Greetings!
I have a couple of things I need to say before I get on with the story. First, I am not Christopher Paolini, I do not own the amazing works of fiction Eragon and Eldest, nor do I own the characters out of them.
Second, please keep in mind that I don't have the ability to look any of this stuff up. I own a copy of Eragon, but it is in a sorry state. I bought it at a local book sale a few weeks ago. It has seventeen missing pages, mysterious food stains on almost every remaining page, and ripped dust jacket. My facts might not all be straight. Please tell me if you spot anything wrong!
Lastly, I will be making up many of the ancient language words that I will use. But not without basis! On his site, Christopher Paolini says that he based the ancient language off Old Norse. Well, so have I. I'll be keeping a growing dictionary of all the words at the end of each chapter. Not all of the words in it will be from the ancient language, because I was in a tight spot for a few names, and they just looked too good to pass up.
Enjoy!
Sir Gwydion
Chapter One: Of Plots and Mysteries
Roran didn't think he would ever get used to riding on Saphira's back. It seemed utterly wrong for a man to be so high in the air, which was, in his mind, the rightful territory of birds, not of legends. And legend my cousin and his dragon have become, he thought. He still found it difficult to reconcile his moody younger cousin — almost brother— to this new, powerful, deadly Eragon who spoke with elves, was befriended and adopted by dwarves, consulted by the leader of the Varden, and fought enemy Riders. Roran thought of the great red dragon he'd seen the day of the battle, and its Rider too. Murtagh. It was strange to think of that hostile man as his cousin, the son of his aunt, Selena. And also, like Eragon, the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn, who was slain by Brom, the village story teller. He shook his head. He'd given up trying to make sense of it all.
As much as he might dislike flight on dragon-back, though, Roran would have endured far more discomfort then this to get to Helgrind and the Ra'zac, and most importantly, Katrina.
"How long?" he asked Eragon curtly.
"We should reach the area around Helgrind before dark." Even Eragon's voice was different now. It seemed to thrum with power, as if all the spells he'd spoke since Saphira's egg hatched had seeped into his lungs.
Roran squinted at the sun, low in the west. Good, he thought. Not more then an hour's travel till we arrive then. He felt at his belt for his hammer.
Sure enough, just as the clouds on the horizon were beginning to loose the bloody tinge of sunset, Saphira angled downward, to land in the cover of the trees which bordered on one side of Dras-Leona.
Gratefully, Roran slid off of Saphira's back and set about making camp. After the long weeks of travel with Carvahall, he knew what the essentials were: Food, shelter, and fire. As he was about to light a fire, though, Eragon stopped him.
"I don't want the Raz'ac to see the smoke and come to investigate," he explained. "They're stronger in the dark. I want to fight them on our own terms, not their's."
Roran nodded. It made sense. "How will we keep warm?"
"Saphira has enough fire in her stomach to warm all of Carvahall. We'll just sleep close to her."
Roran eyed the massive dragon, with her dagger-like teeth and scythe-like claws, then dismissed any misgivings. He trusted Eragon.
-
That night, Eragon's waking dreams were troubled. Dark mist spiraled against the hazy background of stars and leaf-clad tree limbs. He felt his lips move in an unconscious utterance. The mist had blotted out the sky. Far away, he could here someone weeping as if her heart were going to break, no, as if it had broken.
"Tell him," a familiar voice whispered. "When he comes for you, tell him I'm sorry. There isn't anything he or anyone can do. But I wish there was. Tell him . . . "
"Why should I consent to bear your messages to a man I haven't seen in months and never will again! Do not ask me to trust you, Rider. My trust died when my father betrayed me!"
"But you trust that your lover will come."
"I trust that he will do everything in his power to save me. That is what I trust. I do not trust that he will succeed." The woman's voice took on a pleading note. "Why do you keep me here? I have told you all I know about Roran and Eragon. Why don't you let me go? Why am I daily punished for what I cannot help?"
"Believe me, Katrina, I am no less a prisoner then you. It is not my will that the Ra'zac hold you captive."
"Why do the keep me? I'd be better off dead then here, and a sight less trouble for them."
"You are the bait. King Galbatorix would go to far more arduous measures to spring a trap on Eragon and Saphira."
"I don't understand!" Katrina cried. "Who is Saphira? And Eragon has hardly even come of age. What can he have done that so angers the King?"
"What indeed," was all the man would say.
A few muffled words were spoken which Eragon could not make out, then Katrina shouted, "I hope you die! I hope you smother in the smoke of your dragon's breath! I hope you are slain by your own sword! I hope you die a coward's death with none to mourn you, or bury your thrice-cursed bones! I hope you die!"
"Aye," said the voice that was Murtagh's. "And you are not the only one."
The dark mist parted, and he could see the stars once more. A phantasmagoria of images and memories played out before him against the spangled backdrop, but Eragon could barely see it. He was concentrating too hard on what he had heard.
When the sky was pearly gray with approaching dawn, he sat up. Saphira hummed against his back, waiting for him to speak first.
What were the words I spoke, Saphira? he asked at last.
You said 'dream whispers' in the ancient language, the spell that allows you to hear as well as scry.
Do you think that that spell can get past the wards he and I both have to prevent scrying when used on its own? Or has Galbatorix just decided that it was no longer worth hiding Murtagh from me?
Try to scry him now, in your waking.
Eragon nodded. It was a good idea. He rummaged around in his pack until he found his polished dwarf-helm.
"Draumr kópa" dream stare, he said in the ancient language, concentrating on his turn-coat brother. The mirror-bright surface went dark. He broke off the spell, then tried the same thing with "Draumr kvisa,"dream whisper. Nothing happened. He frowned.
Maybe its a combination of the waking dreams and the spell, which eludes me when I'm awake. Oromis
said there were spells like that.
Roran stretch in his sleep, then woke. It was instantaneous,with no period of muzzy confusion. He was alert for danger, and anticipation of finally rescuing Katrina seemed to make him vibrate like a plucked harp. And, like a second harp, Eragon caught the excitement and vibrated too. He would be glad to see an end to his cousins grief and quest for vengeance. The hardened defenses he'd raised would be better knocked down by contentment with Katrina, and maybe she could heal the hint of madness that Eragon sometimes saw in Roran's eye.
After a a cold breakfast of dried meat, stale bread and cheese, they made ready to leave. Because they both featured prominently on 'wanted' message boards throughout Alagaësia , Eragon used a spell to alter their appearances. Roran hair became black, his nose long and crooked, while Eragon changed his entire face, as an elf-like human would draw attention anywhere. They agreed on false names, then left for Dras-Leona, Saphira twitching her tail agitatedly behind them.
There was less trouble then there might have been entering the city. The guards questioned them as to their purpose in the city, but that was only to be expected. Together, the cousins wove a tail of a sick friend who they were coming to fetch away from the hustle and bustle of Dras-Leona, "for the good of his health." Within minutes, the guards tired of them and sent the on their way in the city.
"Where are we going?" Roran asked, fingering the heft of his hammer. It was too distinctive to be worn openly, so he had tucked it into a pouch tied to his belt.
"To the palace," Eragon replied in an undertone. Saphira's worry was a constant distraction at the back of his mind, like a gnat, so he blocked her out. She'd still be able to contact him if need be.
"The palace? Why? What's that got to do with the Ra—"
"Shh!" Eragon hushed his cousin. "Keep your voice down, and don't mention our —" he searched for a word, "—Our unusual acquaintances. Even the walls have ears."
Chastened, Roran reined in his enthusiasm to rescue Katrina.
With his mind, Eragon explained to Roran how he and Brom had made a plan for getting to the Ra'zac. Every full moon, two slaves were sent to Helgrind with a supply of the Ra'zac's favored food. If the two of them could somehow replace the slaves, then they could approach the Ra'zac's lair without arousing suspicion. Flying there on Saphira would be easiest, but it was hard to be subtle when a twenty-foot dragon with scintillating blue scales was figured into the equation.
Roran shivered. He remembered Quimby, Birgit's husband, who had been slain in battle during the siege of Carvahall. His body had be spirited away by the two black-cloaked Ra'zac. When a to-do had been made over getting back the brewer's body, his bones had been returned to the villagers, picked clean and cracked open for the marrow. Was it possible that the slaves were not just the carriers of food but the food itself?
They approached the palace from the side, then tapped on what Eragon took to be the kitchen door from the thoughts he picked up from the servants within. It was opened by a large, thick-waisted matron who took one look at the pair of them through her small piggy eyes and saw a distraction from every day, hum-drum work. It was only too easy to convince her that they were renowned storytellers from Teirm, come to earn a little money where they could.
"Oh, that 'uld be a treat now, wouldn't it. We already 'ave a minstrel 'ere, but she's a youngling 'un, and to tell you honest an' true, she's a bit of a country lass."
Eragon smile politely, and began an old tale which Brom had told at Carvahall. All the while, he sifted through the servants' minds for any useful information. He hated the breach of privacy, but it was the only way to get the knowledge they needed that wouldn't arouse suspicion. With ease, he found out everything they needed to know.
The full moon was two days away, and the slaves were to depart from the south entrance to the palace at dusk. They would be accompanied by guards as far as the city limits, but after that, it would be a simple matter to ambush them and take their places. I troubled him that they didn't know how the slaves were approached by the Ra'zac, but he couldn't see any way around that.
For the rest of the morning, Eragon and Roran wandered the servant's hall and passages, telling stories. Just as they were about to tell on last tale and be on their way, they ran into the minstrel. She was a tall, slender girl, no more then sixteen years old. In her gloved hands, she held a lute. Her long, curly brown hair was braided and wrapped around her head. She had an open, friendly air about her that drew one in, but it was not this that made Eragon curious about her.
Her mind had defenses of iron, so strong that he was reminded of Murtagh. Once, Eragon had tried to search his mind for any ill intent Murtagh might have toward himself and Saphira, but his probe had slide away as easily as if it had been coated in butter. This girl had the same astonishing degree of protection from mental attack. The openness of her face and the protectedness of her mind seemed oddly contradictory.
For all he would have liked to talk with her, find out more about her, it wasn't wise to linger in Dras-Leona any longer then they had to, and they had another errand to do before they left.
Fifteen minutes later, in a crowded market square, Roran asked his cousin in an undertone, "What are we doing here? Shouldn't we get out of the city now, when there're still a lot of people passing through the gates? We need to leave by another one, so we don't run into those guards again, so it'll take a while to get beck to Saphira anyway."
Eragon nodded. "We don't need to stay long. I just want to hear the news. When Brom and I were here, we had to leave in a hurry, partly because I ran into the Ra'zac and a bunch of soldiers, and partly because Galbatorix was due to visit within the week. It was the first time he'd left Urû'baen in over a decade. The ruler of Dras-Leona — his name is Marcus Tábor — had been getting above himself, and it must have been something pretty serious too, as he can do as he likes here, so Galbatorix was coming to straighten things out. 'Teach him a lesson in humility' Brom said. He also taught me that it pays to know what's going on. Come on. We'll buy some fresh food."
"Do you have money? Because all mine went to purchasing supplies for Carvahall." Roran said.
Eragon grinned ruefully. "Its almost embarrassing how much money I've been given. Nasuada, as my liege lord, gave me some. Orik, as the new leader of my clan, Durgrimst Ingietum, and my foster brother, gave me more. Arya, as the only elf outside of Du Weldenvarden, gave me even more. Its ridiculous."
"Oh." Roran didn't seen to be able to manage any more then that. Eragon wondered, not for the first time, how strange it must be for his cousin to look at him and see a Rider.
About as strange, he realized, as it is for me to look at my cousin and see a visionary madman who gives speeches moving enough to get the whole village of Carvahall to uproot itself and traipse across half of Alagaësia, battling the Empire every step of the way. Still, it was unsettling to have such tangible evidence of how much he — they both — had changed in less then a year.
Stop worrying how you've changed! Saphira contacted him, the tread of anxiety less dominant then it had been earlier that morning. You have a job to do; do it! Lingering in a major city is not a luxery granted to men wanted across the Empire!
Relax, Saphira. We're well disguised. And before you say that the illusions will wear my strength down to maintain, let me remind you that I have all the power I've stored in the belt of Beloth the Wise to draw upon if I need to, and the energy stored in the crystal on Ordstirr Muna.
Ordstirr Muna was a blade that Orik had given him to replace Zar'roc.. Its hilt was covered with raised silver wire images of the Riders in their glory. They made Eragon fell a little wistful, to see the silvery dragons and their shining Riders. The raised wires also made for an excellent grip. He had named it Ordstirr Muna, the words from the ancient language meaning 'remember the renown.'
That may be, but hurry! I have an itching down my back that makes me nervous. Something bad is going to happen, Eragon!
If your back itches, he thought back to her grumpily, then find a nice big tree and scratch. But he didn't mean it, and she knew he was on his guard now. Dragons had instincts that humans did not.
It seemed that Galbatorix's visit to Dras-Leona was no secret, nor was its purpose. The baker Eragon and Roran bought a loaf of hard brown bread was more then willing to tell the tale, and, by touching the baker's mind, Eragon was able to separate fact from the man's own invention meant to impress the 'country bumpkins.'
Galbatorix arrived on schedule, only a short time after Eragon and Brom had fled the city. In the main square of the city, right outside the cathedral dedicated to Helgrind, Galbatorix's spokesman had made a declaration announcing that Marcus Tábor had been removed from power and replaced by a new ruler, Ifbraigo the Navigator, a man even more ruthless then his proceeder. There had been a lot of funny things going on since Ifbraigo came to power.
"Helgrind the Greatest knows what'll become of us all," the baker added with feeling.
When they had thanked the man and paid him for the bread, Roran asked "Helgrind the Greatest?"
"The people here worship the three peaks of Helgrind. There's actually a fourth, but generally it's overlooked and ignored as being not as worth of praise as the other three. The priests of Helgrind aren't in consensus about which has the highest summit and is therefore the most superior, though. It's safer to just say 'the Highest' then say 'the Middle,' or 'the Westerly,' which would be expressing an opinion which could then be taken offense at. Brom told me that it's a nasty sort of religion. Something about drinking human blood and chopping off body parts."
"Oh," said Roran.
-
They made it out of the city with as little difficulty as they had had getting in, though they used the south gate as Roran had suggested rather then having to dodge past the guards they'd passed earlier. Dusk was creeping over the sky; only in the west was there still sunlight visible.
The monstrous rock formation, Helgrind, blotted out most of the southern horizon, its three highest peaks almost a mile high. As they watched, a dark shadow detached itself from the larger, darker shadow of Helgrind. Eragon shivered. Could it be one of the Ra'zac's monstrous steads, the Lethrblaka?
Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon saw Roran's hand go to the heft of his ax.
Eragon laid a hand on his cousin's arm. "Soon we will storm Helgrind, my brother. Soon."
Roran nodded. Storming Helgrind was, after all, his purpose now.
Old Norse Words That I Pilfered:
Story word – meaning – Old Norse word
(Draumr) kvisa - whisper - kvisa
Ordstirr Muna (Eragon's new sword) – O renown M remember – orðstirr muna
Ifbraigo (the Navigator) (new ruler of Dras-Leona) - Demeanor - yfirbragð