Chapter 7 Commotions and Battles

The next morning came with a cold vengeance. While he was eager to let the cool breeze wake him, as he often did in his island home hundreds of miles off, the sharp chill of the winter was nothing like his normal breezy greeting. Sighing…and shivering, he lifted himself off the soft sheets and closed the window. Looking in the mirror, he saw his disheveled, windblown, and completely out of sync appearance. In all honesty, he did not want to believe he presented his love with his appearance so unruly. Sighing, he moved to the wash basin and cleaned the moisture and grime from his body. He donned black wool clothes, thicker than normal, but still allowed the flexibility of his Rider's clothes, and the warmth of a cloak. A knock on his door resounded ever so loudly, only to be followed by a rapid, "Ebirthil! Ebirthil!"

It was a miracle he got any peace and quiet at all.

Eragon opened the door, "What is it, Ishmael?"

Every time this particular Rider of his was in a panic, it was for a very serious reason. To ignore his pleas would be to ignore the threat of a Shade, completely and utterly stupid.

"There is a commotion on the sparring grounds."

A prolonged and deep sigh escaped the Rider. Pure frustration. He knew the egos of the dragons and their Riders would clash with a land that has had two hundred years without Riders at all, save for Arya, but she was in the forests, not among the people.

"Walk with me, and explain."

Ishmael nodded, easily keeping up the pace.

"Kyra was in the sparring grounds, sparring with elves. One particular one watched from the sides and goaded her. Kyra remained calm, but the other Riders are now completely at arms at the obvious insult to her and his comments on the Rider order."

"Let me guess, he had blonde hair, light green eyes, and looked exactly like Kyra with shorter hair, and a larger build."

"Well…yes."

"That is her older brother, Kyrian. He is purposely making trouble with her."

The shouts could be heard from wherever they were running to, almost instigating Eragon himself to break into a full sprint. And then he heard his Rider's voice.

"Silence!"

The commotion was reduced to murmurs as Eragon neared. No one noticed him and when Ishmael went to make his presence known, he laid a gentle hand on his, making him watch how they handled themselves.

"Kyrian, your problem is with me, not with the order of the Riders."

A sneer broke across the elf's face. "You are mistaken. My problem is with the order of the Riders. How could then let one such as you, the second best at everything, become a Rider? That is what I have a problem with."

Hjarta reared on his hind legs as his voice boomed throughout.

You dare insult my Rider! Or my choice!

Eragon raised his eyebrows, never had he seen Hjarta lose his temper and to the point with his teeth bared and his eyes narrowly glinted. Dragons, no matter of what creed, personality, or doctrine, had their pride. He bared his fangs, daring Kyrian to say another word. The boy had good sense to step back, but he held his sister's gaze.

"You expect me to believe that we, as Elven warriors, trained, are unable to defeat our foreigners, yet these Riders, trained in ways we have never seen are, simply because they have dragons. We should implore the free dragons to help us, not these Riders."

Are you claiming me as weak?

Hjarta growled at him.

"No, only her."

He pointed to Kyra, and finally Eragon turned his gaze on his pupil. Her eyes were oddly calm, her stance assertive, but not aggressive by any means. Her hands were crossed over her chest, and her face was impassive. Kyrian's words were not getting to her. And then she spoke.

"I have never claimed that I had a right to become a Rider, or that Hjarta was correct in choosing me. There are many others more worthy, I understand that, but I have come to believe in him and his decisions as he has come to believe in mine."

"You are not the strongest."

"I never was, and most likely, I never will be."

"Then you are not worthy."

"Strength may have been the characteristic of our family, Elven men and women bred for the purpose of developing strength, but strength is not what makes a Rider worthy of being called one."

"Than what?"

"The ability to learn, and I know I have demonstrated that to my ebirthil."

Pride showed through her said master's eyes. But he remained in the background.

"Then show me how much you have learned!"

Kyrian stepped in the ring, his teeth bared and hissing at her. He was an elf, a bloodthirsty, battle hungry elf that reveled in the ability to take a life as was the creed of his house.

Kyra shook her head, "If the only way to prove to you that I am worthy of a Rider is to beat you in a game of strength, and I take that opportunity, then I have not learned as much as I claim to have. I will not fight you."

"Then you are weak! Find your master, tell him to fight! Surely he knows the importance of strength."

"He is here." Ishmael announced.

The crowd parted, revealing him privy to their conversation. He walked over to his pupil.

"You have handled yourself well, Kyra. And you are more worthy today than you ever will be."

He raised his voice a little louder, "I am quite afraid I have a sore back today. I am getting quite old, and frankly, I do not care to start my mornings off with the clanging of metal. However, Kyrian, you shall not go without an opponent today."

Eragon stepped to the side, allowing Kyra straight entrance to the rink. Leaning towards her, he raised his arms towards the rink.

"Ebirthil…"

"You are fighting for my honor, surely you have more confidence in defending me."

"It is not your confidence in me that I worry about."

"Then do it for yours, Kyra."

She let her face slide into a sardonic smile and raised her sword. Stepping into the rink, she glanced around, looking for someone. Marcus slid into the front, wordlessly nodding at her, humorlessly smiling at her. And her gaze snapped back to the sight of her hissing brother.

Kyrian jumped at her first, she sidestepped him easily, his movements were easy to see. He was slow, she realized, slower than ever before. She caught his blade, eager to see how strong he was…he was weaker too. Was he playing with her? Or was this just a testament of a Rider's strength?

Her brother noticed her lack of enthusiasm, and misinterpreted it as fear of him instead of observation. He left himself open is his whirlwind of movements, perfectly executed, but just not fast enough.

Kyra landed three blows to his ribs in quick succession, the last sending him flying backwards barely inside the ring. He was breathing hard, and her, not at all. Growling, his green eyes filled with red blood as he grew angrier and angrier, he rushed at her again. Kyra raised her blade, blocking with success, the formation that her family had perfected over their years. It was the most comprehensive combination of attack and defense, and only could the fastest switch from one to another, but she was faster than the fastest. Changing rapidly between her left and right hand, she ducked and swung at different levels successfully parrying and repelling each defense and attack tactic.

In a rush with her body, Kyra grasped her brother's sword hilt, burying hers in the ground she lithely jumped onto the pommel and with a balance a dancer would be envious of, kicked her opponent straight across the rink. He went flying out of it, successfully ending the match. Staring at her brother's sword in her hand, she threw it to him, and watched it sail and land right next to his hand. Pulling her sword out of the ground, she began to walk away.

A howl of agony erupted from far too near her. She turned, shocked by the scene in front of her.

At some point, Kyrian had gotten off from the ground, and rushed toward her in a silent frenzy. He was poised in mid air, his sword ready to bring it down upon her head, but it was not him she was staring at. Rather, it was Marcus in front of her, Kyrian's sword in his hand, caught by the blade, the blood dripping through the deep cut the force of it made against him from his palm. A certain crackle of energy radiated off of him and without a word, Marcus pulled the blade from her brother's grasp and watched his body with a malicious look as he raised him by the throat choking him. Kyrian was, at least, six feet in the air, the haunting now, nearly black purple eyes of Marcus turned on him as he gasped in his struggle to breath.

"Marcus, let him go." Kyra's voice was soft, pleading, comforting.

The black haired Rider shook his head, and whispered in a voice so low even Ishmael flinched, "He attacked you."

"Marcus, please." Kyra's voice was growing more desperate.

"Anyone who attacks you…" He let the sentence trail off, the threat evident in his tone.

Kyra laid a gentle hand on his face, forcing him to turn to her, his cheek cupped in her warm hand, "Let him go." She implored again, and finally, Kyrian was let down.

The color returned to his face, the gagging subsided, and soon he was on the ground, gasping for air.

"What power…wh-what power lets you hold me so?"

Marcus's eyes narrowed, his face still half covered by the blonde elf's hand, and replied, "The power of a Rider."

And it was true. Eragon was weak, the beginning of his journey as a Rider, he was weak. Riders were not made in year, as he and Saphira had to be, Riders, full fledged Riders took ten to fifteen years to complete their training. These Riders were not of the same caliber as he was before he left, these Riders were decades old fully fledged Riders with the power and knowledge of the eldunari. These were the Riders who rivaled the Riders of the old Order, who rivaled the strength of Vrael, the wisdom of Anurin, and the knowledge of Oromis. These were the Riders of New Order, and their strength was unmatched by any that had ever roamed Alagaesia.

Marcus was easily able to overpower Kyrian, he was, of course, a fully-fledged Rider with all the power of the old Order. But his thoughts were pushed aside as Kyra stepped closer to him, grasping his bloody hand. Without another word, she muttered "Waise heill." And watched closely as the skin began to close together.

Eragon knew Marcus was entirely capable of healing it himself. A smile brushed across his face as he remembered his own Arya…ah it felt good saying that, his Arya healing his hand even when he was perfectly capable of doing so. As if on cue, she walked down the side stairs of the castle, just familiarizing herself with the commotion, smiling faintly, as if she too, was remembering those events.

She caught his eye, and Eragon knew she remembered.

But the end result was a little different between them as to these two.

Kyra stepped back, her green eyes suddenly angry.

"There was absolutely no need for such actions. I am not so weak, and I require no such considerations. Understand?"

Marcus was so taken aback that all he did was stare after in shock, an utterly confused look on his face, his hand still outstretched from where she let it go.

"Kyra!"

He called after her. She shot him a glare and continued walking. The black haired Rider shook his head, incessantly muttering, "She hates me, I know she does." And took off on Ru'ali to calm himself.

Ishmael pursed his lips together in a signal that the daily entertainment was over and found a nearby tree to sit under and read this new book of poetry he found in the library of the castle. Thane began to whistle as he walked over to Eragon.

"Quite a day, is it not? Tell me, can I expect a daily drama from now on? I must say, it is quite entertaining."

Before he could prevent himself, the elder man let a ghost of a smile through, and then Nari smacked redhead on the back of his head.

"I must say, the nerve you have…" and dragged him off promptly.

Arya watched in soft amusement, "I had often heard the Order of the Riders were more lax than elves, more friendly and open. I am glad I am privy to witness such history."

"You are a Rider as well, iet Drottning. You cannot forget that."

Her eyes snapped back to his, "'Iet Drottning,'" she mused, "…it sounds nice, it has been a long time since I have been called any sort of endearment."

"Iet naunen, iet feon, iet lif, iet solus, iet hjarta, iet garjzla, iet evarinya, iet Arya." He stepped closer and closer, iterating each and every endearment he could think of.

A faint color rushed to her cheeks, how she could be so forward, yet so shy was a mystery to him, an enigma.

"As are you." His smile broadened.

The sound of someone clearing her throat caught his attention. Immediately, he turned, looking on their intruders.

"Amatria, what is it?"

The dark-haired elven maiden looked at him, and bowed deeply to her Queen. Upon completion of the custom greeting, she turned her attention back on to her master.

"While I hate to intrude upon this special moment of yours, albeit well hidden, I have come to inform you that Ladrimme and I have come across interesting news on our morning flight."

"And that would be?" he implored.

"Our enemies are on the move, with great beasts of burden as their mounts. They move quickly, and will be here in a day and a half."

"That is preposterous, they cannot possibly hope to capture the capital so soon."

Amatria nodded, signaling her astute assessment.

"They are growing arrogant with their successes, and I cannot say I blame them. There army looks no worse for wear, and Dras-Leona and Marna will surrender if Ilirea is captured."

Eragon nodded, "I sense a but in there, what are you thinking?"

Ladrimme landed beside them, her calm and controlled voice filling the air.

Take three Riders, Amatria and I, Ishmael and Arhel, Kyra and Hjarta, and we shall attack them first.

"You cannot hope to take out their entire army."

"We do not want to, only to take out their leaders. They will be disoriented if we assassinate them early. It will buy us time, and in the mean while, the other Riders can set themselves up in different posts, and we shall have their army surrounded by formidable forces on either side. We can outflank and then close in on them."

"And their beasts of burden?"

I am dragon, ebirthil. They are not so big and most definitely not so intelligent. Just clumsy and scary looking. We can roast one in a minute if we would like to. "

"Do not take Kyra and Hjarta, or Ishmael and Arhel."

"Then who? I would take my team that you assigned. I trust them."

"I shall come with you. I need to get an assessment of their situation and this seems like the appropriate time to do so."

"And the third?"

"Me." Arya spoke finally.

"Drottning, I cannot…"

"It has been a long, long time since I have roamed the skies with Firnen, and we are all eager to get this over with. Three Riders going will not cause the elves to trust your judgment, and if things go wrong, they will blame you. However, if I accompany you, you have the added luxury of a third Rider, and the elves' consent to my decision and growing favor."

She nodded, "It seems the ways of the Rider are not always in consent with the ways of politics." Turning away, she muttered understandingly, "There is much I have to learn about politics of the races."

"I do not think I still understand."

Arya let a soft sound of amusement slip through, "No one ever does."

She moved to say something else, but the shadow of a purple hued dragon descended upon them. Marcus lithely jumped off, and unbeknownst to the intrusion between the Rider and Queen, he scrambled, "I need to talk to you, ebirthil."

Eragon looked sorrowfully at her, but she nodded, chastely kissed his cheek, "Come and find me when you have more time on your hands."

Looking between him and her retreating form, "Oh sorry." was the dark haired Marcus' only response.

"Let me guess, trouble with Kyra?"

"I do not understand her. I was only trying to protect her."

Eragon sighed, "You are more hopeless with women than even I was."

Marcus stood, dumbstruck at the distinction.

"She was touched, and she cared for you, and she let it show. It scared her, how much you care for her, and how much, she, in turn cares for you. Placing her barriers up, she pretended to get angry at you and walked away. In reality, she is, utterly and completely, scared of falling in love so quickly."

Marcus thought on his words for a bit longer, "That cannot be it." And walked away, feeling more dejected than before.

Is he alright, Ru'ali?

Just being difficult, ebirthil. Sometimes he is assured of himself, other times he is not. The key is Kyra. Of that I am certain.

The dragon snorted in amusement.

Who are we kidding? Of that, the entire of Alagaesia, but my dear Rider is certain.

Will he speak with her?

And risk making a greater fool of himself?

He did not make a fool of himself. On the contrary, it was quite good.

Seventy years of age, and when it comes to love, it is like trying to convince a child that you cannot eat a crystal even though it looks like a piece of rock candy.

When…" His question trailed off.

This morning in the market, it was most annoying. And with that the sarcastic, morose, yet oddly entertaining dragon took off into the air in an effort to find his equally morose and oddly entertaining Rider.