effort, he forced his feet to begin moving.

Efrain, he thought, running through everything he knew about himself to take his mind off his injuries. My name is Efrain. I had a father once, and then I lost him. I lived on the streets, fighting for every scrap and every breath until my master's men picked me out of a slum and took me away because no one would miss me. I have worked here ever since then. I used to work deep in the silver mines, pushing carts down tunnels too small or narrow for an adult. When I grew too large for that, the Head began to put me to work doing anything he wanted, which was never anything easy. I have a soft streak in me that is going to get someone killed if I don't escape, and maybe even if I do. I am going to escape, because I am going to find out what I am and why I can cause storms. I will spend every moment of my life searching for the elves, and if I don't find them I will die still looking.

He laboriously fell into step with the others near the front of the line and began to trudge toward the barracks' door. Like the other slaves, he was careful to keep his eyes downcast, to look utterly defeated and subservient. Watching the ankles of the man in front of him, he moved to step outside. A black-gloved hand slammed into his chest, stopping him short. Efrain's heart began to pound beneath it and he looked up with growing dread. The Head's eyes were dead and unfeeling.

"Not you. I have something else in mind."

Efrain's gut wrenched in dreadful anticipation, but as the slaves filed out the door, the Head picked about ten of them from the line and herded them aside. The master had never sanctioned mass torture or execution as a means over control – he thought it was even more likely to incite rebellion – so Efrain and the other chosen slaves began to relax. It must just have been a different task than mining. Another driver, whom the Head called Jarod, appeared and shepherded the other group towards the quarries. The middle-aged man next to Efrain – his name was something like Ayris, but Efrain wasn't sure – sighed audibly. They had all been hoping that Jarod would lead them, as he wasn't nearly as predisposed to harsh punishments.

The group reluctantly trudged outside, into the now brightly shining sun. Efrain groaned inwardly as he immediately felt the hot rays beating down on his injured back, causing the wounds to begin to fester. It was going to be a miserable day, and if his lashes became infected, quite a deadly one at that. Something tugged at the back of his mind, volunteering its aid, but Efrain was wary. Storms could cause work to be as equally deadly if powerful enough. He would try not to use his newfound powers.

Then again, he realized as the tugging strengthened, it might already be at work and out of his control. A stream of magic slipped from Efrain's unwilling consciousness, and the clouds gradually darkened and thickened into a growing blanket of grey. Alarmed, he shoved back forcefully on the magic and imagined drawing the pocket closed around it. It obeyed, and Efrain flooded with an odd sense of triumph as the stream cut off but a light rain began to fall anyway. It was just heavy enough to soothe the lashes, but not to sting; and it wasn't tempestuous enough to be a hazard to work. Maybe, just maybe, the new job would be tolerable after all.


Fírnen hovered above the country, so high that the trees of Du Weldenvarden were barely distinguishable from each other, even in Arya's eyes. Arya took in a deep breath and sighed, relieving herself of the tension of ruling. As the Queen of Ellesméra, she was constrained. She had always been headstrong, and not given to the stiff elven pleasantries that were so prevalent in her country, which had heavily influenced her initial decision to become her mother's envoy to Alagaesia. Away from her home, she would be largely free of such things. But then, after her mother's death, the elven council had convinced her that not only was the title of Drӧttning hers by birthright – she was suited to it. To this day, she could not remember how they had managed to do so, and she sometimes cursed them as tricksters and smooth manipulators. Which they were, of course. Held down by the confines of their language, they learned to twist their words to ambiguity. But they also learned to persuade. The ancient language was naturally more elegant than common tongues, and elves voices tended to be melodic. Many of them nurtured these advantages until every word was succulent and appealing, and it was difficult to resist their suggestions. Arya hadn't realized until about a year after she accepted the role that she had become susceptible to their manipulations, and by then it was far too late to change her mind. She was a trapped monarch, to be sure. Even now, she had not been at peace in what seemed like far too long, although these years were the blink of an eye in the life of an elf. The emerald dragon sent her a vague question in the form of a feeling – was she all right?

His rider answered to the affirmative, adding tiredly, Flauga, Fírnen, flauga fram. Fly, Fírnen, fly forward.

Her sentiment was clear, though her words were brief. She wanted him to fly far away from Ellesméra, to carry her away from the strife. Her life as a Rider was her only escape; it was the only justified absence she could claim. It had been nearly ten years since Galbatorix had fallen and Urû'baen had again become Ilirea, and yet Alagaesia still struggled to reform. Surely, Nasuada was a powerful queen; but her kingdom was vast, and even she must take time to reconstruct such a devastated empire. That was not Arya's main concern.

What worried her the most was Nasuada's continuing fear of those who wielded magic. She had been tortured by the Rider King and seen shades and magicians and sorcerers fight against her in the war, and for that reason, wariness of gramarye was to be expected. But this was paranoia. The magicians were a source of constant worry and the Riders – though Eragon would never lead them against her – were worse. But most of all, the Queen of Alagaesia feared the unpredictability of the elves. Never mind that without Ellesméra the Empire would still be suffering under Galbatorix's rule, or that the elves had never shown any inclination of war with her. Nasuada had learned to instinctively distrust the magical, and the combination of Ellesméra's proximity and power led her to misgivings. Much of Arya's time spent on politics and foreign affairs was spent assuring Nasuada that she and her ambassador, Vanir, meant only to help her. She had spent ten years saying the same words in slightly different forms, trying to convince her that she had nothing to worry about. But still Nasuada was itching to police the magicians and the elves; she wanted the power to hold them down or lock away any malicious thoughts they might ever have. She didn't seem to realize that, in a way, she would then become as oppressive as Galbatorix himself.

Fly to the ocean, Fírnen, she requested. Though the elves lived in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, they had a long, ancestral love of the sea, expressed in many songs and poems and tales. It had mesmerized them no less after a thousand years in Ellesméra than it had after three. The ever-changing waters would provide Arya welcome distraction and solace. The dragon changed his course obligingly, and Arya attempted to divert her attention from Alagaesia's troubles. Not long later, the expanse of blue spread out before them and Arya caught her breath. She had traveled over it several times to see Eragon and the new Riders, but she was always awed by the sight. The sea was always the same, but ever-changing. The waters rose and fell in predictable time, but storms could rage without warning, and beasts might rise from the surface. And every storm, every creature, every pounding wave added to the nearly ethereal beauty of the everlasting waters. Arya resolved herself to add to the store of poetry on the ocean. Fírnen alighted on the soft, white sand just above the line where the foam fell upon the shore.

It is good to be away from the city, acknowledged Fírnen in his resounding voice as she slid from his back.

I agree, responded Arya. Here we may be free of restraint. She knelt to unlace her fine elven boots. Moments later, she stepped free and rolled up the bottoms of her leggings. The elf stood barefoot, letting the water wash over her in splashes of white foam. Eyes closed, she breathed in the cool, salty air that reminded her of being a child more than a century before. Her mother, Islanzadí, and her father, Evandar, had both been alive in those days, and Islanzadí had been far less severe. Evandar was cheerful – he laughed and sang with a genial spirit, and rarely said a harsh word. It was from him that she had learned to sing. Yet he was wise and temperate in serious matters and rarely was his advice amiss. He had balanced Islanzadí. The former queen's quick temper was much curbed by his jovial predisposition, and it was not until after his death that she became fueled largely by disapproval and austerity, especially towards her daughter. No, during that time, Arya had been free to wander and play as an elven child might desire, then unfettered by the demands of royal life. Fírnen touched one of her memories fondly, their mental connection causing him to share in her nostalgia.

It seems to me, little one, the dragon probed carefully, that you oft regret your decision to take the crown?

Arya sighed, opening her dark green eyes. Of late, that is true. But no matter the trials I face, I can think of no better way to serve my people.

Could you not, perhaps, serve them quite equally well as a Rider? he continued hopefully. Eragon and Saphira serve Alagaesia quite well from afar. Might we not do the same?

Arya almost laughed – his feelings for Saphira were spilling over into her, and she could see the exquisite glow of the blue dragon's scales, the wicked glimmer in her jewel-like eye. Then she thought of someone else, of a brown-haired young man with dark eyes and an encouraging smile, and her amusement was lost to understanding. In times such as these, the elf admitted, I wish for nothing more – if only for the comforts of informality and familiarity. But we have made our decision, and we shall abide by it. When we are able – as we have done in the past - we will fly to the Rider's Isle.

Fírnen acquiesced and nudged her shoulder fondly. Arya allowed a small smile to curl across her lips. The sun was still high in the afternoon sky, and the water shimmered beneath it like millions of sapphires. Almost, Arya mused, like Saphira's scales that she had just seen from Fírnen's mind. She could hear the sounds of the waves rising and falling with a gentle crash; and a cool breeze rose up, pushing Arya's hair back from her face. A seagull called overhead, and she felt that she stood on the continent as it had been before the first elves had set foot on it. The land had been restored, leaving her to pure serenity. Alagaesia did not yet exist, and her troubles as queen were entirely immaterial.

After a long while, Fírnen curled up like a cat in the sand and Arya perched herself on his side, still staring out to sea. Her dragon began to hum deeply, a sign that he was content. The vibrations ran through her, but she didn't mind. It was oddly comforting, and her senses began to dull with the edge of a restful trance, not quite like sleep in nature. A dark speck appeared on the horizon, and Arya's dark eyes followed it lazily as it slowly began to draw closer.

She blinked, every aspect of wakefulness reappearing. It must be a ship sailing towards the continent, which was strange by any standards. The only contacts anyone in Alagaesia or Ellesméra had away from the mainland were the Riders, and no merchants or travelers would ever make port at this deserted beach. Yet here the ship was, set to land within a matter of weeks – no, days. Her sharp eyes discerned that it was moving at a higher speed than any human ship she had ever seen.

Are there still elves across the sea? asked Fírnen, arching up his long neck to follow Arya's gaze.

If it were so, I was never informed of it. Yet we kept no relations, so perhaps it was not deemed necessary, she replied. She was slightly perturbed by the oversight, as it showed a lack of concern for all eventualities. In other words, it was not logical, and logic was the mostly highly valued trait in the elven kingdom.

Fírnen seemed amused by her annoyance but made no mention of it. Instead, he suggested, Perhaps you can view it more closely with a spell for far sight? I would prefer that I remain unseen for the time being.

Arya sent him a feeling of agreement and murmured the words of the spell. The ship began to grow larger in her vision. It was slender and streamlined, undoubtedly of elven make. The masts were tall spires with thick sails, white but weather-stained. The wood was hard and polished, sturdily constructed for a long journey. The prow cut swiftly through the water, but was unaided by magic, although Arya could see tall, elegant figures sweeping across the deck. She could not make out their features or attire, but a glint of sunlight off one of the elves informed her that they were armed. One female was significantly small than the others, more like to the size of a human. It was possible then, that the ship sailed with children as well.

The small elf turned her way, and she dropped the spell suddenly. It occurred to her that these other elves could quite possibly perform the same spell as she, and then both she and Fírnen would be easily visible. She voiced her concern to him and the left they beach and flew back to the river in Du Weldenvarden, hoping the traveling elves were not yet aware of them. Kneeling by the water, Arya murmured a different spell, and a scene drew itself on the surface.

She saw a large, arid room with one wall open to the sky. There were brackets by which a heavy, stiff covering could be attached to block out inclement weather. The floor was polished, almost reflective, stone, as were the walls. The ceiling appeared to be obsidian, which glimmered like the night sky. A bed sat in one corner of the room, and a writing desk was across from it. A piece of parchment lay upon the desk, but it seemed for some reason to be unfinished. A brown-haired young man stood facing away from her, unaware that he was being watched. He was removing the blue sword that hung at his side, and his thin body was catlike in that it seemed always ready to pounce.

"Eragon!" she called, and the man turned, a smile spreading across his face at the sound of her voice.

His brown eyes were as warm and inviting as his voice as he replied, "Arya, it is good to see you! And you as well, Fírnen. How fares Ellesméra?"

"Ellesméra is well for the time being, yet all may change within a moment," she answered cryptically, slightly irritated even as she spoke that she had fallen prey to the influence of the other elves.

Concerned, Eragon continued, "And why is that? Is some misfortune near to you?"

She answered his question with another question. "Have you seen a ship sailing past the Isle?"

His dark brow furrowed and he said, "One of my students spoke of what he took to be a merchant vessel blown off course, but that is all. Did he misinform me?"

Arya nodded. "It is an elven vessel, but does not find its origins in Du Weldenvarden. It seems that it may come from abroad. The ship makes haste towards the near beach."

Eragon sighed. "I should have known better than to trust Kamir's word of a ship. He is a very young boy who had never seen ship nor ocean before he came to the Isle. I could not expect him to know an elven ship from a trading vessel… I should have inspected myself, but it didn't occur to me at the time. I know that elves once hailed from a distant land, but I did not realize that some remained. Have you heard of them before?"

"No," she responded, her annoyance returning. "In all my education, it was never revealed to me. I do not know if my mother or father was aware of their existence, but I never was. Any teachers of mine implied that the elves migrated as a whole to this land, vacating our former home entirely. It is possible, however, that these elves remember us from long ago and left in the same heading."

The leader of the Riders seemed pensive. "If that is true, then, do they come bearing thoughts of war or reconciliation?"

"I do not know. I had hoped you knew of them and might offer me information, but you know as little as I, Shadeslayer," she said, using his title almost playfully.

He smiled. "That much is certain, Shadeslayer, but I believe that can be changed. Saphira and I will fly above them, in the clouds so that we will not be seen. I will bend space and take some of the Eldunarí with me, to hide our presence and lend us strength. Then, when we are near, I shall use spells of far sight and good hearing to spy on them. When I have gathered all I can of their intent, I will scry you again. What do you think?"

"A good plan, Eragon," she answered, somewhat relieved. "In the meantime, I will consult with the elders about our ancestral home. Perhaps they can tell us the circumstances that caused us to sail away, and they may have knowledge of our ancestry. It may bring insight into their intent… When shall you carry out this plan, so that I will know when to be outside the city? You know that the wards will block me within."

He thought for a moment and the said, "I will speak with the Eldunarí today and leave tomorrow. Look to speak with me in the afternoon."

The matter was settled, and a weight disappeared from Arya's chest. Ask him where Saphira is, requested Fírnen, sensing her change in mood. She complied readily.

"Out hunting, Fírnen," Eragon responded. "We just finished with a lesson about fighting in the sky, and she was quite hungry." He grinned and added, "I'm not surprised, either. She likes to show off her skills so much that she works up quite an appetite."

Arya allowed herself a smile. Dragons were well known for their vanity, and Saphira was certainly no exception. It didn't help either that she was one of the best flyers since the dawn of the Riders. Arya could picture the blue dragon preening in the sun, humming with contentment as she rolled, twisted, flipped, and dove through the sky.

She and Eragon talked for the next few hours, exchanging tales of daily life, frustrations and happiness, lifting their worries one by one and watching them drift away on the wind. Arya smiled more freely, moment by moment, as did Eragon. Then, suddenly, they were both laughing, a high, sweet musical trill and a hearty baritone laugh that harmonized oddly well despite their differences. It was liberating – it was always liberating – talking to Eragon, who was so rarely stiff or angry with her, who was always ready to listen and offer friendly advice if she asked it of him.

But as the last tones of laughter drained away, Arya realized that the light was tinged with red and the sun was fading. She needed to return to Ellesméra or the other members of the royal houses would be missing her, and then they would question her about her whereabouts; it would take quite a bit longer to pursue her intended conversation about the elven homeland. As it was, Arya thought that by neglecting education of it entirely, the elders had evinced that it was a touchy subject; because of that it might take her hours anyway to wrench the information from their grip, even with a ships en route to the nearest beach. She reluctantly bid goodbye to Eragon, mounted Fírnen and flew home.

For most anyone, it would have been easy to miss the city from above because it was sung into the forest magically, so that the trees became living homes for the elves. But Arya and Fírnen had so often flown forth from it that it was likely they could have found it blindfolded. Fírnen began the descent in a steep, death-defying drop that made Arya's spirit soar with excitement. She was almost disappointed as the ground zoomed closer and Fírnen's path flattened dramatically, culminating anticlimactically in a safe, horizontal landing. A tall, slender elf with silver eyes and long hair like starlight loped gracefully to greet her.

"Atra du evarínya ono varda," he greeted respectfully in a deep, mellifluous voice.

Arya responded with the second line to the traditional greeting, and then continued before the other elf could begin to speak and distract her from her goal.

"Gamaliel," she pressed, still in the ancient language, "an elven ship sails nigh and shall come upon the shore within days. What knowledge can you give me of our ancient homeland? Did we not depart as one on our voyage here?"

The elf's lips parted, the largest expression of shock she had ever seen on his long-familiar face. His fair skin paled even though it was already white and his eyes showed that he was struggling for words. Gamaliel was never lost for words and never had been in Arya's lifetime.

"Arya Drӧttning," he said, skipping over his usual intricacies of speech, "the history of our ancestral homeland is a history of our bloodiest war, more so even than our long conflict with the dragons. If they shall come to this land, then more likely than not, they bring strife with them. Convene a council, my queen, and you shall know of the War of Bloodlines."


So... My first chapter of my first fanfiction... sort of. I'm working on an LOTR co-op with Koury Coving (the term working is relative - we develop extreme ADHD when we're together). By the way she's awesome and you should definitely check out her stories, but she might hurt you if you leave without reviewing, so reviewing would be a fantastic way to avoid a grisly fate. As far as that goes - and returning back to me - I'll be happy if you do the same for this chapter. Any advice / constructive criticism / almost anything at all would be great.

Thanks from Gael Drake