The next few weeks passed in a blur of aching muscles and slowly defrosting tensions between Zoe and her new companions.
The landscape was plain, brown windswept plains with blue horizon stretching as far as the eye could see. Zoe had never seen so much open space, the openness reminding her of the tinted photos of the American west before it had been settled. It appealed to her. It made the glossy newness of her urban lifestyle seem shoddy and overused. She had never realized how much she longed to be free of the constraints of her mundane teenaged life.
She listened a great deal, occasionally asking questions and pushing Brom, gently but firmly, to branch Eragon's education out from basic survival to history, verb conjugations, political and magical theory. The man seemed to take these not so subtle hints in stride, pushing Eragon and, by extension, Zoe to remember growing lists. His knowledge was vast and, once he began teaching, he seemed unable to stop. Eragon, for his part, focused harder on his lessons now that he had someone to compete against.
But perhaps the best part was the time Zoe had to think.
She thought about her knowledge, the terrible burden of knowing what the future was supposed to have been before her less than graceful arrival. It weighed heavily on her. The implications were many and multifaceted. She knew that she could not risk drastically changing the course of their travels. It was important for Eragon to meet Jeod both for his story and for Roran's much later on. The first major cross roads, then, would be the Urgal's attack where Eragon inadvertently revealed himself to the King's freshly recruited and very dedicated army.
She had a responsibility. When the time came for her to act or to hold back, Zoe decided, she had to be ready. She could afford no weakness, no fractures in her reasoning that might leave her open to self-doubt and that meant remembering. It meant uncovering exactly why she could do things, feel things and sense things that she had never been able to before. If she was a part of this story then she had to be aware of her part in it.
If nothing else she would attempt to be thorough.
Occasionally she felt like she remembered, like she stood on the edge of understanding, half a step away from unraveling the mystery of it all. Once or twice an image would flash across her eyes or a half-remembered conversation, a vague impression of words and sounds would make her start slightly and she would experience a brief flash of…something. But they never lingered, they came and they went too fast for her to make much sense of whatever she saw: a white-walled room or a field of barley or a ghostly laugh.
Music was there to - faint chords of a melody that wrapped around her and then faded away, leaving on a faint impression of itself.
It frightened her.
So many things frightened her. Her lack of homesickness - only a faint, nagging sense of guilt. She didn't miss home like she should. She felt as if she had shed a life that had never fit and had no need to mourn the loss. It was gone, her hands washed clean and it was time to move on - her mind had already made peace with that. She remembered a some things vividly: the taste of chocolate, the whizz of cars on wet pavement and the feeling of a ball point pen in her hand. But the important things like her mother's face, the color of her bedroom or her cell phone number had faded, become fuzzy and distant.
Her skills from the oddly patchy nature of her swordsmanship - at once deadly and then amateurish - to the implacable walls that, according to Brom, surrounded her mind like an iron fortress against intrusion...well the list went on.
Now what? In a land of mind readers, magic users and dragons - where was her place in all of this?
You are always thinking, came the deep voice of Saphira.
Zoe, sitting crosslegged by the fire while Brom and Eragon sparred, smiled slightly. There is a great deal to think about. But I always come back to the same question.
The dragon, who rarely interacted with Zoe, hummed. She had grown quite a bit over the past three weeks. Her wing span had close to doubled and, what with the constant flying, the dragoness was lean and powerful. Her sapphire blue scales glinted in the dim firelight, casting a faint blue glow on the small camp.
Zoe turned back, watching as Eragon pulled the blade of his sword up just in time. Brom had just moved the young Rider from sticks to real blades fully and the Rider was clearly finding the additional weight to be a challenge. But he was getting better, his moves were becoming smoother and more powerful. The sword was no longer a badly used cudgel but a blade used with growing frequency with grace and poise. He had raw talent, reflected Zoe. A great deal of. His mind was sharp, his memory excellent and he was hungry to learn. He approached his reading lessons with the same focus he did his swordsmanship or magic but there was so much for him to learn…
You always look so far away.
Zoe turned, raising an eyebrow at the dragon. Why do you say that?
Eragon is always asking questions, always looking and wondering. The dragon opened her eyes more fully, focusing the great blue orbs on Zoe. But you always seem to be one step removed, you see but you are not a part of it.
I understand, said Zoe. I suppose I am trying to understand why I am here. I am trying to unlock whatever part of me does understand….and this is the first time in my life, Saphira, that I have time to think.
The dragon kneaded the dirty with her claws, taking her time to respond, This is your world now, Zoe. You need to start living in it. Time will bring you the answers you need.
The dragon did not expect a response. She turned her great head away and left Zoe to mull over her words.
Glancing at Brom and Eragon, still sparring, Zoe rose and walked away from the camp. They were still following the river and had chosen to camp among a small stand of tress that grew close to the swiftly flowing water. She turned away and walked out into the shadowed grassland. She had left her sword, taking only her bow and quiver.
Absentmindedly, her hands moving of their own accord, she pulled her bow free of the quiver and walked further into grass. Silence fell around her, the distant clanging of Brom and Eragon's swords muffled as she moved away. The stars were beginning to appear far above her, silver lights that were slowly, one by one, being flicked on as night fell.
Zoe stopped beside the last clump of scattered trees, unwilling to go too far into the featureless grassland and become disorientated. Reaching up she pulled the bow free from the quiver and brought it around, admiring the faintly glowing weapon with its scuff marks and carefully polished but worn grip. Eragon had told her not to bother trying to use it - it was too tightly strung, he had said, and he doubted she would be able to draw the string.
Zoe pulled an arrow free, she wanted to test herself. The Rider knew his bows but she had the feeling he didn't know this one.
It took Zoe a minute, her movements clumsy and awkward as she tried to fit the arrow to the string correctly. She had taken several archery lessons back home but this was nothing like those creations covered in scopes and special handholds. This bow seemed to hum underneath her hands.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Zoe raised the bow and tried to draw the string back. At first, as Eragon had said, it remained stubbornly unbent. She pulled on it, hard, but it would not give. A sense of defeat rose within her. She could not use this beautiful bow.
No, she thought fiercely. I won't give up.
She took another breath and stilled herself. She had remembered - if that was what it was - how to use the sword because she had allowed herself to listen to some place deep inside her. Had allowed instinct not logic to guide her movements - allowing the sword to become an extension of her arm. Every time she had sparred since with Brom she had allowed herself to let go, to sink deep within herself, and she had yet to be defeated by the older man. Each time had become easier, the feeling becoming increasingly natural and right the more she allowed herself to feel, to react, not think.
Thinking took time, it dulled her reactions and made her second guess.
Why should this be any different?
With another deep breath, Zoe pulled the string back. She was doing it wrong, whispered an inner self. Her stance was too rigid, her arm too stiff. The string shifted, bending slightly. She would not win this battle with force, the bow would resist till the end. Allow it come back, she thought, the bow is a part of you.
The string glided back, the movement graceful and sure. Her hands finding the exact placement and pressure, not forcing but not yielding either. Choosing a tree trunk as her target, Zoe focused down the shaft of the arrow and let it fly. It soared for a brief moment but fell short of its intended target.
Zoe lowered her bow, a smile breaking out across her face despite the poor shot. This felt like more of an accomplishment somehow. She had to practice. In time, she thought, she would come to master this.
The light had almost faded completely and, still smiling, Zoe retrieved her arrow and walked back to the small camp.
She dreamed that night.
She lifted the sword. The hilt comfortable in her bloodied hand.
Sometimes you had to move on, you had to forgive if, for no other reason, than that any other choice would be far more devastating. She would take what was good, what was important and move on - the past holding no more claim than that.
A voice called her, low and with a rough edge that came from snapping out orders over the roar of battle…
After close to three weeks of travel, the small group came to a small village - Daret, Zoe later learned, was its name. It was nothing more than a small dot in the vast expanse of grassland. Not exactly a bustling metropolis, Daret was spread out along the Ninor River. Daret looked like a small dark blob against the endless horizon.
Brom and Eragon went into the town. Saphira, her entire body tense, remained with Zoe at a bend in the river further downstream.
He will be alright, reassured Zoe.
Last time I let him go into a human village…
That was last time, said Zoe soothingly.
This will change, said the dragon with a note of finality. He is MY Rider.
Keep calm, said Zoe. You will put him in more danger if you rush in.
What do you know of it, said the dragon as she paced back and forth, her giant tail switching from side to side as she gazed toward the town. She looked ready to launch into the air and burn the place to the ground.
Zoe was quiet for a long moment. Then, feeling as if she was speaking from very far away, she said, I know a great deal of…of protecting those I love.
The dragon swung her great head sharply to gaze at the girl. The strange tone of voice briefly distracting her. Who?
I don't know, said Zoe and her throat began to hurt, a great feeling of sadness settling somewhere inside her. I don't remember.
The dragon was silent and still. I will wait this time, she said at last, but he will fly with me.
The dragon was true to her word.
When the horses and their riders reached Saphira she startled them by thrusting her head at them; the horses back stepped nervously. Saphira looked Eragon over carefully and then gave a low hiss. Her eyes were flinty and the second Eragon dismounted she swept his legs out from under him with her tail and pinned him to the ground with her talons. For a few seconds there was complete silence as Eragon and Saphira stared at each other eye to eye obviously arguing about something. Eragon must have said the wrong thing because she snapped her teeth by his ear.
Finally Brom asked "Well? What does she want?"
Eragon sighed, "She wants me to ride her." He sounded less than thrilled at the prospect, a greenish hue to his face. Zoe covered her mouth with a hand to conceal the smile that crossed her face.
Brom smiled - not even bothering to cover his humour. "I suppose it's about time, you do have the saddle and it would be good for both of you to get some experience."
"What is something happens? I mean if you're attacked or..." Saphira must have used his words to reinforce her point because Zoe saw Eragon wince as she tightened her talons.
"Go," said Zoe with what she hoped was a reassuring and not mocking smile. "Brom and I are more then capable of looking after ourselves."
Tomorrow, said the dragon with a note of finality. You will fly with me tomorrow.
Saphira was good to her word. As the sun began to peak over the horizon she rousted her Rider. Eragon, looking rather green at the prospect, clambered aboard and the dragon launched herself into the air.
Zoe watched them go, shading her eyes against the bright rays of the morning sun. But she turned away soon, her mind focusing on the task she had set herself.
Now she needed the right moment. Needed to approach the matter with delicate grace, aware that she had only recently found a fragile trust with Brom.
With a casual smile she said lightly, "He looked like he was off to his execution."
Brom quickly tied up his bedroll, "He will get used to it." The man's voice was tight, his expression guarded and Zoe turned away. She wondered - as she had many times over the past few weeks - how many times Brom cursed the fates that had taken away his dragon and bitterly wished it was he not his son taking flight into the clear dawn air?
Accepting Cadoc's reins, Zoe mounted and followed Brom. They were still traveling along the river which had steadily widened and become larger the further they traveled. Early morning mist was rising off the water, coating everything in a thin layer of water. Zoe shivered, she appreciated the closeness of river for bathing but she had come to despise the constant dampness.
"When I was young," she said into the silence, "I used to read myths about ancient heroes." Zoe twisted a strand of Cadoc's mane around her finger, "Some of the stories weren't very pleasant and not many of the heroes got happy endings. But many of them had a similar beginning…"
Brom was looking at her. So she kept on, trying to lead him towards the real conversation but feeling clumsy as she did so. It was annoying - without skill or grace.
"Most of the heroes didn't know their father - they maybe suspected but a few had no idea. They grew up in isolated mountains until someone - a god or a monster or teacher - decided to fling them out into the real world. It didn't always end well and most of the time a person wondered if someone had just said something…" She trailed off, "But no one in those stories did. Some secrets are important to keep, I know that, but some just seemed to get the wrong people killed."
"What are you getting at?" said Brom in that gruff, demanding voice.
"That dwelling in the past and willingly concealing the truth does not save lives."
The two were staring at each other, unthinkingly both had stopped their horses. "Some knowledge," said Brom with an air of finality, "is too dangerous. It is distracting and harmful." His tone booked no argument, the conversation was closed.
Zoe moved her horse forward, unwilling to back down now that Brom had made such a statement - unwilling to allow him to pigeon hold it. "The more withheld, the more lies and concealments…well it leaves one open to far more devastating consequences. Is not the truth…or only half the truth, if delivered too late or by the wrong person, far, far more harmful…dangerous even?"
The man let out a frustrated growl but Zoe refused to look over at him. She kept her eyes straight ahead, her back perfectly straight.
"This is because of those damn books, isn't it?"
She didn't respond. Brom knew all he needed to about the books and the future. Besides, she thought, there was no chance of her winning an argument on the morality with the much older Brom.
"I can't do what you want me to do," he said at last and this time when Zoe glanced at him, she saw a world of regret and guilt. It made her heart lurch in sympathy and more than a little guilt. She had not intended to hurt him but had, it seemed, in the end.
"Do what you think is right," said Zoe at last, knowing she could not push the issue any further but that her words contained a far deeper meaning, a challenge really. Part of her suspected that she had accomplished her goal or, at least, warned Brom that she would act if he did not in the end. That there was someone willing to confront him on the myriad shadows of his past, thought Zoe, may be a warning to him.
Zoe stayed silent through the rest of the day. Watching worriedly as Eragon and Brom conferred over the discovery of the Raz'zac's tracks later that afternoon and the dropped flask. She held her tongue as the two decided on their path, ignoring the occasional look that Brom flashed her way as if daring her to say something more.
And she dearly wanted to. Wanted to tell Eragon what the Lethblaka were and exactly why he should shelve the whole revenge thing until he had both a better skill set and a much better idea of what real vengeance was.
But she would hold her silence for now, she decided as she bit the inside of her lip. As it was, however, she didn't know how much longer she would be able to do that. Something had changed, she knew that. Something, in her conversation with Brom, had begun that she could not control.