Chapter Eighty-Four: Hollow

Sitting with her back braced against Roran's, Mariah sat watching Saphira's tail whip behind them like ribbon in the wind. They flew nonstop until the sun had traversed the dome of the sky and extinguished itself behind the horizon and then burst forth again with a glorious conflagration of reds and yellows.

The first leg of their journey carried them toward the edge of the Empire, which few people inhabited. There they turned west toward Dras-Leona and Helgrind. From then on, they traveled at night to avoid notice by anyone in the many small villages scattered across the grasslands that lay between them and their destination.

As Mariah had said, they had to swathe themselves in cloaks and furs and wool mittens and felted hats, for Saphira chose to fly higher than the icebound peaks of most mountains – where the air was thin and dry and stabbed at their lungs – so that if a farmer tending a sick calf in the field or a sharp-eyed watchman making his rounds should happen to look up as she passed overhead, Saphira would appear no larger than an eagle.

Everywhere they went, Eragon saw evidence of the war that was now afoot: camps of soldiers, wagons full of supplies gathered into a bunch for the night, and lines of men with iron collars being led from their homes to fight on Galbatorix's behalf. Mariah helped escort them around the most populated checkpoints that the Empire's army had set up, allowing them to maneuver through with little resistance. The amount of resources deployed against them was daunting indeed. There was no sight of dragons on the horizon, much to their relief.

Near the end of the second night, Helgrind had appeared in the distance: a mass of splintered columns, vague and ominous in the ashen light that precedes dawn. Saphira had landed in the hollow where they were now, and they had slept through most of the past day before beginning their reconnaissance. Mariah remained with Saphira while Eragon and Roran had scouted ahead.

Now, the low mound of coals throbbed like the heart of some giant beast. Occasionally, a patch of gold sparks flared into existence and raced across the surface of the wood before vanishing into a white-hot crevice. The dying remnants of the fire they had built cast a dim red light over the surrounding area, revealing a patch of rocky soil, a few pewter-gray bushes, the indistinct mass of a juniper tree farther off, then nothing.

Eragon sat with his bare feet extended toward the nest of ruby embers – enjoying the warmth – and with his back propped against the knobby scales of Saphira's thick right foreleg. Opposite him, Roran was perched on the iron-hard, sun-bleached, wind-worn shell of an ancient tree trunk. Every time he moved, the trunk produced a bitter shriek that made Eragon want to claw at his ears. Mariah threw him an empathetic smile as she prodded at the dying flames with a charred stick. She stretched and settled herself back down against the rock wall behind her.

For the moment, quiet reigned within the hollow. Even the coals smoldered in silence; Roran had collected only long-dead branches devoid of moisture to eliminate any smoke that unfriendly eyes might spot.

Eragon had just finished recounting the day's activities to Saphira. Normally, he never had to tell her what he had been doing, as thoughts, feelings, and other sensations flowed between them as easily as water from one side of a lake to another. But in this instance it was necessary because Eragon had kept his mind carefully shielded during the scouting expedition.

After a considerable gap in the conversation, Saphira yawned, exposing her rows of many fearsome teeth. Cruel and evil they may be, but I am impressed that the Ra'zac can bewitch their prey into wanting to be eaten. They are great hunters to do that… Perhaps I shall attempt it someday.

But not, Eragon felt compelled to add, with people. Try it with sheep instead.

People, sheep: what difference is there to a dragon? Then she laughed deep in her long throat – a rolling rumble that reminded him of thunder.

A fountain of amber motes billowed and swirled as Roran tossed a branch onto the disintegrating coals. He caught Eragon's look and shrugged. "Cold," he said.

Mariah whispered a quiet spell to keep Roran warmer, pulling her cape around her shoulders tighter, brushing her cheeks with the soft fur. There was a slithering scraping sound akin to someone drawing a sword. She watched as Eragon flung himself in the opposite direction, rolled once and came up into a crouch, lifting his sword to deflect an oncoming blow. Roran was nearly as fast. He grabbed his shield from the ground, scrambled back from the log he had been sitting on, and drew his hammer from his belt, all in the span of a few seconds. The boys froze, waiting for the attack. Mariah's sharp eyes pinpointed the location of the noise and she stretched out mentally, with the intent of killing them before they got to Roran or Eragon.

I smell nothing, said Saphira.

Mariah let out a breath quietly, raised an eyebrow at the two of them, shaking her head. "Sit down," she insisted, fighting the tremor in her voice. "Anyone capable of killing either of you would not draw their sword so close that you could hear… or they would mute the sound of the blade being drawn. Nothing is coming for you in the dark save the Ra'zac. And they will not know we're coming."

Eragon shot her a glare and uttered the words "Brisingr raudhr!" A pale red werelight popped into existence several feet in front of him and remained there, floating at eye level and painting the hollow with a watery radiance. He moved slightly, and the werelight mimicked his motion, as if connected to him by an invisible pole.

Together, he and Roran advanced toward where they'd heard the sound, down the gulch that wound eastward. They held their weapons high and paused between each step, ready to defend themselves at any moment. About ten yards from their camp, Roran held up a hand, stopping Eragon, then pointed at a plate of shale that lay on top of the grass. It appeared conspicuously out of place. Kneeling, Roran rubbed a smaller fragment of shale across the plate and created the same steely scrape they had heard before.

Looking at Saphira, Mariah sighed and scooted closer to the flames, warming her face and slender hands. "Its days like this when I wish I was a man and could grow a beard; my face gets so cold sometimes." She smiled as the dragoness snorted a laugh, which made her grin broader yet. "It does. Though scarves and furs are very helpful, it would be convenient not to ever have to take it off."

"Are your nerves not set on edge, Mariah?" Roran asked as they returned. "You didn't even move."

She shook her head, "Galbatorix has louder footsteps, and would not be so foolish to draw a blade against an enemy he can kill with words. Any one of the others, I would not be scared to fight against, for they are untrained. Though unpredictable, I believe I would be able to best them. Most of my true enemies are in my head."

"Do you see them?"

"Who?" Eragon asked.

"The men you've killed. Do you see them in your dreams?" Roran turned his gaze at his cousin.

"Sometimes."

The pulsing glow from the coals lit Roran's face from below, forming thick shadows above his mouth and across his forehead and giving his heavy, half-lidded eyes a baleful aspect. He spoke slowly, as if he found the words difficult. "I never wanted to be a warrior. I dreamed of blood and glory when I was younger, as every boy does, but the land was what was important to me. That and our family… And now I have killed… I have killed and killed, and you have killed even more." His gaze focused on some distant place only he could see. "There were these two men in Narda… Did I tell you this before?"

He had told them at least once so far on their journey, but Mariah shook her head despite the fact, tipping her head to listen. Talking about the past was one way to cope with it, and seemed to be the best way for Roran.

"They were guards at the main gate… Two of them, you know, and the man on the right, he had pure white hair. I remember because he couldn't have been more than twenty-four, twenty-five. They wore Galbatorix's sigil, but spoke as if they were from Narda. They weren't professional soldiers. They were probably just men who had decided to help protect their homes from Urgals, pirates, brigands… We weren't going to lift a finger against them. I swear to you, that was never part of our plan. I had no choice though. They recognized me. I stabbed the white-haired man underneath his chin… It was like when Father cut the throat of a pig. And then the other, I smashed open his skull. I can still feel his bones giving way… I remember every blow I've landed, from the soldiers in Carvahall, to the ones on the Burning Plains… You know, when I close my eyes, sometimes I can't sleep because the light from the fire we set in the docks of Terim is so bright in my mind. I think I'm going mad then."

Mariah stood and walked to Roran, setting her hand on his forearm. "I envy you Roran, for being able to remember them all. I've lost count of the lives I've taken by my blade. My hands are stained red with the blood of every person I've slain."

Behind her, Eragon found his hands gripping the sword with such force, his knuckles were white and tendons ridged the insides of his wrists. "Aye," he said. "At first it was just Urgals, then it was men and Urgals, and now this last battle… I know what we do is right, but right doesn't mean easy. Because of who we are, the Varden expect Saphira and me to stand at the front of their army and to slaughter entire battalions of soldiers. We do. We have." His voice caught and he fell silent.

"Sometimes taking life from another is one step closer to destroying Galbatorix." Mariah looked between them, then at Saphira, as she seemed to be the only one still listening. "The world forces us to act. It pits us against foes that we must conquer or be conquered by, and we are victorious because we have the most to lose. We must sacrifice part of ourselves to triumph."

Turmoil accompanies every great change, said Saphira. And we have experienced more than our share, for we are agents of that very change. I am a dragon, and I do not regret the deaths of those who endanger us. Killing the guards in Narda may not be a deed worthy of celebration, but neither is it one to feel guilty about. You had to do it. When you must fight, Roran, does not the fierce joy of combat lend wings to your feet? Do you not know the pleasure of pitting yourself against a worthy opponent and the satisfaction of seeing the bodies of your enemies piled before you? Eragon, you have experienced this. Help me explain it to your cousin.

Mariah watched Saphira for a moment and then took pity upon her human companions. They didn't want to admit it, because admitting that they enjoyed the rush of battle would be vile and would make them no better than their enemies. Having been on both sides of the conflict, she had already admitted this to herself, and so said, "I reveled in the rush of battle, Saphira. I was conditioned to savor the feel of victory. Being able to master your opponent, no matter how difficult the foe. Many strong men have fought against me, yet here I stand. Survival is the only thing that matters in battle. A foe standing in your way is cut down so you continue to survive, again and again. I know the feeling well now, yes, though I do not love that I know."

Rising to his feet, Eragon walked to their saddlebags and retrieved the small earthenware jar Orik had given him before they parted, then poured two large mouthfuls of raspberry mead down his gullet. Warmth bloomed in his stomach. Grimacing, Eragon passed the jar to Roran, who also partook of the concoction. Mariah watched them, shaking her head at the smell of the mead, watching as the liquor tempered their black mood. She sat beside Saphira, stroking the scales along her snout, missing Andrar with every bump of her fingers against the dragoness.

"We may have a problem tomorrow," Eragon finally said.

Roran blinked, "What do you mean?"

"Remember how I said that we – Saphira and I – could easily handle the Ra'zac?"

"Aye."

And so we can, said Saphira, humming under Mariah's touch.

"Well, I was thinking about it while we spied on Helgrind, and I'm not so sure anymore. There are almost infinite number of ways to do something magic. For example, if I want to light a fire, I could light it with heat gathered from the air or the ground; I could create a flame out of pure energy; I could summon a bolt of lightning; I could concentrate a raft of sunbeams into a single point; I could use friction; and so forth." A smile touched Mariah's lips as her rambled on, his training in Ellesméra had taught him much, but she was more impressed by what he had retained.

"So?"

"The problem is, even though I can devise numerous spells to perform this action, blocking those spells might require but a single counterspell. If you prevent the action itself from taking place, then you don't have to tailor your counterspell to address the unique properties of each individual spell."

"I still don't understand what this has to do with tomorrow," Roran said, watching him.

I do, said Saphira. She had immediately grasped the implications. It means that, over the past century, Galbatorix-

"-may have placed wards around the Ra'zac-"

-that will protect them against-

"-a whole range of spells. I probably won't-"

-be able to kill them with any-

"-of the words of death I was taught, nor any-"

-attacks that we can invent now or then. We may-

"-have to rely-"

"Stop!" exclaimed Roran. Mariah let out a laugh. He gave a pained expression. "Stop, please. My head hurts when you do that."

Eragon paused with his mouth open; until that moment, he had been unaware that he and Saphira were speaking in turn. The knowledge pleased him: it signified that they had achieved new heights of cooperation and were acting together as a single entity – which made them far more powerful than either would be on their own. It also troubled him when he contemplated how such a partnership must, by its very nature, reduce the individuality of those involved.

He closed his mouth and chuckled. "Sorry. What I'm worried about is this: if Galbatorix has had the foresight to take certain precautions, then force of arms may be the only means by which we can slay the Ra'zac. If that's true-"

"I'll just be in your way tomorrow."

"Roran, he's not saying that. What he is saying about the wards, however, yes, that much is certain. The Ra'zac cannot be defeated by magic alone, else they would be long dead. Unfortunately for us I don't know exactly what the extents of the Ra'zac's wards are." Mariah paused, "However, I do know there are many, though they will likely be vulnerable to physical damage, since few would be able to get so close to kill them. Galbatorix wouldn't have bothered with any spells denying them physical harm."

Eragon nodded, "You may be slower than the Ra'zac, but I have no doubt you'll give them cause to fear your weapon, Roran Stronghammer." The compliment seemed to please Roran. "The greatest danger for you is that the Ra'zac or the Letherblaka will manage to separate you from Saphira and me."

"I'm not letting you get more than five feet from me," Mariah insisted, grinning at him. "You'll be fine Roran."

He looked over at her grin and sighed, "I shouldn't have to feel protected by a fifteen year old girl."

"I'm almost sixteen, don't you forget that now." She said, standing up and brushing her hands free of dirt. She flicked her hair back and put a hand on her hip, shooting Roran a mocking glare.

"Aye, nearly sixteen then. You know, this magic is tricky business," Roran said. The log he sat on gave a drawn-out groan as he rested his elbows on his knees. "Makes everything more difficult."

"It is," Eragon agreed. "The hardest part is trying to anticipate every possible spell; I spend most of my time asking how I can protect myself if I'm attacked like this and would another magician expect me to do that."

"Could you make me as strong and fast as you are?"

Mariah stretched, looking between the two boys as Eragon considered his response. She awaited his answer, curious as to what he would say. "I don't see how. The energy needed to do that would have to come from somewhere. Saphira and I could give it to you, but then we would lose as much speed or strength as you gained."

"Equivalency is the word," she said. "What is given must be taken from somewhere or someone. If you were a magician Roran, you could store energy in a jewel you bore and then draw from it when needed."

Roran looked at his cousin, "Can you teach me to use magic?" When Eragon hesitated, Roran added, "Not now, of course. We don't have the time, and I don't expect one can become a magician overnight anyway. But in general, why not? You and I are cousins. We share much the same blood. And it would be a valuable skill to have."

"I'm sorry Roran," Mariah said sympathetically. "It is a very arduous process, and even then I don't know if you have magic enough in your blood to use it. We have Rider's blood in our veins that allow us to wield the gramarye without much difficulty."

"But Mark can."

"He is my brother, and as much Rider's blood runs in his veins as in my own, it's not strange for him to be capable of wielding magic."

Not wanting his cousin to look so defeated, Eragon quickly plucked a flat, round stone from the ground and tossed it to Roran, who caught it backhand. "Here, try this: concentrate on lifting the rock a foot or so into the air and say, 'Stenr rïsa.'"

"Stenr rïsa?"

"Exactly."

Roran frowned at the stone resting on his palm in a pose so reminiscent of Eragon's own training that Eragon could not help feeling a flash of nostalgia for the days he spent being drilled by Brom. Roran's eyebrows met, his lips tightened into a snarl, and he growled, "Stenr rïsa!" with enough intensity, Eragon half expected the stone to fly out of sight.

Nothing happened.

Scowling even harder, Roran repeated his command: "Stenr rïsa!"

The stone exhibited a profound lack of movement.

"Well," said Eragon, "keep trying. That's the only advice I can give you. But" – and here he raised a finger – "if you should happen to succeed, make sure you immediately come to me or, if I'm not around, another magician. You could kill yourself and others if you start experimenting with magic without understanding the rules. If nothing else, remember this: if you cast a spell that requires too much energy, you will die. Don't take on projects that are beyond your abilities, don't try to bring back the dead, and don't try to unmake anything."

Roran nodded, still looking at the stone.

"When we get back with Katrina, you can go talk to Mark, I'm sure he'll be happy to help you out." Mariah nodded once and then paused, narrowing her eyes at Roran. "Is that the first time anyone has talked to you about magic?"

"Yes," he admitted. "You're the only ones I know who can use it."

Eragon started, "I just realized there's something important that you need to learn. Tonight."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you need to be able to hide your thoughts from the Black Hand, Du Vrangr Gata, and others like them. You know a lot of things now that could harm the Varden. It's crucial, then, that you master this skill as soon as we return. Until you can defend yourself from spies, neither Nasuada nor I nor anyone else can trust you with information that might help our enemies."

"I understand. But why did you include Du Vrangr Gata in that list? They serve you and Nasuada."

"They do, but even among our allies there are more than a few people who would give their right arm" – he grimaced at the appropriateness of the phrase – "to ferret out our plans and secrets. And yours too, no less. You have become a somebody, Roran. Partly because of your deeds, and party because we are related."

"I know. It is strange to be recognized by those you have not met."

Eragon nodded, "Now that you know what it feels like when one mind touched another, you might be able to learn to reach out and touch other minds in turn."

Sighing, Mariah shook her head, "I was hoping for some respite, but if this is your plan for the night, I'm turning in. Wake me when it's time for me to stay up and take watch. I promise I'll wake you both at the sound of scraping rocks…" She took a blanket from Saphira's saddle and disappeared around the far side of the dragoness underneath her wing. Saphira hummed and nuzzled Mariah for a moment before she too rested her head and closed her eyes.

"I'm not sure that is an ability I want to have." Roran admitted, looking back to his cousin.

"No matter; you also might not be able to do it. Either way, before you spend time finding out, you should first devote yourself to the art of defense."

He cocked an eyebrow. "How?"

"Choose something – a sound, an image, an emotion, anything – and let it swell within your mind until it blots out any other thoughts."

"That's all?"

"It's not as easy as you think. Go on; take a stab at it. When you're ready, let me know, and I'll see how well you've done."

Several moments passed. Then, at a flick of Roran's fingers, Eragon launched his consciousness toward his cousin, eager to discover what he had accomplished.

The full strength of Eragon's mental ray rammed into a wall composed of Roran's memories of Katrina and was stopped. He could take no ground, find no entrance or purchase, nor undermine the impenetrable barrier that stood before him. At that instant, Roran's entire identity was based upon his feelings for Katrina; his defenses exceeded any Eragon had previously encountered, for Roran's mind was devoid of anything else Eragon could grasp hold of and use to gain control over his cousin.

Then Roran shifted his left leg and the wood underneath released a harsh squeal.

With that, the wall Eragon had hurled himself against fractured into dozens of pieces as a host of competing thoughts distracted Roran: What was… Blast! Don't pay attention to it; he'll break through. Katrina, remember Katrina. Ignore Eragon. The night she agreed to marry me, the smell of the grass and her hair… Is that him? No! Focus! Don't-

Taking advantage of Roran's confusion, Eragon rushed forward and, by the force of his will, immobilized Roran before he could shield himself again.

You understand the basic concept, said Eragon, then withdrew from Roran's mind and said out loud, "but you have to learn to maintain your concentration even when you're in the middle of a battle. You must learn to think without thinking… to empty yourself of all hopes and worries, save that one idea that is your armor. Something the elves taught me, which I have found helpful, is to recite a riddle or a piece of a poem or song. Having an action that you can repeat over and over again makes it much easier to keep your mind from straying."

"I'll work on it," promised Roran.

In a quiet voice, Eragon said, "You really love her, don't you?" It was more of a statement of truth and wonder than a question – the answer being self-evident – and one he felt uncertain making. Romance was not a topic Eragon had broached with his cousin before, notwithstanding the many hours they had devoted in years past to debating the relative merits of the young woman in and around Carvahall. He brushed aside the ardent thoughts bubbling to the back of his mind. "How did it happen?"

"I liked her. She liked me. What importance are the details?"

"Come now," said Eragon. "I was too angry to ask before you left for Therinsford, and we have not seen each other again until just four days ago. I'm curious."

The skin around Roran's eyes pulled and wrinkled as he rubbed his temples. "There's not much to tell. I've always been partial to her. It meant little before I was a man, but after my rites of passage, I began to wonder whom I would marry and whom I wanted to become the mother of my children. During one of our visits to Carvahall, I saw Katrina stop by the side of Loring's house to pick a moss rose growing in the shade of the eaves. She smiled as she looked at the flower… It was such a tender smile, and so happy, I decided right then that I wanted to make her smile like that again and again and that I wanted to look at that smile until the day I died." Tears gleamed in Roran's eyes, but they did not fall, and a second later, he blinked and they vanished. "I fear I have failed in that regard."

After a respectful pause, Eragon said, "You courted her, then? Aside from using me to ferry compliments to Katrina, how else did you proceed?"

"You ask like one who seeks instruction." He said, hiding his smirk.

"I did not. You're imagining-"

"Come now, yourself," said Roran. "I know when you're lying. You get that big foolish grin, and your ears turn red. The elves may have given you a new face, but that part of you hasn't changed. What is it that exists between you… and Arya?"

"Nothing!" He said, before the name had registered, "The moon has addled your brain." Eragon hesitated. No, Roran had definitely said Arya.

Roran frowned, perhaps an admission from his cousin would be harder than he anticipated. "Be honest. Your gaze lingers upon her. And you dote upon her words as if each one were a diamond."

"Arya is an elf."

"And very beautiful." Roran hinted, "Black hair, green eyes."

"Arya is over a hundred years old."

That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and he said, "I find that hard to believe! She's in the prime of her youth."

"It's true." He kept his answers short, guarded.

"Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely listens to reason. Do you fancy her or not?" At his cousin's hesitation, Roran asked again. "How do things stand between you two? Did you speak to her?"

"Aye."

Eragon's answer surprised him – he had not truly believed his cousin to have pursued the she-elf. "To what end?" When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated exclamation. "Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the mud." Eragon chuckled at the mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. "Saphira, will you solve his puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear I'll never get a full explanation."

"To no end. No end at all. She'll not have me." Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if commenting on a stranger's misfortune.

"I'm sorry," said Roran honestly.

"It happens."

Roran shook his head, disappointed in Eragon. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly, "I can't believe you. You've been away for months, and Mariah's been with you for most of it. You pursued Arya? I know you two are friends, and have been for as long as I can remember, I imagine you wouldn't want to ruin that with romance, but come now. The two of you are inseparable."

A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira's nostrils. Eragon ignored her and said with strained vocals, "She has been with the Empire for the past three months. And I have trained in Ellesméra just as long. After the battle in Farthen Dûr I had been convinced she was dead. And now…"

He watched the Rider's expression for a moment, realizing his plight. "I'm sure you will meet another woman who will make you forget this. There are countless maids – and more than a few married women, I'd wager – who would be delighted to catch the eye of a Rider. You'll have no trouble finding a wife among all the lovelies in Alagaësia."

"And what would you have done if you were not able to pursue Katrina?"

The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might have reacted. He still felt the sting of her capture, and could not imagine hearing that she was dead.

"Contrary to what everyone else seems to believe, I am aware that other eligible women exist in Alagaësia and that people have been known to fall in love more than once. I might indeed decide that I fancy another. However, my path is not so easy as that. Regardless of whether I can shift my affections to another – and the heart, as you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast – the question remains: should I?"

"Your tongue has grown as twisted as the roots of a fir tree," said Roran. "Speak not in riddles."

"Very well: what human woman can begin to understand who and what I am, or the extent of my powers? Who could share in my life? Few enough, and all of them magicians. And of that select group, or even of women in general, how many are immortal?"

Roran laughed, rough and hearty. "You might as well ask for the sun in your pocket or-" He stopped and tensed as if he were about to spring forward and then became unnaturally still. "You cannot be."

"I am."

Roran struggled to find words. "Is it a result of your change in Ellesméra, or is it part of being a Rider?"

"Part of being a Rider."

"That explains why Galbatorix hasn't died."

"Aye."

The branch Roran had added to the fire burst asunder with a muted pop as the coals underneath heated the gnarled length of wood to the point where a small cache of water or sap that had somehow evaded the rays of the sun for untold decades exploded into steam.

"The idea is so… vast, it's almost inconceivable," said Roran. "Death is part of who we are. It guides us. It shapes us. It drives us to madness. Can you still be human if you have no mortal end?"

"I'm not invincible," Eragon pointed out. "I can still be killed with a sword or an arrow. And I can still catch some incurable disease."

"But if you avoid those dangers, you will live forever."

"If I do, then yes. Saphira and I will endure."

"It seems both a blessing and a curse."

"Aye. I cannot in good conscience marry a woman who will age and die while I remain untouched by time; such an experience would be equally cruel for both of us. On top of that, I find the thought of taking one wife after another throughout the long centuries rather depressing."

"I don't understand."

Eragon blinked, "What don't you understand?"

"If you're going on and on about all this," he twisted his hands about. "Your immortality and not being able to love anyone but an elf… or…"

His mouth twitched as he realized what Roran was about to say. "Don't."

"Someone needs to tell you, and it looks like I'm the only one who's going to. Everyone else is probably too scared to say it. If you haven't admitted it to her yet, at least admit it to yourself. Captured by the Empire or not, it's as plain as day. Perhaps not lately, for this has been the most awkward time I've spent in the company of the two of you. She still stares when you aren't looking, and your attempts to ignore her are undermined by your troubled glances. What happened?" From the tone in his voice, Eragon realized that Roran truly wanted to understand why it was so apparent that he wasn't courting Mariah.

"I can't trust her Roran… not after all that's happened."

"You denied her," he gawked. "You have admitted it, and you rejected her. I never thought I'd see the day." He knew his cousin, and this was not him. If ever he were to figure out his feelings, and had the nerve to act upon them, he would never let her go. Seeing Mariah alone in Carvahall had worried him, but now he understood. The trust they once shared unbridled between them had been broken so completely Eragon now denied himself the one thing he had always wanted. Instead, during her apparent death, he had pursued an elf with features akin to her own, as if replacing her and it had only ended in more heartache.

Eragon shook his head, his tone agonized. "I can't…"

Roran folded his arms at him, "Then you're a fool. You will never be happy, for the rest of your immortal life, brother. You remember I said that. And I also hope you realize that she can probably find someone else who loves her, maybe not as much as you, but enough." Deciding his cousin had had sufficient criticism, he parted from the topic, "And perhaps you won't have to watch it happen, because you may not have to worry about living forever. Galbatorix or one of his soldiers could put steel through us at any moment. A wise man would ignore the future and drink and carouse while he still has an opportunity to enjoy this world."

"I know what Father would say to that."

"And he'd give us a good hiding to boot." Roran said evenly, watching his cousin. They both broke out into laughter. When they ran out of air, they fell back into silence.

Quieter, unless you want to wake Mariah. Your laughter nearly brought her conscious. You should sleep as well, said Saphira to Eragon and Roran. It's late, and we must rise early tomorrow.

Eragon looked at the black vault of the sky, judging the hour by how far the stars had rotated. The night was older than he expected. "Sound advice," he said. "I just wish we had a few more days to rest before we storm Helgrind. The battle on the Burning Plains drained all of Saphira's strength and my own, and we have not fully recovered, what with flying here and the energy I transferred into the belt of Beloth the Wise these past two evenings. My limbs still ache, and I have more bruises than I can count. Look…" Loosening the ties on the cuff of his left shirtsleeve, he pushed back the soft lámarae – a fabric the elves made by cross-weaving wood and nettle threads – revealing a rancid yellow streak where his shield had mashed against his forearm.

"Ha!" said Roran. "You call that tiny little mark a bruise? I hurt myself worse when I bumped my toe this morning. Here, I'll show you a bruise a man can be proud of." He unlaced his left boot, pulled it off, and rolled up the leg of his trousers to expose a black stripe as wide as Eragon's thumb that slanted across his quadriceps. I caught the haft of a spear as a soldier was turning about."

"Impressive, but I have even better." Ducking out of his tunic, Eragon yanked his shirt free of his trousers and twisted to the side so that Roran could see the large blotch on his ribs and the similar discoloration on his belly. "Arrows," he explained. Then he uncovered his right forearm, revealing a bruise that matched the one on his other arm, given when he had deflected a sword with his bracer.

Now Roran barred a collection of irregular blue-green spots, each the size of a gold coin, that marche from his left armpit down to the base of his spine, the result of having fallen upon a jumble of rocks and embossed armor.

Eragon inspected the lesions, then chuckled and said, "Pshaw, those are pinpricks! Did you get lost and run into a rosebush? I have one that puts those to shame." He removed both his boots, then stood and dropped his trousers, so that his only garb was his shirt and woolen underpants. "Top that if you can," he said, and pointed to the inside of his thighs. A riotous combination of colors mottled the skin as if Eragon were an exotic fruit that was ripening in uneven patches from crabapple green to putrefied purple.

"Ouch," said Roran. "What happened?"

"I jumped off Saphira when we were fighting Murtagh and Thorn in the air. That's how I wounded Thorn. Saphira managed to dive under me and catch me before I hit the ground, but I landed on her back a bit harder than I wanted to."

Roran winced and shivered at the same time. "Does it go all the way…" He trailed off, and made a vague gesture upward.

"Unfortunately."

"I have to admit, that's a remarkable bruise. You should be proud; it's quite a feat to get injured in the manner you did and in that… particular… place."

"I'm glad you appreciate it."

Roran chuckled, moving to take off his shirt. "Well, you may have the biggest bruise, but the Ra'zac dealt me a wound the likes of which you cannot match-"

"Ack!" Mariah slapped her hands over her face. "What… are you two doing?!"

Eragon's face went red and he quickly redressed himself. He hissed at her, "Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" Saphira let out a warm rumble, laughing at his expense.

"I was, and then I woke up because it's the middle of the night and someone decided not to sleep at all before marching into Helgrind tomorrow." She lowered her hands and froze as if stricken by lightning. Jumping over Saphira's tail, she moved to Roran in a few lithe steps, "By the gods… what happened to you?"

A long, puckered scar, red and glossy, wrapped around Roran's right shoulder, starting at his collarbone and ending just past the middle of his arm. It was obvious that the Ra'zac had severed part of the muscle and that the two ends had failed to heal back together, for an unsightly bulge deformed the skin below the scar, where the underlying fibers had recoiled upon themselves. Farther up, the skin had sunk inward, forming a depression half an inch deep.

"Roran! You should have shown this to me days ago. I had no idea the Ra'zac hurt you so badly… Do you have any difficulty moving your arm?"

Before Roran could respond, Mariah's right hand had started to glow with a warm red-orange hue. She reached forward and placed her palm upon his shoulder, drawing her fingers down the massive wound. Singing quietly under her breath, a healing incantation, muscle and skin writhed and twisted until he was whole once more. She faltered, removing her hand and inspecting his torso, wavering slightly.

Roran grinned after stretching and flexing, rotating his arm through the air a few times. "It's as good as ever! Better, maybe. Thank you Mariah."

She smiled faintly and sat down on the ground near Saphira again roughly. "Of course Roran… I would hate to see you crippled and scarred for the rest of your life." Eragon turned his head at her words, a shiver rippling down his spine at the familiarity of it. "You two should rest… I'll stay up and keep guard. I'm rested enough..." Picking up on the quake in her voice, Eragon turned his gaze back toward her as Roran settled down to sleep.

Once his cousin had drifted off and began to snore, Eragon looked at her. "That took more out of you than you anticipated." His voice was restrained as his eyes searched her face,

"Indeed… I forgot how weak I am without Andrar nearby… or my Eldunarí. And this blade only carries so much magic, I dare not tap into it yet." Mariah sat her head on her knees, staring at the blackening embers of their campfire. "You should rest…"

"I can survive on less sleep."

She shook her head, "No, you have done enough these past few days, you need rest. I can stay up without any trouble. Please Shadeslayer. If you are tired tomorrow when we attack Helgrind, we will all be dead."

He stiffened at the name. "Very well." Eragon moved back to Saphira, laying out beside her and drifting into an uneasy sleep.

With Love, As Always,

Mariah Dawnsinger