Chapter Nine
Sin
Several days passed, and little by little Skandar found himself relaxing into this strange new life. At first he had the lingering and persistent fear that it was a lie, or a dream, and that one day out of the blue the slavers would come back to take him away, or Ingë would suddenly change her mind and put him back in chains. But neither happened.
Ingë treated him like a guest; sharing her meals with him and enquiring after his health. She gave him little gifts, and her face would light up when she saw him, as if he were somehow… special. Something other than a vile dark elf, and a slave.
Skandar too came to like the sight of her, and to enjoy her company too. She was so talkative, but she made him feel safe and wanted. Though she was shorter and undoubtedly weaker than him, he began to look upon her as his protector – a powerful guardian, keeping him safe from the world that hated him, making certain that he would never be put into chains again.
And yet there was something that bothered him. Not her – never her – but…
One day, while they were eating breakfast together, he screwed up his courage and said, 'Ingë?'
'Yes?'
'I was…' he coughed nervously and fiddled with his spoon. 'I was… wondering…'
Ingë sat up straighter. 'Yes?'
Skandar frowned. 'I hope I'm not being rude or anything,' he said, 'But there's something I was wondering about.'
She reached out to touch his hand, sending a little thrill through him. 'Go on,' she said softly. 'I won't be angry. Ask whatever you like.'
Emboldened, Skandar looked up. 'That symbol,' he said, indicating a nearby cup. 'I've seen it everywhere in this house. And… you wear it around your neck, too,' he added shyly.
She touched the stone pendant at her throat. 'Oh, you mean the triple-spiral? That's just the emblem of our house – it's been in our family for centuries.'
'But… but…'
'What?'
'But it's dark elvish!' Skandar blurted.
Ingë stared at him. 'What?'
Skandar panicked. He cringed away from her, covering his head. 'Oh moon, please don't hurt me, I didn't mean to say it! Please, I won't do it again, I swear!'
'Skandar! What-?'
He didn't hear her. He huddled in his seat, almost shaking with fear, wanting to run, run away, run anywhere… never talk about it! Never! Never say those words, never!
The fear threatened to swallow him, drive him mad, but-
And then she was there, touching him, but not to hurt, no… she was touching his shoulder, speaking to him…
Before he knew what he was doing, Skandar had thrown himself at her, clinging to her. She backed away slightly, but only for a moment. She put her arms around him and held him close, and, unable to control himself, Skandar buried his face in her hair and cried.
Ingë could scarcely believe what was happening. His outburst had been so unexpected, and now this… dear gods, what did I say?
She held onto him as tightly as she dared, and felt his thin, wiry body shake as he sobbed. It was such a strange, childish sound, utterly wrong for his powerful male form and impassive face, and it almost terrified her.
Skandar cried for a long time before he calmed down, and Ingë did not let go of him.
But he pulled away from her as his sobs died away, avoiding her eyes. 'I'm sorry… sorry…'
'Skandar.' Ingë caught him by the arm. 'Please, just tell me what I did. I didn't mean to upset you like that.'
He shuddered and rubbed his face. 'You didn't… do anything. I… I'm sorry… I should… should go.'
Ingë let go of him. 'All right. All right. Just… go back up to your room and get some rest, and I'll see you later.'
He left without another word, and she sank back into her seat and buried her face in her hands.
Up in his own room, Skandar closed the door and threw himself down in a corner, where he huddled down, hugging his knees. He realised he was gasping, as if he had escaped from drowning. 'Oh moon… oh moon… shadows… help me… great god of the night…'
What have you done? Skandar what have you done?
He clutched at his head, squeezing as if trying to kill himself. He'd ruined everything! Talking about forbidden things, daring to touch her like that! And leaving so abruptly, without asking permission…
A memory came back, unbidden, of his mother. She looked sternly at him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Skandar, that was very rude. You must go back and apologise at once.
He bowed his head and cried again. The tears hurt, and went on for a long time.
Ingë didn't see Skandar again that day. Perhaps he was avoiding her, or maybe she was avoiding him – she didn't know for certain, but it made her miserable all the same.
She couldn't help but feel that she had done something wrong – committed some kind of terrible offense against her friend, one that went too deep to be understood or forgiven. Part of her wanted to hide away and another part wanted to find him and beg forgiveness – though for what, she didn't know.
Skandar didn't come down for lunch that day, or for dinner either. She had food sent up to his room, but couldn't bring herself to go with it. She stayed in her own room instead, listlessly drawing swords and wondering what she was going to do with herself.
Eventually, she realised that she was lonely. She had become so used to having Skandar there to talk to – even when he said almost nothing in reply – that now he was gone she felt empty and listless.
Locked away in his own room, Skandar chewed half-heartedly at the food he had been brought. Emotion had left him feeling hollow and exhausted. He knew he was going to have to leave, and soon, but for now he felt too passive to even leave the room, let alone the house or the city.
He glanced at the window. The sky was darkening, and he sighed. Perhaps some sleep would help him to recover enough to think.
With that in mind, he curled up on the bed and quickly drifted off into a strange and half-formed dream.
His mother, lying dead in the snow. Tears, frozen on his face. Ingë, pale-faced and exhausted, but cradling a child and looking down at it with a loving smile. A boy, hiding in a darkened room that hid his face, sobbing softly and whispering. And the triple-spiral, the symbol of Ingë's family, burned black onto white stone, white metal, white skin.
And a man, standing with his back to Skandar, curly hair blowing in the wind, murmuring the words. Taranisäii, I am Taranisäii, I am of the blood of Taranis, I am…
Ingë slept restlessly – not in her bed, but on top of it, where she had settled down to read a book and fallen asleep without realising it. She too dreamed – of a sword. It was long and shining, wickedly sharp, and she held it in her hand, marvelling at its beauty. She swung it this way and that, wanting to feel its power. It moved perfectly, feather-light, following her every impulse as if it were part of her arm. She grinned and brought it down, hard. But as it swung downward she saw it was going to hit someone – Skandar, looking at her with terror in his eyes. She screamed and tried to pull it back, but too late, too late… she saw him break apart and fade away, and she screamed again, screamed his name. SKANDAR!
She woke up panicking, and nearly screamed when something touched her on the shoulder. Still too befuddled to do anything else, she lay very still, heart pattering.
'Ingë. Ingë?'
Skandar's voice was soft and nervous, and Ingë felt a flood of joyful relief ridiculously out of proportion to what was actually happening.
She lifted her head, blinking when she realised it was still dark. 'Skandar?'
She heard him moving somewhere in front of her. 'Ingë. I'm sorry to wake you… I'll go if you want me to…'
'No.' Ingë roused herself as quickly as she could. 'No, it's fine. What's wrong?'
'Nothing. I wanted to show you something. It's not important.'
She slid off the bed and straightened up, rubbing her back. 'I'll come. What is it?'
'It's outside,' said Skandar. 'Not far.'
'All right.' Ingë groped for a lamp and lit it with a taper from the fire. Skandar was standing near the bed, still fully dressed, looking as solemn as always. Ingë smiled at him, glad to see he looked more or less healthy. 'Just wait a moment,' she said, and set the lamp down on the table while she got out her warmest cloak and put it on. 'It's cold tonight – do you want me to get one for you too?'
Skandar shook his head. 'No, thankyou.'
'All right.' Ingë picked up the lamp. 'Show me whatever it is.'
Skandar nodded and led her out of the room. He didn't take her downstairs, as she'd expected, but along the moonlit corridor and to his own room, where the window was wide open, letting in a freezing wind. He went over to it and looked back at her. 'It's this way.'
'What, out the window?' said Ingë.
'Yes. Look; I'll show you.' Skandar hooked a leg over the sill and climbed out onto the roof.
Ingë set down the lamp and poked her head through the window. 'Why do you want to go out there?' she asked nervously.
'So I can show you something,' said Skandar. 'Please, come.'
Ingë thought of telling him it was unsafe, but her old reckless impulse came back and she put the lamp down and slid through the window, cursing under her breath when her cloak caught on the latch.
Skandar was already walking across the roof, incredibly calm and sure-footed at this height. 'It's up here,' he called back.
Ingë watched him, and shivered. 'Ye gods…'
Skandar had sat down and was watching her expectantly. She sighed, screwed up her courage, and struck out toward him.
The roof wasn't very sharply sloped, and there were plenty of footholds among the ornamentations and windows, but Ingë didn't enjoy the climb one bit. Only the sight of Skandar waiting for her kept her going.
She reached the spot where he had sat down – the very top of the roof, where it flattened out into a broad ledge. There were some spires here to hold onto, and once she had reached it she felt much safer. Skandar had sat down between two of the spires, and when she sat next to him they were so close together they were touching. Ingë blushed, but stayed where she was. At least they could keep each other warm.
Skandar smiled at her, his face lit up by the half-moon. 'It's beautiful up here,' he said.
Ingë looked outward from the roof, and saw all the lights of the city laid out below. 'It certainly is,' she said. 'Skandar, have you been up here before?'
'Yes. Many times.'
'Why?'
He looked her in the face. 'I wanted to see the stars. See them, Ingë?'
She looked upward, and sighed. 'Of course I do. They look so bright from here, don't they?'
'That's what I wanted to show you,' said Skandar.
Ingë looked at him – so close to her, all dark and mysterious, but so fascinating. 'Thankyou,' she said. 'It's beautiful.'
'You don't mind that I woke you up?'
'Not at all. Sleeping is something I can do any time. This is…'
Is what?
'…is something you can't… do any time,' she finished lamely.
'You can do it any night,' said Skandar, with a hint of amusement.
Not like this.
'Well thankyou,' Ingë said again.
Silence followed, but it was a comfortable silence.
'I had a strange dream,' Skandar said, breaking it.
The remark caught her off-guard. 'You did? What was it about?'
'Many things, I think,' said Skandar. He paused – a long, deep pause. 'My… my mother…'
Ingë leant toward him. 'Yes?'
'My mother was a seer,' said Skandar, so quietly she only just heard him – as if he were afraid of being heard. 'She saw… things in her dreams. Secret things. I think, maybe… I saw things too. In this dream.'
'You think you saw the future?'
'Yes.'
Ingë thrilled. 'What did you see?'
'I saw…' Skandar looked at her, eyes shining with starlight. 'I saw that you will have a son, Ingë. A fine son. I saw him, from behind. He had your curly hair.' His hand lifted toward it, as if he wanted to touch it, but did not. 'I heard him say "I am of the House of Taranis. The blood of Taranis".'
His words were soft, almost hypnotic. They made her want to cry. 'A son?' she whispered.
'Yes. I saw you holding him.'
A son… Ingë hugged herself, thinking about it. She had known she would have children one day… after she married the young Lord Aisling, she would almost certainly bear him at least one son.
She sighed. Gods, to have children with someone she barely knew. But at least they would be hers.
'A son,' she said aloud. 'Well. I'm… happy. I would like to have children one day.'
'I would have liked to as well,' Skandar muttered. 'Oh moon, to be the last of my line…'
Ingë gripped his hand. 'What do you mean the last? Skandar?'
He started as if she had just woken him up. 'It's… oh, Ingë, why should I bother you with my troubles? They're nothing now. Just the moaning of a tired man who's lived far beyond his years.'
'But I care!' Ingë burst forth. 'Skandar, I care! That's why I saved you that day; that's why I brought you here and cared for you. Why else would I have done it? I like you, and I want to know you properly, if you'd just… let me.' She stopped. 'Oh gods, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that… I'm sorry… it's none of my business. I keep telling myself I should leave you alone, but…'
'But what?' said Skandar.
She laughed miserably. 'Look at me, Skandar. What a fool I've been. I'm barely old enough to marry – I've seen nothing of the world, I've never left this city. I've lived in this house all my life. I waste my time dreaming about grand things just because I can't have them. Why do I care? I care because I think you're fascinating. I just want to know things so I can know. That's all.'
Skandar chuckled quietly. 'You want to know about… me? Skandar Traeganni the slave?'
'Not a slave,' said Ingë. 'You're a free man… a free elf now. Remember that. And I want to know, Skandar. But only if you want to tell.'
Silence again – waiting silence. Skandar looked at the stars, and the moon, showing no sign of what he was thinking. Ingë, watching him, wanted to reach out to him again, but she forced herself not to.
'I am a dark elf,' Skandar said at last, softly. 'A Northern elf. A shadow elf, a moon elf. I am not a Southern elf – a pale elf. I am not one of those elves who rule this land. The dark elves have never ruled anything but themselves. I am a dark elf… I am the last dark elf.'
Ingë took his hand. 'What happened to the others?'
'The riders killed them,' he said, not looking at her. 'I was there.'
'The riders?' Ingë breathed in sharply. 'The riders killed – why? Why would they do that?'
Skandar looked at her. 'Because of you,' he said simply.
'Me?'
'Yes… humans.' He sighed. 'The riders were afraid of us… the pale elves were afraid. Once, long ago, there was a man… a human man… a human we taught. He was the first rider, and we taught him out ways. We hoped…'
'The first rider?' said Ingë. 'But the first rider was an elf – Eragon…'
'Lies,' Skandar hissed. 'Pale elvish lies. The first rider was ours, not theirs. A human man, bonded to a black dragon. He should have been the first of many. We believed that one day a dark elf would become a rider, but it never did happen, because of that man. That fool of a man. He left us, betrayed us… went to war without us, and Eragon killed him. Killed our hope.'
'How?' said Ingë. 'I don't understand.'
'The pale elves feared we would create more riders like that human,' said Skandar. 'And they had always hated us, always been our enemies. They made more riders, made a pact with the dragons before we could… drove us out of our homes. My home… my family… we were the last survivors. We lived in secret, until the riders found us, and…'
'But how could they have done that?' said Ingë. 'Riders don't… wouldn't…'
'I doubt they would let their subjects know the truth,' Skandar said bitterly. 'The pale elves control them. And we… we were a dark race, an evil race. It was their justice.'
'There's no justice in killing an entire race,' said Ingë.
'Perhaps not, but the riders have always done it,' said Skandar. 'Ever since the day they came into being. Not just my race, but many. So many. This land was home to many peoples, and now… all gone.'
'You're certain no-one escaped?' said Ingë.
Skandar's face twisted. 'They killed our King first. Graethen. The one called Vrael did it. After that…'
Ingë gripped his hand. 'Vrael? Lord Vrael? The master of the riders?'
'An elf with hair as white as his dragon,' said Skandar. 'I saw him kill Graethen. Then he killed my father, and his friends killed… everyone. They burned the houses, used magic to destroy them… I saw the bodies afterwards. And they were going to kill me too, but one of the humans said the children should be spared, so they took us captive instead. Used us. Tortured us with their magic.'
Ingë wanted to throw her arms around him. 'And then they sold you.'
'Yes. The one called Oromis… he used magic on us, one by one. Most of us died; I survived. He took my magic away, forever. And after that they sold me to the mines. I never saw the others again, but they can't have survived.'
'And that's how you came to be a slave,' said Ingë. 'That's how…'
'Yes.' Skandar reached out toward her, as if he were going to touch her breasts. She drew back, but he only touched the stone pendant she wore. 'This… this symbol… this is why I decided to tell you everything.'
Ingë touched it too. 'This? Why?'
'Because that symbol is… was ours,' said Skandar. 'I knew I'd seen it before. I couldn't understand why a human noble family would use it, but tonight I realised why.'
'Why?'
'It was your surname,' said Skandar. 'Taranisäii. "Of the blood of Taranis".'
'Yes, Taranis was our ancestor,' said Ingë. 'Our line goes back a very long way.'
'I know,' Skandar muttered. 'All the way back to before the riders came into being.'
'How do you know that?' said Ingë.
'Because the human I told you about – the first rider… when he came to the dark elves and learned our ways, we gave him a symbol. Our most powerful symbol – the triple-spiral, the sign of the full moon, the symbol that had belonged to our rulers for hundreds of years. A symbol he took with him when he returned to his own kind. He also took the name we gave him.'
Ingë's mouth fell open. 'Taranis.'
'Yes. Lord Taranis of the dark elves, the first rider.' Skandar growled to himself. 'That fool. He thought that his power as a rider made him invincible – that he could fight the pale elves all on his own! And he had the spine to keep our symbol after he betrayed us! Not just any symbol, but the royal symbol – the sign of Kings! My sign!'
'Your sign?' said Ingë.
Skandar breathed deeply, his passion bringing him alive as nothing else could have. 'My sign!' he said again, his voice loud and ringing with anger. 'I am not a slave, and I never will be again! I am Prince Skandar Traeganni, last of the royal line, descended from Tynyth Traeganni herself. That is what I am, and that is what I always will be!'
Ingë drew away from him, more frightened of him than she had ever been before. He sounded so angry that she was convinced he was angry with her, and up here…
'Skandar, I'm so sorry,' she said. 'Oh gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't know… I had no idea…'
He turned on her, almost violently. 'But don't you see?' he exclaimed. 'This symbol – your name – they're signs! The symbol is mine, and yours – it called me to you. Don't you see? We were fated to meet. The gods willed it, Ingë.'
'The gods?' she almost squeaked. 'You believe in…'
'Of course I do,' said Skandar. He calmed down a little. 'Dark elves worshipped the moon, and so do I. Look, up there.' He gestured at her to look at the moon. 'That is the eye of my god, looking down,' he said. 'The half-moon, the half-open eye. The half-moon is a time for destiny. Why else do you think the moon is there, if not so the gods can see us – watch over us?'
'I don't know,' Ingë stammered. 'I never thought about it. The… it's forbidden to…'
'I still believe it,' said Skandar. 'The riders took my magic, but they can't take my faith, and they never will. The moon spared me for a reason, and it brought me to you for a reason too.'
'But what reason?' said Ingë.
'I don't know,' said Skandar. 'But it must be because there is something we must do – both of us.'
Ingë was silent for a long time.
'Take revenge on the riders?' she said eventually.
Skandar looked down on the city. 'It could be that,' he muttered. 'But what could we do? I have no magic, and neither do you.'
'You know,' said Ingë, 'I always used to dream of being a rider. Having a dragon of my own, to fly wherever I wanted… to live forever, and to have magic like that…'
'Power isn't something everybody should have,' said Skandar. 'It's far too easy to abuse.'
'Yes,' said Ingë.
Silence.
'Ingë?'
She pressed herself against him, wanting to protect him somehow. 'What is it, Skandar?'
He didn't look her in the eye. 'I don't think I'll live much longer.'
Her stomach lurched. 'Why, Skandar?'
'I don't know, but… I have a feeling. I don't even know why I've lived this long. Seeing the others destroyed should have killed me. Despair can kill us, you know. But…' he looked at her now. 'But I am glad I lived this long, only so I could meet you.'
Ingë looked back at him, so vulnerable in the moonlight, and all at once it hit her.
I'm in love with him, she thought, quite matter-of-factly. I've been in love with him ever since we first spoke. Oh gods…
'Ingë?'
She shook herself. 'I know, Skandar,' she said. 'I think I know.'
'Do you?' he asked unexpectedly.
Ingë looked him in the eye. 'Yes. I do. Gods, Skandar – what are we going to do?'
He smiled. 'You always seem to know what to do; why don't you tell me?'
She laughed, too loudly. 'I don't always know what to do.'
'By the shadows, are all human women like you?' said Skandar.
'Like what?'
'This self-assured,' said Skandar. 'This forthright. This… beautiful.'
Her heart skipped a beat. 'Oh, I doubt it,' she said lightly.
'Ingë,' he said, serious now. 'I wanted to ask you-,'
'Yes?'
'When I leave here, will you come with me?'
'Oh.' She wilted inside. 'Oh gods, Skandar, I can't. My parents need me here, and… there's just so many things…'
Suddenly he was much closer. 'Well,' he muttered. 'Well then, forgive me for this.'
And he kissed her.
'Skandar!'
He looked at her, quite calm. 'Did I do something wrong?'
Ingë stared at him for a moment, all her thoughts and emotions mixed up inside her. She took in his black eyes, so deep and wonderful, and his black hair, stirring about his face. Oh gods, but I want him,she thought. And who would know? No-one can see us up here… no-one would know…
It was too much. She threw caution to the winds, and kissed him back – a passionate kiss, one which drew them closer together, and before she knew what was happening they were tangled in each other's arms, wonderfully together, pressed into each other so tightly it was as if they wanted to become one being.
Skandar, clumsy in his eagerness, quickly began to pull at her clothing, but she resisted at that.
'Skandar, don't,' she said.
He looked at her with hurt in his eyes. 'Why? Don't you want me to?'
'I do,' she breathed. 'I do. But we can't risk… if I conceived… they would find out.'
Skandar laughed – a short, harsh, bitter laugh. 'Don't be afraid, Ingë. They took my fertility when they took my magic. I'll never father a child.'
At that, the last of her fear and uncertainty fled away. What did it matter if she was ready – what did it matter if it hurt her? He needed her, needed her to love him.
And I need him.
She lost herself in his passionate kisses again, and let herself forget everything, and they made love. Clumsy love, painful love, there in the cold open air, but love all the same.
The half-moon above watched – the only witness to their sin, their crime. Not just a crime against nobility, not just a crime against race, but a crime against the very world itself.
That night, though neither of them were to know it then, Skandar and Ingë planted the seed of destruction. That night Galbatorix Taranisäii, scourge of the riders, was conceived.
