I knew I wasn't really his daughter. Still, he was my father. He had raised me. Cared for me. A times, I could even think he loved me. Other than my father, a servant and I, only Murtagh knew of my existence. And Thorn and Shruikan, of course. They were dragons and their riders knew of my existence.
Father taught me many things, almost everything I know. Magic, swordsmanship, manipulating, wordplay, strategy, tactics, survival and many other things. He did not teach me all he knew in fear that I would be able to defeat him, but I knew many things he did not teach me. One of them was the name. The true name of the language of magic, the native tongue of the elves. I knew and I still know the true name of the ancient language. I understood the dangers of the word but it pleased me to know it. The word. The power I had with it hitched my breath, heightened my senses. I cherished power, like my father.
How I knew my father was not truly my father? HA! I was a little more than one hundred years old. For that immortality you had to be an elf, dragon rider or dwarf. My size was not fitting for a dwarf and I had no dragon or gedwey ignasia to be a dragon rider so all that was left was that I was an elf. I had the cat-like features of the alfa. Their grace, their poise, the speed, agility and magical abilities. I was amazing at magic. It came naturally to me. Why else I thought I was an elf? My laugh. My father once said that my laugh was as clear as tinkling bells. Gold bells, silver bells and crystal bells. He said it sounded like the water from a waterfall falling upon a crystal. A beautiful sound. My laugh awakened all the nature from miles around me while I laughed. And as soon as I stopped he said that sadness returned to the world. My father called my laugh an orchestrated symphony, a beautiful symphony of flutes and other gentle instruments. The spring breeze passing by, the gentle rustling of reeds and the first fall of winter snow.
I knew the man that I called my father was not truly my father, but he had raised me, taught me. One thing he taught me very well was that everyone's motives were never clear. I was ten when he told me that. And at the time I hung to every word he said but as I grew older I understood the true meaning of his words. I couldn't even trust him, my father. I cherished him, and then he died. A gruesome, cruel death. Filled with pain. And maybe he deserved it, and maybe his death was necessary. Maybe it was, but I still was angered. And after his death I wanted blood.
After my father's death I ran to a cabin in the woods. Somewhere above Lake Isenstar and below Ceunon. It was a small cottage containing only a small mahogany bed with warm cotton and wool blankets and a silken pillow stuffed with the feathers of a fallen swan. In the corner across from the bed there was an oak table with a single oak chair. A few feet from the table there was a counter that had a compartment. In the compartment there were held cooking utensils, a crystal bowl and plate. Also in the compartment were held several glasses and 8 canteens. The canteens were for water, wines and some other drinks. There were small jars, they held sugar, salt, pepper and other seasonings. Farther back there were a few pots and pans and a tub for washing dishes and clothes. It was a quick run to Lake Isenstar and I was careful to do my washing either at dusk or dawn. Diagonal from the table there was a closet. It was a large aspen closet with bronze handles and a large amount of space inside. In there I kept my clothing, daggers, bow and arrows, sword, saddle bags, books, quills to write with, ink and parchment and dried foods. Outside there was a small garden filled with vegetables and fruit trees. I did not eat meat. It sickened me to take the life of an innocent and vulnerable animal. I killed people, yes, but animals were helpless and it disgusted me to kill creatures whose minds I had been in. I did not know why it pulled me to do those things but it was probably the fact that I was an elf. Over the next 4 years I honed my powers to perfection. Sometimes, I gave myself meager rations and practiced my weaponry even more to see how far I could stretch myself. These tests came suddenly. One day I would wake and decide to assess my power.
In 4 years, my want for blood over the death of my father had only grown and I had decided to start my revenge. I began my rampage of murder to avenge my father. It seems so strange and absurd that I want revenge for the death of King Galbatorix!