Chapter One: An Elven Lifetime
To the brightest, cheeriest and most optimistic of eyes, Feinster was a mess. Eragon's own orbs, noticeably dulled from fatigue, drank in the vile scene once more, and not for the first time, wondered when the war might shift beyond petty cities and their manipulated populations, to the gates of Uru'baen.
Whilst most of the houses and important buildings remained standing, they were blighted by shattered windows, caved-in walls, and the dry stench of blood steaming in the unrestrained sun.
The Vardens soldiers had done their utmost to repair all they could and to clear the dead, but despite their best efforts the chilling wail of women, having sifted through rubble, to find an arm or full corpse wedged into the debris, remained alarmingly frequent and increasingly poignant.
With a soft intake of breath, Eragon turned his head and made for the Varden's main camp, some half mile from the cities battered walls.
Still mourning? Saphira's voice leapt unbidden into the riders mind, and he allowed a quick-sad smile to grace his maturing visage.
Its not like I have no reason to, he countered, first the slaughter at Feinster, then the shade Varaug… now Oromis and Glaedr… if the Vardens fate were not resting on our shoulders, I'd mourn several lifetimes and feel no better.
Human lifetimes, or elven? She replied, with a hint of mischief, and his smile grew slightly as the campsite crept into view.
Is there even such a thing as an elven lifetime?
The air tasted of warm sweat, rusted armour, healing wounds and roasting cow, as Eragon entered the camp, to appreciative greetings. He made straight for his tent, past the mess hall (a simple field), where he knew Saphira was waiting.
"Eragon", like a bell, the voice reverberated in his brain as he turned towards the elven maiden.
"Greetings Arya" he paused as their eyes met, conveying their shared torment of the recent deaths. "How is your neck?"
"Tis healed, fully" she replied "Though I fear we both suffer a wound far graver than a mere Shade might inflict" and she moved another five paces, closing the gap between them "Have you managed to awaken… the Eldunari?" she whispered, casting furtive glances at the near-by tents.
"No, Saphira and I have tried, but we…" Eragon trailed off, unable to convey the sheer despair he and Saphira had been smothered by when they attempted to comfort the golden dragon.
"I understand" Arya stated softly, placing a smoothly firm hand on Eragon's shoulder, "To loose ones own soul-mate…" They stood together a few minutes, allowing a brief moment of mutual comfort before returning to the savage realities of a nation at war.
The sadness that plagued Eragon, after every battle and each regretful kill, was one he both despised, and revered. When he thought of Roran, Nasuada, Orik and even Arya, he was aware of the necessary detachment they displayed throughout battle and ruthlessness with which they slaughtered their foes, or led friends to their deaths. At times he felt he would do anything to obtain some scrap of that hardness, but then he also had some small pride at his own moral bearings, and the distance it placed between him and the fell king.
Despite his unusual stance on warfare, whether it be a burden or a gift, Eragon was sure of his own abilities, both physical and mental, against all but Galbatorix himself. With Saphira, and now Brisinger at his side he felt stronger than he ever had before, and confident in his ability to make the right decisions, both for the sake of the Varden and his own conscience. However in order to complete the task with which he was entrusted Eragon was sure of the need to reach even greater heights, and he still felt a nagging emptiness, like he was missing out on his full potential. Indeed, to stand any chance against Galbatorix he knew that his power had to grow, significantly.
To speak his name to the Vault of Souls… Presumably that meant that he would have to learn his true name. Assuming he could locate the vault in the first place… And then the Eldunari, to locate and free them would be a daunting task in itself…
Carry on thinking in this way, Little One, and we shall drown in tactical and philosophical musings, whilst the world around us grows gradually more damnable, Saphira's voice brushed aside his thoughts with warming affection.
I am sorry my dragon, he replied, perhaps an evening glide around the Vardens camp might prove more worthwhile?
More enjoyable, at least she tenderly responded.
Enjoyable, in the context of flying, is a multi-layered word.
Eragon felt the familiar stomach-lurch as Saphira dipped up and down with unnatural agility, causing him to bounce ferociously in his saddle, whilst his mouth hung open in a joyous scream.
Small lakes and little villages flickered by, as dragon and rider soared between Feinster and the Jiet River. The sun melted beneath the horizon like smouldering candle wax, and clouds could only half obscure the vermillion and claret echoes that stained the sky around it, like the beautiful tapestries Eragon had seen tapered to the walls in Jeod's house, or the infinite warmth of the rugs sprawled upon the floor of the old tavern, back at Carvahall.
As Saphira began to spiral back towards the camp, Eragon could make out the seemingly endless sea to the West that tossed and turned with fury greater than any on Alagaesia. He felt a pang and a strange relief as they came to land, the imprint of the vast ocean still fresh, like footprints in the sand, upon his exhausted mind.
Mid-Morning
BANG
The thump of Orrin's fist upon the oak table startled Eragon out of his dozing state, and he quickly rubbed the dust from his eyes before glancing up at the bickering council.
The subject of debate was, he could vaguely make out, the funeral of Oromis and Glaedr, and whether or not any of the Varden should be given leave to attend. The old Surdan king was vehemently against the idea, and, Eragon had to concede, justifiably so. To loose any of the twelve elven guardians, Arya, himself and Saphira, or any other Varden who might wish to pay their respects at such a crucial stage in the campaign, would severely weaken the Vardens chances of taking Belatona without a lengthy and avoidable siege.
"I fully… appreciate the importance of both the felled rider, and his dragon. To disregard their training of Eragon and defiance of Galbatorix would be madness, however t'would be far greater a folly to risk our last remaining hope, and indeed any of his guardians, when our march to Belatona is scheduled not two days from now" the king rambled, and Eragon felt his eyelids begin to droop once again, until Arya's voice cut through his senses, ensnaring the respect and attention of each person present.
"Would it not be considered folly, then, to ignore a correspondence with the elves?"
The good king raised his eyebrows a fraction, "Tis regrettable, indeed, however Islanzadi has the means with which to scry us and converse via magic at any time. Would you not agree, my lady Nasuada?"
"Eragon…" the dark skinned leader began, "I understand your desire to pay your respects to Oromis and Glaedr, I understand you're longing to meet with the Ellsemera elves again, and, Arya, I am fully aware of the importance of maintaining our fragile truce with the elven kind. You shall go to Gil'ead, say your final farewells, and do your utmost to re-stoke that flame of passion for which the elven are renowned upon the battlefield. For I believe the passing of two such elders as Oromis and Glaedr may have adverse repercussions on moral… you know as well as I do, that many of their kind believe that you should have been fighting by the side of the elders, when Galbatorix struck his fell blow." Nasuada paused for breath and glanced round the table, her gaze lingering on King Orrin, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
"So be it" the old man sighed "I see the knowledge in your words Nasuada, and so long as Eragon is able to return immediately after the funeral, I see no irreparable harm."
Eragon shifted, and spoke up at last "On Saphira, I can reach Gil'ead in three to four days… returning immediately after the funeral I should be back in eight"
"We move for Belatona in two days" commanded Nasuada "with our wounded and supplies we should make the camp outside the gates in five days, so seven days in total. On the eighth day we begin the siege of Belatona, provided they wish to repel our advances, as Lady Lorna did."
"Then, my liege, we shall fly to Belatona after the funeral, to assist in the siege."
"Aye, Eragon, but I would not have you travel alone. Galbatorix will have patrols across all the important planes and perhaps even magical traps…"
"And yet you could not send all twelve guardians with him," stated Arya, calmly "In order to make it back in good time, Saphira should only be burdened with one extra passenger. Therefore, as Islanzadi's ambassador, I propose that I guard Eragon for the trips duration."
Arya's speech was met with a thoughtful silence, before Nasuada spoke up again "You have my blessing, then, Arya, and you, Eragon to attend the elder's funeral, and to shore up our allegiance with the elves. However I would make one last demand… that you fly West of Leona Lake and North along the southern reaches of the Spine till you reach Woadark Lake, in order that you avoid Dras-Leona and Uru'baen."
The finality in Nasuada's voice was clear to all, and as one the Varden's war council rose to make their preparations.
"Another adventure?" Roran's voice seemed to have deepened since Feinster, and when combined with his huge shoulders and dishevelled stubble, Eragon could not help but wonder at the transformation his cousin had undergone.
Somewhat rich, considering you now resemble a half-elf yourself, Saphira cut in sarcastically.
"Aye brother, we leave for Gil'ead on the hour, provided Arya is ready." They locked eyes and grinned; the haughty elf was never late.
"But you'll return for Belatona? It wouldn't do to be absent, if, say, Murtagh and Thorn attacked, and rumour has it Galbatorix has issued a new commander… of the not quite human kind." Eragon could feel the unease in his voice, for he too had heard word that the dread king had summoned another abomination to serve at his side. The general consensus was that it was a Shade, a direct replacement for the late Durza.
"Of course I shall" he covered his anxiety with a smile "what would Garrow say, if I were to let you have all the fun?"
The cousins clasped each others wrists and hugged briefly as Arya paced deliberately across the lawn towards them. Having ensured he had his sword, scrolls, armour, a thin blanket and Glaedr's Eldunari, Eragon helped her onto Saphira and climbed the scales himself, nodding farewell to Blodhgarm and the eleven other elves. Having reached its peak, the sun was beginning a slow descent, settling beneath the stilled sea as Saphira took off in a rush of wind. The sudden salty tang in the air was welcome relief from days on the ruined battlefield, and little crystals seemed to form on his chafed lips, dissolving quickly onto the roughened tongue.