Chapter Two

Galbatorix

After this, things changed. Arren changed. He became sullen and withdrawn, going from being merely taciturn to simply refusing to speak at all. He still did all his daily chores, but there was a lassitude about him now; a disinterest in life. He ate less and spent a lot of time on his own, though he never gave any hint of where he went or what he did there. And then, after several months of this sort of thing, he stopped answering to his name. This frustrated Cardock no end, and after the third occasion he said; 'Dammit, Arren, I'm trying to talk to you!'

Arren fixed him with the dreaded stare. 'My name is Galbatorix,' he said.

And, in spite of all Cardock's and Freyja's protests, he kept insisting on it. Then he set about correcting everyone else he knew, impervious to the bemused questions and quizzical looks he got in response. He didn't care what anyone thought; his name was Galbatorix, now and forever, and people were going to call him it or be ignored.

Not long before his fifteenth birthday, he dodged his responsibilities at the marketplace yet again and went wandering. He strolled off through the streets with no particular goal in mind, hands in his pockets, enjoying the solitude. There were other people in the streets, of course, but none of them were speaking to them or looking at him, so it was solitude of a kind. It was the kind he preferred. He liked to watch the doings of other people around him as an independent observer, unnoticed and separate. It was interesting to see how people worked, how they walked and spoke to each other, the unconscious gestures and signals they used. It was almost like watching a dance.

Traversing the streets and watching this dance as always, his eye was caught by something. He paused to look again. It was a small shop, undistinguished and rather shabby, with a bead curtain hanging over the doorway. He wasn't quite sure why he'd noticed it at all, but the more he looked at it the more he felt a nagging urge to go inside and have a look. He paused, and then shrugged. Why not?

Thrusting the bead curtain aside, he entered the shop. It consisted of a single pokey room, which was full of strange plants growing in pots. The air smelt of herbs and incense, and there was a faint tinkling from the crystals and wind-chimes hanging from the ceiling. Arren, or Galbatorix as he now thought of himself, stood uncertainly in the doorway, wondering what on earth would be sold in a place like this. The potted herbs, perhaps? But there wasn't any counter, and there weren't any customers either. The only person in the room was sitting at a small table in the middle of it, flipping through a book. It was a young-looking woman with a mass of curly brown hair, clad in a fringed, violently-purple dress that made her look, to say the least, rather eccentric. There was a crystal ball on a stand sitting on the table in front of her, and a number of other, equally odd items were strewn around it.

The woman looked up and saw him. 'Hello,' she said. 'Welcome to my shop. How can I help you?'

Galbatorix paused. 'I was just wondering… what do you sell here?'

'Herbs and potions, mostly,' said the woman. 'But I tell fortunes as well sometimes. My name's Angela. And yours?'

'I'm Galbatorix,' said Galbatorix.

'That's an odd name!' she said cheerfully. 'Well, Galbatorix… what can I interest you in?'

Galbatorix paused. 'You can scry people's futures?'

'Oh, yes. I don't often do it, though. Only if someone looks interesting enough.'

Galbatorix couldn't resist. 'And am I interesting enough?'

Angela looked him up and down, and then grinned manically. 'Certainly! Tall, dark, mysterious, odd-sounding name – yes! Very interesting indeed! Have a seat, why don't you, and I'll tell you your future! Or part of it, anyway.'

'How much will it cost?' asked Galbatorix.

'Nothing,' said Angela. 'You can't put a price on the future, can you? Come on, sit down, I won't bite.'

Galbatorix obeyed – why not? Angela got up, disappeared into the back room, and returned holding a leather bag. Sitting down again, she dumped it on the open pages of the book. 'Now then,' she said. 'What's in this bag can tell you your future, and it'll do it truly. Are you ready?'

Galbatorix nodded. Angela closed the book and put it aside, then tipped out the contents of the bag onto the tabletop. A heap of long, polished bones fell out, each one carved with various symbols. Angela gathered them up in her hands and cast them onto the tabletop, muttering three strange words as she did so. The bones landed in a heap, and the fortune-teller started to examine them, tracing lines and patterns which she apparently saw in them with her fingertip and murmuring to herself. Galbatorix waited patiently for several minutes, and then Angela finally looked up.

'Well,' she said. And then, 'Well,' again. She had gone rather pale. 'I've seen… some very strange things in these bones.'

Galbatorix said nothing. If she was going to try and put on a show and be all dramatic, he wasn't about to play along.

'Well,' said Angela yet again. 'Are you sure you want to hear it?'

Galbatorix fixed her with a cold, impatient stare.

'Right then,' said Angela, taking the hint. 'This bone here… yes, that one – indicates a long life. And this one here, this signifies… it signifies a shadow. Something big and dark, hanging over you like a stormcloud. The shadow is a great tragedy. Maybe in the past, maybe in the future. But it will govern much of your destiny. And here we see the signs of power. Either yours or wielded against you, I'm not sure. Maybe both. And the rest of it is obscured. But there is one thing… something in these bones that is certain.'

'Yes?' said Galbatorix. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear this.

Angela looked at him, an expression almost of fear in her eyes. 'Do you know,' she said slowly, 'Did you know that Teirm wasn't always here? Before it was built there was another city in its place. I lived there. And one day that city was destroyed. Two black dragons razed it to the ground. They were working for a man called Taranis; he was the rider of one of them.'

Galbatorix tensed. Taranis…

'That dragon was the female, Silarae,' said Angela. 'The other dragon was her mate. Ravana. They killed everyone in the city and destroyed my home. I had to run for it; I only just made it out alive. But I remember the screams, and the fire. Black fire, it was.'

'What has this got to do with me?' said Galbatorix.

Angela ignored him. She touched the heap of bones on the table. 'These bones are from a dragon,' she said. 'They're Silarae's bones. She was killed along with Taranis, only a few days later, and I took them from her body.'

'Wait,' said Galbatorix. 'How can you have been there? It was hundreds of years ago!'

Angela shrugged. 'I'm older than I look,' she said. 'But I assure you, I was there. And the day before she died I met Silarae face to face. And I met her mate. Ravana. He was a wild dragon. Huge, savage, black from nose to tail.'

'So what?' said Galbatorix again.

'I looked that dragon right in the face,' said Angela. 'And now, looking at you… I see the exact same expression in your eyes as there was in his.' She looked at the bones again, watching the light play over the symbols carved into them. 'The seed of destruction,' she muttered. And then, at last; 'One day,' she said. 'The bones say that one day you will be the most hated man in Alagaësia.'

There was a tense silence, and then Galbatorix let out a short, harsh laugh. 'Very impressive,' he said, although his tone suggested he thought otherwise. 'A fine performance. Well done. Perhaps you should take up acting. Now if you'll excuse me.' He got up and left the shop without waiting for a reply.

On reaching the open air, he suddenly felt a burst of rage and strode off down the street, fuming. Spotting an empty bottle standing discarded in the gutter, he aimed a kick at it and sent it flying across the street, where it shattered. It didn't relieve his feelings at all. Galbatorix had never really lost his temper before. At least, not like this. But just now he felt absolutely justified in doing it. What had he done wrong? What had he ever done wrong? Nothing. Not a thing. He'd never hurt anyone, never killed anyone, never stolen anything or destroyed anything. All he had ever done was try and live his life, and yet things like this kept happening to him. He was especially angry toward the fortune-teller. Theatricality was all very well, but giving him a fortune full of tragedy and horror and then telling him he would be the most hated man in Alagaësia… how could anyone be so twisted? But he knew why she'd done it. It was because he was dark and unsmiling and looked unfriendly. That was why so many people had treated him the way they did – with suspicion and uncertainty. But it wasn't his fault that he was like that.

And his parents. He could never forget about them. They had died because he was born. If his mother had not become pregnant then she wouldn't have attracted suspicion and her parents wouldn't have had her followed, and then she wouldn't have been caught. And then, perhaps, she would still be alive. It was a burden that he shouldn't have to carry; the knowledge that he had, however unwittingly and however indirectly, killed his own parents. But he still had to carry that burden, even if it was unfair and unjust.

And then – 'What are you doing here?' a voice demanded.

Galbatorix paused, and realised he had wandered into a shipyard by the docks. A gang of workmen were busily working on a half-completed ship, but one of them was standing by the gate and staring straight at him. It was Tommen, and he had now grown into a thickset young man with a powerful set of muscles from countless years spent carrying heavy wooden planks. 'Well?' he said again, aggressively hefting the hammer in his hand.

Galbatorix turned around smartly to leave – he was in no mood for another encounter of the cruel and stupid kind. But his way was blocked by Tommen's friend Bruin, who said; 'He said "what're you doing here", creep, so answer him. Go on.' He folded his arms, his expression full of dislike and hostility.

'Get out of my way,' Galbatorix commanded.

'Not until you answer the question,' said Bruin.

'What do you care?' said Galbatorix.

'It's our place,' said Tommen, going to stand by his friend. 'And no-one comes in here unless we ask 'em to. So what made you think you could come here?'

'It was an accident,' said Galbatorix, feeling his temper rising again. 'And I go where I want to. You mindless piece of filth,' he added.

Tommen growled. 'No-one calls me that,' he said.

'I call them as I see them,' said Galbatorix coolly. In a way he was glad that he had got into this situation. All his pent-up rage and frustration was bubbling to the surface now, and he was itching for someone to take it out on.

Bruin's eyes narrowed. 'I'm sick of you hanging around the place,' he said. 'With yer fancy hair and yer black clothes, actin' like you're better 'n' us.'

'I act like I'm better than you because I am better than you,' Galbatorix said recklessly, folding his own arms. 'So it's my right. Now get out of my way, idiot.'

'No,' said Tommen. 'We ain't going anywhere, Arren.'

'My name is not Arren!' Galbatorix roared suddenly, his calm exterior suddenly breaking down.

'No, that's right, it's slimeball,' Bruin sneered. 'I reckon we ought to teach him a lesson, Tommen.'

'Yeah,' said Tommen, rolling up his sleeves and tossing aside the hammer.

'Come on, then,' Galbatorix snarled, balancing himself in readiness.

Tommen swung a punch at him. He dodged it and struck back, catching the bigger man on the jaw. Tommen bellowed and hit out again. This time it connected with Galbatorix's nose. Then Bruin joined in and the fight began in earnest. It was an untidy, violent affair, with much cursing and clumsy punching. Galbatorix fought quietly, like a wildcat, keeping his distance so as to avoid being cornered. Normally he avoided fights, but right now… right now all he wanted to do was to hurt these two thugs as badly as he could. The two of them were trying to get in close, hoping to knock him down so they could beat him up. But he weaved around and between them, never letting them get within more than an arm's length, and taking the opportunity to land a few painful blows on them at the same time. They started to get frustrated. Bruin made a grab for his neck, but Galbatorix caught him by the forearms and flung him to the ground. Before he could get up and before Tommen could interfere, he slammed the heel of his boot into his prone enemy's stomach. Bruin howled in pain and struggled to get up, swearing foully.

The other shipyard workers had noticed what was going on, and wandered over to watch. Far from trying to break it up, they started to shout encouragement. Goaded on, Galbatorix attacked Tommen while Bruin was disabled. The two of them met head-on and grappled with each other, seeking to knock each other over. It should have been no contest, but it was. The heavier Tommen shoved with all his might, but the slimmer, lighter Galbatorix somehow managed to hold his ground.

'C'mon, Bruin, help me!' Tommen shouted.

Galbatorix grinned horribly. 'Watch out,' he said. He kicked. Tommen screamed and started to fall over, but in the split second before he did Galbatorix wrenched his arm free and punched him, hard, in the face. Then Tommen hit the ground. There was a gasp from the onlookers.

'How the hell did you do that?' someone demanded.

Galbatorix looked up proudly. 'My father was a dark elf,' he said without thinking.

There were a few incredulous laughs. From his prone position on the ground Bruin said; 'There aren't any dark elves any more, liar.'

'Of course there aren't,' said Galbatorix. 'My father's dead. And so is my mother. Because she loved him.'

'He's lost it,' one man said, shaking his head.

'Yeah. Listen, lad, I know your parents, and they sure as hell aren't elves,' said another.

'They're not my parents,' said Galbatorix.

'Look, Arren, I really think-,'

'My name is not Arren!' Galbatorix shouted. 'It's Galbatorix! That's the name my father gave me… before they cut his head off.'

Bruin sat up, clutching his stomach, his expression confused. 'A dark elf?' he said. 'I think…'

'I think he's nuts,' said the man from the crowd. 'You must've hit him too hard in the head.'

'No, wait,' said Bruin. 'There was a dark elf here once. My dad works as an executioner sometimes, and he said he executed a dark elf. He was a slave who went and got his human mistress pregnant. The brat was adopted out, I heard.'

'Don't talk about my parents like that,' said Galbatorix in a low voice.

The onlookers were suddenly looking at him differently. As if he were some alien creature appeared in their midst, and not a person at all.

'A half-breed?' one man said, in tones of disbelief. 'You're a half-breed?'

'Yes,' said Galbatorix, utterly recklessly.

'Get out of here,' said the shipyard overseer, who was among the crowd. 'Now.'

'Fine,' said Galbatorix. He turned to leave. There were people standing in the way, and he started to shove his way through them. They shoved back, knocking him from man to man like a billiard ball. He pushed harder, still trying to get to the gate. Then someone hit him. Instinctively, he hit back. And then, quite suddenly, he was being kicked and struck from all sides. He did his best to stay upright, and began fighting his way through them as fast as he could. Then someone hit him in the back of the knees, and he toppled over. At once the mob closed in, and then there was only pain, and blood, and snarling, vicious faces. Before it, Galbatorix was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. With the revelation that he was the half-breed offspring of two criminals, suddenly he wasn't a person any more. Suddenly he was a creature to be put down. He wasn't Arren any more. He was Galbatorix. And Galbatorix was worthless.

The mob beat him mercilessly, and when he was semiconscious and unable to fight back any more they took him by the shoulders, dragged him to the waterside and threw him into the sea.

The cold shock of the water helped recall some of Galbatorix' senses. He struggled feebly, trying to keep his head above water, just able to hear the jeers of the mob above the clanging in his ears. At first he started to sink straight to the bottom, but the prospect of death woke him up and he started to kick at the water. His head broke the surface and he sucked in a lungful of air, gasping and choking. The shipyard labourers wandered off, their fun over with, and he was alone.

Galbatorix acted quickly. He swam toward the pier they'd thrown him off, and clung to one of the supports. There he pulled off his boots and let them sink, stripped off his tunic, and began to swim for the shore, forcing himself to move slowly and calmly so he wouldn't sink. He reached land and dragged himself up onto it like some primordial fish, then lay there spreadeagled, his back heaving, blood from his various wounds mingling with the waves that lapped around him. He didn't move for a long time. If anyone had noticed him, they would probably have thought he was dead. Eventually he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the grey sky. He ached in a hundred different places, one of his arms felt broken, his eye was swelling up, a couple of teeth had been knocked loose, and he had a horrible feeling that his ribs had been stoved in by someone's boot.

He was too badly concussed to feel particularly sorry for himself.

Later, limping slowly and painfully back toward his home, shivering in the cold, he began to think over what had happened and to understand some of the implications. Now he knew why his parents – his foster parents, he corrected himself – had kept his true identity a secret for so long. He had never heard of an elf-human hybrid before in his life, but he did know that a union between two people of different species was considered obscene and unnatural. It was perceived as being no better than a union between two people of the same sex, and both were utterly forbidden. Anyone caught breaking these taboos would be arrested and executed immediately. It was a law that had been passed and was maintained by the riders, and their control over commoners like himself was so absolute that most likely no elf and human couples had survived undetected long enough to produce offspring. Or maybe his mother had been allowed to bring him to term because she was a noble. He'd heard of the House of Taranis, of course. They had been a very rich old family, distantly related to the line of the old human kings who had ruled before the riders took over. During his childhood the last surviving Lord and Lady Taranisäii had died and so their family was now completely gone. Well, almost gone. He still carried their blood. But he certainly wouldn't be allowed to inherit their money or the title of Lord Taranisäii. He was a bastard. And a half-breed. Not a human and not an elf. The very symbol of a forbidden pairing. And if people knew it they would hate and fear him. He felt hatred, not just toward those thugs who had almost killed him, but toward just about everything else. The family that had disowned him. His parents, for making him what he was. And the system that had killed them. And he felt rage, but much of that was directed at himself. How could he have been so stupid? Stupid enough to think his heritage was something to be proud of. And stupid enough to publicly blurt out what should have been kept a secret at all costs. It had not only nearly cost him his life; it had cost him the protection that the secret had given him. Now it was not a secret any more. Now they knew. And soon others would know it too. His old life – his time of peace – was over now. Soon things would change.

And things did change. And they changed for the worse. It took Galbatorix a week to recover, which he did thanks partly to the care of Freyja. Fortunately there were no broken bones, but the day after the attack he was unable to walk properly and had to stay in his hammock. Freyja brought him soothing poultices and hot soup, and fussed over him. He refused to tell her what had happened, but she could probably guess. Deep inside he was glad she was there to look after him. She, at least, loved him in spite of what he was, even though he wasn't her real son. And Cardock, for all his gruffness, cared just as much in his own way. It made Galbatorix feel a little better.

Once he was well enough to be up and about again, he went off to work and almost immediately started to feel the consequences of his indiscretion. The people he passed in the street stared at him, even the ones who had known him for years. And when he reached the closer quarters of the marketplace, the mutterings began.

'…Is that him?…Yes, that's the one I told you about. The half-breed. By the moon and stars, he's weird, isn't he? Yeah. I've known him for five years, you know. Always thought he was a little odd. He always scared me a bit. He's so… well, unsettling. But that's the consequences of that kind of perversion, isn't it?… How could anyone be so thoughtless? Bringing a creature like that into the world - ! Ah, well, it takes that kind of twisted person to do that sort of thing, doesn't it?'

And on and on. The words swirled around him, some loud, some quiet, but all of them either pitying, disgusted or outright hateful. People moved hastily out of his way, staring at him as if expecting him to attack them. Others spat at him and hurled insults, but none actually assaulted him, which was just as well. He did his best to ignore them, but it was hard; very hard. And it didn't get any easier over the next few days. Word had got around, and within a month he could not go anywhere in the city without being reminded of it. No matter where he was or what he was doing, it followed him. Words like 'half-breed', 'bastard', and 'freak of nature'… all these and more. He put up with it for a long time, but when the month ended and it was still going on, and he had been assaulted twice more by other youths who simply couldn't tolerate his existence, he resolved to do something about it. During dinner one evening, Cardock said; 'I found out something interesting today.'

Galbatorix looked up from his bowl of stew and listened.

'Lord Menulis is back,' said Cardock.

'The rider?' said Freyja.

'Yeah. Just for two days. He was on his way somewhere else and decided to stay here for a rest, I heard. It's been a while since we've had a rider here.'

Freyja ran her fingers through her hair. 'Isn't he the one…?'

'Yes,' said Cardock, glancing at Galbatorix.

'Which one?' said Galbatorix.

'Menulis entrusted you to us,' Freyja explained.

'Oh,' said Galbatorix, staring at the tabletop. But though his face was expressionless he was thinking deeply. A rider was in Teirm. This one had been kind enough to give him a home. Riders were known far and wide as dispensers of justice… so perhaps he could ask for help. It had to be worth a try.

Not many people would have even considered going and demanding an audience with a rider, let alone going through with it, but Galbatorix did just that next morning. He put on his best tunic and trousers, and a new pair of boots which he'd stitched himself, and set out for the palace. Once a king had lived there, but now it was the seat of the local government, appointed and managed by the riders. Galbatorix went straight to the front door, which was attended by two guards. They looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing.

'Excuse me,' said Galbatorix. 'But I heard that there was a rider in the Palace. I would like to ask for an audience with him.'

'Go away,' said one of the guards.

'I have something important to ask him about,' said Galbatorix.

'I'm not going to warn you again, kid,' said the guard.

Galbatorix fixed the man with his coldest stare. 'The riders are supposed to dispense justice. I want to ask this one for some, and if he isn't interested in helping people who need it then he may as well be just another tyrant.'

The guard thumped him in the stomach with his spear-butt. Galbatorix doubled over, wheezing, and both guards sniggered at him. 'Now get lost,' the other one said.

Galbatorix could take a hint. He stalked off into the city, nursing his bruised stomach and wounded pride, and headed off to the markets. He joined Cardock at the stall, and calmly sold a purse to a passing lady.

'Hello,' said Cardock. 'Where've you been this time?'

Galbatorix said nothing.

'Fine, be that way,' said Cardock. 'Listen, lad, I think it's about time you started thinking about what you're going to do with your life. You can't keep skulking around the place and getting into fights with people. Don't you have an ambition? You can't stay here working at the leather stall until you're an old man, so what is it you'd prefer to do? You're a bright kid, Arren. There's all sorts of things you could do, but you won't get anywhere without an ambition. So are you in a talking mood today, or what?'

'I want to be a rider,' said Galbatorix.

Cardock coughed. 'What? No, just hang on a moment there, son. You can't do that.'

'I can,' said Galbatorix.

'Look, Arren-,'

'-Galbatorix.'

'Whatever. You can't be a rider.'

'Why not?'

'Because riders are…' Cardock paused, searching for inspiration. 'Well, they're special. They don't let just anyone join them.'

'You mean they don't let bastard half-breeds join them,' said Galbatorix, sending a deadly glare in the direction of a small child who was gawping at him.

'That's not what I meant,' Cardock said sharply. 'And you know it.'

'But it's what you're thinking,' said Galbatorix. 'Don't lie to me, Father. I don't care what anyone says; I'm going to go the Palace when they examine the candidates, and I'm going to pass the tests. Is that ambitious enough for you?'

'Too ambitious, if you ask me,' said Cardock. 'But if you really want to try it, I suppose I can't stop you.'

'Lord Yansan the rider elder started out as a stableboy,' said Galbatorix. 'Social status has nothing to do with it.'

'No, but…' Cardock trailed off helplessly. The truth was that he didn't know exactly what basis candidates were selected on.

Galbatorix did. 'It's about qualities,' he said. 'They look for intelligence, strength, fighting ability and good morals. After that it's up to the dragons.'

Cardock sighed. 'Well, you have those qualities, so I suppose there's no harm in trying.'

Galbatorix said nothing. He wasn't sure exactly when he had come up with the idea, but it had taken hold of him. If he became a rider, it would mean becoming powerful. Very powerful. And he knew exactly what he would use that power for.