Harry woke comfortably the next morning. His weariness from the previous day was gone, and his muscles no longer ached. Heartened by this, he leaped out of bed and donned his freshly cleaned cloak and sword. He ventured outside and found an excited-looking Eragon in the halls. "Brom and Jeod went out already. We can visit the markets today!"
They checked out nearly all the shops in Teirm although they had little money to spend. Eragon bought some new travelling clothes. He'd offered to share his budget with Harry, but Harry saw nothing he couldn't do without. By mid-afternoon, they'd made their way back to Angela's shop.
Harry had been meaning to visit the herbalist sometime. He was hoping that she'd have ingredients for brewing healing draughts, among other things. A well-stocked kit of potions would somewhat make up for the limitations of his magic. The polyjuice potion would be unnecessary for him now, since no one would recognize him, but it might be helpful for Eragon and Brom. The disgusting Skele-grow would be helpful in the aftermath of inevitable Urgal encounters, especially as none of them was currently capable of healing with magic.
He also wanted to learn more about Angela as a person. He could sense that she was powerful and strong of mind beneath her mild craziness. She would be invaluable as an ally.
Chains of bells rattled wildly as they opened the door, waking a shaggy cat that slept near the counter. He felt Eragon reach out to reassure it with his mind.
You don't have to do that. He froze mid-breath, while Eragon visibly jumped. He eyed the "cat" intensely as he approached it. It stared back with a hint of amusement and curiosity. You're not just a cat, are you? He asked, projecting this conversation to Eragon as well.
Nope, it replied. Werecats are relics of the old. The same goes for the two of you, am I correct?
How did you know – exclaimed Eragon mentally, nearly dropping the rod he was holding.
The werecat merely arched his back and stalked onto the counter. Before one of you asks, as I know you would, I go by many names. If you wish to know my proper one you will have to seek elsewhere. However, you may call me Solembum.
"It's very rare that he speaks to customers," Angela had appeared out of the back of the shop, "It's a great compliment coming from him. In fact, he says you show some promise, given a few years of work. I wonder… would you like me to read your fortunes?"
They looked at each other. "Alright," said Eragon, "but my fortune is pretty much unreadable I'm afraid."
"I'll pass," said Harry, "one only wishes to be told of doom and gloom so many times."
Angela hummed thoughtfully. "That's only for show," she pointed at a crystal ball, "but I do have… Wait here. I'll be right back." She returned with a leather pouch. "I haven't used these for so long," she told them as she laid a cloth on the counter and poured a handful of smooth bones onto it. "These are knucklebones of a dragon. Don't ask me where I got them; it's a secret I won't reveal."
She was there during the war, Harry realized, yet her appearance betrayed no sign of her age.
"Unlike tea leafs, crystal balls, or even divination cards," she continued, "these have true power. Though understanding what they say can be difficult. I will cast them for you if you wish, but understand that to know one's fate can be a terrible thing."
Eragon gulped, but nodded firmly. "Cast the bones for me,"
Angela gravely spoke the words of power and threw the bones onto the cloth. She examined them for a minute and pursed her lips. "This is the hardest reading I've ever done in my life! Here," she pointed to one of the bones, "we have the symbol for infinity and long life."
Naturally, since Eragon was a Rider. But then again, Riders can still be killed. Does this mean that Eragon and Saphira will succeed in their quest, or will they simply give up?
"Here the wandering path, the lightning bolt, and sailing ship all lie together – a pattern I've never seen, only heard of. The wandering path is for the many choices in your future. The lightning bolt is for conflict and bloodshed. The sailing ship is for departure and a very long journey. But you are one of the very few who are truly free to choose their own fate. That freedom is a gift, but also a responsibility more binding than chains."
Angela gave Eragon time to process this, then drew a deep breath, "The next bone is easier and far more pleasant. An epic romance is in your future, extraordinary and strong enough to outlast empires. Your love is of noble birth and heritage. She is powerful, wise, and beautiful beyond compare."
"Well aren't you a lucky one," Harry teased and nudged Eragon in the ribs. That sounded like an elf, and he was not surprised that one of them would wed a Rider.
Eragon smiled nervously. "But the rest of it... well I suppose it makes sense."
"What I wouldn't give to see the rest of your life play out," Angela's eyes flashed, "you can speak to werecats, know of the ancient language, and have a most interesting future. You're truly something special."
"So are you," Harry fixed his eyes on hers, "you're a witch, among many other things."
"And you're a wizard, among many other things." She smiled, "Have you come to resume our discussion about frogs and toads?"
Harry could swear he saw a tiny bead of sweat roll down the side of Eragon's head as this was mentioned. "Not exactly. I'm here mostly to look for ingredients for healing potions. I don't have much money, mind."
"Oh but I can give you a good supply of healing draughts and some ingredients if you want to make your own, free of charge, if you let me read your fortune as well."
"Oh? Am I really worth all that?" Harry raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and took Eragon's place on the stool across from her. "If you say so,"
She cast the bones again and thought for a long time. Eventually, Angela began breathlessly. "So many contradictions," she whispered, "Here we have the sign for infinity and long life again, as if you should be immortal. Yet it is intercepted by this bone here, one that says your life would be abnormally short."
"Well," He tilted his head and refrained from snorting. Doom and gloom indeed... "I wonder how that'll happen. I'm not easily killed."
Angela smiled in confirmation. "It is most curious. This bone here, the lightning bolt, indicates battle; but you will not fall in defeat. It seems that whatever happens will happen by your choice."
Suicide, then? He wondered if the brothers whose remains were currently judging his future were toying with him on purpose. They certainly did have reasons to hate him, as he was probably the one who killed them.
"The rest of the bones are still more confusing. You will leave the land indefinitely, yet you will return home? You will be lonely, yet you will have close friends? You will always be free to choose, yet the path you will take is obvious? It does not quite make sense to me, yet the bones never lie...There is only one thing I can be sure of."
"And that is?"
"You will succeed," She said simply.
"Can you tell what I'm going to succeed at?" He asked hopefully.
Angela shook her head. "No, unfortunately. That is something you'll have to find out yourself."
Keeping her word, Angela gave him a case of healing draught as promised. She also helped him brew his own in her cauldron while happily exchanging recipes and asking about the different properties of his version. "I should learn this," she nodded, "it'll be helpful. Really, I'm lucky to have met you two. Who are you, anyways?"
"I am Eragon." The boy went with the truth.
"And I ..." He was about to say "Harry", but decided that Angela deserved more. "I used to be the Child of Change, but please call me Harry."
Her eyes widened. "The Child of Change… Those in my profession know you well, though I'm afraid not everything we've said about you is favourable. Is it really okay though, to tell me so much?"
"We may need your aid in the future, and I trust that you're wise enough to keep this information to yourself."
By the time he and Eragon bade Angela goodbye, both of them had plenty to think about. As there was still plenty of time before dusk, they set off towards the outer walls. He would go with Eragon to visit Saphira this time. It was only fair that he kept her company as often as he could afford, as he knew she would not enjoy being left outside alone. Besides, he couldn't leave the city any other way without raising either Jeod's or the guards' suspicion.
Suddenly, a loud horn sounded. "What –" he started to say, but stopped abruptly. A pack of Urgals, like an ominous black river, flooded the streets. They looted and destroyed, plunging their blades into frantic victims as they went, and advanced on the pair with disgusting expressions. Anger welled up in him then. He wanted to destroy – no, obliterate these fools. It would be so easy, after all. He would simply transform midair then burn the lot to a crisp, and it would be done –
No, he decided. Not only would innocent bystanders be killed in the process, he would also expose himself and jeopardize his future safety. Firmly suppressing his previous urge, he prepared to fend off the Urgals long enough to escape. He could not escape onto a roof, since unfortunately they were all captured by Urgals. Eragon had been swept away by the fight sometime ago. Quickly glancing around, he realized that he was surrounded.
Expelliamus. The blade poised to plunge into his chest flew off to the side of the road and disappeared. His opponents stalled briefly in surprise, and he quickly used this opportunity to vanish any weapons in sight. The now weaponless Urgals growled dangerously and arched their necks, intending to skewer him with their horns.
He suddenly had an inspiration. Wingardium leviosa, he concentrated on any Urgals within three meters away. Once they were lifted a good height into the air, he dropped them hard onto their comrades' heads. He heard with gratification the crunch of horns piercing skulls, and used the temporary distraction to bolt.
He'd hoped that they'd left him alone, but they gave chase. Sprinting through the winding and branching alleyways, he searched futilely for a roof that had yet to be captured. Eventually he realized with a sinking feeling that he had reached a dead end. He backed up against the cold stone wall as they slowly approached, brandishing their knives at him menacingly.
Again, he vanished as many weapons as he could, but there were simply too many of them. His earlier trick would not work either, as he would need to clear the entire alley before he could escape. Grimacing, he drew his sword and struck at the Urgal nearest to him. He found some solace in the fact that most of the Urgals were as inept at swordplay as he was. Still, they had strength in numbers, and he did not.
What did Brom tell him to do again? He screwed his face in concentration as he attempted to remember Brom's harsh instructions from two days ago, but none came. Desperate, he simply slashed at the approaching Urgals as if casting setcumsempra.
He nearly stumbled in surprise as six of them fall, each with a long horizontal gash across their front. "Impossible…" he breathed. There was no way he could've wielded a sword with so much force. Unless… Setcumsempra, he slashed his sword at four more Urgals, making sure that he did not actually touch them. A similar gash etched itself into their stomachs, and they fell on their backs. The Urgal soldiers behind them were surprised that their fleeing victim suddenly became more dangerous, he noticed, but they thought little of it. The gash looked exactly like a regular sword wound, except he knew it was not.
It was magic.
He drew himself up to full height and fixed his eyes on theirs. "Back off," he warned. Unconvinced, they raised their knives at him. He grimly raised his sword in response. Well then… Expulso. Thirty or so Urgals erupted into a spectacular shower of red, clearing half of the alleyway. Slowly but steadily, he walked toward his assailants and the mouth of the alleyway. The Urgals on the roof, now beginning to see him as a threat, began to fire, but he quickly relieved them of their bows and their heads. The remaining Urgals in the street blinked at him, unsure of what to do.
He fought down the urge to simply blast away the significantly reduced group of Urgals and be done with it. To do so would suggest that he was eliminating witnesses, which would raise more suspicion once the inevitable handful of escapees get away. "Back off," he repeated loudly. Some of them had half a mind to. Others tightened their grip on their daggers hesitantly and darted quick glances at one Urgal near the front, obviously their leader.
"Attack –" He silently slit the leader's throat before anyone could act on that order, causing the command to drown in a fit of fading gurgles. "That," he growled as the followers quickly scattered and scrambled away, "was for knowingly sending your men to their deaths."
Without pausing, he swung his sword again at the falling body, cutting off its hands. "And that was for plundering from the innocent."
Slash. "For cowering behind your foot soldiers for safety, yet lurking close enough to share their loot."
Slash. "For ordering the chase, and the attempt on my life."
Breathing fast, he glanced around to survey the damage. The houses that lined the alley were wet with a fresh coat of blood, but structurally unharmed. After he vanished the bodies and cast scourgify over the walls and the street, it was as if no fight had ever taken place. Everything was as it had always been: cold and grey and spotless.
"Was that really necessary?"
Brom stood stiffly at the mouth of the alley. How long had he been watching? Oh right. A good ten minutes it seemed.
Harry straightened, composing himself. "It was necessary to kill the Urgals to free myself. It wasn't necessary to clean up the mess I've made, but I thought it would be good manners. And note that despite the visual effect, the explosion grants them a swifter death than bleeding out slowly from a sword wound."
"But to cut a dead body five times?"
He sighed, casting a second scourgify over himself. He hadn't intended for anyone to see that, and Brom couldn't simply be obliviated. How would Brom react to the truthful answer? "His soul has already passed on. I inconvenienced no one by harassing the dead in this manner."
"Do you enjoy killing then?" Brom asked.
A hollow laugh escaped him. Interestingly, Brom actually took half a step back.
"I think one of the elf riders managed to access my mind once. What was her assessment?"
"She said… that..." Brom eventually said hesitantly, and Harry watched the usually steely elder take a deep breath as if forcing himself to continue. "She said that you were so angry, that your only desire is to burn and destroy every last being and plant until nothing remained... But you felt so different when we met you in the Spine. I thought…"
"Is that so? How unclinical of her."
Unclinical, but true however. A large part of his mind still boiled with rage even now. He had succeeded in containing it, but it was far from gone. Such was what Galbatorix had gifted him with.
For such he would repay his "master" in kind.
"I shall be frank with you because you are wise, mentor. The product a lifetime of suffering is not erased so easily. Though I now have opportunities to process it, and enough self control to ensure that it doesn't influence my decisions, I cannot rid myself of it. Perhaps one day in the future it might cease to haunt me, but not yet."
Brom nodded. "I see…"
They walked away from the dark, frigid alley without another word.
