Chapter 10
A/N: Right, here we go again. This chapter will mainly be training and moving towards (including if I can) the Blood Oath celebrations. You won't want to miss that bit, because Imrik's true purpose will be revealed. Also, when Imrik and Gwihir talk, please assume it is in high elven. They are both used to using it and so they would slip back into their home tongue when at ease. Thanks, I'll use bold when Imrik says things in high elven to other people. Right, onwards!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except Imrik, Lutheni and the plot.
Bold script = high elven
Together, the six of them flew out across Du Weldenvarden, following the white cliff line for several miles. Gwihir flew to Glaedr's left, Saphira on the older dragon's right. Gwihir seemed to have shrugged off whatever awe he felt for the older dragon. Imrik still held his respect for the pair, but also was no longer awed by their presence.
They landed in a clearing near the edge of the cliff. A path worn into the earth by the passage of time led to the door of a low hut situated between four trees. One of the trees straddled a stream that ran from the depths of the forest to tumble off the cliff. The hut was too small for the dragons; it could have been placed between Glaedr's ribs with room to spare.
"Welcome to my home," said Oromis as he landed on the ground with grace only an elf could achieve. "I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel'naeír, because it provides me the opportunity to think and study in peace. My mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other people."
He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with three stools and flagons of water drawn from the stream. Imrik accepted his drink and sipped it. He looked around as Oromis sat down, and took in the beauty of the place. The trees shone with life and all around him he felt animals and insects thriving. Gwihir was looking across at Saphira and Glaedr, the former kneading the ground with her claws.
The silence stretched longer and longer. Usually, Imrik's patience would have worn thin by now, but with all of the events happening recently, he was enjoying the time of peace. Eragon seemed to have come to the same conclusion, as the boy was unnaturally silent. And so they sat for a time.
Finally Oromis spoke. "You have learned the value of patience well. That is good."
Eragon appeared to fumble with his words then said, "You can't stalk a deer if you are in a hurry."
"Nor spring a trap if you don't wait for the right moment." Said Imrik, taking another sip from his flagon.
"True enough." Said Oromis, lowering his flagon. "Let me see your hands, both of you. I find they can tell me much about a person." Eragon removed his gloves and offered his hands to the old elf. Oromis gripped Eragon's wrists and examined his hands. "Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a scythe and plough more often than a sword, though you are accustomed to a bow."
"Aye." Said Eragon. Imrik was silently impressed by this; a mere farm boy who had such skill with the sword was a rare thing.
"And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all."
"Brom taught me my letters in Teirm."
"Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to be reckless and disregard your own safety."
Imrik snorted at that. Eragon looked respectful still, asking politely, "What makes you say that, Oromis-elda?"
"Not elda," Oromis corrected, "You may call me master in this tongue and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your teachers; you are our students; and you will act with proper respect and deference." Oromis spoke with a gentle tone, but there was steel in his voice, that of one who expects to obeyed.
"Yes, Master Oromis." Said Eragon
"As will the rest of you." Said Oromis, looking up at Imrik.
Imrik struggled with his pride, sense battling with arrogance. If any could doubt the pride of Caledor, they could see its true strength as even Saphira and Gwihir obliged before Imrik spat out the words, "Yes... Master."
Oromis didn't bat an eye but simply nodded and turned back to Eragon. "Now. Anyone with such a collection of scars has either been hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?"
"No."
"Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only one explanation. Unless you think differently?"
Eragon was silent for a moment, thinking, then said, "I would say, rather, that once I dedicate myself to a certain project or path, I see it through, no matter the cost ... especially if someone I love is in danger."
"And do you undertake challenging projects?"
"I like to be challenged."
"So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities."
"I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I've faced enough hardship to know that it's foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It's all I can do to survive as it is."
"Yet you chose to follow the Ra'zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here."
"It was the right thing to do ... Master."
Oromis nodded, then released Eragon and turned to Imrik. Imrik offered his bare hands; he had neglected to put on gloves. Oromis took them in a firm grip that felt like soft paper. He examined Imrik's hands for a minute, then looked up at him.
"These are the hands of a warrior, and a good one at that. You tend towards the spear, if I am not wrong, but are competent with most weapons. You also fight with pride, perhaps even arrogance, throwing yourself into deadly situations for the fun of it and the glory of conquering uneven odds."
"That seems like an accurate description." Imrik smiled.
"Your pride could be your undoing, but you have a strong will. I sense that your heart is pure, but you have known too much sorrow for one your age."
"Thank you ... Master." Imrik muttered the last bit, forcing the word out.
Oromis smiled. "Obedience does not come naturally to you, does it?"
"No, it does not, except in battle." Imrik said.
"We will have to work on that, then." He said with a faint smile, then relaxed back onto his stool. Imrik took another sip of water as Oromis thought. After several minutes, he raised his eyes again, "Eragon, were you, perchance, given a trinket of some kind in Tarnag? A piece of jewellery, armour, or even a coin?"
"Aye." Replied the teen, pulling the silver hammer from under his tunic. "Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar's orders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like... How did you know?"
"Because I could no longer sense you." Replied the old elf.
"How do you mean, sense him? Surely you could only scry him?" Imrik asked, confused.
"Then was it you who tried to scry me near Sílthrim?" asked Eragon.
Oromis shook his head. "After I first scryed you with Arya and Imrik, and the messengers came to me, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you both. I could reach out and touch your minds with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr, Eragon." Oromis lifted the amulet and inspected it, muttering a few lines in the ancient language. Releasing it, he looked up at them again. "It contains no other spells that I can detect. Keep it with you at all times, it is a valuable gift." He pressed his long fingers together and started out over the cliff between the vaulted ceiling of his hands.
"Master ... who were the messengers? Could you tell me anything about them?" Imrik asked, his patience almost run thin.
Oromis was silent for a little, then spoke. "One felt feminine, with a kind aura of untold power, the other was more masculine, but was also extremely powerful, more powerful than any being I have come into contact with before. Their minds were alien; I could not fathom what they were, except that they both held strong connections to you and your race, Imrik. Does that help you?"
Imrik thought for a minute, trying to piece the information together, then grinned. "Kurnus and Isha!" He exclaimed. Oromis looked confused and Eragon startled, the boy remembering what Imrik had taught him about High Elven culture. "They are the father and mother of my race, the gods of hunting and nature respectively. Though why they would wish for Islanzadí not to know of mine and Eragon's existence is unclear." Imrik fell back into contemplation, barely hearing Oromis talking to Eragon. He didn't notice Oromis's face contort and his body stiffen, nor the conversation that followed. All he could think of was why the gods were interfering in his life, why they had warned Oromis not to tell Islanzadí. They must have had a purpose, they must have...
"Imrik!" the sharp shout brought him out of his mind and into the world. Oromis and Eragon were standing in front of him. "Stand and remove your tunic." Said the old elf. Imrik did as he was bid; noticing Eragon was taking off his own tunic.
Oromis walked around them in a circle, stopping behind Eragon's back and letting out a gasp of surprise. "Did not Arya or one of the Varden's healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it."
A memory clicked in Imrik's brain, the words Asuryan had spoken to him when he had healed Eragon's back. He shall carry the scar as a reminder of his folly until he joins with his dragon completely. He shall feel the pain of his folly whenever it strays from his mind. Imrik jolted and turned to Eragon, opening his mouth to voice the memory, then considered what it would mean to him. Feelings erupted into war inside Imrik, honour telling his to tell Eragon, his mind wondering what it would do to the boy. He settled for a compromise.
"She could not have healed it," he said, cutting across Eragon as he tried to answer. "I remember now. When Asuryan gave me to the power to save you, Eragon, he said something to me. He told me that you would carry that scar as a reminder of your folly but that it would be healed by dragons. You need to understand his will, he would have you bond with Saphira until you are one."
Eragon stared at him, dumbstruck. Oromis looked interested as well. "You mean... all this time... your god has been causing me this pain!?" Eragon's voice broke as his anger rose.
"Yes. I cannot and will not contest his will, Eragon. What he says shall be, we must simply live with it. I am sure that this training will help achieve the goal set by My Lord, to bond with Saphira. You will be cured." Imrik said softly.
Eragon glared at him, then let out a breath and slumped to the ground. Oromis stood over him, then said, "Now, at least, you have a goal to work towards. You have agreed to fight through the pain, let us begin now and put past woes behind us."
Imrik held out his hand to Eragon, who grasped it after a moment. Imrik pulled him up, then smiled apologetically. Eragon nodded as though he was very tired, then turned to face Oromis again.
Over the next five or six hours, Oromis had them perform various stretches, in which Imrik was far superior to Eragon. Saphira, however, out classed Gwihir in aerial acrobatics, only a few things eluding her mastery. Gwihir didn't do too badly, but he had much more room to improve than Saphira did. After this exercise, Oromis interrogated them about the history of Alagaësia, of which Imrik knew very little. He had picked up a few things, but even Eragon's patchy knowledge was better than his own. When Oromis decided to break for lunch, Imrik's head was trying to commit everything he had heard to memory.
The older elf invited them into his house, leaving the dragons outside with each other. Imrik looked around at Oromis's house with approval. It was not covered with décor, but nor was it completely barren. A strange painting hung on the door, so real that it looked like a portal at first glance. Two walls were devoted entirely to scrolls. The rest of the house was filled with the essentials for food, study and hygiene. Next to the table, a golden sheath hung on the wall. Next to it was a sword that shone with the colour of Glaedr's scales.
"Where is this?" asked Eragon, looking closely at the painting.
"You would both do well to memorise that landscape, for there lies the heart of your misery. You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and is now the black city of Urû'baen. I made that fairth on the night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix arrived."
"You painted this... fairth?" asked Eragon.
"No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The landscape upon that door is exactly how Ilirea presented itself to me at the moment I uttered my spell."
"And what was the Broddring Kingdom?" Asked Eragon again. Imrik smiled at the boy's inquisitive nature.
Oromis looked dismayed, "You don't know?" Eragon shook his head. Imrik remained still, knowing that this question was directed at Eragon only. How could he be expected to know of it?
"How can you not? Considering your circumstances and fear that Galbatorix wields among your people, I might understand that you were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subjects that even the youngest elf or dwarf knows about. The children of the Varden could tell me more about the past."
"It seems to me that Brom was more concerned with keeping the only hope for this world alive than teaching him about what has already passed." Retorted Imrik, his pride edging into his voice.
Oromis was silent for a time. Finally, he looked up at the two of them, "Forgive me. I did not mean to impugn Brom's judgement, only I am impatient beyond reason; we have so little time, and each new thing you must learn reduces that which you can master during your tenure here."
He rose and opened a few of the cupboards, removing bread rolls and bowls of fruit, which he placed on the table. He sat down again and hovered over his food for a second then began to eat. Imrik picked up a few blueberries and popped them into his mouth as Oromis began to enlighten them.
"The Broddring Kingdom was the human's country before the Riders fell. After Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix's conquests. He added Vroengard and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the empire you are familiar with. Technically, the Broddring kingdom still exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on royal decrees."
Imrik concentrated on his food and brooded. Galbatorix was a murderer, traitor and now a usurper. Imrik knew now that any thoughts of going home and staying there were not an option anymore. If the Galbatorix wanted to have dominion over all life, Imrik was ready to stand in his way. It reminded him of how the High Elves did something similar with the forces of Chaos, stopping them from taking over the world. Again, his thoughts drifted back to something Arya had said in Farthen Dûr. She had said that the ancient language may be able to repel the effects of Chaos, allowing an army to march through the Chaos wastes to the warp gate at the pole and close it. Imrik hoped with all his heart that this was the truth, for it would be the salvation of his people.
He lost track of his thoughts again for the second time, missing most of what Oromis told Eragon about Morzan and Brom. He finished his food and began to sip the water he had been given subconsciously. Oromis's laughter made him jump and brought him back to the real world.
"I assume you both explored your quarters last night?" they both nodded, Imrik wondering what Oromis was talking about. "And you both found the small room with the depression in the floor?"
"The wash-room?" asked Imrik, puzzled as to why this was being brought up.
"Exactly Imrik! It is to wash you, Eragon! Not clothes as you may have thought. Two nozzles are concealed in the side of the wall above the hollow. Open them and you can bathe in water of any temperature. Also," He waved a hand at Eragon's chin, which had a few wispy hairs clinging to it, "while you are my student, I expect you to keep yourself clean-shaven until you can grow a full beard – if you so choose – and not look like a tree with half its leaves blown off. Elves do not shave, but I will have a razor and mirror found and brought to you."
Eragon agreed with a wince. Imrik smiled slightly, glad he didn't have to worry about shaving. They moved back outside, Oromis sending a look to Glaedr. The dragon spoke to then in his deep, rumbling voice.
"We have decided upon a curriculum for you all."
"You will start – " said Oromis.
"- an hour after sunrise tomorrow, in the time of the Red Lily. Return here then."
"And bring the saddle Brom made for you, Saphira. Gwihir, I would like to inspect your saddle as well. Do as you wish in the meantime, Ellesméra has many wonders for a foreigner, if you care to see them."
"We will remember that." Said Imrik with a smile. He climbed up on Gwihir's back.
"Before I go, Master, I want to thank you for helping me in Tronjheim after I killed Durza. Despite Imrik's aid, you saved me from the Shade's magic. I am in your debt." Eragon bowed his head. Oromis smiled and mirrored the action before Eragon climbed on Saphira and they flew out over Du Weldenvarden again.
After watching Imrik and Eragon fly off into the sunlight, Lutheni was at a loss for something to do. She returned with Orik to Ellesméra where they went in search of food. Finding fruit and vegetables aplenty, along with bread and seedcakes, they ate a filling if not satisfying lunch together. Orik broke the silence that had reigned between them.
"So, elf, where do you hail from?" he asked in a polite voice.
"I come from the land of Chrace, dwarf, a land of mountains, pine trees and deadly wild beasts. My people pride ourselves in being the hardies of all the elves in Ulthuan. You see, we are the first line of defence; the easiest way for the Druchii to invade the rest of the kingdoms. When war comes, it hits us first."
"It sounds like a hard life." Said Orik, nodding his head.
"It is not all bad," Lutheni said, a smile stealing onto her face. "My people have the great honour of guarding the Phoenix King. When we fight, we fight with the knowledge that our king depends upon us to win him victory."
"A great honour indeed!" exclaimed Orik. "And how did you meet Imrik?"
Lutheni smiled as she thought of her first meeting with the arrogant son of Caledor. "We met at court, as is the custom between the noble houses. He was there as an invited guest, being cousins with the great Imrik Dragonlord, his namesake. I was there as a show piece, having just became available for marriage. My father wanted me to look upon the fine princes and choose those I liked. I told him I would rather be training to become a White Lion, the elite huntsmen who guard the Phoenix King." Lutheni grinned and pulled her lion-skin closer around her.
Orik nodded his head in understanding. "And what happened then?"
"My father laughed at me, then introduced me to one of princes of Saphrey, who I rejected on sight; too bookish. I rejected another three before I came across Imrik. He smirked at me, looking me up and down and laughed. I was... annoyed at his attitude, so I told him to shut up, to which he told me to try to make him." Lutheni's grin turned savage as she remembered what had happened next. Orik gave her a questioning look.
"I tackled him to the ground, while in my dress, and tried to punch him in the face." She said by way of explanation. "He dodge and pushed my off him, then attacked me himself. We fought until my father pulled me off him and Imrik Dragonlord got between us. After that, whenever we saw each other, we fought; either with words or fists. Gradually, we evolved a game out of it, seeing who could win the most. Imrik's older brother paired us together during one of our shouting matches and, by unspoken consent, we both attacked him." She laughed, making several elves look across at them with confusion before turning away again. Orik laughed too.
"That is an interesting way to form a friendship!" he declared when he had recovered.
"Yes it is." Replied Lutheni smiling. "We kept trying to outdo the other, I would carry a standard into battle, he would become the champion of his regiment. Both of us decided that going through the ranks would give us more experience than doing what the nobility usually do and go straight into cavalry fighting. When we did rise to the silver helms, I became high helm ahead of him. He was furious!" Lutheni chuckled. "But he planned a great vengeance upon me. He asked my father to accompany us on a hunt, the hunt that all warriors who seek to join the White Lions must take. My father agreed."
"I think I can see where this is going..." muttered Orik.
"Imrik came with us, armed only with a borrowed axe and a hunting knife. He hadn't bothered wearing any armour either, a simple green jerkin and leggings with his green cape. I laughed at him and told him he would die; he disagreed." Lutheni's face turned sour and she lowered her voice. "When we were hunting... he got separated... came across a lion, a real lion! We found him in half an hour, sitting on the corpse with his axe embedded in its throat and his hunting knife in his hands. His eyes were cocky and a smirk was plastered on his face. I can't recall how long it was that I didn't speak to him, but it was at least a year."
She sighed and Orik nodded in understanding while pulling out his pipe and lighting it. After a few puffs he looked up and said, "I can see why that would hurt you so. It was a cruel revenge."
"Yes it was, and he wore the cloak he made from the beast's skin every time he knew he would see me. He had won our contest, for I could not better him. I could never ride one of the dragons. But after a while, his pride softened and he offered his cloak as way of apology. Of course I refused, but we stopped testing each other from that day, simply having, as you would call it, friendly banter. When I earned my own cloak, Imrik was one of the first to congratulate me. Maybe, in years to come, we may have been more than friends, but I think he does not see me in that light at all." Lutheni sighed again, "Why am I telling you this, Orik?"
Orik grinned. "Because you needed to talk to someone about these feelings and you can't really talk to the elves around here, much less Imrik himself. Eragon and the dragons are out of the question so that leaves little ol' me. Don't fear, elf, I will not tell a soul. You have my word as a dwarf of the Ingeitum. As for Imrik and his feelings, perhaps you simply need to open his eyes, he does keep them rather closed at times."
"Thank you Orik." Said Lutheni with a small, sad smile on her face. "I think I may try that."
"Good luck lass." Said Orik, putting a comforting hand on hers, then leaning back in his chair, puffing out a smoke ring and blowing it in front of them. Lutheni smiled and leaned back also. Thus they spent the day, talking of little things and spending a few hours of peace in comfort.
Imrik and Gwihir flew with Eragon and Saphira back over the trees to Ellesméra. When they parted, Imrik could feel the bubbling pit of anger in Gwihir's chest begin to rise. He growled and spat a jet of flame at a passing bird. It dodged the lethal flames, but only just. Imrik tried to access Gwihir's mind and find out what was wrong with him, but the dragon blocked him out and would not let Imrik see what was troubling him, though the anger and something akin to jealousy still flowed down their link, making Imrik even more confused.
"I'm going to explore, do you wish to come?" Imrik asked in an attempt to get Gwihir to talk to him.
"No." Was the sullen reply. Imrik patted his friend on the flank and headed to the trap door.
Once on the ground, Imrik wasn't sure where to go. He considered going and trying to find Lutheni and Orik, but then remembered that he wouldn't know where to start and would probably get lost in the maze of trees. His next idea was to go and see Arya. So, without changing or any real reason, he set off to find his friend.
When he found Arya's home, he was impressed to say the least. He wondered around the green, leafy walls, looking for a way in. It seemed like he had been walking for hours and he was growing frustrated when a light chuckle sounded behind him. He turned with a mock glare in his eyes. Arya stood there, dressed in a flowing green dress. It was circled at the waist by a band of gold twisted and linked together. In the centre sat a bright emerald. The dress itself brought out Arya's eyes, shifting from shade to shade, one moment light forest green, and the next dark like the stormy sea. She smiled at him.
"Still haven't found the way in, Imrik? I am surprised, a clever and educated Rider such as yourself, defeated by a wall of bushes. Are you sure you are the mighty warrior you claim to be?" she teased him. Imrik laughed sarcastically.
"I have a solution, but I fear you and your kin may be against me burning down this wall of leaves to gain entry. But if you insist..." he said, setting his left hand alight with a whispered word. Arya's eyes lit up with surprise and fear.
"No! Don't." she cried. Imrik laughed as he extinguished the flame.
"Then do not taunt me so, Princess. Come, show me your home. I have seen enough of your hedges." He said with a small smirk.
Arya glared at him, then smiled and lead him to an arch he had not previously noticed. Imrik rolled his eyes at his own stupidity.
"Root of tree, fruit of vine, let me pass by this blood of mine." She said to the doorway.
The arch trembled and burst open, releasing five monarch butterflies. Imrik looked through the arch and saw a vast garden of flowers. They were arranged to look like they had been growing there before even the elves had arrived there. Imrik's eyes widened at the sheer volume and variety of plants in the garden. All around, the flameless lanterns glowed, illuminating the scene and attracting all the insect life. Arya grabbed his hand and pulled him into the garden. "Come. Come!" she said with a smiled and dragged him deeper into the flowers.
Before Imrik was quite aware what was happening, he was in a hall made of trees. He blinked in surprise, for he had no memory of entering. The hall itself was magnificent. The trees that formed it had been stripped of their bark and polished with oil until they shone, smooth and sleek.
"This is where you would have stayed, if you were not Rider and dragon." Said Arya.
"As you can see, I have a lack of dragon at the present time." Imrik said ruefully. Arya cocked her head to the side and gave him a questioning look. Imrik shrugged at her unasked question. "He is suddenly in a black mood; he will not talk to me. All I could feel from our link was anger and jealousy. I have no idea what is wrong with him."
Arya thought for a minute, then replied. "Perhaps Saphira has taken greater interest in Glaedr than Gwihir would like?" She questioned. Imrik considered this, then smirked.
"I think you may have got it, Arya. I shall enquire further upon my return to the tree." He replied. "Speaking of which, it is late. I must return. Thank you for showing me your home, it is truly beautiful." Arya nodded her understanding and lead him back to the gate.
"Goodnight Imrik. Sleep well." She said with a smile.
"Goodnight Arya." He said with a bow. Then the doors shut in his face and he turned and walked back to the tree-house.
Morning came and Lutheni arose to the sounds of birds chirping outside her window. She smiled at the sound and rose from the comfortable bed the elves had given her in Arya's home. She looked around her quarters once more, still pleasantly surprise that Arya had given her such a nice room after all the horrid things they had done to each other. Perhaps it's a peace offering, she thought, and decided to attempt a civil conversation with the princess.
She had been sitting in the hall last night when Imrik had come in with Arya and Lutheni had debated going over to talk to him, but decided against it. He had obviously come to seek out Arya, for Orik and Lutheni had yet to tell him where they were dwelling. The first night had been spent in a guest room near Eragon's house but yesterday Arya had come to find them in the dining hall and told them that her mother had granted them permission to stay in their home and rooms had been prepared for them.
She got up and went to the door, wrapping her lion-cloak around her shoulders so she wasn't just in her underclothes. She opened the door and found, as promised by the princess, food and another set of clothes. She picked them up and took them inside, laying them out of the large, comfortable bed. A pair of autumn orange leggings and a long white blouse with yellow vines and leaves embroidered upon it that came down the bottom of her waist. A red jerkin had also been provided, again with the yellow embroidery. Lutheni smiled at the attire and went to bathe.
An elvish woman, who Lutheni assumed had brought her the food and the clothes this morning, had shown her how to operate the strange washing contraption last night. Now she went to the little vestibule to try it out for herself. To her delight and satisfaction, she got it right first try. She stripped out of her underclothes and was soon bathing in warm water, washing the tangles and stress of travelling from her hair and body. It felt good to be clean again.
She stepped out of the washing cupboard and padded over to the bed, eyes half shut as she hummed a tune to herself. She got to the bed, then remembered her underclothes; she had left them at the door to the cubicle. She rolled her eyes at herself and went to retrieve them. Picking them up, she wrinkled her nose at the smell and decided that they needed to be washed. She took them into the wash room, turned the water to hot and started to wash her underwear. When she was satisfied that they were clean enough to wear again, she turned off the water and left the cupboard.
Returning to the bed, she weighed up her options. She could either stay in her room and wait for her clothes to dry, or not put any underclothes on and leave them to dry while she was out for the day. Deciding that staying indoors would drive her insane, Lutheni sighed and pulled the new leggings towards her. Pulling them on, she felt self-conscious about not wearing her underclothes. Sighing again, she knew she could do nothing but endure it and hope no-one noticed. She slipped the blouse on, then laced up the jerkin. Pulling on her boots and fastening her cloak around her throat, she strode out to meet the day.
Straight away she knew her luck wasn't with her today when she walk smack-bam into Arya, who had been about to knock on her door. The two fell over and landed in a heap with a soft thump. Lutheni was the first to recover herself and bit back a scathing remark, remembering that she was going to try and be nice to the princess. So instead she simply said, "I beg your pardon, Arya!"
Arya blinked and stared up at her, trying to see if there was any truth in her apology. Arya must have seen no lie in her eyes for she replied "Its fine, Lutheni. Could you please get off of me though, it is rather uncomfortable."
Lutheni blushed and raised herself into a kneeling position before standing and offering Arya a hand up. She took it warily, but smiled when Lutheni pulled her upright again.
"Thank you," she said.
Lutheni smiled back at her, then remembered her manners and touched her first two fingers to her lips. Arya mirrored the gesture and spoke the first line of the greeting used by the elves of Du Weldenvarden, Lutheni replying with the second line. Arya decided against the third line; this was not a formal occasion.
"May I enquire as to why you were coming to my chambers?" asked Lutheni politely.
Arya seemed slightly disconcerted by Lutheni's change in demeanour but didn't comment. "I was coming to wake you and ask if you wished for a tour around the city. Orik has declined and instead headed for the training arena, if you should wish to join him."
Lutheni considered for a time, then replied. "I thank you for the offer of a tour, Princess Arya, but I have not swung my axe once since arriving here and I wish to practice. Could you show me where the training grounds are?"
Arya smiled and nodded. "Follow me when you are ready, I shall wait here."
Lutheni thanked her and jumped back inside the door to grab her axe, then returned to Arya's side. The two elf women left the hall together, exchanging polite conversation as Arya guided Lutheni towards the training grounds. When they arrived, Lutheni saw one or two elves shooting at targets with bow, a few sparring with spears and, at the far end of the grounds, a small, squat figure swinging and axe around his head. Lutheni grinned, thanked Arya once more and jogged over to Orik, drawing the eyes of a few of the elves.
"Good morning, dwarf." She said, a grin still on her lips.
Orik stopped twirling his axe and looked up at her. "Good morning to you too, elf. I see you have come to train as well. A restlessness resides in my limbs and only one thing can quench it."
"Then would you care to test yourself against me? Axe to axe?" Lutheni asked with a smirk. Orik's eyes glinted under his helm as a grin appeared under his beard.
"Axe to axe." He said, moving back to allow Lutheni some space of the ground. "Ladies first." He said, raising his axe. Lutheni grinned, raised her own, and charged.
When Imrik returned from training that day, both he and Gwihir were angry, confused and worried. After finding out Eragon's mistake in blessing the child, Imrik knew that the child would be twisted and maddened by the pain Eragon's curse was causing her. Thinking about it now also made him leave for Surda, intent on finding the child and helping her but he knew it would be hopeless; his knowledge of magic was not adequate enough to remove the spell and Oromis had said it was Eragon who had to remove it. Imrik growled his anger and was met with a snarl from Gwihir.
Imrik spun, fire flashing in his eyes as he faced the dragon. "What is your problem?!" he shouted. Imrik was angry about being treated like a child when they had not shared thoughts in training too, but Gwihir was being unreasonably surly.
"Don't mind me, it's not as though I have feelings as well." The dragon growled in his mind.
"As do I, yet your anger has been festering ever since yesterday, it isn't just today. What has upset you? I would help if you would only tell me!"
Gwihir snarled again, his claws digging marks into the polished wood floor of the bedroom. "It is none of your concern, you can't help me anyway, it's all his fault."
"Who is 'he'?" Imrik questioned softly, his previous anger gone as quickly as it had come. Finally he was getting to the heart of what was bothering his dearest friend.
Gwihir waited for a long time before replying in a whisper. "Glaedr... he... Saphira... she completely ignores me now, she's so fascinated by him! You know I find her ...a-attractive but how am I to compete with him? I fear I-I... I fear I'll lose her Imrik, and there's nothing I can do about it!" Imrik heard a soft splash and realised that Gwihir was crying. He walked over to the partner of his heart and mind and held his snout in a close embrace. Imrik knew what grief could do, remembering is experience in Farthen Dûr, but this was hopelessness and Imrik could do something about that.
"Hush... Hush now. You have missed something. You have missed the part where Glaedr is at least a hundred years older than Saphira and she has only just met him. You have missed the part where you have been in battle beside her and he hasn't. You have missed the part where you have had long, personal conversations with her, and he hasn't. Hush now. I do not think this darkness in your heart can endure. She will see you as you see her, but it will take time and patience. You must hold true to your feelings and focus on our task. We came to learn, do not let your jealousy of Glaedr get in the way of that." Gwihir blinked up at him and Imrik felt the anger and frustration leave him. "Now, what did you learn today?"
For the next half an hour, Imrik and Gwihir shared memories about their teachings that day. Gwihir snorted at Imrik's single-minded approach to the task but was intrigued by what he had learnt about the habits of the forest beetles and how they would spar with each other using fearsome looking antlers. In return, Gwihir told Imrik about how he and Saphira had learnt to identify dangerous weather patterns, something that would indeed be useful to them in the future.
They had just finished as Arya knocked at the door. Imrik knew it was the princess; he could sense her presence and that of Saphira and Eragon. He called for them to enter and stood to face them. Arya opened the trapdoor at the top of the stairs from the main door with her eye averted.
"Are you dressed, Imrik?" she asked with mockery in her voice. Imrik scowled at the reminder of the previous day and stood.
"Yes, my lady, I am dressed. Why have you sought me out this evening?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
She turned to face him, touched the first two fingers of her left hand to her lips, then smiled warmly. "You and Eragon have both been in the city for three days and have seen little of our wonders. Accompany us this once, proud prince, and let your cares fall from your shoulders."
Imrik sighed and grabbed his sword. "Come on, puppy, we are going exploring." He said over his shoulder as he approached Arya. She sent him a quizzical look as Gwihir growled at the nickname and headed over to the opening in the tree. "A nick-name, nothing more." He said to Arya's unasked question.
They descended the stairs to the main door, opening it to find Eragon standing outside. Imrik sent the boy a smile, which was returned in kind. Together, they trudged down the stairs and headed out into the city, Eragon and Imrik following behind Arya, the dragons following behind. Imrik could feel Gwihir's joy soar at being close to Saphira and being able to talk to her, but felt it sink every time the conversation turned to Glaedr. Imrik spoke little to Eragon, knowing the boy must have his thoughts in a tangle after that day's training.
They followed a winding path through the forest, a few lanterns illuminating their steps in the forest twilight. Elves worked in or around the radius of the lanterns. They were mostly alone, save for the rare couple. Others sat in the trees and sang soft songs to tunes played out on reed pipes. Others still sat on the high boughs and stared at the sky, neither awake or asleep, simply content. Imrik noticed the werecat, Maud, sitting next to a potter as he worked. She glanced up at them and the elf followed her gaze. He nodded to the three without stopping his delicate work.
"What do most elves do for a living or profession?" Asked Eragon in a whisper.
Arya answered in a similar tone. "Our strength in magic grants us as much leisure as we desire. We neither hunt nor farm and, as a result, we spend our days working to master our interests, whatever they may be. Very little exists that we must strive for."
Imrik tried not to feel bitter about this. His own people had very little time for leisure; almost all time was given over to fighting and training. When festivals and court balls were held, there would always be many absent, for if there wasn't an invasion or raid to repulse, there were patrols to do, training to be done and blades to hone. Try as he might, Imrik could not keep from commenting.
"Your people are lucky, for this is a way of life that has not been seen on Ulthaun for over seven thousand years. We call it the Golden Age, when the Everqueen ruled alone and war was unknown to us." Arya shot him a worried glance, then continued to lead them forward as Eragon followed mutely; he seemed to have given up trying to grasp that Imrik's civilisation was older than anything he knew, even surpassing the dwarves by Imrik's reckoning.
They walked through a tunnel of dogwood draped in creepers, entering the atrium of a house grown from a ring of trees. An open-walled hut stood in the centre of the atrium, sheltering a forge and collection of fine tools. An elf woman held a pair of small tongs in the coals, working the bellows with her right hand. With speed Imrik accustomed to a warrior, she lifted the tongs from the fire, revealing a ring of white-hot metal. She then looped the ring through the edge of an incomplete mail shirt that hung from the anvil, grasped a hammer, and welded the join shut with a single, solid blow.
Arya chose this moment to approach. "Atra esterní ono thelduin." She said, Indicating she held this woman in great respect.
The woman turned to face them and Imrik audibly gasped. With her neck and cheek under lit from the forge, Imrik could clearly see the lines of age and tension running across her face, showing she was not just old, but that she had endured great pain as well. Her eyes flicked to Imrik quickly, then back to Arya. She gave no response to the princess, which Imrik knew was highly discourteous and offensive.
"Rhunön-elda, I have brought you the newest Riders, Eragon Shadeslayer and Imrik of Caledor."
"I heard you were dead." Rhunön said to Arya. Her voice hardly surprised Imrik, yet it was still unnerving to hear an elf speak as she did, her voice like gravel underfoot.
Arya smiled at the statement. "When did you last leave your house, Rhunön?"
"You should know. It was that Midsummer's Feast you forced me to attend."
"That was three years ago."
"Was it?" The old woman frowned as she tended to her forge, then turned on them again. "Well, what of it? I find company trying A gaggle of meaningless chatter that ..." he glared at Arya. "Why are we speaking this foul language? I suppose you want me to forge swords for them? You know I swore to never create instruments of death again, not after that traitor of a Rider and the destruction he wreaked with my blade."
"They already have swords. Imrik, if you please?" she said, holding out her left hand. Imrik eyed the smith warily before unbuckling Dragonfang and handing it to Arya. The princess presented both swords to Rhunön.
The old smith took Zar'roc with a look of wonder. She ran her hands lovingly over the wine-stained sheath, lingering over the black rune etched into it; the name of the sword. She rubbed a bit of dirt from the hilt before drawing the sword with the skill and speed of a professional soldier. She sighted down every angle of the blade and flexed the blade between her hands until Imrik was sure the blade must snap from the tension. Then, in one fluid movement, Rhunön brought the sword up over her head and slashed down at the tongs on the anvil, splitting them like butter.
"Zar'roc, I remember thee." She said, cradling the sword like a mother. "As perfect as the day you were finished." She turned her back on them and raised her head to look up at the twisting branches above. "My entire life I spent hammering these swords out of ore. Then he came and destroyed them. Centuries of work obliterated in an instant. So far as I knew, only four examples of my art still existed. His sword, Oromis's and two others guarded by families who managed to rescue them from the Wyrdfell."
"Another name for the Foresworn." Said Arya in Imrik's mind.
Rhunon turned to Eragon. "Now Zar'roc has returned to me. Of all my creations, this I least expected to hold again, save for his. How came you to possess Morzan's sword?"
"It was given to me by Brom." Replied Eragon.
"Brom?" Rhunon hefted the sword. "Brom... I remember Brom. He begged me to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had already taken my oath. My refusal angered him beyond reason. Oromis had to knock him unconscious before he would leave."
"Your handiwork has served me well, Rhunon-elda. I would be long dead if not for Zar'roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it." Said Eragon eagerly.
"Did you now? Then some good has come of it." Sheathing Zar'roc, she reluctantly returned the blade. She noticed the other held before her and reached out to take Imrik's sword.
"This is not one of my blades..." she said as she ran he hands across the smooth blackwood of the sheath, the golden dragon wings at the mouth and the end of the scabbard. Wrapping her hand around the hilt, she drew forth the ancient Caledorian blade.
Thinner and lighter than Zar'roc, Dragonfang was just as elegant. Colours flowed beneath the shining ithilmar and the dragon heads on the cross-guard were given red life by the muted glow of the covered forge. The runes etched on the blade shone faintly, hiding the power contained in the ancient sword. Rhunön preformed the same tests upon Dragonfang as she had on Zar'roc. She swirled the sword between her hands and sliced down at the ruined tongs. A clear ring resounded as the tongs were once again cleaved. The smith seemed satisfied and sheathed the blade.
"I have never seen the like of the blade, how came you by it?" she asked as she handed it back to him. Imrik took the sword with gratitude and buckled it back to his hip.
"It was a gift to my family seven thousand years ago during the daemon wars from Asuryan, the creator god of my people. It is said that the god of smiths, Vaul himself, worked over this blade and my armour." Responded Imrik politely. Rhunön seemed to accept this without question, which Imrik found odd. She looked back at the dragons and walked forward a step.
"Well met, Skulblaka." She said, addressing Saphira first. She then marched up to her and tapped a scale on her shoulder, turning her head to see the iridescent shades. "Good colour. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider's sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this blue would have made a gorgeous blade..."
The energy visibly left the old woman. She returned to her anvil, seemingly unable to greet Gwihir. She stared at her wrecked tongs, the will to replace them vanished. After an awkward pause, Eragon spoke again.
"I've never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don't you just use magic and save yourself the work?"
Imrik winced slightly as Rhunön turned on Eragon. She tossed her hair and passion burned in her eyes. "And rob myself of all pleasure in this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires – and some do – but then what meaning is there in life? How would you fill your time? Tell me."
"I don't know." Said Eragon, embarrassed.
"By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it. A lesson for you. You'll face the same dilemma one day, if you live long enough... Now begone! I am weary of this talk." With that, the smith returned to her forge, retrieving a new set of tongs to continue her work.
"Rhunön-elda, remember I will return for you on the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren." Said Arya. The old woman grunted in response.
They left back the way they had came, the ringing of steel on steel heavy in the air, like an eagle's scream in the high mountains.
"She made all the Rider's swords? Every last one?" asked Eragon, awestruck.
"That and more. She's the greatest smith who has ever lived. Thought that you should both meet her, for her sake and your own."
"Thank you." Said Eragon.
"Yes, thank you Arya, it had been enlightening."
Arya laughed suddenly and Imrik was reminded of how much she had relaxed since coming home. He smiled at the memory of the woods outside Tarnag and the jest they had shared together. Arya spoke, indicating Saphira had asked a question.
"Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft and she's famously impatient with anything – or anyone – that interferes with it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated though, because of her incredible skill and accomplishments."
Imrik nodded mutely, trying to pick apart the puzzle of the event Arya had named back at the forge. Agaetí Blödhren... Blödh was blood, so Blödhren must mean blood-oath. He could not think of Agaetí. He had no idea. He asked Arya for the meaning.
"Celebration," she explained. "We hold the Blood-oath Celebration once every century to honour our pact with the dragons. You are all fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us..." She frowned, as did Imrik. "Fate has indeed arranged a most auspicious coincidence."
"Call me a goblin if this is mere chance. The gods had something to do with this." Imrik muttered. Arya, her elven ears sharper than Eragon's, caught his words and raised a slender eyebrow. Imrik shrugged, outwardly portraying indifference whereas inside he was boiling with questions and curiosity. Arya turned forward again and lead them deeper into the forest. The light around them steady decreased until they walked in darkness. The trees thickened and grew closer and closer together, pressing in on them until the dragons could hardly move between them. Imrik was about to ask Arya where she was leading them until he saw light ahead.
They entered a clearing lit by the crescent moon, its blue-white light illuminating a lone pine tree in the centre of the treeless area. It was no taller than the other trees, yet it was as thick around as a small mountain. It dwarfed them as it dwarfed the trees around it. Roots ran out from the tree like a tapestry of bark and displaced grass. It gave the impression of the forest flowing outwards from the tree, like a spring that starts the mountain river.
"Behold the Menoa tree," whispered Arya. "We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade."
Eragon turned to them and recounted what Solembum had told him in Teirm. Imrik turned to the tree and scanned the massive root structure for any glint of weaponry. He saw none.
"Werecats rarely offer help, and when they do, it's not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden here, not even in song or legend. As for the Rock of Kuthian... the name echoes in my head like a voice from a half-forgotten dream, familiar yet strange. I've heard it before, though I cannot recall where."
They approached the tree and Imrik felt a wave of foreboding wash over him. Something important had happened here, or was going to happen soon. He didn't mention this to the others, sharing his feelings with Gwihir. The dragon looked up at the tree with a wary expression, fangs slightly bared.
"It's awake!" exclaimed Eragon suddenly, startling Imrik. "I mean ... it's intelligent." Saphira cocked her head to one side and flew up to one of the branches, which were thicker around than she was. She hung there, perched like a bird, with her tail swinging beneath her. Imrik laughed and Eragon joined in. Saphira glared at them from her seat. It was a truly peculiar sight, a dragon in a tree. Slowly, Imrik extended his thoughts towards the tree.
He was met, almost instantly with a presence so large and powerful that he was surprised he hadn't noticed it the minute they had entered the clearing. The tree emanated strength and solidity. The vast plane of its mindscape could not be fully understood by any being. It did not seem to notice his intrusion, focused as it was entirely on one task: the forest's wellbeing. Its thoughts moved apace to one of the great glaciers of the frozen wastes of Naggaroth. Imrik caught flashes of thought, a rose buss budding, aphids attacking thousands of plants, protected and herded by millions of ants. He withdrew from the mind of the tree, shocked and awed by the immense being before him.
"Oh course she's awake." Arya said, her voice was quiet and held a tone of melancholy. "Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?"
"I'd like that." Replied Eragon.
"Please proceed, Princess Arya." Answered Imrik, keeping his manners.
A flash of white, like lightning, flew towards the tree and settled next to Saphira. It was Blagden. The white raven hunched his shoulders and thrust out his neck, appearing more vulture than rook. He lifted his head and shrieked and ominous cry. "Wyrda!"
"This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became immortal as any being still composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Linnëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with the art of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never suspected existed, a craving to experience the things she had unknowingly sacrificed. The offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for her to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself o the young man and, for a time, they were happy.
"But the young man was young and he began to long for a mate closer to his own age. His eye fell upon a young woman and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they were happy too.
"When Linnëa discovered she had been spurned, scorned and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst possible thing: he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, then torn it away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him to death.
"Linnëa knew what she had done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated for the murder, she could not return to her previous existence. Life had lost all joy for her. So she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and three nights she sang and when she had finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all the millennia since has she kept watch over the forest ... thus was the Menoa tree created."
By the end of Arya's story, they sat side by side of one of the tree's massive roots, twelve feet off the ground. Gwihir lay beneath them and Saphira and Blagden above them. Arya sat between Imrik and Eragon, the latter bouncing his heels like a small child. Imrik knew the story wasn't just history; it was a warning against Eragon's feelings for her. She had guessed it then, and Imrik would have to be careful to hide his own feelings deeper within himself. He could not let them interfere with his training or with Arya's life. He would not allow it, to let these confused and unknown feelings boil forth.
"Do you think that the young man was to blame for the tragedy?" Arya asked Eragon.
Imrik watched as Eragon considered his answer carefully. "I think..." he said finally, "that what he did was cruel... and that Linnëa over-reacted. They were both at fault."
Arya stared hard at him until the boy was forced to look away. Imrik averted his eyes and looked to the sky, seeking solace in the stars. "They were ill suited for each other." Said the princess.
Eragon took a minute to reply. "Perhaps." Was all he said.
Silence grew between the tree of them. Imrik was uncomfortable with breaking it, something he had not felt very often. He found himself questioning his every action to see if it held any hint of his feelings towards Arya. By the gods, how could one woman have this affect on him? He had always been so sure of himself, caring little for the thoughts of those he did not consider to be his immediate friends. And so it fell to Eragon to break the awkward nothing.
"Being at home seems to agree with you." He said.
"It does." She replied, easily picking up a fallen branch and picking off the leaves. She began to weave them into an intricate basket. Imrik looked on the work with fascination. A smile, barely noticeable, touched his lips.
"Where... where do you live? Do you an Islanzadí have a palace or castle...?" asked Eragon awkwardly.
"We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family's ancestral buildings, in the western part of Ellesméra. Imrik has visited us once already, although it was far too brief. You must both come and let me show you all of my home."
"Ah." Said Eragon. Imrik stepped in quickly.
"We would be most pleased to visit when we have time, Arya. Thank you for your offer."
"Arya, do you have any siblings?" said Eragon, his train of thought undisrupted by Imrik's words. The princess shook her head. "Then you are the sole heir to the elven throne?"
"Of course. Why do you ask?" Arya sounded bemused by the return of Eragon's questioning nature.
"I don't understand why you were allowed to become ambassador to the Varden and the dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira's egg from here to Tronjheim. It's too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-in-waiting."
"You mean it's too dangerous for a human woman. I told you before that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realise is that we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves, or even Imrik's own people. To us, a king or queen's highest responsibility is to serve their people however and wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to – as the dwarves say – hearth, hall, and honour. If I had died in the course of my duty, then a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our various Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation." She hesitated, then pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin upon them. "I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother."
"On Ulthuan, when the Phoenix King dies, the princes assemble after a year of mourning to elect a new king from amongst their number. Any who can claim ownership of a weapon forged for the wars against the daemons is counted as a prince. When a new king is chose, he is given to the flames of Asuryan. If he emerges un-burnt on the other side, the Phoenix Lord has accepted him and declared him free of taint. This does not mean we have bad leaders, merely that they have no evil in their hearts. The Everqueen, who rules the second throne of Ulthuan, is succeeded by the daughter born of her intercourse with the Phoenix King. Only this daughter can become Everqueen. She can take consorts and the Phoenix King is not bound to her; he can marry and have other children, though they do not inherit the crown. Thus has it been since the time of Aenarion." Imrik stood and bowed to Arya and Eragon. "Goodnight to both of you, I will take my leave. See you tomorrow at the crags, Eragon. Princess Arya." Eragon grunted in response and Arya wished him a goodnight before turning to talk to Eragon. Gwihir followed Imrik to the bottom of the root, then they made their way back to the tree house, Imrik still trying to devise a way to hide his feelings from the intuitive princess.
A/N: Hey guys. Well, what did you think? Feel free to tell me with reviews! I'm sorry this chapter is so late but I had AS exam modules to do. Sorry also that I couldn't get the blood-oath into the chapter, its already nearly 11k words long and I really didn't want to write more. Right, that should do. Don't forget to review!
Caledor out!