I spoke to Freya, about the cuts Ieran came home with. She said not to worry. She always says not the worry. Curse the elf woman and her purity! I cannot go on like this, not knowing what shall happen or even what has already transpired. Ieran offered to take me, if it would get my mind from things, being his lover, but I refused. I love him dreadfully, but I could not give myself to him as he is now. A child would add to both of our burdens, and I cannot do that to him.
Curses. Curses, curses. My mind bursts with foul things to say, but I shall not write them. Durza is right – I cannot use bad language. He himself curses like a boatman, especially when things do not go as he wishes.
Súndavar stopped reading at the end of the page. This entry did little to intrigue him – except for the part about Durza's language. Súndavar himself was rather good at swearing and vulgar language in general – having picked up quite a bit from slaves in his former livelihood – but he had no doubt the dead Shade could have beaten him by a long shot.
He flipped the page. The next entry was dated two days later.
I feel silly, turning to this booke in times of distress. But already is has become my solace, my rock. The one thing I can count on, amidst the walls of this unsure place, is that here is a place I can turn and write my thoughts down, make them come out straight.
Ah, but I ramble. As I said previously – this is a time of distress, indeed. The castle has a new inhabitant. Not another slave, though they change often. Such are always dieing, being bought, giving birth. I should be happy I am not as one of them. Women receive no respect among them – there are many babies born which the father could be any of four, or five men. Poor Freya. She is so beautiful, it is doubtful that she herself has gone untouched. Yet she does not complain.
Again, I am rambling. My distress is this – it would seem Galbatorix has gone and gotten himself a lover. Her name is Lycona, and she is of elf blood. She is beautiful, really. Gorgeous, with hair of gold and eyes of sorrel-leaf that seem to peer into your soul. Around his Highness, she is quiet and says little. But she curses him behind his back. I do believe she could out-curse Durza. And still, she's a lady! She is very old, I think, very, very old, yet still she is lovely and ladylike and gentle.
What I meant, when I said that this was a distress – for Lycona is hardly a distress, but a new friend – is that Galbatorix is more outgoing than ever. He is almost jovial. Ieran has told me that his assignments from the king are getting increasingly difficult in his good spirits.
I hate Galbatorix. If only I had Durza's mouth, I could write down how much I hate him.
Well, Durza's mouth and stomach to curse so, that is.
At the bottom of the page, a picture had been drawn. It was beautiful, really, a little doodle with the caption 'Lycona as she looks around Freya and I'. The woman had high cheekbones, flowing hair, and intense eyes. Alyss had managed to get a hold on some green ink, which she had used for Lycona's irises.
Lycona. Lycona was Rune's mum.
Súndavar turned the page. It was written nearly a month later.
It has happened. Sweet hope, it has happened and it was wonderful! Ieran came home, and there was no blood on his hands. He swept me into his arms and his hands found their way under my dress, and before I knew what had happened we were making a wonderful, forbidden sort of love. It was so…I love him, I love him more than ever now. Ieran, my sweet, why did we wait so long to share this pleasure? How sweet he tasted, how wonderful his touch felt as we danced in that rhythm I'll not forget, as long as I live. His passion was beautiful, so sweet and unforgettable and magnificent. I am so glad to have become so close to him, so glad to have felt his touch in this new and wonderful way.
Lover.
Ieran is my lover.
Súndavar snapped the book closed, tossed it on his bed, and threw up. His stomach was twisting in knots. It was one thing to hear about love-making from Oromis in a 'talk', but it was another thing entirely to hear about it from a girl, in her diary, with his father no less. His head whirled, and he thought he was going to be sick again.
Slate poked his nose into the Rider's room. He sniffed, then sneezed.
Your stomach is unwell?
Probably just something I ate, Súndavar dismissed. Slate, however, was not convinced.
Come here, you look pale.
I'm always pale.
You look paler than your normal level of pale, Slate snapped. Now get out here so I can look at you.
Súndavar reluctantly agreed, marching dutifully out of his room and standing in front of Slate. He was naked to the waist, and goosebumps rose on his skin from the cold. Rune glanced at him, from where she was seated, reading to both the eggs and her baby from a children's book she had found in the library. Her eyes flicked over his naked chest, and a small smile appeared on her lips before she went on.
Slate was poking and prodding at Súndavar mercilessly with his nose. The Shade-boy groaned and slapped him away. Slate, I'm fine! He barked, embarrassed to be babied so in front of Rune.
"Hope, what happened to you?" Eragon asked, coming out of his own room. "You look as if you just caught your parents in bed or something."
You don't know the half of it, Súndavar thought. But he just smiled. "That would be a bit difficult, as my mum's dead."
Eragon shrugged, and went to Rune's side. The girl kissed his cheek fondly, making Súndavar scowl, before handing him the book. Eragon began to read. Both looked so off in their own little world, Súndavar couldn't resist but curse under his breath. What was it with them, anyways? You would think the novelty of Rune being pregnant would have worn off by now. Yet the two of them were still acting like giggly children about it – holding hands, blushing, chewing on fingernails shyly around each other, the whole cursed nine leagues.
Slate noticed him staring at them, and struck him – firmly, just enough to hurt – in the stomach with the point of his nose. Súndavar cringed, doubling over.
If you're about to be sick again, don't do it here, Slate said pleasantly. And you'd best clean up the floor in your room as well.
You're despicable.
I love you too, Rider.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
Lunge, backhand parry, strike, retreat. Lunge, overhand strike, parry, retreat. Súndavar's sword had settled into a steady pattern as it danced around the King's. Galbatorix was attacking lightly, giving Súndavar the parrying practice he had not given to Eragon. The other Rider was watching quietly from the large chair. Rune was slumbering on his shoulder, her mouth open in an unladylike but somehow – to Súndavar, at least – adorable way.
"Watch how he dances!" Galbatorix laughed. "You strike light but quick, little Shadow."
Súndavar grinned at the observation. He wasn't as strong as Eragon, by any means, but his blade moved twice as fast. It pleased him that Galbatorix had chosen to attack him slightly, rather than just parrying.
"See, Eragon? Allow your enemy to throw the moves, and retaliate when they have tired themselves."
Turning on his pupil, Galbatorix's sword doubled pace. It rapped Súndavar across each rib, his collar bones, and ended on his stomach. "You are dead," he said. "You were beginning to enjoy this, beginning to get cocky. And for that you lay bleeding at my feet."
Súndavar frowned, touching the places the sword had hit him. They stung terribly, and were burning red, but strangely…he didn't mind. The feeling was almost pleasant. He touched one of the marks on his bare chest and frowned, before poking at one on his stomach.
"Did you poison your blade?" He asked in confusion. "It feels a bit strange."
His eyes met Galbatorix's face, and the king was staring at him in shock.
"What?"
The old man blinked, and the look was gone. "Nothing. Eragon, you are dismissed. Carry my daughter back to whosever bedroom she's chosen to inhabit at the moment."
Súndavar had a clear idea that would be Eragon's own.
As the Rider left the room, Galbatorix said something else, as if by the way. "And Eragon?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I can teach you little more without a better knowledge of magic. Tomorrow we begin to work on such skills."
Súndavar's heart jumped. Magic! This meant they were one step closer to defeating the King. The Shade-boy moved to follow Eragon out.
"I did not say you could leave, Shadow."
Shadow. It made Súndavar uncomfortable, having been given a pet name by Galbatorix. But he didn't protest. Instead, he turned.
"Yes, milord?"
Galbatorix was frowning softly. "Where did you get your sword, Shadow?"
"The Varden gave it to me," Súndavar said.
"Ah. The little Thorns." Galbatorix ran his fingers through his hair. "Come with me."
He began walking in the direction of the large tapestry that hung on the wall. It had been embroidered with a map of Alagäesia, decorated with scenes from fairy stories. It was rather pretty, in truth. A Woman-Shade even stood in one of the corners, staring out with beautiful pinkish eyes. She wore little, and although she was just a legend, Súndavar wished he could have met her.
"Her name is Liadan," Galbatorix said, standing before the huge tapestry. "She was a great fighter, and a very beautiful woman." He glanced at Súndavar. "Or so the legend says." He placed his hand on the tapestry. "Rïsa."
The great thing rose, revealing a door. It was a simple door, like the one coming in. Not a secret door, just a door with a tapestry in front of it.
"I had always wondered how you got in here," Súndavar commented. "You never seem to use the door, and you are always here before us."
The King laughed slightly. "Open it," he said.
Súndavar had learned enough from Oromis to second guess this. Instead of reaching out for the handle, he reached out with his mind. A strong locking spell met his consciousness, tingling like his chest had when the King had struck him. He frowned just a bit.
"It is locked," he said. "But I cannot get around the spell."
"Nay, all that can is my truest name," Galbatorix said. His mind struck at Súndavar's, making the boy dizzy, and by the time he had recovered the door was open.
"Excuse the attack," the King said. "But I couldn't very well let you hear it."
Súndavar just held his forehead and moaned.
"Come along."
The King lead Súndavar through the bowels of the castle, the places not even slaves were allowed. Súndavar tried to sneak glances around doorways, but they were all locked tight.
At last they reached a door. On this one, Súndavar could detect no lock.
Galbatorix opened the door, let Súndavar in, and closed it.
Súndavar felt like he was going to faint.
Swords. Thousands of them. Hung from every surface, sheathed and shining, were thousands of swords. Some were fine, others simple, some inset with rubies and diamonds, others crystal or nothing at all.
"This room," Galbatorix said, his voice low and prideful, "Is my greatest joy. My only joy. My trophies, all of them. I know each by name, and know who it was taken from. A grander collection, you're naught to find in all the world over."
Súndavar reached out to touch a blade, but Galbatorix held him back with a firm hand on his arm. "They are spelled," he said. "Why do you think I did not lock this room, if it is my finest?"
Súndavar was confused. "With all due respect, why do you show me this?" he asked. "I do not put it past you to brag, but this seems like letting me a bit deep, don't you think?"
The King began laughing. Súndavar saw nothing funny.
With a long spell, a spell longer than Súndavar had ever heard or could hope to remember, Galbatorix released the swords from their bondage. "Choose one," he said. "Any sword. It shall be yours."
This confused Súndavar even more.
"Why?"
"Just choose!" the King barked. "I get little joy in this world, and would prefer it if you do as you're told and not spoil my good mood!"
Súndavar nodded in silence and began inspecting the swords. His eyes fixed on one. Its blade was black, much like Zar'roc's was crimson, and its pummel was wrapped in red leather. A fire coloured gem was inset in the handle, laced with finest silver. He reached out to touch it.
"Her name is Persephone," Galbatorix said. "She was a Ra'zac killer."
Súndavar took the sword from its mount and unsheathed it, admiring its fine quality. "She is the most beautiful thing I've seen," he said quietly. "Finer than Eragon's or Arya's for certain."
"Then she is yours," Galbatorix said. "You are stronger than either and deserve a blade that is such as well."
Stronger than…whaa? Súndavar glanced at the king and frowned. "If you are trying to sway me by giving me pretty things and compliments, it shan't work. My loyalty is to Rune and to Alagäesia. Only dogs can be won with treats."
The King frowned slightly. "You say your loyalty is to my daughter?"
"Oh, don't go all fatherly on her now! You have no right to forbid anything between us!"
"I don't mean to," the King said, shaking his head. "All I was thinking was…well, your loyalty is hers. But is hers to you?"
"Of course! She's the best friend I'll ever have and I love her. And she loves me. I know she does." Súndavar was backing steadily away from the king until he hit the wall, rattling many a sword in its sheath.
"Yet…somehow it is Eragon that manages to get inside her."
Súndavar clutched Persephone to his chest and ran from the room. "She loves me!" he stood in the doorway. "If you have never had such a feeling, it's no wonder you don't know anything about it!"
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Súndavar was out of breath by the time he reached the Hold. He slammed the door behind him, still clutching Persephone with a death-grip. Rune and Eragon jumped away from one another.
Súndavar glanced up at them, and realized they had been kissing.
He was right!
Súndavar swore angrily and ran into his room, slamming that door as well. He collapsed on the bed, confused and frightened and angry.
Why had the King singled him out so? Why had he given him a sword? Why did he pick at the nagging doubts of Rune's love that Súndavar already felt within himself? How did he know? How?
Súndavar felt himself beginning to cry. He touched the sword, ran his fingers down the broad side.
"Persephone," he said. "Persephone."
Súndavar had never been religious, but he thought he remembered the name from somewhere. It took him a moment, but when it came, it hit him full on.
Persephone was the Goddess of Revenge.
He threw the sword away from him. "No! You can't sway me! Giving me a pretty sword with a cursed name and telling me foolish things! You can't!"
His knees hit the floor, and he began to shake. He heard Rune's small fists pound on his door, before opening it.
"Get out!" he cried, shivering and moaning on the floor.
Rune touched his face. "Súndavar, you're burning up. You've gone and gotten a fever."
Her words were echoing in Súndavar's ears, sounding far, far away. A fever? What was that? And who was Súndavar? Burning? What did that mean?
The last thing he remembered before he passed out was that he wanted Revenge.
But he couldn't remember why.
ooooooooooooooooooooooo
"Those should have broken his ribs."
Shruikan was chewing on a haunch of some type. The dragon's eyes flickered at the King's words.
"He thinks he is a Shade," the man continued. "But he is not. Nor is he human."
He was never human.
Galbatorix hit the wall with his fist angrily. "He cannot realize how powerful he can become!" he cried. "If he realizes this, I am lost."
Shruikan made sure to note this. He would tell Súndavar later.
"You should have seen him heal the other Rider. Strength. It made him stronger."
As it makes you stronger, and Murtagh stronger, and anyone who knows Magic's essence, Shruikan pointed out.
"But we were taught! It did not come to us as a natural thing!" Galbatorix was shaking. This was the most agitated Shurikan had ever seen him.
What do you plan to do?
Galbatorix's eyes flashed and he attacked the dragon's mind in his own anger. "I know how fond you have become of them, dragon!" he crowed. "If I didn't need you, you would be the first to die!"
Shruikan recoiled and curled into a ball to protect himself as the King continued to attack his mind.
"You are worthless, Dragon. She has turned you, the little snake that she is. You have fallen for her snare."
What you have done is wrong.
"We have done it! You forget who flew, who burned hatchlings to a crisp! You, Dragon. You are a murderer as much as I!"
Shruikan shivered as the King's onslaught continued.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
Rune pressed Súndavar between she and Eragon's bodies tightly as the boy shivered and quaked, fighting invisible enemies that plagued his sleep. His body was very warm against hers.
Eragon was grumbling. "I don't understand why I'm laying in bed with the two of you. He is sweaty, and this is disgusting."
"You were sweaty," Rune pointed out. "Yet I'm still with child."
Eragon rolled his eyes and laid still.
"I need your help to keep him still. You don't expect me to sit on him, do you?"
"Tie him to the bed."
"Eragon!"
The Rider sighed and sat up. "I'm sorry. I just…people have fevers all the time. I'm sure we all had fevers half the time we were with the Varden, from working so hard. Yet you didn't hold us and touch our faces and baby us. Why now?"
"Do you see where we are? We all need a little extra help. Besides." She touched Súndavar's face again. "Don't you think it seems strange, coming down with something so suddenly?"
"I wouldn't know. He is Súndavar, after all."
Rune pursed her lips. "Stay with him, and keep him still," she said. "I'm going to get Ieran."
"What if he wakes up, only to find me cuddling with him?" Eragon cried. "Do you realize how utterly disturbing that would be? I doubt either of us would ever recover from it!"
Rune smacked him in the head and ran from the room as quickly as she could.
As soon as she shut the door, Eragon wrapped Súndavar tightly in a blanket, and secured him with some rope. He looked rather like a caterpillar.
"Sorry," he said. "You've become like a brother to me, but I don't love you that much."