The House within the Mound

When Eragon reached the low hill, he found a tangle of weeds and long grass covering a mound in the centre of the city. It was out of place, considering the houses all packed together and the lack of space within the walls, but also a refreshing break from the continuous stone buildings and cobbled streets.

Some children were playing with sticks atop the mound but paid no notice to Eragon, which suited him quite perfectly.

Now what? Saphira asked. Should we dig it up?

Blast through to the house! Fírnen suggested.

How about we check to make sure the house is actually there first? Eragon suggested.

Oh … alright then … the dragons muttered.

Eragon reached out his mind to the hill and met a welter of wards and magic circulating through the earth to protect the house within. Eragon pulled back before he triggered anything and sighed, stumped. Trust his father to think of some highly complicated and unbreakable pattern of wards and protection around his house. The idiot. How was Eragon meant to get into the house to find the book?

How about telling it to open? Saphira asked. After all, you are Brom's son – maybe he took that into account when he worded the wards, put a failsafe in that mean you could access the place if he died, for whatever reason.

Perhaps … Eragon said dubiously. He strode over to the tangle of weeds and grass and other foliage and placed his hand on the wall of earth in front of him. On one side the mound rose almost vertically like a wall, only to slope gently down on the opposite side. Like a lopsided triangle with a square corner sticking out of the ground. Yet circular and very weather beaten. It looked almost like a natural rocky earth formation.

Closing his eyes, Eragon said under his breath in the ancient language; "My name is Eragon Bromsson. I need to enter the house within this mound." The magic seemed to tighten and flex as if preparing to do something.

Nothing happened.

He tried many variations of his name, and even breathed his true name to the earth but still nothing moved, shifted, opened or otherwise altered whatsoever. Giving up on the idea that his identity would undo the old man's protection, Eragon set about trying to dismantle the wards enough to gain access – to no avail. Finally Eragon slumped to the ground with his back against the mound in defeat. Brom's wards were too good.

You could always try the True Name of the ancient language, Saphira pointed out.

And bring the mound crashing down on the house and everything of value in it?

Maybe not then.

Eragon got to his feet as a wash of fury and irritation engulfed him. He punched the solid earth wall with all his might, but all he succeeded in doing was bruising his knuckles; a wild throbbing spiked through his right hand and he swore loudly, sounding in that moment very much like his father – which was perhaps why Gertrude the healer paused as she strode past.

This was stupid – why was he wasting his time on such a futile errand? How could a book help him in his situation? What would have been more help is if his father or Islanzadí had told him where Murtagh was holding Arya. He could be half way there by now. He punched the wall again. And again. Until his knuckles were bloody and bruised.

Is that supposed to achieve anything?

Eragon told Saphira to keep herself to herself. He wasn't in the mood. Saphira withdrew completely knowing that Eragon's temperament couldn't tolerate even a hint of her reactions to what he thought, did and said at that moment.

He let his head fall against the mound as his bruised hand dropped to his side. He watched a trickle of blood drip down his hand and fall upon the ground at his feet. A moment later another drop joined it. When a third droplet of his blood fell to the earth the magic surrounding Brom's house contracted and before his very eyes, a door emerged through the wall of dirt looking for all the world as if it had been there for years.

Of course, Eragon thought to himself, blood magic. The most powerful kind of magic there is … and also the most dangerous.

Reaching out a hand, Eragon lifted the latch and pushed open the door. It swung wide with a creak and bounced against the inside wall. The interior was dark; Eragon conjured a handful of flames and stepped over the threshold. The door swung shut behind him and the flames in his hand went out with a flicker and a hiss. For the space of three frantic heartbeats, he was surrounded by total darkness.

And then daylight began peeking through the squat windows. As he watched, Eragon saw the dirt and earth crumble away to reveal the dust covered clutter that filled Brom's cabin. In the beams of light shining in through the dirty windows, dust swirled in peace, suspended in space as if time had frozen the small house. An air of tranquillity surrounded the place.

In the far corner stood the unmade bed Brom had slept in. A pile of ash and burned logs sat in the cold fire place while a cup of old tea perched untouched upon a pile of thick volumes, their titles' lost in the dust. Shelves filled the room – long narrow racks stood in the centre of the building and provided a complex labyrinth-like lay out which was an achievement given the small space. Several mismatched chairs littered the room, most acting as extra storage for several piles of books and scrolls while desktops were littered with scribbles and bits of paper and parchment. Several inkbottles had dried up and others had spilled over the floor. Brom had been in a hurry to leave and intercept Eragon before he made his frantic run for it.

Sighing, Eragon sat down on the only chair not taken over by books; the clawed armchair that Brom had always sat in. Incidentally the same chair from which he'd told Eragon all about dragons, and the names of many famous dragons of bygone times. Eragon stared into the empty fire place and thought for a long time on his father; being in the old man's house bought back to him how little he had known of the man and how much he had found out after he had died. Closing his eyes, Eragon lost himself in remembrance for a few minutes, and then with a heavy sigh he looked round at the clutter that surrounded him and wondered where this stupid book could be and if Brom had really only wanted Eragon to tidy the place up.

He spent the entire day in his father's house. From the outside the place appeared no different, aside from there being windows, a door and a chimney poking through the mound; Eragon said the children were welcome to continue playing on the mound. Using magic and manual labour to remove dust and clean the place up. He decided the quickest way to find what he was looking for was to put the contents of Brom's house into some semblance of order. Firstly he decided he had to put the space available to him to better use; and to redesign the layout of Brom's house to suit its new purpose – namely Eragon's personal library.

Enlisting the help of the twins, Garrow and Cadoc, Eragon had them transport the documents and texts to Roran's hall where his cousin had given him an empty room to store everything. The two boys were thrilled to be helping out their uncle. Clearing out Brom's house took the entire day and he would've continued well into the night if Oromis hadn't come and forced him to take a break.

Over the next three days, Eragon and his helpers cleared out everything from the cabin, transporting the things of importance and use to Roran's keep and throwing anything of no use into a large bonfire in the square. Apparently the anniversary of Galbatorix's defeat was approaching and to celebrate a bonfire was light and a celebration held in the square. The bonfire wouldn't be lit until the actual day the mad king was killed, but the inhabitants of Carvahall added to the pile that would be burned everything they no longer wanted or could use.

After the house had been emptied, a day was spent cleaning it from top to bottom. It would've taken longer if Eragon hadn't used magic to speed the process up. To pass the time he indulged the boys' helping him with stories his father used to tell. Using more magic and the advice from several elves and carpenters in the city, Eragon extended the house upwards an extra two stories, making full use of the height of the mound; the additional two layers of the house were each smaller than the level below it, on account of the shape of the pile of dirt that hid it from view.

A week after discovering how to get into the place, Eragon had fully reconstructed the layout of Brom's house; rows of shelves were placed with enough space for two people to walk through a row at a time. The outer walls were also lined with bookcases and shelves and the fire place had been cleaned out and repaired. The lower two levels of the building – the two largest levels – were given over entirely to housing the volumes, scrolls and texts Brom had accumulated during his life. The top level was furnished with book shelves lining the walls and a large desk with Brom's armchair placed before the fire. There was space to study on each level of the house by the fire, a small desk and a chair or two, but the main studying area was at the top of what once had been the dwelling of Brom the Story Teller.

Oromis helped Eragon replace the texts and documents into the new library; suggesting he place them in alphabetical order, and separating the dwarven texts from the elven, and the scrolls from the books. Two weeks later Eragon had finished and he slumped down on a chest filled with strange artefacts Eragon hadn't had time to figure out yet. At least now he would have a chance at finding the book Brom had told him to get – if it even existed; Eragon was still sure his father had just wanted Eragon to tidy the place up for him.

Even so, to waste two weeks building a library seemed pointless when he should have and could have been finding and rescuing Arya. But as Oromis pointed out, the information now easily assessable to them would no doubt make up for that lost time since neither of them could think of where Murtagh was based from. Eragon had a personal attachment to the library he'd constructed and was somewhat loath to let strangers – or anyone really – into it. Thing was it wasn't really something he could pick up and take with him. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, he decided. Right now I need food and rest.

He slept soundly that night, ready the next morning to spend the day looking through shelves in search of the book. Oromis went with him. He wanted to know if there was anything in the new library that would suggest where to start looking for Murtagh. At midday, Katrina bought them lunch and suggested the two Riders got some fresh air.

"You'll forget what daylight is if you're not careful! This place is dark and dingy, but then it is built under a hill." To solve the issue of lighting, Eragon cast a cluster of werelights into existence, tying their energy to the hill itself so that they'd light up whenever someone entered the building. Katrina stalked off in a huff.

"I'd be doing the same as him if you were missing," Roran said to her that evening over dinner. Eragon and Oromis were conspicuous by their absence. "He doesn't know where to look so he's not going to rest until he does. I didn't know where the Raz'ac had taken you so I marched to the Varden. It's no different." Katrina huffed again.

Back in the library, Oromis had just stumbled across an old text that Brom had evidently rescued from the libraries of Doru Areaba. He sat by the fire on the first level absorbed by the text while Eragon frantically searched the level above. Brom's son had just about given up when his eyes caught a something in a pile of books Oromis had rifled through that morning. A small tome bound in purple leather was half hidden under the bigger books. Eragon lifted the larger volumes and placed them upon the floor as he picked up the book.

Flicking through it, Eragon realised it wasn't so much a book as a journal; he was about to put it down when –

Abr Sundavr un Garjzla;

Introduction

Of Riders and their Istalrí

Of the Deity Arven

Of Grey Magic and its Instruments

Of the Race of Grey Folk and their Demise

Of the Nine Hearts

He stared at the words written on the first page for a full minute before it registered in his mind; he had convinced himself the book didn't exist and yet here it was. Though whether it would prove useful or not … Eragon still doubted that. Nothing in the contents looked remotely helpful but he figured he ought to at least read the book before making his decision. Never judge a book by its cover and all that. Eragon climbed to the top level and sat down in Brom's chair. Saphira and Fírnen joined their minds with his own as he sat down to read the introduction:

And so it comes to pass that our Order shall wither and perish; that we must suffer the grief of Galbatorix as he laments the loss of his beloved Jarnunvösk. I only hope that some of us survive to linger on and sustain all that we have stood for these past centuries gone – that our history and our lore does not die with us.

'Tis why I now write this document; why I dare to put upon perishable paper the histories and the knowledge that we Riders are trusted with. I know how dangerous this will be; I break the Peacebringer's law by doing this for undoubtedly this book could fall into hands of one whom has no right to read it … or even still that Galbatorix himself comes to find my text in his possession. If that comes to pass then may Arven forgive me but I cannot let these truths die with me; some truths are too dangerous to be forgotten. I write in the hope that one day a Rider will pick up this document and read my words and that I can in turn teach them something of our knowledge.

So, greetings to you then, Rider. And Salutations to your Dragon as well. Read on and learn something if it pleases you … I hope that you find with these pages the truths you were looking for – and mayhap some that you didn't realise you needed too. Who knows, maybe herein lies the key to stopping Galbatorix from destroying the world? If that be the case then it falls upon you, Rider, to stop him and destroy him before he in turn destroys you. The survival of who we are, Rider, no doubt rests upon you. Good Luck my friend, and farewell for I will be long dead by the time you read this.

Hlfver of Petrovya

Eragon looked up from the book and out the window. This is stupid, he said, I've already confronted Galbatorix.

There must be a reason Brom told you to find this book, Saphira pointed out. It's not a long book so you might as well read it all. For all we know it could be a sentence mentioned in passing that we need – like in Domia abr Wyrda.

Eragon grunted and turned to the first chapter.

Iet istalrí … my fire … you are my strength and my reason … and yet you are also my weakness and my undoing. If you were to place a dagger to my throat, I would be powerless to act – and yet know that I would take apart the world to find you if you were taken from me. You give me purpose when I have none … and you could ensure my downfall if you so desired it.

There are times when I hate you. You know me better even than my Dragon at times. There are times when I hate you and times when I love you. The funny thing is; no matter what you say or do, I cannot for the life of me, stay angry with you. We are like fire and rain, you and I … like two completely different stars. You drive me insane and yet – oh how it is I find myself wanting and craving your company iet istalrí. You're the harmony to every song I sing, did you know that? When we stand face-to-face we never see eye-to-eye … and – and I wouldn't, ever, change a thing.

But it pains my heart to know you may betray me. I'd forgive you. Always and completely forgive you no matter what it is you do. The choice to save the world or save you? You … always you. My best friend … my most trusted of comrades … the one I turn to when the world is at fault. Iet istalrí you are all I need to keep me going and keep me fighting. I will be to you whatever you want me to be; a friend, a protector, a brother, a servant, a lover … you hold my heart in perfect balance you do. You and my Dragon. Guard it well and know that I need you. I need you.

Perhaps it was the compatibility of the words that made Eragon read on; despite his reservations he couldn't deny that Hlfver of Petrovya's words were truth. Although he doubted he could ever put into words what he felt so poetically. He suspected Hlfver was an elf. The next three chapters were a more concise version of the tale Oromis had told himself and Arya back in Ilirea – about a god named Arven and how Magic became magic – although they touched upon the addition of 'Grey Magic' which Oromis had left out his tale. The final chapter, however, was a different story and Eragon read with wide eyes and growing wonder:

Du Hjarta abr Táldris were nine men blessed – or cursed – with the ability to control an aspect of nature without the limits of the ancient language. Some say it was Arven who blessed them, while others say that Zarven cursed them but either way they awoke one morn with abilities far beyond what was the norm. Shunned and pushed aside for their strangeness and their uncanny capabilities, the nine men eventually found one another and learned they were not alone. And they began to realise how much they could and couldn't do with the strange magic they wielded and started experimenting and learning the limits of the gifts given to them. A man came and guided them to the Dragon Riders where their uniqueness was nurtured into a power and wisdom akin to the Riders of Old; the nine weren't immortal as the elves and Riders, unless they were elves or Riders, but they lived lives longer than most of their respective races.

They gave each other pseudonyms to go by and thus became known throughout the land as the Nine Hearts of Táldris. (Táldris being the place in which they found one another) And their names were:

- Adurnahjarta; Water-Heart

- Bjarthjarta; Bright-Heart

- Deloihjarta; Earth-Heart

- Istalríhjarta; Fire-Heart

- Kuldrhjarta; Gold-Heart

- Sundavrhjarta; Shadow-Heart

- Vanyalihjarta; Magic-Heart

- Vindrhjarta; Air-Heart

- Zar'rochjarta; Misery-Heart.

Each of the nine in time found wives and families and each name in turn was passed downwards to a young member of their family that displayed hints and titbits of the same talents. Thus were the Hearts of Táldris immortal and age resistant as the Dragon Riders who taught them and nurtured them.

The magic that the nine wielded wasn't the magic known to elves and the Riders for it didn't require the structure of the ancient language only the discipline of thought. They were able to do anything they wanted if they could put their minds to it; from what I gather the nine could control the aspects of nature and meld them into whatever they wanted. 'Tis a wild and unpredictable method of magic – but cannot be counted or undone by the conventional uses of magic for the limits of the ancient language can be overcome by the boundless reaches of the mind.

The nine weren't necessarily only human, or elven, or dwarven, but rather a mixture of all the races and - sometimes – throughout the years a decedent would emerge to have been chosen by a dragon egg, although that was very rare although it was not unheard of. Five of the nine families died out and the other four were lost – either dying out, the abilities of Táldris no longer cropping forth in the younger relatives, or the four being killed before they could produce and see a fitting heir born. I believe Galbatorix made an effort to try and track down any surviving descendants of the original nine, although whether or not he found any is another matter for I have no evidence that suggests he has.

So be on the lookout, my friend, and beware for if Galbatorix has found a way to harness such magic then you will be at a loss to counteract any of that magic. Pray to Arven, dear Rider, and hope that he has not found any Heir of Táldris and twisted them into a cruel slavery of servitude. I am sorry, but this is all I know about the Nine Hearts of Táldris … and I really wish I knew more, for your sake, alas I do not and I hope to Arven that Galbatorix found no heir, I really do.

At the bottom of the page were words written in a different hand – Brom had made his contribution to the journal also.

The stone of Táldris where resides the spirit of the first Heart; Deloihjarta was a relic in the treasury in Doru Areaba. I was tasked with finding a new location to hide it when the city was under siege. Vrael himself came to me and charged me with protecting and concealing the stone. Yet as Saphira and I flew from the city we were pursued by Morzan and his Red: Vrael and Umaroth fished me out of the sea but my Saphira perished and her body sank to the depth taking with it the Stone.

The blood of Kuldrhjarta runs through my veins though I have not the gift to use them. But my son bears the gift, I am sure at least of that. Though he does not know who I am and nor will he lest Galbatorix kills him before he sees out his first winter. Do not ask how it is I know, but I know it. He is the last of the Nine Hearts of Táldris. I praise his mother for the name she gave to him for he will bear it as his namesake bore it. My son. Eragon.

Oromis burst into the study with a book in his arms. "I know where Murtagh is!" he announced, not seeing the far-away look on Eragon's face. "He's in his father's castle!"

Typical. Saphira said to Fírnen.

A/N : not too sure about this chapter. but I couldnt think of another way to get the information out.