Nothing to note today, so go on little ones, dig in! ...Heh.
A day after his first scrying, Brom searched for Eragon once more. All he found was darkness. As he was about to cry out in despair, the ripples in the mirror cleared a little more, becoming still, and Brom spotted the faintest hint of light at the corner of the mirror, stretching into the distance.
If that had been there, Eragon could not be dead. He was instead somewhere dark... somewhere where only the faintest hints of light could reach.
So where was that? Had Eragon been captured? By who Brom could not guess, though Eragon had obviously left Palancar valley when Brom last checked, though that left dozens of questions unanswered in itself.
...Had someone discovered Eragon's heritage, and thrown him in a dungeon? That seemed the most likely option, though Brom could not guess how. No human alive remembered how Brom had once looked while young, not even Galbatorix. Of all of the forsworn, only Morzan could have accomplished that feat, and he was long dead. The elves perhaps, but they had no reason to move against him.
...So why? How? The riddle that Eragon had become was the most frustrating Brom had ever encountered.
...The next day when Brom scryed Eragon again and saw nothing, he did not despair. If the light had been cut off, this would be all Brom would see. And so he forced himself to relax, and returned to his duties (currently training lecturing the Varden's men in swordplay while waiting for Ajihad to make a decision about the egg) with a single minded intensity that quickly led him to defeat anyone he duelled in five blows or less, despite some soldier's complaints about fighting an old man.
On the third day, there was still nothing, but on the fourth, he spell showed him Eragon, asleep on the ground. The outline was indistinct, and Brom had to squint his eyes to see, but Eragon's silhouette was visible in the shadows. Again, the ground beneath him was black, but as Brom adjusted his spell to look closer Eragon's form became more distinct. His son had deep shadows under his eyes, and looked thinner than Brom had ever known, but was unharmed. Brom could not see his weapons, more potential proof that he'd been captured. Brom tried pulling back on the spell so it would show him a wider area, but no matter how far he looked he could only see blackness.
Right then, Brom wanted to leave Tronjheim and go search, but he knew he was needed here, and besides, he had no idea where to start looking.
What reason would someone have to imprison Eragon?
And then Brom realised. There was reason. If someone... anyone... had passed tale of the egg, and it had gotten to Galbatorix or his servants, the king would act immediately. The villagers of Carvahall were a good sort, perhaps what he had first seen was Eragon on the run with whatever time the villagers could give him. Perhaps he had since been captured.
He never again saw Eragon, no matter how long he held his spell. Perhaps the boy had been, after that day, left in darkness at the bottom of a dungeon. Or perhaps, though Brom feared to think it, whoever was his captor had begun shielding Eragon from his attempts. If Eragon had been brought before Galbatorix... and Brom was horrified to admit it, but the travel time would be just right, the king would ensure such precautions were done. At this point, Galbatorix could be flippant with his energies, and rightly so. The power he held was immense.
A tear fell from Brom's face as he realised this. What horrible fate lay ahead for his son? No matter how much he had tried, the blame rested on him.
Your fate to fail at all tasks, except one.
Despair ran through him once more... He was trying... He did all he could, planned every contingency he could imagine, but things still turned foul.
How could his luck get any worse?
That was a question he should not have asked. Brom knew his luck was bad, but this was stretching it a little too far. He'd been halfway to sleep when the alarm went off, and in that instant he woke fully. He spent a minute clothing himself before passing over his sword to grab Zar'roc. Finally he picked up a handheld mirror and sprinted towards Tronjheim's keep.
...He encountered dwarves in the passages as he got near the keep. Brom pulled one aside, who quickly explained the situation, and with the dwarf's permission, he dug the details from the dwarf's mind.
Distraction, bait, the room was empty (how had they defeated the wards so quickly?), chased, some fought, a face!
Brom knew that face. Instantly, he retracted his mind and muttered "Draumr kopa" while focusing on the mirror in his hand. The reflection rippled, and then became solid black. Brom cursed, but then was struck with an idea. He released the spell, then said it again, this time scrying the layers of Tronjheim. The mirror cleared, and he saw waves of dwarves scattering in the tunnels. Here and there were shapes of black, but only seven were tall enough to be human, only two the right shape, and only one moving with haste.
Brom immediately turned and made his way towards the Vol Turin. He flew down the stairs, occasionally checking on the mirror. He watched as the figure entered a room, one which was dark to his sight, and did not leave. With the destination in mind, Brom ran with new speed.
He knew he had recognised the boy, he just didn't know from where. He had been short, just off the full frame of manhood, but perhaps that had been part of the disguise. A man could change his features, the amount depending on his ingenuity, but changing height was impossible. One could not form more bone without spells even he was not privy to. So where had it been?
His first thought was Galbatorix. He remembered seeing the man, an age ago at Doru Areaba. Galbatorix had still been a boy then, almost of age, but there had been something in his countenance that had been different. Brom still could not explain it. Still, as he thought of it, it was also missing from the boy he had met.
For this he was grateful. It, at the very least, also made sense. Galbatorix was unlikely to ever leave Uru'baen, not unless an army stood at his doorstep. Even for this, probably. Besides, Galbatorix would not have bothered with subterfuge, and would have taken the entire mountain apart on his own. He, most certainly, would have tried to kill Brom when they'd met.
So who else? One of Galbatorix's men? A champion of the dark king held in retainer? Who else could have broken through the wards he himself had placed with a great store of energy, and still had the strength and skill to duel his way through the guards and win?
His thoughts were cut off as he noticed the figure leaving the room again. He looked bulkier than before, as if weighed down, but the frame was the same. He immediately ran in the direction of another tunnel, and Brom knew which he was taking, and he knew a shortcut there.
It felt like mere moments later when he saw him in the real world, running like a man pursued by the hounds of hell, the egg in plain sight under his arm. A cold fury washed through Brom, and he barked the first spell he thought of.
"Malithinae!" The boy did not even stumble, though he did look straight at him, his eyes wide and panicked. He put on a new burst of speed, surpassing human limits, and Brom cursed and drew on Aren to match the pace.
As they both entered the tunnel, Brom began a stream of binding spells, but each was deflected by the wards over the boy. He tried stabbing at him with his mind, but a string of words filled his sight, and Brom could not break through.
How to do this? The boy would be a servant of Galbatorix, and undoubtedly have been sworn to him. He needed to take him alive, or kill him so quickly there would be no backlash. If the boy felt threatened enough, he might feel forced to break the egg. Galbatorix may well have set that as a contingency, he would not put it past the madman.
It was then, as he cast the final binding spells he knew, that the boy faltered in his step. Not held as he would have wished, but his pace slowed. He was running out of energy!
Then, the boy looked back at him once more, his eyes wide and desperate, and the fingers of one hand pointed towards the ceiling.
"Thyrsta risa!" The voice was hauntingly familiar, though Brom could not place it. There was an ear-splitting crack, and the ceiling began to fall. Brom skidded to a halt to avoid the cascade, and the boy looked back at him as he dived out of the way.
Something passed between those eyes, though what Brom did not know. ...Then, the rest of the tunnel collapsed, and Brom saw only darkness before him.
NO!
How had it come to this? Brom could tunnel through the stone easily enough, but it would take a great deal of energy and time. There were limits to how much energy a body could channel at any given moment, an amount greatly increased by the bond of a dragon, and it had been that rule Galbatorix himself had broken. If not for that, Brom was assured the man would have been slain before he rose to power. In the time it would take him to tunnel through, the boy would be long gone, and his own body would barely be able to move.
The egg was lost. It would return to Galbatorix, and there would never again be a chance to take it back.
Brom punched the stone before him as hard as he could, and he felt his knuckles crack. Blind to the pain, he then fell to his knees and was silent.
The aftermath was one of the most morose things Brom had ever had to live through. Though he supposed his mood did not help anything.
He'd moved among the healers, repairing the damage inflicted on the dwarves that had been on guard. It was about then, as he was healing one dwarf who had been bleeding from multiple shallow cuts and an cracked skull, that he can to a confusing revelation.
Not a single guard was dead.
Every single one of them had been knocked out, and only one had received a life threatening injury, but it had been well within the healer's abilities, let alone his.
...Why was it that nothing made sense lately. It was like the world had been driven mad, and only he noticed the change. What thief skilled enough to steal from the dwarves' own stronghold would make his job more difficult by not taking life?
The dwarf who he was healing woke. He tried to sit up, but Brom held him down. He then muttered. "Rggh... did you... did you get the shade?"
Brom froze. Shade? What madness was this? He asked a question of the dwarf, who blearily agreed, and Brom entered his mind.
His name was Brugh of the Ingietum. He had been earlier that day been a guide. A guide to... the boy! Brom grit his teeth. The fool had led the boy... Evan, the memories said, though Brom did not think for a moment it was his real name, straight into the heart of the dwarves citadel. He almost struck the dwarf, but then his probe encountered something else. They were going down the stairs to the throne room when he saw it. A shadow in the corridor ahead, tall and moving quickly. They'd stepped forward, and that's when he'd seen the pale skin and crimson hair. The shade saw them then, and attacked with blinding speed. Brugh had drawn his dagger and tried to fend the Shade off, yelling for the boy to go get the guards.
The boy had ran, dropping the bottle of wine he'd been holding, which proceeded to roll down the steps loudly. It felt like mere seconds before he was falling to his knees, the Shade has struck him thrice, and every hit seemed to drain the life from him. As he stumbled, the Shade had ran after the boy. His vision had swam then, and he'd stumbled forward blindly, collapsing soon after.
At that point, Brom had extracted himself, his thoughts ablaze.
The tale was outlandish, but the dwarf had seen it and would tell others so. All the pieces fit up. Had the boy been controlled after that point? Or a willing accomplice? Or had the boy himself been possessed by the Shade, and all his outlandish feats of strength merely an extension of the Shade's power?
It made perfect sense, except for the fact that the memory was fake.
Oh, it was a good fake, an excellent one at that, and would have held up unless an experienced reader had browsed it. The real memory, whatever it was, was long gone, burned from Brugh's mind with extreme precision. Now, Brom had to wonder why.
Why would an attacker spare or his victims, despite the difficulty. Why go to the effort to save Brugh the blame from the boy's deception?
The possible answers were few, and Brom yet again wished he could speak to Oromis. His wisdom would be more welcome than ever.
Did the boy, Evan, Brom decided he would call him, at least until he found out his real name, not want to make enemies of the dwarves? Of all the crazy answers, that fit the best. It was a wise idea, Brom knew that well, but if Evan had been under Galbatorix's command, that sentiment would not exist.
Was this boy, perhaps, a third party?
The idea made him want imbibe copious quantities of alcohol for all its insanity, but he could not ignore the possibility.
A third party might wish to retrieve the egg through deception, rather than brute force. A third party might spare all the victims in his path.
This would be the very first opportunity in the boy's lifetime, if his guess was correct, though even then there might never have been one. If the boy was much older than he seemed- something Brom suspected heavily- then he may simply have not ever caught up with Brom or Morzan, back in the first race to retrieve it. After that, the egg had forever been in the protection of the elves, and if Brom had nearly bested him, he would not have stood a chance against them. There was the possibility that Evan had been the one to slay them, but he discounted it for the same reason. Besides, Urgals had been involved, and an Urgal that boy was not. No amount of magic could hide that, and the Urgals worked with no other but their kind.
Assuming his answer was correct, where did that leave the boy?
He was no elf, nor dwarf or Urgal. He was human, though he was as skilled in magic as any Brom had encountered. The only ones that were proficient to this degree were elves... and the old riders.
At this point, Brom did indeed stand, and went in search of a cask of ale.
