A/N Into the Blue is basically a complete AU rewrite of the Inheritance Cycle starting from before the happenings of Eragon. In this universe Selena never made it up north to Carvahal and her children were raised at Galbatorix's court after her demise. The character of Eragon has been replaced by Eryana, as instead of having two sons, Selena had a son and a daughter. Eryana has just turned ten by the time of the events in this story and Murtagh is nearing his sixteenth birthday.
This story is being written for the Authors personal enjoyment and she may, or may not come back to edit the drafts of posted chapters. All recognizable characters and places belong to Christopher Paolini.
Chapter 1 – Children of the Forsworn
It was a warm spring day with clear skies. The glaring sun drew sweat on his skin and he could feel the blade grow slick and heavy in his hand. He blinked at his opponent, clearing the dust from his eyes. They had been at this for an hour already, yet neither was ready to give in. With a grunt Murtagh charged yet again, slamming his blade rather recklessly at the old bladesmaster. Moments later he found himself flat on his back on the gravely ground.
"Never know when to give up, do you Murtagh?" Tornac chuckled swinging his sword into its scabbard, walking towards his young charge. They never used dulled training blades these days, not since Murtagh had grown good enough with his forms to not cut himself up. The old master claimed it made for reckless battle without honour; each blow should carry its real weight. "Still, you are getting better, just got to watch that temper of yours. Anger makes one reckless and recklessness can cost a man his life." His voice carried pride for his charge yet was stern enough to get the message across. Bending over, he offered to pull the boy up. "I think we should wrap things up for the day. You look a mess and the King will have my head if he finds you missing some fingers at dinner."
Swordmaster Tornac was a man who appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, Murtagh had never asked the man his real age, judging by his silvery hair and the many deep wrinkles that littered his sun-tanned complexion. Despite his occupation he was a man who enjoyed the peaceful morning air with a cup of herbal tea and his personal hobby of woodcarving. Whilst often putting up a brave front, Murtagh suspected that the man was less than whole on the inside, having lost his son to one of Galbatorix's many conquests and his wife to the complications of the birth of their stillborn daughter. Although somewhat rough around the edges and with an undercurrent of sternness, the man had a gentle and benevolent nature. Regardless, Murtagh looked up to the man like a father-figure.
Murtagh huffed in aspersion, taking the offered hand with apparent reluctance. "As if the old crack pot would take the time of day to really acknowledge my presence, not that I want him to. Too wrapped up in his past grandeur and whatever else that crazy mind of his whips up to take notice." The fifteen-year-old muttered patting down his dusty tunic and trousers, his mood darkening and quickly turning sour. "And when he does look at me, he doesn't even see me, not really. Only the old bastard's shadow. And don't even let me get started on Eryana. Honestly, can't remember a time he has even spoken to her." He bent over to pick up his blade, sheathing it with unnecessary force.
"Speaking of your sister, where is the little menace? Not wreaking havoc and demoralizing the men at the archery range I hope?" Tornac inquired, trying to lighten the boy up, a somewhat forced smile lining his callused features. The King's relationship with Morzan's offspring had always been a rather sore subject. "And please, do try to show our liege some proper respect will you? We both know how sensitive he can be about his titles." He chided playfully with a knowing grin.
Murtagh gave a small smile before replying, "Knowing her she has ditched her tutor, that would be the Lady Theresa for today, somewhere around lunch." Murtagh scratched his chin as if in deep thought. "As of right now, she could probably be found holed up somewhere in the library or making herself a bother in the Physician's chambers…. barring, of course, she isn't as you say 'wreaking havoc' somewhere else…" Morzan's eldest trailed off before shrugging "I should probably go find her before she makes the last of Lady Theresa's hairs go white, not that it could make the nasty old bat look uglier than she currently is."
Tornac let out a wolf-like bout of laughter. "That girl never ceases to amaze me with her peculiarities. I pity the poor soul that has to oversee her sewing lessons. Little Eryana is too curious and knows too much to be ever considered appropriate for a woman."
"You don't have to tell me. As far as half of the palace is concerned, Mother had two sons; not a son and a daughter."
Tornac ruffled the teen's messy locks in a fatherly way as they walked towards the armoury. Murtagh scrunched his face up in apparent annoyance yet it didn't quite reach his eyes. The old swordsman had taken the two siblings under his protective wing years ago when their mother had passed away, not long after their father was slain, apparently, by agents of the Varden. Not that Murtagh had ever been particularly interested in Morzan's demise; news of the old Bastard's death had not lingered long in the household and no one had particularly mourned him for the cruel and violent man he was. His mother's death on the other hand had hit the boy hard. Eryana didn't remember the circumstances surrounding their mother's death. Murtagh doubted his baby sister could even recall their mother's voice or face; she was just a couple of weeks old back then.
The winter winds blew cold across the barren plains and snow crunched beneath his bare feet; he had lost his shoes somewhere in the night, when they had reached the muddy banks of the Ninor. At first the cold had stung relentlessly but had by now receded to a dull thrum. He pulled at his cloak, the hood did little to cover his blue lips and frostbitten cheeks from the wind. Exhaustion weighted down his lithe form as he followed his mother's wavering footsteps in the twilight.
The soothing smell of boiled leather and iron reached his nose as they entered the darkened armoury. Murtagh proceeded to place his blade on the rack under one of the high-set windows. Tornac had promised him a blade forged by the best smith the man knew for his sixteenth nameday, which was only a couple of months away. Until then, Murtagh would stick to borrowing swords from the palace armoury when needed. He gazed longingly at the freshly polished two-handed sword set to hand on the wall, its steel reflecting dusty rays of light.
"I think we should be making the trip up to Derwit a couple of weeks early. The village smith promised my order ready by then and he will no doubt be busy when they start turning and sowing the fields." Tornac mentioned taking a seat on a stool in the far corner, rummaging around his many pockets for a whetstone and a polishing cloth. The man was meticulous with the maintenance of his equipment.
"Derwit? You aren't using the services of the palace smithy?" 'Of course not, the pest that lives out of Galbatorix's purse isn't worth even half his title. Overcharging his for his bulky swords and daggers… According to Tornac Master Meswin swapped the last crumbles of his honour for gold years ago.'
"Whilst His Majesty seems to trust Master Meswin to outfit his personal army, I would rather this matter be handled with more practiced and skilled hands…. especially seeing as I am paying for it out of my own pocket." Tornac muttered, running the whetstone across the edge of his blade with practiced ease. "If you're willing we'll be making the journey in a fortnight. And don't worry about your sister; I already promised her she will be accompanying us. It will do her good to get out of the castle every once in a while." The man smirked seeing the shocked look on Murtagh's face.
"You're taking full responsibility if we end up running halfway across Alagaesia after her.", Murtagh wailed.
"Not to worry. She promised she would be on her best behaviour, especially after I promised a certain someone would be taking her to see the local market…", Tornac amended with a conspiring grin.
"Traitor!"
"Now, now, Murtagh. It's only for five days, two of which will be spent traveling." Tornac said rubbing steadily with the polishing cloth, not in the least bothered by Murtagh's apparent dramatics. "Now, I think you should be off to find your little devil of a sister and get yourselves cleaned up for dinner. Unlike the youth of today, the older generation seems to value punctuality. And drop by for lunch tomorrow after your lessons if you can, and bring Eryana along as well. She always manages to somehow brighten up this old man's days."
He found her in the library, having no doubt snuck in with the silent encouragement of the young librarian, who managed the king's royal collections. Grenn was his name, if Murtagh recalled correctly. He was a young man in his early twenties with mousy-blond hair, blue eyes and a headful of boundless curiosity and an unrivalled love for literature. Needless to say, the man had become his sister's confidant and partner in crime ever since she had first gotten lost in the musty chambers. Many of the dusty tomes lining the shelves had been there from before the city was conquered by the rider king, other's had been salvaged from the smouldering ruins of Doru Araeba at Galbatorix's bequest. The man may have built his empire on the ruins of the old order but he wasn't one to forgo knowledge, the royal library being a testament to that.
Eryana was currently perched rather precariously on a window-sill, immersed in a book twice the thickness of her arm. Light filtered through the beautiful stained-glass window, encompassing her in a soft halo. Her left hand fingered her shoulder-length locks softly, habit she had developed whenever deep in thought.
Once during dinner Galbatorix had offhandedly mentioned how she seemed to take more after their mother whilst Murtagh was the spitting image of their father. Somewhat reluctantly, Murtagh found himself agreeing with the man. Whilst Murtagh was little rugged with wide-set shoulders and long limbs, Eryana's features had a softness that made her look somewhat fragile, excluding her face that is. She had the same angular jaw and high cheekbones as her brother along with the brown hair and eyes, even if hers were a shade lighter or so.
Soft, loving brown eyes gazed up at him as warmth began to fade from the hand within his tight grasp. Her cheeks were red with fever, eyes wet with unshed tears. He leaned into her slight touch as she caressed his face, mouthing soft words to him. 'Only women and weak men cry', his father had uttered more than once. Yet now, his eyes stung and he could taste salt on his dry lips.
"Shouldn't you be with the Lady Theresa?" Murtagh asked, raising his voice enough to break the ten-year-old girl's concentration. "She seemed rather exhausted when we met in the corridor just now, asked me to hunt down a skiving rascal. Any idea who she could be talking about?" Brown eyes shot up at him in alarm and the girl would have come tumbling down from her perch with a cry of shock, had Murtagh not been there to catch her.
"'Tagh! Don't scare me like that!" his sister reprimanded whilst steadying herself. "For a moment I thought you were the old hag from hell itself!"
"Hiding from her again? No wonder they have to switch with the Lady Margaret every couple of days just to keep sane."
Eryana rolled her eyes, something she had picked up from her brother not so long ago. "Hey! It's not my fault she has been hounding me all day for another row of cross-stitches. Honestly, couldn't handle a quill for days after her last lesson."
"And it's not her fault, or mine for that matter, that you are an absolute slob when it comes to sewing… apparently so much that it's hazardous to your health."
"I take offence to that! Being able to do a line of straight stitches is enough for me, thank you very much. It's not my fault if we cannot reach a consensus on the matter." Eryana stammered, her face becoming flustered in embarrassment and frustration. "I, for one am not willing to go through self-mutilation for her sole enjoyment."
"Ooh... big words. Have you by any chance seen the fifth volume of the encyclopaedia? I think a certain someone must have swallowed it." Murtagh proclaimed dramatically before sobering up. "Tornac send me. Said I should get you ready for dinner. With the King, remember?"
"Can't we just eat at your room? Please, 'Tagh? The food never tastes as good and well, I can't talk to you… not really." She pleaded, her voice turning rather whiny. "And seriously, he creeps me out. With how he stares at you all the time with those beady eyes."
"No, we can't. And yes he does creep me out as well." Murtagh admitted. The King had an ominous presence that left you feeling like you were walking on eggshells; the man was like a hungry wolf ready to jump at your throat at a moment's notice. "Besides, Master Tornac asked us both to partake lunch with him on the morrow." He was glad to see her eyes lighten up at that. Peering at the book in her hands he inquired: "What were you reading?"
Eryana smiled fondly at the thick book, balancing it in her hands before opening it, letting Murtagh see the many colourful maps and illustration littering the pages, although the ink had somewhat faded over time. "It's an atlas. By Rider Lúren" she explained eagerly. "Did you know that Utgard is almost as tall as the lowest peaks of the Beors; it's around twenty thousand feet tall… well at least according to Rider-Elder Lúren, the cartographer. He's the one who drew the map hanging in the throne room, you know, the big one with all the names written in elvish script. He and his dragon Ariadne Swiftwing are said to have mapped the entire kingdom from the air."
Murtagh paused upon a picture depicting what was, according to the accompanying fine script, Lake Isenstar with the towering fir trees of Du Weldenvarden blooming in the distance. "Now that's a place I would like to visit someday, maybe stay for a while." he muttered softly, earning a knowing smile from his little sister. Neither of them had seen much of the world outside the castle walls. 'And those wings,' he thought caressing the inkwork in the shape of a flying dragon and its rider. 'I want them too'.
"And look at this!" Eryana exclaimed in a hushed tone, flipping to near the beginning "It's so beautiful." She sighted in awe. The claw-shaped island of Vroengard as it had been before the Fall and the horrors brought about by Galbatorix and his Forsworn, lush with greenery and fauna. The tall spires of Doru Araeba, the seat of power for the riders of old, could be seen intact against the horizon with rider astride dragons flocking around them diving in and out of the cloud cover. "I want to see it someday… climb up to the tallest tower and imagine I am flying. Feel the wind and smell the sea." Murtagh didn't have the heart to tell her the truth, that what once was was now just rubble and barren, scorched land.
"Come on. We had better get washed up and dressed for dinner." He said, closing the book before placing it on a nearby table. "It'll be here tomorrow still, after your lessons." He took her hand, gently guiding her from the room. They bade goodbye to Grenn, who was lighting the candles, on their way out. The day was quickly growing short.
That night Murtagh dreamed of snow ridden fields, cold winds and their mother's warmth.
Promise me. Promise me, Murtagh