Dictionary and Pronunciation Guide
Letta ; Ancient Language ; stop ; Le-TAH
Geuloth du knifr ; Ancient Language; dull the knife ; GEW-loth du KNI-fur
Stenr reïsa ; Ancient Language ; Stone, rise ; STENr REY-isa
Chapter Three: The Boy in the River
Eragon
Saphira's roar woke Eragon with a start. Get up! Something's wrong!
Rolling out of bed onto his feet, Eragon snatched up Brisingr. Where?
The infirmary, Glaedr's voice said in his mind. Hurry! The human hatchling may be in danger – he's having some kind of a seizure and we can't do anything for him!
Throwing himself down the stairs over the railing, Eragon yelled, "Letta!" and his body turned upright, slowing before he hit the ground. As his feet settled on the stone floor, Arya and Fírnen bolted out of their room further down the hallway and Saphira landed behind him with a resounding thud. The four exchanged looks and both Riders and dragons hastened to the infirmary.
Bursting through the door, Eragon saw Cuaroc's huge metal body blocking his way. The dragon-man stood uselessly next to the cot where the dark-haired youth lay. The boy was shaking uncontrollably, writhing with violent unpredictability. The amber dragon hatchling was crouched on the floor, where it must have fallen, yowling at its bondmate, who was unresponsive.
"Hold him down before he hurts himself!" Arya said from behind him. Eragon pushed past Cuaroc and the baby dragon and lifted the thin youth off the cot. He locked his arms under the shoulders of the strange, harness-like armor, fighting to hold them both still.
Arya came forward and put a hand on the boy's forehead, murmuring something in the ancient language. After a moment, the seizure slowed, until he only twitched every few seconds. Grunting, Eragon set him down. His lean frame was surprisingly compact and heavy.
"Think he'll be alright?" he asked. Curious, the amber dragon crawled up to him, nudging his hand. It mewled when he picked it up and regarded him with intelligent eyes.
Arya patted it on the head. "He should, and, hopefully, he'll wake soon."
What happened to him? Fírnen wondered aloud.
I doubt even he will be able to explain it, said Glaedr. Come, we must-
Under the mess of black hair hanging over his face, the youth's eyes shot open, a startlingly lucid hazel. Cold fear shone through them, and a mental ray Eragon had not been expecting stabbed through his defenses and immobilized him. Arya and Cuaroc froze similarly, and Saphira's snarl was all he heard before the memory blotted everything else out.
The children ran, chasing each other among the stones.
Laughter filled the air around them, bringing light and joy to the ruins in which they played. Far away now was the jungle filled with danger; the poison in the air that made their people grow lean and hard. Far away were the dark hours when they had been taught to heft their lanterns and walk cloaked among the adults, in a procession reverent of gods among men they knew little of.
A boy no more than ten raced ahead of his peers, sprinting in accordance with his build – a combination of difficult living and youthful energy. Behind him, the others cheered or snarled, but they all doubled their efforts to keep pace.
Soon they reached the edge of the stone courtyard, where the roots and vines began to creep in between the flagstones. The forest loomed, shadowy, foreboding. Gradually, the children slowed down, halting at the border, peering timorously into the shade.
The boy, panting, hands resting on his knees, looked up at the blue sky. A great black bird took flight from the tree nearest to him, spiraling with every flap of its ebony wings.
Captivated, he watched even as his companions began the trek back to their mothers' skirts. An old, ancestral longing for the expanse and freedom of the sky shone on his upturned face, wondering, dreaming of flight for the first – but surely not the last – time.
Eragon wrested free of the memory, so surprised by the assault on his mind that he hadn't had time to throw up his defenses. He waited, but no further attacks came. Probing, he found only one unfamiliar consciousness in the area: the youth with the scars, who was clutching his head as if he'd just been struck. "Who else saw that?" he asked, glancing at Arya.
"I did," she answered. "I don't know what to make of it."
Fírnen and I saw it, too, said Saphira. The Eldunarya have gone ballistic. Glaedr and Umaroth are trying to calm them down. She said this so all could hear, and Eragon saw the boy flinch.
"I saw it," he said slowly. "It's a memory."
"Yours?" Arya asked.
"Only one I've got." He stood up shakily, but then backpedaled at the sudden sight of Cuaroc, whose sword was still leveled at where the intruder had stood. The boy settled for standing with his back pressed against the wall. "Where am I?"
"A safe place," Eragon said quickly. "It'll be easier to explain if you come with us." He shoved Cuaroc aside and thrust out a hand. "Eragon."
Thee youth hesitated, and shook it. "Ayel," he returned grudgingly. "I guess I owe my name to you all anyway. I don't mean to be dodgy, it's just one of the few things I remember." His eyes flicked to Arya, then to the dragons watching from the doorway.
Noticing this, Arya sheathed Támerlein. "I am Arya," she offered. "The metal brute over there is Cuaroc. He is harmless even when he's not paralyzed, so don't mind his sword in your face. It's a matter of caution."
Ayel nodded. "And the dragons?"
He's taking all this rather well, Fírnen commented.
At that, Ayel crossed his arms. Standing right here. Eragon and Arya jumped, but Fírnen just made the trilling growl in his throat that passed for dragon laugher.
"Where did you learn to use your mind to speak?" Eragon asked, wary of more surprises.
Shaking his head, Ayel smiled sadly. "I have absolutely no idea."
Interesting, said Saphira. She and Fírnen introduced themselves, and made sure to mention the absent Eldunarí before one of them surprised the newcomer.
Ayel bowed to both dragons with the back of his right hand on his forehead. "It is an honor, firebreathers," he said almost reverently.
I like him, said Saphira. As she said this, the amber hatchling – now the size of the average dog – gave a throaty squeak from the blankets on the cot. Ayel reached over and scratched it behind the ears.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he began. "But last I heard, the Riders were no longer with us."
A presence descended on the minds of the people in the room. Glaedr spoke. You speak as if you have the knowledge of one from Alegaësia, yet your memories must be truly gone, for the past five or six years have been full of change. Regardless, you know of both dragons and Riders. How is this?
"When you are raised in the manner that I was, it's a-" the youth frowned. "That's funny. I thought I remembered something." He tilted his head to the side and shook it, as if to let water fall out of his ears. "Um… can we go outside? I… don't like small spaces," he added, grinning sheepishly.
"That would probably be for the best, said Arya. "Let us go."
For the next hour, Eragon and Arya walked the castle grounds with Ayel in tow. The hatchling nipped at his heels and ran rings around Saphira and Fírnen. As they explained to him both where and what he was, he didn't seem too surprised – even holding a kind of reverence for dragons and Riders, as if he had been brought up to respect them exclusively.
Apart from this, he was quick-witted, intelligent, and altogether likeable, which only made Eragon more uneasy. Something didn't sit right about the memory he'd seen in Ayel's mind – and the youth himself seemed almost too adaptive to his new surroundings and knowledge.
You're being paranoid, said Glaedr privately.
I can't help this sort of vague distrust I'm feeling.
I imagine he feels the same way. The golden dragon showed him a picture of a flock of birds. When a new one joins the flock, it must work twice as hard to earn its place.
Then if he's to be a Rider, we'll need to train him fast to catch him up. At least he's willing to be taught. Eragon called to Arya and Ayel, who were walking ahead of him with the dragons trailing behind. "Follow me for a moment – we need to get things moving."
They went to the training field, a flat patch of grass under a slight overhang behind the main keep. As a stone door came into view, Eragon whispered, "Ládrin." Open. The stone slid to the side almost silently and revealed a rather cluttered assortment of Riders' swords. He gathered the few that seemed to match the hatchling's scales and carried them to the center of the field.
"Go ahead and choose a blade from these," he told Ayel. The youth raised an eyebrow. "We're fighting already?"
"I need to gauge your skill level so I know how much to focus on hand-to-hand combat," explained Eragon. "With magic I know we'll have to start from scratch, but this is another matter entirely. If you can defend yourself, we can spar less often than if you can't."
Ayel shrugged and picked through the pile of swords. "Yuck," he said to an arming sword that was the most inaccurate color – a pale, apricot hue. "No," as a single-edged shortsword followed. "Too mainstream," was the verdict on a hand-and-a-half sword. The eventual winner was a longsword, suitable for slashing or thrusting, with an unusally long hilt, likely customized by its previous owner, that allowed both hands but was comfortable for one.
Its blade was the color of light cider, and its crossguard curved slightly to trap an opponent's blade in a disarming hook. The hilt was wrapped in thin leather and its pommel inset with an amber gemstone. "Ah! This'll do." Ayel gave the sword an experimental swing. "There's an inscription. Can you read it?"
Etched into the ricasso at the base of the blade were a few glyphs in the Liduen Kvaedhí. Eragon squinted at the meticulous penmanship. "Hljödhr, that this weapon may bring silent end to the enemies of peace." He gestured to the blade. "Silent is the sword's name. It'd probably be best not to scream and wave it about when you're in battle." This purchased a small smirk form the sword's wielder. "Now let me show you how to block its edge."
Eragon demonstrated the spell by blocking Brisingr. "Brightsteel is durable and fighting edge-on-edge won't dent or notch the blade, but this is for our protection. It can cut through flesh and bone indiscriminately."
Ayel placed his thumb and forefinger on the blade of his sword. It took him a few tries, but on the fourth (and most frustrated) "Gëuloth du knifr!" a yellow spark zigzagged down the blade and the invisible shield flickered.
"Good," said Eragon, pleased; he had not expected Ayel to succeed, but reasoned that the boy evidently had experience with magic, or at least mentalism. "Now defend yourself." He took a stance and Ayel did his best to mirror it. They stared at each other for a moment, then the hatchling dragon sneezed and Eragon pounced.
Ayel deflected the first strike, albeit clumsily, but let his sword be batted down. Rather than crush his skull with Brisingr there and then, Eragon switched direction and slashed at the youth's thigh. The blue sword rang on contact with Hljödhr as Eragon realized that Ayel's sagging sword arm had been a ruse. He knows he's being tested and he's clever or experienced enough to be manipulative with it. Eragon grinned. He's in for a shock, then.
He delivered a series of rapid blows to the side, slowing them down so Ayel could parry, and then, instead of changing direction again, rapped him on the hip with the flat of Brisingr's blade. Ayel grimaced and countered, but Eragon blocked him easily. The next few exchanges went in a similar manner.
As they dueled, Ayel started to become more comfortable with Hljödhr, and his reflexes became smoother and faster. He seemed to have been taught an intentionally unpredictable fighting style, and was proficient to some degree. Eragon eased into using more and more of his usual speed and strength, and once Ayel was unable to keep up, he flicked Brisingr to the initiate's throat, holding it there.
"Well done," he said honestly. "Whoever taught you wasn't wasting their time. However, it seems your instruction wasn't complete yet – even interrupted, judging by the fact that you're clearly rusty. We can limit sparring to a match a day for now, though – you're at least able to defend yourself against anyone except an elf or a Shade, which is more than most men of fifteen years can say."
Ayel was perspiring slightly and resting his hands on his sword's pommel to breathe. "You're sure you don't have elvish blood yourself?" he wheezed.
"Positive."
"Well then you're easily the best swordfighter I've had the fortune to duel," said the youth. "Not that I can remember anyone else, but my muscles are as reliable a judge as my mind."
Eragon chuckled. "If you think so, we can have you fight Arya next to set your opinion straight."
Arya came up behind him. "That's sweet, but I don't think we should be killing him yet." She held a pebble in her hand. "Ready for the next lesson?"
Coughing, Ayel straightened up. "Still coming, ma'am. Is there a sheath to this sword?"
It took Eragon all of ten seconds to rummage through the armory and find a sheath with elvish glyphs matching Hljödhr's. He tossed it to Ayel, who slid the sword into it and set it down by the hatchling, who sniffed at it curiously. "Okay. Hit me."
Arya slapped him across the face.
"Ow!" He rubbed his jaw. "I meant, tell me what to do!"
"Sorry," said Arya. "I'm not familiar with human figures of speech." She offered him the pebble. At the sight of her raising a hand, he flinched, but then took the rock. "Your task is to levitate the pebble in the air using magic. The words you will use are: stenr reïsa."
"Stenr reïsa," Ayel murmured.
"Yes. Remain here and contact one of us when you have succeeded. We'll leave your dragon with you, but we should start the next cycle's patrol." Arya touched Eragon's mind. Cuaroc can watch him while we're out. I think I may have an idea as to where he is from.
Alright, where – as they walked to Saphira and Fírnen, Eragon was interrupted by Ayel's sudden shouting. "Stenr reïsa… stenr reïsa!" He whooped. "I got it! Look!" The pebble was floating an inch above his palm. As they watched, it dropped back into his hand.
Taken aback by the speed with which Ayel had picked it up, Eragon thought quickly for another exercise to keep him busy. I'll have to challenge him a bit. "Now for the second step. Watch closely." He raised a hand to the overhang and uttered, "Stenr reïsa!"
A chunk of rock the size of a wheelbarrow snapped off the sheer cliff face and floated down gently. At the same time, Ayel's pebble lifted from his hand and shot under the boulder, trapping itself beneath it as the larger stone landed. The youth stepped back, wide eyed.
Eragon smiled. "Now move your rock again." He pulled himself onto Saphira. "Cuaroc should be around here somewhere. If you can't reach us, he'll mind you. And it doesn't matter how long it takes you to do this, he added. "Just remember what we told you about magic – don't expend your energy. This is well beyond your current ability. Don't be dismayed if you have to keep at it a while."
Almost as an afterthought, he took the pocket dictionary he'd made of the ancient language from his saddlebags and threw it to Ayel, who caught it reflexively. "If you need to figure out an incantation, use this. Be careful of your grammar."
You trust him with that? Saphira asked, but not incredulously.
He's honest. I can tell a lot about a man by how he fights. Ayel's clever, but he fights almost like a berserker – no concern for himself beyond reason. He's trained to protect, and that takes altruism. So, yes, I trust him.
As they flew away, Ayel's voice carried in the wind, alternating between cursing and trying out new words in the ancient language. Soon, though, they were out of earshot and nothing but the rushing of the air around them made a sound. Saphira let out a coughing growl, laughing.
What is it? Eragon inquired.
Seeing the three of you reminded me of Brom teaching you how to fight and cast spells. Except for one thing.
What would that be?
You're a lot less gruff and intimidating.
Eragon smiled. I suppose I am. He and Saphira banked left and Arya guided Fírnen ahead of them, flying low over a peninsula, which hosted a grove of pine and birch trees between the mountains and one of the wings of the lake that tapered into a river. They crossed the fjord and took to the open sky.
After completing the patrol circuit without incident, the four returned to the jetty and landed. When the Riders dismounted, Saphira and Fírnen flew up to the dragonroost.
"I was wondering how long that would take," said Eragon.
Arya smiled and beckoned to him. "Come on." They walked to the library, a dusty, dark room with bookshelves half-full spanning from the floor to the ceiling. The walls were covered with rich dark oak paneling, and an Erisdar chandelier hung over a long glass table. On the table was Eragon's own copy of Domia abr Wyrda, left open in the middle of a prattling chapter about elves, which was sadly mostly fiction.
Eragon and Arya sat down at the table in adjacent chairs. His hand found hers, but they talked as if neither of them noticed it.
"I was thinking about the memory we saw," Arya began. "When you returned from Vroengard, you mentioned seeing a procession of hooded figures walking among the ruins. I caught an impression that something similar was involved from Ayel's mind."
"Lanterns," muttered Eragon. "A ritual… no, a vigil. Yes, I remember. It's possible, but we still don't know who they were."
"Ayel may be our answer."
Maybe, but it's probably best that we let him remember on his own. After all, there is a chance we're wrong."
They sat in silence for a moment. Every few seconds Eragon would see flashes from Saphira and though he'd experienced it before, it still served to bring heat to the tips of his ears. "Perhaps dragons can mate for life," said Arya, gazing out the window with a faraway look in her eyes.
"And elves?" Eragon raised an eyebrow.
She smiled coquettishly. "Perhaps." Spurred on by her proximity, Eragon leaned in to kiss her, but she dodged backward, teasing him. Her hair was tied back, but much of it still hung over her forehead and the sides of her face, swaying like pine branches in a breeze. "I am not so easily entrapped, O Rider." Eragon saw a playful gleam in her eyes, a mischievous purse to her lips that he had not seen since years ago, when they had both gotten drunk on the elf Wyrden's special faelnirv.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked quizzically, a sinister edge creeping into his voice.
Arya stood. "Indeed." She reached forward and undid the top button of his collar, just to prove she was still faster than him, and then danced back, making for the door. "Catch me if you can." The elf turned and raced out of the library. Eragon pushed his chair back and leapt up to give chase, a foolish grin already spreading on his face.
He cleared the door and spotted Arya, black hair aflying, moving quickly down the hallway toward the next corner, which led past the infirmary to the dining hall.
Running after her, Eragon turned the corner with his hands as much as his feet, swinging around the bend for additional speed. Ever ahead of him, Arya flung open the doors to the dining hall commons, and seconds later he shouldered through them close behind her. Past the couches and down the aisle between the long tables they ran, feinting and ducking around pillars like children.
Eragon got close enough and reached out, missing Arya's shoulder by a hairsbreadth. Arya laughed, clear and ringing, bending like a cat to avoid his grasp. Then they were out the main doors and she made a hard left. And another. They bolted down the selfsame hallway they had started in, from the opposite direction.
Eragon caught her when they reached the library threshold, jumping nimbly and tackling her at the waist. Arya squealed in amusement and turned, kicking his legs from under him so that he cushioned her fall. They rolled upon the stone floor, wrestling like dogs fighting for scraps. Occasionally their lips would meet during the melee.
Tumbling into the library itself, soft carpet began to shield them from the hard stone floor, while also slowing their general momentum. Now Arya's mouth stayed against Eragon's without much trouble. Even with the erratic, jarring experience of rolling haphazardly through the room, Eragon could feel her respond to the contact. Eventually they came to a halt, and his head bumped against his discarded chair. Arya, half on top of him, pulled away. Both of them grinned.
After a moment during which they held each other's gaze, Eragon gave her a slanted look and, in a high, snooty voice, said: "We can never be, Eragon… forget me and focus on your training, Eragon… we're friends and nothing more, Eragon."
Arya flinched, but then a sheepish smile made its way onto her face. "Perhaps both of us were fools then," she said, giving him a hand up but pushing him into the chair so that she could sit on his lap.
"We're all fools at one time or another," said Eragon, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
"True, but that doesn't make it any better when it is your turn to play dunce." Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry for how I always treated you when you tried to talk with me."
He smiled. "What does it matter now?"
Another moment passed. They seemed content to sit in quiet companionship.
Suddenly a sharp noise broke the silence. Eragon's head snapped to the side and Arya leapt to her feet, her hand on Támerlein's pommel. They both found its source, a small, round object on the table beside them. Ayel was leaning casually against the doorway, pretending to study his nails. Eragon had no idea how long his student had been standing there.
"What is that?" asked Arya.
Ayel grinned. "It's my rock."