"Shurtugal, it is morning, and we must go." These words pervaded Eragon's consciousness, slowly pulling him from the dark, featureless oblivion of his dreamless sleep. Shaking off some of the lethargy, he cursed silently, wishing the spell he had cast on himself for dreamless sleep hadn't been quite so effective. It was like the deep sleep of a human, and made him oblivious and completely unaware of his surroundings. It also made it difficult to wake.
So he discovered as he pried his heavy eyelids open, blinking groggily in the light. He sat up slowly, groaning at the pain in his back from sleeping on stone. The small grotto was awash with the faint sunlight of early morning, and the singing of birds drifted in through the craggy doorway, filling the space with the cheerful songs of the creatures' greeting to the new day. Looking around, he saw that Arya was standing in a shadow near the opposite wall, her green eyes turned away from him. There was something in her hands, but he could not tell what it was, for her body was turned away from him as well. Her black hair tumbled about her face, veiling it once more from view. The only bit of her skin that he could see was the smooth, white skin sheathing her slender neck, and while the sight might have transfixed him once-and it still did, to a degree-his overriding feeling was frustration.
She's still angry with me, Eragon thought grimly, wondering how he was going to survive if Arya wouldn't even lookat him. He could already feel the cold fingers of hopelessness on his heart, the response to the fact that Arya now seemed to hate him. Before he had gone to sleep the previous night, she had seemed to be determined to remain angry with him and had done no more than answer direct questions. It would seem she was going to do the same today.
"Good morning," he said hopefully, stretching as he stood.
She didn't answer with words, but raised the object in her hands and threw it at him. Eragon flinched and almost ducked, but then realized it was a shirt. A simple, brown woolen shirt, but a shirt just the same. It was a good thing to have-he hadn't been looking forward to traversing half Alagaesia bare-chested, even in the summer-but it aroused more curiosity than relief.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, holding it up.
He caught a flash of green as Arya glanced at him. "I stole it from a farmhouse nearby," she said coldly. "Do you find it displeasing, Shurtugal?"
Eragon winced. He hadn't expected that she was so angry as to resent to say even his name.
"You stole it?" he asked, not surprised, but curious.
"I will not repeat myself," Arya snapped, her green eyes flashing toward him once again. This time, they stayed, but remained fixed on his chest, not his face. "Shurtugal, put the shirt on or do not," she said, averting her eyes once more. "We have not the time to tarry."
"I'll wear it, thank you," he said quickly, pulling the shirt on over his head. It was scratchy and slightly large, but better than nothing. He knew better than to complain to Arya, however.
Still feeling slightly sleepy, he strode to the stream and splashed his face with the cold water, thereafter taking a sip. When he stood, he felt rejuvenated and ready to face the day, to resume his journey back to the Varden and put the new horrors of his past behind him. He walked to Arya's side and said, "Let us be off… The day is wasting."
Arya brushed her hair between herself and Eragon, but said nothing.
"After you," he said, indicating her to go first through the exit. Without so much as a backward glance, she elbowed her way past him, knocking him backward several feet as she strode from cave.
Yes, Eragon sighed. She isveryangry. In all honesty, he was a little afraid, and more then a little shocked, of Arya's anger. He'd never seen her like this before, and hoped that he never would again. He didn't like the impassable gulf that had grown-seemingly instantly-between them.
He hurried after her, still running this new development through his mind.
The forest was almost cheerful in appearance, filled with a faint, gold-red light of the dawn. The rosy light glistened on the thin sheen of dew covering the leaves and grass. Birds flitted between the tree trunks, several of them flying quite close to Arya's head, and squirrels and other such critters chattered as they leapt from branch to branch. Above, the sky was blue and almost entirely clear, interrupted only by downy strips of thin clouds. The entire scene was horribly conflicting with Eragon's mood-ever more so with Arya's cold countenance-and he wished, for a brief moment, that it was dark and rainy, perhaps even storming. It would not have made difference.
Entertaining his morose thoughts, Eragon trotted to Arya's side. She slowed only enough for him to catch up, then spread her legs into a run. Eragon, expecting this, kept up easily. He was somewhat surprised that he did not have to pace himself so that Arya might keep up with him, for he had longer legs. It seemed more like Arya was slowing herself down so the opposite might be possible. She was swift indeed, her run aggressive as a predator's. It was almost as if she were running from something. Even so, he said nothing, knowing he would get no answer to any questions he happened to voice. His frustration continued to deepen as the angry silence lengthened.
Trees, bushes, and other such plants flew by them in a brown and green blur, occasionally interrupted by the vibrant-or conversely dull-colors of living and dying flowers. Whenever Eragon saw these, he thought briefly of snatching them and presenting them to Arya as a way of apology, but thought better of it, though he was unsure if "better" actually was better. She had, after all, said herself that it was unlikely she would ever forgive him.
After a brief time, Arya started to glance at him occasionally, but then stopped when she gave a spurt of sudden speed and then slowed again, putting herself a good ten or fifteen feet in front of him. Eragon gritted his teeth, half angry and half sad that she was putting such distance-both figuratively and literally-between them. Was shethat angry at him? Or was she just afraid that he would attempt to woo her again? Or was there some other reason? Whatever her motives, Arya was now hurting Eragon in a way that was explicitly painful. He quite honestly would have rather been back in the Ra'zac's clutches, or take on Durza's curse once more.
It was not something he was going to endure without reason.
Breath hissing between clenched teeth, Eragon pumped his legs savagely to catch up with the elf, disregarding all subtlety. He was going to get some answers.
Working laboriously, he managed to draw level with her, thankful that they hadn't been running long enough to wind him, which, admittedly, would take several hours because of his elven endurance.
"Arya," he began, his anger melting away when he looked into her emerald eyes. "Please tell me why you are angry, what I did." She didn't answer, but looked away. Eragon continued, "I have never seen you like this, Arya. It worries me."
"I did not ask for your concern, Shurtugal," she said coldly.
"You have it anyway," he retorted. "Like it or not, I do care for you, and I would not have you suffer if I have the power to help."
She started to pull ahead slightly, her black hair whipping out behind her, the look on her face speaking for itself.
"I meant what I said before," he called. "I will not pursue you without your consent."
She remained resolutely silent, still continuing forward.
"Arya," he began heatedly. "I've never known you to run away from your problems, nor confrontation. Why now?"
"That is none of your concern," she replied, pulling ahead.
"What have I done to you?" he shouted to her. "And how am I to make amends if you won't tell me how I have offended you?"
She refused to answer, pulling even further ahead. Eragon wondered if she intended to remain so stubbornly distant the entire journey. The thought was not a pleasant one, and he intended to correct it before it became a reality. He chased after her, moving so quickly that he thought his shirt might be starting to rip for his pumping arms.
She stayed ahead for a time, leading a long, irritating chase winding around trees and through the underbrush, always heading southward. But she could not-and, more importantly, would not-stay ahead forever. She had responsibilities to him.
But this was not why he caught up with her. Eventually, once he was close enough, he grabbed her arm and wrenched her to a stop, attempting to halt himself. He miscalculated their reckless, breakneck pace, however, and they both slid across the slippery, loose leaves covering the forest floor like a layered rug, sending them rolling across the ground. All the world around him turned to a meaningless blur as they rolled. All except, that is, Arya's face, which dominated the center of his vision as they tumbled across the ground, arms and legs intertwining chaotically like some kind of mindless dance. She looked surprised, angry, and even a little afraid as they rolled. Eragon was not ignorant to how their bodies tangled together with the fall, and they rolled one over top the other, pressing each other into the ground in turn.
Eventually, the came to a stop on the ground with Eragon on the bottom, Arya splayed across his chest. Eragon was not ignorant of how physically close they were, and neither was he unaware of the fact that his arms were wrapped around her, hands pressing into the curve of her back. Arya's own arms were under his, her delicate hands gripping his shirt. Their legs were tangled in such a way that made Eragon immediately turn red.
When it seemed they had both recovered their senses, Eragon flinched, sure that Arya was going to strike him, or at the very least break his arms, considering he had subconsciously pulled her tighter against his chest. He could, after all, heal them quite easily, so it would, by no means, cripple their return journey.
What took him by surprise was the fact that she didn't. She didn't even stiffen, but relaxed against him, her fingers twining in the folds of his overlarge shirt. Her expression was unfathomable, devoid of anger and filled with uncertainty, a touch of fear, and a number of emotions he could not identify, for he could not recall ever having seen them on an elf's face before. Her eyes stared down at him, filled with questions, questions he could not answer because he could never get her to ask them. As he stared up at her, electrically aware of her soft form pressing down on his, a warmth grew in his chest, a feeling of bliss and wholeness. In that moment, the only missing piece was Saphira.
Her green eyes flicked down his neck to his arms with some uncertainty before coming back to his face. In her bottomless eyes, he could see the reflection of his own face, and saw the questions in it, the hopeful, yet askance expression. He was asking for one thing; her consent.
Her face hardened then, and she extricated herself from Eragon's embrace faster then he would have thought possible, jumping away from him as if his touch burned her. She turned and began to walk south, leaving him lying frustrated and heartbroken on the forest floor. Eragon was so pained by her new denial that he couldn't move for a full minute, and, were he in any safe location, would not have for likely a full day.
As it was, he wearily and painfully got to his feet and set after her, still remembering how it was that they had ended up in that awkward position. Anger began to simmer within him; why wouldn't she just tell him what the problem was? And what right did she have to be angry at him if she wasn't going to tell him why?
When he caught up with her, he caught her arm, forcing her to stop. He opened his mouth and began to speak, but flinched and froze when Arya reacted violently to what he had done.
One of her hands snapped upward, catching him in the arm and forcing him to release his grip, lest she break his wrist. Were he entirely human, he would not have been quick enough to react and likely would have lost his hand.
Her other hand shot forward to his throat, fingers rigidly extended, effective-if not as sharp-as any knife. Thankfully, she stopped short, her quivering hand half an inch from Eragon's throat. Eragon swallowed and didn't move. He wasn't afraid, but he didn't want to alienate Arya further but defending himself. He would have stabbed himself through the heart before laying a hand on her in violence.
After a moment, Arya pulled back, a pain Eragon did not understand mingling with the other myriad emotions on her face. "Unless you intend further affront, Shurtugal," she said slowly. "Do not presume to breach etiquette and address me as you have done again." She then turned and strode away.
Now Eragon was angry. "I breached etiquette!" he shouted. "How can you even think you have the right to lecture me about manners right now? You almost killed me just now!" Arya faltered then-surprising Eragon; he'd never seen her stumble before-and made a small sound, but said nothing. Eragon continued his ranting, "You won't even talk to me, Arya. I'm trying to make amends, and you barely even acknowledge my presence." Eragon's anger was drifting away, replaced by helpless pain. Arya stood stiffly with her back to him, her hands shaking. "Please, Arya" Eragon said quietly, "Just tell me what I've done. I will do whatever you ask, whatever you want, to atone for my offense. Just tell me my crime."
Arya didn't move, but her head tilted upward, her black hair tumbling and spilling about her shoulders and back, as if she was looking at the sky in askance. This was a peculiar thing, for Eragon had previously thought that men did that action in order to ask the gods, "Why me?" But, obviously, Arya, as an elf, did not believe in gods, so the gesture must have been something else. Perhaps it was universal of all sentient beings to turn their eyes heavenward to search for answers to impossible questions.
This was a minor thought in his head, inconsequential, for most of his mind was focused on the beautiful woman in front of him, waiting for her answer. Minutes slowly crawled by, and Eragon still said nothing, sure that if he did, it would only push Arya further away. This wait might have torture, but it was necessary. It was easy too; Eragon would have waited far longer for Arya. He would wait a millennia, and if he had to, a millennia more.
After all, he had forever, didn't he? Angela had said something of the sort in her prophecy.
"My anger," she said finally, her voice heavy and reluctant. "Is not directed at you, Eragon, but myself. You may never learn the reason, lest it destroy us both."
Eragon opened his mouth, but no words were forthcoming. His mind was blank, empty as shock and astonishment coursed through him, wiping him clean of every thought. He didn't know what to think, nor what to say.
"But… why-?"
"Why am I treating you as I have?" she said, rolling her head to the side as she continued to look at the sky. "Because… It is necessary. It is the only way. I have no choice."
Eragon was still reeling, but he had sense enough to remember his many discussions with Oromis. "There is always choice, there is always at least two ways of doing things," Eragon said, trying to make her understand-with the tone of his voice alone-how much he needed her. "Let me help you find the other."
"No," Arya said shortly. "No, I cannot do that. And, in this, I shall not be moved… Do not waste your words on me, Eragon, nor your affections, for both shall get you nowhere."
Eragon didn't know what to say: he was speechless.
Arya lowered her head, the points of her ears shifting out from underneath her hair. "Now, let us be off, Shurtugal," she said, reverting to her distant, cold tone. "We have little time, and many leagues to traverse."
She strode forward, leaving Eragon standing numbly, so full of pain and confused emotions that he could neither sort them out nor identify their tone or purpose. He blinked and followed Arya, allowing the ties to his hear to lead him, wishing, for a moment, that the Ra'zac still held him in their clutches. That torture was nothing compared to this, as insignificant as a stubbed toe.
Now, as they ran through the forest, Arya was not the only one who was silent.
In his numb haze, Eragon was barely aware of the passing time as they came to the edge of the forest, nor the plain of hills stretching for several miles before them. It was there that Arya stopped so suddenly that Eragon collided with her back.
"Sorry," he said quietly, knowing she wasn't going to answer.
She didn't.
Arya looked around, her angled eyes narrowed as if she were searching for something. "Think you that it would be less perilous to circle around these hills?"
"It would take hours," Eragon said. "Let's just cross… It will only take a few minutes."
Arya refused to look at him. "What of Thorn and Murtagh? It will not be difficult for them to see us crossing this expanse."
"We will be swift," Eragon said impatiently. All he really wanted at this point was to return to Saphira as quickly as possible.
Arya was silent for a moment. "Very well."
With that, she instantly broke into a run, Eragon following in her wake as they began to cross the hills. Looking to the east, Eragon thought he saw a flash of brilliant white light, as if the sun were reflecting off a mirror. He felt a pang in his heart when he remembered Brom's tomb, sure that was what he was seeing. He had vowed to return, and he would… But he couldn't yet. It was too dangerous.
Still, it was difficult to take his eyes off the flash, and Eragon stared at if for some time as they crossed the hills, and consequently nearly lost his footing several times. He knew he should turn his eyes ahead, but Arya was in front of him, and he could scarcely bear to look at her right now.
But it was good he didn't, for as he watched, a large, red blur appeared over the flash, growing in size with every passing second. Eragon abruptly stopped and squinted at the object, apprehensive of what he might find.
"Arya…" he said quietly, descrying large, wine red wings on the blur.
The elf had already traveled some hundred yards ahead, oblivious to his sudden halt, but returned to his side quickly when she noticed that he wasn't there. She came to a stop before him, her green eyes focusing on something above Eragon's shoulder.
"Shurtugal, why do you stop?" she asked, sounding irritated. "We haven't the time for delays, and much less amidst these barren hills."
Eragon didn't answer her question orally, but rather pointed at the red dragon flapping toward them. Arya turned and stiffened, her shoulders going rigid.
"Do we have the time to cross the remainder of the plain?" she asked quickly.
Eragon tore his eyes from Thorn's approaching figure and looked around. His heart quickened at what he found.
"No," he said, turning his gaze northward once more. "We have to get back under the cover of the trees… We're too exposed on these hills."
Arya hesitated and looked at him, her green eyes sharp and brooding. Eragon was unsure what to make of this, particularly in their current situation. Nothing was making a tremendous amount of sense anymore, but he knew one thing.
He wasn't going to risk Arya's life.
"Go," he said, placing his hand on the small of her back and applying a tiny amount of pressure. With his urging, they broke into a run back the way they had come, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. So close were they that Arya's hair kept tickling Eragon's nose. Arya, seeming to remember herself, shrugged his hand away, but didn't move from his side, and he was glad. This was no time for petty grudges. He was glad that Arya still had the presence of mind and reason to recognize that.
As they ran, Eragon continually glanced eastward toward Thorn and his Rider, and fear coiled in his gut when he realized that he and Arya were not going to make it. Thorn's path would likely bring him directly over the pair of them, and-if Murtagh's show of strength at the Battle of the Burning Plains was any indication-they would be easily captured.
Eragon returned his hand to Arya's back, applying greater pressure, encouraging her to go faster. "Go, Arya. You are faster than I, and there is no need to risk both our lives."
Emerald eyes glared at him over her slim shoulder, and Eragon felt the tension in the muscles of her back underneath his hand. She didn't argue with him, but neither did she do as he had suggested. If he hadn't known better, Eragon would have guessed that she hadn't heard him at all.
"Arya, just go. This is no time for grudges and obstinacy." He applied more pressure to her back. "Go. I'll be right behind you."
He wondered if she had detected his lie, for he had no idea whether he was going to be directly behind her much longer or not.
Eragon silently offered thanks to the gods when Arya gave a brisk nod and surged forward, leaving him well behind. With something of fervor, he watched her sprint up and down the hills before him, monitoring the distance she had until safety and paying little attention to his own. Truth be told, he was not entirely sure that they were in any immediate danger yet. He was unsure as to whether or not Murtagh or Thorn had spotted them yet.
His uncertainty was quickly dispelled.
"Eragon!" Murtagh cried, his magically intensified voice projecting over the hills, creating distant echoes from the sandstone rises in the east. "I see you there, Eragon, running across the hills like a frightened rabbit! Do you not have the courage to face me?"
Eragon did not think it wise to respond, so he didn't. Instead, he quickened his pace to reckless levels, releasing a sigh of relief when he saw Arya reach the cover of the trees. She's safe… he thought, feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. At least for now. For a brief moment, he considered surrendering to Murtagh just so Arya would be safe, but he disregarded the option as poorly considered. Arya would never appreciate that particular path, were he to choose it.
Eragon stumbled as a constrictive force tightened around his thighs, squeezing the muscles so tightly that he could not move. He found himself frozen, halfway down a hill, tugging at his legs as if they were stuck in a particularly deep patch of mud. With some urgency, he quickly cast a counter spell, entertaining no thought of besting Murtagh, but unsure of what else to do.
Energy began to surge out of Eragon at an immense rate, draining from his body so violently that he shuddered. He hadn't expected fighting Murtagh's magic to be so demanding. His heart stuttered and began beating at a painful speed, the response to the sudden panic that set Eragon's insides roiling.
An alien mind touched his own, echoing with multitudes of voices that raged beneath the surface, a chorus of indistinct whispers. It was not an invasive touch, but more a meeting of minds, a deeper level of communication.
Do not resist, Eragon, Murtagh said, his mental voice tired and angry at the same time. You can't beat me. All you'll do is exhaust yourself.
Eragon tugged futilely at his legs, the spell still steadily depleting him of energy. Then let me go, Murtagh! Eragon snarled, retaliating with a mental jab. Murtagh easily blocked the blow.
You know I can't do that, Murtagh answered, his voice sad. Galbatorix made sure of that. I have no choice in the matter.
There is always a choice! Eragon spat. You just have to learn to find it.
That may be true, but the time I don't have.
A second mind touched Eragon, this one solemn and sad, but filled with a deeply ingrained anger. Eragon was sure that he had never touched this mind before, but it's archaic structure betrayed a familiarity that made Eragon instantly aware of its identity.
Where is Saphira? Thorn asked. Where is she-of-the-blue-scales-and-fierce-temper?
If you think I'm going to tell you, you are sorely mistaken.
It doesn't matter, Murtagh said. She will come for him… She has done it before.
Much as I wish this conflict to end, Thorn said slowly. I would not have Saphira doomed to the same slavery as I. A layer of disgust rippled through his words, We dragons are noble and free creatures, and should not be set in chains.
Eragon, for a brief moment, felt very sympathetic toward the red dragon. That was until he felt anger at Murtagh's implied threats to Saphira. Threats to himself he could accept and ignore; threats to those he loved he could not.
Well, I knewthat, Murtagh said, alerting Eragon to the fact that he had broadcasted that last thought. Which brings up something else you should know… He trailed off tantalizingly.
Eragon gritted his teeth, still desperately attempting to free himself as Thorn flapped closer. He could see Murtagh on his back now, his face grim and Zar'roc loose in his hands. The crimson sword and dragon glittered with a red fire in the sunlight.
I warn you, Murtagh, if you're playing with-
You're warning me? Murtagh mocked, amusement filling his consciousness. What will you do if Iamplaying with you? Whatcouldyou do?
Eragon growled low in his throat, but could martial no retort. Murtagh was right. Instead, he said, What? What should I know, then? Eragon's muscles began to tremble in exhaustion from fighting the spell, so he ceased the flow of magic, surrendering himself to it. He would die if he continued fighting Murtagh.
Murtagh laughed, and Eragon could see his physical face twist with his mirth. I'm proud of you, little brother.Eragon flinched at the reminder of their shared father, but said nothing. His discomfort, however, was nothing compared to what he felt when Murtagh finished the thought. You've managed to fall in love. With the elf, no less.
Eragon froze, staring up at the dragon that was now within two hundred yards. What are you talking about? You have spent too much time in Galbatorix's company. You've gone mad, mad just like your master.
Thorn snarled. It would be best to guard your tongue, small one, the dragon said. The dark king is not one to take insults well, and you will be spending much time in his company.
Thorn's right, Murtagh said stonily. If you defy him, you won't be the one to suffer. Well, you will, but your loved ones will suffer more. Like Saphira… Or Arya.
Eragon snarled. If you touch her, I'll kill you.
Thorn and Murtagh were now within a hundred yards. I just thought you should know, Murtagh said in a sad voice.Galbatorix knows now how you feel about her. It will only be a matter of time before she is captured, and he will not hesitate to use her against you.
Eragon ground his teeth together in fury, his anger only all the greater because of his helplessness. There was nothing he could do. Even after his miraculous escape from Helgrind, he was still to be taken before the dark king. Fortune and fate seemed quite ill disposed toward him these past several days.
Another mind touched his, this one familiar, its touch soothing, and its being filled with clear chords of music. Still it was a distant touch, light as a feather, as impersonal as a meeting of minds could be.
Shurtugal, what are you doing? Arya asked, sounding furious. Why do you not run?
Go, Arya, Eragon said, responding with an anger of his own. Don't worry about me. Just get to safety.
Arya! Murtagh greeted. Fancy meeting you here. Eragon's mind is quite the popular place right now, isn't it?
Speak not to me, betrayer, Arya retorted.
You make it sound as if I did it by choice.
Be it choice or not, you accept it with far too much relish, Arya said with venom.
Before Murtagh could respond-and Eragon knew he was going to-he shielded his mind from his brother, sending one last though to Arya before closing off his thoughts.
Run.
Arya's own thought came back in the same instance; Hold on, Eragon. I am coming.
Eragon wanted to tell her not to, but it was already far too late. Arya had withdrawn behind her own barriers. Feeling as if the very fabric of the universe was determined to make him a ruined man, Eragon turned his head back to Murtagh and Thorn, noting with rising panic that they were now within a hundred feet of him. Inside, he actually found himself urging them to hurry, so they could take him before Arya did whatever it was she planning to do.
Suddenly, Thorn's wings seemed to fail him, and with a monstrous roar, the dragon and rider plummeted the twenty feet to the ground, landing with a rumble that shook the earth. Eragon, uncomprehending, blinked in surprise and fell forward onto his face. The collision with the sun baked grass alerted him to the fact that he was no longer imprisoned by Murtagh's spell.
"Eragon!" Murtagh shouted, his voice trembling with rage. "What have you done to Thorn?"
Eragon didn't bother to respond, but leapt to his feet and ran for the trees, yelping when he felt another constrictive force hold him in place halfway down the hill.
"I cannot allow you to escape!" Murtagh cried.
Before Eragon's frustration could mount, a consciousness touched him, sweeping aside his defenses as easily as if they hadn't been there and bringing him in contact with a mind incredibly vast and intelligent, its thoughts so fleeting and wily that Eragon couldn't even begin to catch a single word. It echoed within, but not with multitudes as Murtagh's had, but with only a few voices, and it was filled with a strange, powerful music, some of the notes deafeningly loud, like the thrum of a tremendous drum, and others soft and barely decipherable, like the peal of the smallest, purest bells. It was harsh and beautiful at the same time, and so archaic in fashion that Eragon was immediately reminded of a dragon. The mind was so deep, so ancient and complex that Eragon couldn't even begin to grasp the limits of its psyche.
This in mind, Eragon was quite taken aback by the brusqueness and directness with which it spoke. Would you hurry up? it said rudely, its male voice utterly unremarkable compared to its mind. I can't keep this up all day. Well, I probably could, but can you imagine a better waste of my time? I know I can. Get a move on.
Eragon blinked, startled, stumbling forward as a burst of magic surged through the vast intelligence of the man. He stumbled forward as his magical bonds once again fell away. Wasting no time, he ran forward.
"Garjzla letta!" he cried, using the first spell that came to mind.
Both Murtagh and Thorn roared, their joined voices containing an underlying accent of fear under their fury. Eragon hoped their new blindness would distract them long enough for him to get away before Murtagh could use magic again.
The alien mind laughed uproariously. Oh, you're learning, I'll give you that.
Who are you?
Me? Do you really want to know?
I do.
Hmm... It has been so long since my name has been used that I've near forgotten it myself. So I suppose you can call me Curse-Breaker or Spellbane. Everyone else does.
Who is "everyone else?" Eragon asked suspiciously.
That's neither here nor there. Ask me again if you ever meet me.
Eragon consigned himself to ignorance; there was no possible way he could force answers out of this man, and, after all, the man had saved his life, so why should he?
I thank you, Eragon said in the ancient language. I owe you more than you know.
No you don't, Spellbane said, sounding amused. Eragon couldn't tell; he was simply too alien. I know a lot more than you would think. Now, would you get going? I was eating breakfast before you caused this whole little uproar. My eggs are getting cold.
With that, Spellbane withdrew, leaving Eragon alone with only his thoughts while he entered the thin shadows of the trees. Behind him, Thorn continued to roar, scattering the birds from the closest branches. Eragon sighed with relief as he entered the leafy domain.
Thankfully, he wasn't alone for long. Arya emerged from the underbrush a moment later, her face irritated and harassed as she stalked forward. It was one of the strangest walks he had even seen an elf do, more like a march than the thoughtless grace he was used to.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice anxious. Eragon noticed that leaves were once again stuck in her hair and had to physically restrain himself from reaching out and combing them free.
"I'm fine," he answered nonchalantly. He stared intently into her face. To his surprise, she stared back. In an intense voice, he asked, "Are you?"
Green eyes stared into his for a single moment. Then, to Eragon's growing frustration, Arya turned away, resuming her cold countenance. "I am well, Shurtugal."
"What exactly where you planning to do a moment ago?" Eragon asked, masking his anger. "What could you hope to do? You would only have been captured."
"It is of no consequence now," Arya snapped. "And do not underestimate me, human."
"I never did," Eragon said quietly. "But you shouldn't have thought of coming after me."
She rounded on him angrily. "What-"
Arya fell silent as a chorus of panicked screams, emitting from the throats of a thousand birds and animals, echoed through the trees. Branches and bushes alike began to shake as the creatures of the forest rushed away in a frenzy.
Arya stared upward for a moment, her black tresses rippling about her shoulders. "We cannot linger," she said after a moment, turning away and running into the woods. Without a word, Eragon followed, knowing only too well exactly what they were running from. Together, Rider and elf ducked under a bush, crouching low as they ran.
Thorn soared overhead, scouring the landscape with the blood red spots of light reflecting off his crimson hide. On his back, Murtagh shouted a single word, a name with which he betrayed his fury.
"Eragon!"