Chapter Eleven
Training
When Galbatorix saw Ilirea for the first time, he could hardly believe his eyes. The city loomed large on the horizon as he and Laela approached, and it was white. Its towers reared into the sky, shaped like the horns of a gigantic dragon. Coloured banners flew from the walls, decorated with dragons in every colour of the rainbow. The white city shone in the noonday sun, the very symbol of the power of the riders.
It had taken them two days to reach it, and during that time Vrael had proven that his speech at their first meeting had not been just for show. The old elf was utterly implacable. He never smiled or said anything encouraging or approving, and at the slightest sign of disobedience he would turn cold and disdainful. He didn't even have to shout; a mere glance was enough to make Galbatorix crumble inside.
Laela got the same treatment from Nöst. The big old dragon never spoke to Galbatorix directly, but he could see how he was toward Laela. He would bare his teeth at her if she rebelled, and once he rushed at her as if to attack, nearly scaring the pair of them to death. If she went astray in the air he herded her back at once, and she reported that he was constantly lecturing her in the privacy of her mind. And it only threatened to get worse once they reached Ilirea.
And now they'd reached it. Nöst flew to the largest of the towers and entered a massive hollow in its side. The other elders followed, and Laela and Thrain went too. The hole in the tower led to an enormous cavern, all white, its walls completely smooth and featureless, tapering with the shape of the tower. The five elders stood in a circle around its edges, spaced in a uniform, orderly way that suggested this was a custom. Laela and Thrain landed in the centre, and Galbatorix and Flell dismounted, standing side by side in front of their dragons and keeping their heads bowed to the elders.
Vrael spoke first. 'Welcome to Ilirea. This is the capital of the riders. From here we go forth to enforce the rule of law in Alagaësia, and here you will undergo your training in order to become one of us. You both became riders when you were bonded to your dragons, but you will only be fully accepted when your training is complete. At the end of it you will return to Ellesméra , where you will be presented with your swords. How long the training lasts is up to you. Today it begins. Once we are finished here, you will be escorted to your new lodgings and given some time to rest. But before all of that, before you are able to begin your training, you must do what all new riders do – you must take an oath before us all, pledging yourselves to us. By fate chosen, and by fate bound. Your oath will bind you to the riders, heart and soul, for the rest of your lives.' He stepped forward, offering a scroll of paper to each of them. 'Take these, and recite the oath.'
Galbatorix unrolled his scroll. It was inscribed with several lines of writing in the ancient language. Beneath them was a translation. He scanned it quickly, then looked up at Vrael as the lord of the dragon riders began to speak once again.
'Speak these words aloud in the ancient language. But first tell me… have either of you discovered your true names?'
There was a pause. 'I have,' said Galbatorix.
'You will tell it to me, after you have taken the oath,' said Vrael. 'As will you, Flell, once you have learnt it. Now, take the oath. You first.' He nodded to Galbatorix.
Galbatorix looked at the paper. He couldn't help but feel a little uneasy over what it said. This was it. Once he had spoken these words, there would be no going back. And when he told Vrael his true name he would lose all further chances. He would belong to them, and they would be able to do what they wanted with him. Once that wouldn't have bothered him… now it did. But what choice did he have.
'I, Arren Cardockson of Teirm, swear by my soul and by my blood, and by the sea and the sky, that I shall serve the realm by upholding the laws of the Shur'tugal and enforcing their great rule upon all who dwell in this land. I shall live for nothing but duty, and by nothing but honour. I shall speak truth in all things, and give up all ties to that which is mortal and brief. I shall respect the sanctity of life, but shall not back down in the face of opposition, nor run from battle when lives are at stake. I shall do all that my elders ask of me, no matter what the circumstance, and remain loyal until my dying day. All this I swear, by the sea and the sky and the great magic that binds us all.'
As he spoke, he could feel the power in the words flowing through him like icy water, binding him to his oath. If he ever tried to break it, he would die. He was a rider now, and at Vrael's command. Forever.
Then it was Flell's turn to take the oath, which she did without hesitating. Thrain and Laela had to take it as well, and Galbatorix waited as the two dragons recited the words for all to hear.
Once it was done, Vrael sent Flell and Thrain away and then turned to Galbatorix. 'You found your true name?'
'Yes, Master,' said Galbatorix.
'There is no need to tell me how you found it,' said Vrael. 'Only tell me if you are certain of it.'
'I am, Master.'
'Then tell it to me,' said Vrael.
Galbatorix didn't flinch. He looked straight at the elf, eye to unflinching eye, black to blue, and said; 'Vinr. My true name is Vinr.'
And from that day on, nothing was ever the same again.
It only took a few months for Galbatorix to realise just how peaceful his time in Ellesméra had really been, and how much freedom he'd had. Now his training had really begun, all that came to an end. Now he was under Vrael, and now there was no rest, no peace, no freedom, and no end in sight. Every day he got up at dawn, and had to spend three hours practising swordplay before he was even allowed to eat. The rest of the day was spent mastering the ancient language – learning how to read and write it as well as speak it. He also had to learn how to conduct an army on the battlefield, and about Alagaësia's laws, and how to hold a trial. He learned the lore of the various races under the rule of the riders, along with bits of their languages – even that of the hated urgals. He was instructed in Alagaësian history, too, and learnt of the various conquests the riders had made.
That was when he discovered something that truly disturbed him. He found that, not only had the riders ruthlessly crushed all opposition, but they had actually driven some races to extinction, races he'd never heard of. Apparently there had once been shapeshifters living in the deep forests, and a race of elves known as the silver elves, who worshipped trees. But they were all gone now – 'vanished' was how Vrael described it. When Galbatorix asked for more information, he was told that they had opposed the riders' rule and, after they had been defeated, chose death rather than assimilation.
Or that was how Vrael put it, anyway. Perhaps Galbatorix would have simply accepted this explanation, but for one thing. One of the races Vrael named as having 'vanished' was that of the dark elves. His father's people. Vrael referred to the dark elves as evil. 'They consorted with black powers and sought to use their corrupted magic to gain power for themselves,' the old elf declared. 'They were an accursed race, and Alagaësia is the cleaner for having been rid of them.'
Galbatorix listened to this in silence. Was he right? Had his father been a monster? He had come to respect Vrael's wisdom, but something inside him wouldn't quite accept that notion.
'How can an entire race of people be evil?' he asked.
Vrael's expression was unwavering. 'Some things should never have come into being.'
Galbatorix had to be content with that.
And his training continued, on and on. He shared some lessons with Flell, but much of the time he was alone. The most distressing part of it all was that he was also parted from Laela. She spent her days with Nöst and Thrain, undergoing her own training, which was no less harsh than his own. They barely had time to talk.
The feeling of isolation this gave him brought home just how close he and Laela had become during their time in Ellesméra. Being without her made him feel lost, as if he were missing part of himself. It gave him a deep ache in his heart, and although they were reunited most evenings he still hated it. It felt like he was missing the best part of their time together; it seemed like she grew bigger every day. And her personality seemed to be changing, too. There were no more laughs, no more gentle teasing. Now she was terse and irritable, and frustratingly distant, as if she didn't know him any more.
It affected him too. Without her there to cheer him up and bring out his lighter side, he became sullen and withdrawn, and silent too. He did everything that was asked of him without question, but he did it without joy. His conversations with Vrael were terse and formal, and although the old elf did try to make him open up he refused. He respected his mentor, but he neither liked nor fully trusted him.
The only joy left in his life at that time was Flell. In Laela's absence she had become the only constant friend he had. She too was suffering under Vrael's tough discipline and difficult lessons, and she and Galbatorix turned to each other for comfort. Their tentative relationship had become a strong, loving bond, and during mealtimes they would sit together and talk quietly. It didn't matter what they talked about. The act itself was enough. Flell too was changing. She had lost her mischievous smile and irreverent sense of humour, and become quiet and a little sad. She was missing Thrain, he knew. But as the months passed and the end of their first year of training approached, he realised it was something more than that. She'd been half a girl when he met her, but not any more. Had he been half a boy? He supposed so. But he'd never realised that growing up would be like this. That it would leave him feeling so alone.
He learned more of magic in that time, too. Once he had mastered the ancient language, Vrael began teaching him how to cast spells without using words – a more dangerous way, but just as effective.
And he excelled at it. He excelled at everything, in fact, though he didn't really know it. Vrael never let him know just how astonishingly fast he was learning; in fact he was so harsh toward him that he came to believe he was hopelessly stupid and inadequate.
But only a hint of Galbatorix's talents had been revealed in Ellesméra, and now he was beginning to show their true depths. His command over magic and his prowess with psychic forces astounded both Vrael and his fellow elders, who privately agreed that already outstripped some of the most respected magic-users in the land. He mastered combat with similar ease, and had to move on to a new sparring partner three times in one week. In a mere three months he caught up with his fellow students, who'd begun their training before him, and then he outstripped them.
By the end of his first year of training, Vrael was unable to hide it from him any longer. He put down the book he had been using to instruct him and Flell in magic, and said; 'That's it. Fell, stay with me. Arren… you're free to spend the rest of the day however you choose.'
Galbatorix stared at him. 'But… Master Vrael, what did I do?'
'Nothing,' said Vrael. 'You've done nothing. But there's nothing more I can teach you now. You've mastered the art of magic. Everything else must come from experience, but there's nothing more I can do. Go.'
Galbatorix left, his mind reeling. He didn't believe for one moment that Vrael was telling the truth. There had to be more left to learn. And he'd only been doing it for a year. For the last three days Vrael had done nothing but complain and push him harder, and he'd become convinced that he was slipping. The sudden change of pace left him feeling confused and nervous rather than proud. And now he had some time to do whatever he wanted. The last time he'd been free from his lessons had been the previous month, when the day of the First Hatching had come again and he and Flell had attended the celebrations in the city. It had been an opportunity to spend time with their dragons again, but they hadn't seen any of their fellow students since leaving Ellesméra. It was unusual for all the elders to be in Ilirea at the same time, and students stayed with their masters until their training was complete. Brom and Morzan were in Vroengard with elder Oromis, but he would probably meet them again at this year's Blood Oath celebration.
Feeling at a loose end, he wandered toward the library. It was the largest one in Alagaësia, and he'd spent countless hours in there, reading dry books. But he couldn't think of anywhere else to go, and besides, there was something he wanted to find.
The library was cone-shaped like the tower it was built into, and its white walls were lined with books. Many of the shelves were so high up they had to be reached by ladder. Galbatorix headed straight for the nearest ladder, and climbed nimbly up it until he reached a shelf which was lined with ledgers – hundreds and hundreds of them. They contained the official records of everything the riders had done during their reign; from taxation to building. And legal cases.
It took some time for him to find the set of books dated to the year of his birth. He selected the one labelled Laws and Sentences, and carried it down the ladder to one of the tables. He pulled out a chair with his foot, and sat down, dumping the book on the table. It was very big and heavy, and he opened it. That raised a cloud of dust. Galbatorix sneezed. Rubbing his nose, he turned the musty pages, his eyes flicking over the endless lines of neat inked writing. The book was arranged according to the various provinces, and he searched through it until he found the section concerned with Teirm.
And that was where he found it. Just a brief entry, placed near the bottom of the page. As if it didn't matter very much.
Two weeks before the day of the Sixth Hatching, in the eight hundred and eighty-seventh year of the rule of the Shur'tugal.
The noblewoman Ingë Taranisäii, nineteen years old, was brought before Elder Menulis on a charge of obscenity. Also presented was the slave Skandar Traeganni, of the race of the Dark Elves, age unknown.
The trial took place over the course of seven days. On the sixth day, Skandar Traeganni was sentenced to death for having violated the laws binding slaves and freeborn. Ingë Taranisäii was offered a pardon under condition of terminating her pregnancy by him, but spurned the offer and was sentenced to die beside him upon the birth of the child.
Sentence was carried out on the Day of the Seventh Hatching.
Galbatorix read the entry twice. He thought he should have felt sad, but he didn't. All he felt was a cold emptiness inside him.
A tear fell onto the page, blurring the inked words, and it was only then that he realised he was crying. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly, and though he tried to contain himself the tears leaked between his fingers, hot and wet. When he forced himself to look at the words again, they were blurred and he couldn't read them any more. But they were all that remained to prove that his parents had ever existed. Them, and he himself. He was the living proof.
After his sorrow came fear. What if someone else read this record? What if they found out what he really was? Tommen and Bruin and their friends had nearly killed him, but they were just common thugs. How would the riders in their wisdom react? He knew enough of their ways by now to know they weren't above breaking their own laws if they felt like it. He'd seen the wistful look in Vrael's eyes when he talked about Saraswati, and once he'd secretly observed them kissing when they thought they were alone. They obviously knew it was forbidden for elves and humans to be lovers, but they were doing it anyway. After all, who had the power to punish them for it?
The cynicism of it revolted him. He who enforces the law is above the law, apparently. But his parents had died for doing exactly what Vrael and Saraswati were doing. And they would never be beheaded in front of a jeering crowd.
He looked at the entry again. His tears had dried up, and the words were clear enough. It meant he could re-read the part about his mother. …offered a pardon under condition of terminating her pregnancy… she didn't have to die. They would have let her live if she killed her son – him. But she hadn't. She had chosen death so that he could live.
A sweet ache arose in his chest. Ingë Taranisäii, nineteen years old. The mother he would never know, but who had loved him. Must have loved him. She had loved him so much that she had died for him. His instinct had been right. She must have known that she would never get to raise him herself, but she had given him the greatest gift she could; the gift of life, given freely and with love.
Sitting there, looking at those words, he felt a connection with her that had never truly been there before. He touched the damp paper with his fingers, as if trying to absorb what was written on them into his own body, and closed his eyes. Mother…
But what about his father? Had Skandar Traeganni had the chance to see his newborn son before they dragged him to the block? And if he had, what had he felt? Had he loved him as Ingë did, or hated him? What had he even looked like?
Galbatorix looked up quickly. There was no-one else in the library. He returned to the ladder and climbed it as fast as he could. Once at the top, he scoured the record books, not even certain what he was looking for. He didn't know what year the conquest of the dark elves had taken place in. In the end, he took down as many volumes as he could carry, each one entitled Of Wars and Conflicts and labelled for a different year, and laboriously carried them back to the table.
For the next hour or so, he searched through the books, looking for any mention of dark elves. None of them had indexes, and it was a slow, tedious process.
But it wasn't long before he almost forgot about the dark elves altogether. His eyes widened as he scanned the pages. He finished with the first volume and went onto the next, and then the next, and in every one of them he discovered things that horrified him. The conquests of the riders…
Vrael had lied. Or, at least, had only revealed a fraction of the truth. The riders hadn't just destroyed one or two races – they had destroyed thousands. An endless list of long-forgotten peoples and species, some familiar from old stories, but most completely foreign to him. And all of them – every single one – had been driven to extinction. And not by accident but by design. The riders' design.
The list was endless, each one carefully inked onto the pages in precise, sterile terms.
The last tribe of the Durgians, a smaller species of urgal believed to be half-human, massacred at Marna. No survivors.
The conflict with the pygmy Plains Dragons came to a head on this day. The remaining adults succumbed following the removal of water from what is now the Hadarac Desert. Twelve eggs salvaged and entrusted to Elder Yansan.
An alliance between the Wild Men of the East and the Silver Elves was crushed in a battle at Oslion. A junior rider sent to negotiate the surrender of the Silver Elves during the aftermath returned with the news that the poisoning and subsequent death of the sacred Trees had driven many adult Silver Elves to hang themselves in sorrow. The remainder show no interest in either battle or surrender and in fact may well be completely gone within two years.
ETA: A report reached Ilirea today stating that the last of the Silver Elves are now dead. Their land has been given to the Southern Elves under Arian the Bold.
A shapeshifter, believed to have survived the destruction of Weirwood Forest near the Beor Mountains, was sighted near Ellesméra. The senior rider Inara was sent to dispose of him, but was unsuccessful.
The race of weredragons, believed to be extinct, was found to have left a few survivors living in secret among both humans and dragons. The fugitives were hunted down and killed.
A pair of werewolves living in Furnost were reported. Riders were promptly sent, but the creatures were beaten to death by their neighbours before their arrival.
Rufus Greatblade, King of the Red Dwarves, refused to supply a Southern Elvish army with iron. An assassination attempt proved successful, and a new Red Dwarvish King chosen with the approval of the Rider Elders.
ETA: The second King was murdered by his own people, but their subsequent assault on Orthíad was dealt with after a siege lasting two weeks. The tunnels of the Red Dwarves have been given to our allies, the Northern Dwarves, and the surviving Red Dwarves made outcast.
ETA: The last of the Red Dwarves is now believed to have died of disease.
And at last, there it was.
Upon this day, an attack of the Southern Elves took place upon the race of the Northern Elves, also known as the Dark Elves. The assault was led by Vrael himself, who personally defeated and killed their leader, Graethen, in single combat. The Dark Elvish noble Skraed Traeganni attempted to negotiate a surrender, but was refused on the grounds of having broken an oath made in the ancient language. The Dark Elves were subsequently massacred and their settlement destroyed. Of the captives taken all were children. These were spared, having a spell cast upon them to permanently rob them of their magic before being sold as slaves in the cities of Teirm, Dras-Leona and Gil'ead. It is believed that some adults may have escaped the massacre and fled to the North in the direction of Rhaenön, but thus far the rumours remain unsubstantiated.
And that was all. The entry was dated to about fifty years before his birth.
Galbatorix re-read it several times, then closed the book with a snap. He felt cold all over.
So this was it. This was the glory of the riders – this list of words that was the only thing left of the Red Dwarves, the Silver Elves, the weredragons, and hundreds of others. All this devastation, not only condoned by the riders, but conducted by them. And he was one of them.
He put the books aside, feeling sick. When he glanced at the gedwëy ignaesia on his palm, he suddenly wished he could tear it off. The riders had destroyed his father's people, and here he was, living in their city, training to be one of them. How could he possibly have been proud of that? He didn't want to be part of a group that did things like this, he didn't want…
But an image of Laela came to him at that moment, and some of his rage died down. No. He still wanted to be a rider; he was a rider, it was part of what made him who he was. Being one didn't make him responsible for what other riders had done, any more than a murderer's brother would be guilty of his sibling's crime.
In any case, the real question here was not who but why. Why had the riders done this? Vrael had taught him that being a leader meant putting aside your personal feelings and being completely even-handed, and also that a leader should not shy away from being ruthless if it was necessary.
'Human beings and other lesser races will do as they're commanded only if they respect the one who gives the command. And they will not respect someone they consider weaker or less decisive than themselves. You must never show weakness in front of those who are inferior to you. Rebellions start out of greed and insolence as often as from discontent. What people want is power. You must make it clear to them that they cannot take it from you. If you do this, they will remain loyal.'
Galbatorix had listened to him say this, and seen the sense in it. It was true. After all, why had he tried to become a rider in the first place? Because he felt powerless and wanted to become powerful. Other people wanted money – because money was power. Or property – property was also power.
Power, as the old saying went, corrupts.
'And absolute power corrupts absolutely,' he muttered.
Moving slowly and mechanically, he stacked the books in order, ready to take them back up the ladder. He came to the one with the tear-stained pages last. He looked at the record of his parents' execution again, then impulsively tore the page out and stuffed it into his tunic. Then he closed the book, put it on top of the stack, and carried the lot back up the ladder. Balanced precariously at the top, he returned the books to their rightful places on the shelves. Right now he needed someone to talk to. Not Flell. He needed someone he trusted absolutely, and he didn't care if she was in the middle of a lesson right now. He'd go to her, and-
'There you are.'
Galbatorix looked down into the library. Vrael was standing in the doorway, looking at him with the stern, displeased expression he was by now very familiar with.
Galbatorix sighed and slid down the ladder. Vrael came to meet him, saying; 'I've been looking for you. You should have been in the training yard by now. Hurry up.'
'Yes, Master,' said Galbatorix.
He went with Vrael, saying nothing. Talking too much was a sure-fire way of irritating the old elf.
But he just had to ask.
'Master?'
'Yes?' said Vrael.
'What did you mean when you said you had nothing more to teach me?'
'I meant what I said,' Vrael told him irritably. 'There's nothing more I can teach you about the principles of magic. I fail to see how you could misunderstand that.'
'I understand, Master,' said Galbatorix, who was used to this sort of thing by now. 'But last week you told me I was a hopeless idiot and I'd never get the hang of it in a million years.'
Vrael snorted. 'The hopeless idiot part is correct if you didn't realise I only said that to make you try harder. Have you really failed to see what was really going on?'
'I'm not sure I know what you mean, Master,' said Galbatorix, with a touch of sarcasm.
'That you, Arren Cardockson, are the most talented student I have ever seen,' said Vrael, somehow managing to make it sound like an accusation. 'And that none of us were surprised when you mastered magic so quickly.'
Galbatorix gaped at him. 'Are you serious, Master?'
'I never lie, boy,' said Vrael. Only he could make the word 'boy' sound so disdainful. 'In fact, I fully expect you to have completed your training in time for the Blood-Oath celebration.'
'The Blood-Oath – but that's-,'
'I know. I suggest you refrain from boasting about it to Flell, who's having enough trouble keeping up with you already. Now, be quiet. We'll spar again today.'
They'd reached the practise yard, which was an open space between two of the towers. It was simply an area of bare earth, lined with archery butts on one side. There were various wooden dummies and other bits of equipment designed for weapons training, and a rack of practise swords, axes, spears, bows and shields. Galbatorix selected his favourite sword. It had a wooden handle, but the blade was made of metal, albeit blunted and with a rounded point.
Flell was already there, sparring with the elvish weapons master. Galbatorix had learnt from him for quite a long time, but by now his sparring partner was a different elf, one said to be the second greatest swordsman in Alagaësia.
That elf, however, wasn't here.
Galbatorix looked questioningly at Vrael, holding his practise sword loosely in one hand.
Vrael drew his own sword, the white-bladed weapon known as Snœr'ónd – 'soul of snow'. 'Kreath won't be your partner today,' he said. 'I will.'
Galbatorix stared at him, speechless.
Vrael gave him a contemptuous look. 'Surely you aren't afraid to fight me?'
That stung Galbatorix into action. He raised his sword and attacked without warning.
Vrael was ready. He brought Snœr'ónd up, easily blocking the practise sword, and then launched his own assault.
For the next few minutes master and student fought each other, their swords making loud ringing sounds when they struck each other. Both were careful not to hit each other too hard, but the blades – one blunted by magic, the other by design – still inflicted painful bruises whenever they connected with flesh.
Vrael's confident assurance only lasted a short time. His initial attack was quick and ruthless, intended to disarm Galbatorix as soon as possible and hopefully teach him a lesson in the process. But the old elf soon found himself unpleasantly surprised. Galbatorix blocked all of his attacks and counter-attacked in the blink of an eye, and before long Vrael found himself working very hard just to hold his own. He was infuriated. No-one had been able to match him in swordplay for a very long time, and he'd grown accustomed to defeating any opponent in a matter of minutes.
He drove forward, as hard and fast as he could, drawing on all his long experience, utterly determined to win. Snœr'ónd became a white blur in the air, flicking toward Galbatorix's face, arms and chest like a striking snake. But the worn old practise sword was just as fast, and it would not leave the young man's hand.
Galbatorix fought quietly, as he always did, but fiercely, graceful and sinewy like a wildcat, a slight furrowing of his forehead the only sign of concentration he gave. Underneath, however, he was far less calm. This was the first time he'd ever faced Vrael in direct competition, and he realised later on that he had been longing for the chance to outdo him.
From somewhere out of the blue, Vrael's white sword caught him a direct blow to the chest. The pain was intense and sudden, and he let out a yell.
For a fraction of a second the two of them paused, breathing heavily and glaring at each other. And then…
And then Galbatorix found his perspective changing. All of a sudden, the white-haired elf before him was not Vrael, his master and mentor, Lord of the riders and ruler of Alagaësia. What he saw then was a cold, arrogant old elf who had, ever since their first meeting, tried to make him ashamed of what he was. What he saw was the one who had destroyed his father's people and sold the survivors into slavery.
A sudden, wild scream came from his throat, and he hurled himself at Vrael. He caught him off-guard and launched a savage assault on him. The blunt old practise sword smacked into the old elf's arms and shoulders, striking him a dozen times before he had a chance to respond. Vrael tried to defend himself, but he found himself faced by something he was unprepared for. It was like trying to fight an oncoming storm with a sword. Yet he stood firm all the same.
Galbatorix's boot lashed out. It hit Vrael in the shin. The elf's leg buckled, and that was all the chance he needed. Before he knew what was happening, Vrael found himself lying on his back while Snœr'ónd was sent flying, and Galbatorix was standing over him, holding the practise sword to his throat.
There was dead silence for about a minute, broken only by their heavy breathing.
Vrael looked up, utterly shocked, and saw his student standing over him, his unreadable eyes full of fierce triumph. The blunted point of the practise sword was pressing into his throat, and his ribs seared with pain from the blow that had knocked him down.
Galbatorix kept hold of the practise sword. He could feel himself trembling slightly from his exertions, but he was burning with a strange, savage energy. Underneath that was shock. His rational brain was trying to tell him what was going on, but he couldn't quite hear it. Just then, just for a second, he thought he could feel the presence of his parents, standing just behind him and watching him. But he didn't know what they were saying.
'I yield.'
Galbatorix blinked. The real world came rushing back, and he realised that Flell and her sparring partner had stopped their mock-fight and were both staring at him. He was still holding the practise sword to Vrael's throat, and the elf was looking up at him with nothing but amazement in his eyes.
'I yield,' Vrael said again. 'The victory is yours.'
Galbatorix withdrew the practise sword, and Vrael got up, cringing and putting a hand to his ribcage. He retrieved his own sword and put it back into its sheath on his back, saying nothing all the while.
'I'm sorry-,' Galbatorix began.
'Silence,' Vrael commanded. He faced his student, his expression unreadable. 'You have beaten me in combat,' he said. 'Your training is complete.'
Galbatorix blinked again. 'What?'
'Your training is complete,' Vrael repeated patiently. 'You defeated me. I cannot teach you anything more. I will send a message to Ellesméra and they will begin forging your sword.'
Galbatorix stared at him, still not quite comprehending what he was hearing. He had beaten him. He'd made him yield. But he didn't understand why Vrael had simply given up. Why hadn't he used magic? The old elf was proud – he never backed down easily. The idea that he would simply admit defeat like that was bizarre.
Vrael looked back at him, unwavering.
Or not quite. Just for a second, his expression changed. It wasn't much. Just a momentary flicker, a twitch of the mouth, something most people would have missed. But Galbatorix saw it, and he realised what it meant.
Vrael was afraid of him.
