Of course everything had started to go downhill the minute Arya arrived.
Eragon had been looking forward to her visit for months, ever since she had skryed to say that a third dragon had hatched for a new rider–an Urgal girl by the name of Kharnine, the first of her kind to be joined with a dragon.
The girl would be coming to Mt. Argnor after her dragon had matured enough to travel, joining the two other young riders who had taken up their residence at the academy–Thrivka, a dwarf girl of about fourteen, warm-spirited and highly intelligent–and Dusan, the elven boy that Eragon had seen once in Ellesmera–one of only a handful of elven children in existence.
Eragon was already juggling the numerous needs of the riders and dragons, urgals, dwarves, and elves who lived and worked with him at the keep, and he had been both elated and filled with trepidation at the news that the first Urgal rider would be arriving soon.
His Urgal companions had celebrated long into the night when he'd relayed the information to them, and Eragon could already tell that they would not hide their favoritism towards the riders of their own race. Eragon supposed this was to be expected–the elves clearly favored Dusan and the dwarves Thrivka, even though both of them had their merits and their faults.
No doubt you would find more in common with a human rider, Saphira had reminded him when he was complaining of the Urgal's clear bias.
Maybe so, but I'd at least pretend to hide it.
The Urgals are not a pretending people–they wear their feelings out in the open for all to see. They are like dragons in that way.
Eragon had accepted that there would always be a bit of bias on everyone's part, but he did his best to make sure that Thrivka and Dusan worked together and learned together, and were in all ways treated as equals.
He wondered how they would feel, once the Urgal girl arrived. Dusan had, as always, received the news very stoically, and gave little indication of any feelings he might've had on the matter. He was infuriatingly cryptic in most matters.
Thrivka, on the other hand, was boisterous and warm-hearted, and she had at least pretended to be excited for the new rider's arrival. If she had any reservations about an Urgal joining their ranks, she didn't show them, and though it had taken both her and Dusan some time to adjust to the presence of Urgals around the stronghold, she had eventually warmed up to all her new companions, and Eragon hoped it would be the same with Kharnine.
Dusan was not warm to anyone, really, but like most elves he was unfailingly polite, and Eragon thought at least he need not worry about any fistfights breaking out amongst his young riders.
Unless you throw a human in there, He'd thought, knowing that sooner or later a human rider would be bonded with a dragon, and they would then have a mix of all the races that had joined in the pact with the dragons. It was a decision he'd made, and it had been the right decision, but it certainly wasn't making his life any easier.
The elven company arrived sometime after winter had given way to a green spring around Mt. Argnor. The days were warm and the breezes brisk, and the first of the food-bearing plants of the year were being tended to by the elves, when Saphira floated down from the sky with Thrivka's dragon Dorama at her side, and announced with palpable excitement that she had spotted Firnen in the distance.
Dorama was thin and wiry, and purple-hued, with white spikes along her back. She was growing well, and had become a skilled flier during her training at Mt. Argnor. Eragon knew Thrivka did not enjoy flying as much as her dragon did, but the girl was getting used to the idea.
Once Saphira had announced the elves' imminent arrival, Eragon called off training for the rest of the day, and everyone got to work preparing a meal and cleaning up the place. The Queen of the Elves was going to visit their training grounds–everything had to be perfect.
As the sun turned the sky a light pink, Eragon heard the clomp of horse's feet from afar off.
He'd summoned everyone in the compound out to the front doors of the keep, and waited by Saphira, buzzing with energy just as she was. Thrivka and Dusan stood formally next to their dragons, one shifting with excitement, the other unreadable.
The wild dragons that lived on the mountain with them had also politely consented to join in the welcoming committee. They were small, young dragons, one a mere baby, but they had already begun to establish their independence, which Eragon knew he must allow.
He worried for them when they disappeared to go hunting or wandered off into the wilderness for days at a time, but Saphira reminded him that the wild dragons, once hatched and old enough to fend for themselves, were not his responsibility.
They must be allowed to forge their own way, to rebuild our race independent of the riders. If they come to grief in the wild, that is but the way of the world, and we must accept it.
Eragon did accept it, but it still kept him up at night, wondering where the young dragons were when they weren't spending the night in the nests provided for them.
The gathering at the base of the keep was strange and colorful, and all waited in anticipation as they watched a cadre of elves appear over the ridge. At their head walked the green dragon Firnen, carrying his rider Arya on his back.
Eragon felt his heart and Saphira's heart jump at the same time. He couldn't help but smile. It had been over a year since he'd seen Arya–since she'd come to deliver the two young riders whose dragons had hatched within weeks of each other.
Much had happened in the intervening time, and yet it had also felt like a blink. In some ways Eragon was beginning to understand what it felt like to be an immortal–to feel the passing of years like a breath–but in other ways he felt like he was still aging, growing, changing.
Saphira had agreed that he had grown into his manhood in the years since the war, maturing in stature and face, even if he was not aging the way a normal human would. He wondered if Arya would note the changes, but he tried not to dwell on this.
Arya was visiting in a formal capacity–as Queen and Rider, bringing the newest recruit to the training grounds after watching over her and her dragon for several months. There would be time for them to speak with each other as friends, but Eragon's first duty was as leader of the dragon riders, and he would have to focus on that.
He felt Saphira cycling through the same emotions, her tail twitching behind her as she watched Firnen approach. He placed a hand on her great foreleg, for steadying and support, and felt a mental nudge from her in return.
Behind Firnen rode a company of Elves, and at their front was a young Urgal girl, walking with a pack on her back, a small silver dragon strolling at her side. Eragon's eyes were dazzled by the glint on the dragon's scales, which sparkled like a thousand mirrors. The creature was beautiful, and as always it made him tear up to see a new dragon growing in the world
Arya was smiling when she approached, a circlet on her head and her sword at her side. Her eyes sparkled as Firnen pulled to a stop on the grassy slope in front of the keep.
"Atra esterni ono thelduin," Eragon said, using the Elvish gesture of greeting and speaking first. Arya repeated his gesture, and he added the third line in a show of respect.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," He said then, in the language all could understand. "Welcome to Mt. Argnor, we are honored by your visit."
"Greetings, Shadeslayer," Arya spoke warmly, "May I introduce Kharnine Swiftfoot of the village of Nodusclune, and her partner, Shillith."
Arya gestured to her side, and the Urgal girl bared her neck to Eragon, who returned the gesture.
"We are glad to welcome you, Shillith, Kharnine," Eragon said with a smile, "I am Eragon, and this is Saphira, and we are here to help you in whatever way you need."
The silvery dragon shifted its small front legs and flapped once; Eragon interpreted that as a greeting, and it gave him a warm feeling in his chest to see the young dragon, learning how to handle its wings and legs, tottering around and discovering the world for the first time.
His rider Kharnine was tall, and thick-limbed, with a fine set of horns twisting out of a curly head of hair. Her eyes were fierce and her stance strong–traits that Eragon had come to expect from the Ugralgra.
He hoped that her imposing nature held some softness underneath; he had never tried to train an Urgal before, and he knew they could be stubborn beyond measure, in a way totally different from the Dwarves' stubbornness, or that of the Elves. He hoped she would be able to respect him, despite him being hornless and thin-skinned.
When introductions were made between all three of the young riders, and the other Elves who had joined Arya on the journey were given their due respect, Eragon beckoned everyone to come in for a meal after their long travel.
The evening was noisy, and strange, and full of good humor. Dragons, Elves, Dwarves and Urgals shared stories and news. The Urgals welcomed Kharnine boisterously and made declarations of fealty to her dragon, welcoming Shillith into each of their Urgal clans and saying that he would grow into the strongest, fiercest dragon around. Shillith, for his part, seemed to handle the commotion well enough, though he stuck close to Kharnine, and both of them were on the quiet side.
Firnen and Saphira sat behind the two-legs at either end of the table, in the places of honor as the eldest dragons, and Eragon and Arya were forced to sit just as far from each other while they ate.
Eragon enjoyed the evening, and listened to the Elves who sat closest to him relay their news from Alagaesia, but he eagerly waited for the formal dinner to be concluded so he could speak with Arya alone.
When darkness had fallen around the mountain and everyone had had their fill, the Urgals escorted Kharnine to the place where she and Shillith would sleep, and Dusan went to stroll in the garden with his dragon Isennath and his sister Alanna–who had joined the company of traveling Elves to come visit her brother.
Blodgharm and some of the dwarves cleaned up the dinner and Eragon was finally released from his duties. Saphira and Firnen flew off together into the night sky, and Eragon was left standing by Arya against the railing of the balcony that looked out over the front of the keep.
"Well," Arya said simply, watching Firnen and Saphira's shapes disappear into the darkness.
"Well," Eragon agreed.
Their presence together was comfortable, and Eragon did not feel so jumpy around her as he used to. Since bonding with Firnen, Eragon had noticed a peace in Arya as well that had been missing before. She smiled more often, and her eyes were not so heavy.
"Dorama and Isennath have grown much," She offered, watching Dusan and his dragon show Alanna the grounds. Eragon nodded.
"They are doing well. I hope Shillith will fit in with them."
"Kharnine and Shillith and very wise for their age," Arya commended, "Willful, at times, but eager to grow."
This comforted Eragon to hear.
"And there have been no more losses?" Arya questioned, knowing of the death of several dwarves the previous year, when a tunnel they were mining collapsed.
"No, no," Eragon answered, relieved, "Small injuries, here and there, but nothing–nothing like that."
"Good."
Arya met his gaze and her eyes were thoughtful.
That evening they spoke of many things, both common and personal, and Eragon felt again as he always did when he was scrying Arya–that the time they shared was perfectly right. He didn't imagine there was anywhere else he ought to be besides standing with her on the balcony looking over the slope of Mt. Argnor, speaking in soft voices.
They parted late in the night, when the sky had begun to rumble with an oncoming spring storm, and the stars were hidden by clouds. Eragon was glad to know that Arya would be staying around for a few weeks, at least, to make sure that Kharnine and Shillith adjusted well. He knew Saphira would be glad for the time shared with Firnen as well.
Saphira's resting place was empty when he returned to his quarters, and he did not expect her to return until daytime. Usually her absence would bother him, but he felt at peace as he stripped down to his sleep shirt and lay in his bed.
He then easily slipped into the dream-state that had replaced regular sleep, and the night was lost to him.
Eragon, WAKE!
The mental shout came from Saphira, and Eragon's feet were on the floor before he knew it.
What is it? He asked, grabbing Brisingr and throwing on his boots and shirt with elf-like speed.
Something's coming, get to the front slope.
Eragon ran, hearing the noise of many people rising at once as he saw gray half-light drift in through the windows. His heart pounded as the air whipped past his ears and he took the corners at blinding speed. Something was coming.
Saphira and Firnen were pulling out of a dive as he burst through the front doors of the keep, to find Arya and Blodgharm already there, weapons in hand, watching the dragons descend.
The sky was still bloated with thunder, and whatever light the feeble dawn was trying to make was dampened by a heavy layer of clouds. The world had an ethereal quality and the air looked orange.
What is it? Eragon asked again, his sword unsheathed as he scanned the sky for danger.
We were resting in a cave and heard a creature bellowing through the noise of the storm, Saphira explained as she landed hard on the ground and ran to a stop. I reached out to its mind to see what it was, and it lashed back at me in thought.
So? Eragon questioned, still unclear why Saphira thought this wild animal would be a threat to them. A roll of thunder passed overhead as the other residents of the keep streamed out between the doors, weapons at the ready.
So, Firnen's voice intruded on Eragon's mind, deep as earth, projected to both he and Arya, I caught a glimpse of thought from the creature before it hid itself. A glimpse of YOU, Eragon-rider-Saphira.
Eragon barely had time to register Firnen's statement when lighting snapped overhead and the dragons both looked up. As thunder echoed behind the flash, Eragon heard another rumble, a roar, and his eyes were dazzled by another flash–a flash of fire loosed in the sky.
Dragon, His mind said, and just at that moment he watched the shape of a dragon drop from the cloud bank and hurtle towards the keep.
It was Thorn.
Blodgharm shouted orders to the other elves, who drew bows and aimed, and the dwarves unsheathed their axes all at once, and Firnen crouched low in preparation to launch, but Eragon shouted,
"Wait!" And held out his hand as the red dragon unfurled his wings and slowed his momentum at the last moment.
The elves froze but did not lower their bows.
"Nobody fire!" Eragon commanded, heart pounding, hoping all of them would listen to him.
Thorn landed hard, and the ground shook beneath Eragon as he stumbled to a stop.
"Eragon…" Arya said in a quiet warning, her sword at the ready.
"Nobody move!" Eragon called again, meeting her sharp glance. He squinted in the half light at Thorn, who panted heavily and whose neck hung heavy with exhaustion.
On his back was the shape of a saddle, and in the saddle was a shape of a man, slumped forward limply.
Murtagh.
Eragon's senses were on high alert as he took two careful steps forward, the air crackling with the energy of the thunder and the tension in the gathered group.
"Thorn–" Eragon said, and the dragon snapped his eyes towards him, letting out a warning growl, still panting for air.
Thorn was crouched as though ready for a fight, matching Firnen and Saphira's stances. The other dragons hung back with their young riders, guarded by Blodgharm.
"Thorn," Eragon tried again, his hand held palm-out, Brisingr lowered. Thorn growled again, but he met Eragon's gaze.
"You remember me?" Eragon asked, glancing again at the prone form on Thorn's back, which had to be Murtagh, but which he couldn't make out in the half-light.
Is he dead? Eragon thought with a twist of fear.
Thorn's claws dug into the ground and he made no answer.
"Be careful, Eragon," Arya warned.
"I'm–I'm Eragon, I'm Murtagh's brother," He managed, feeling Saphira's tension radiating from behind him. He was close enough that Thorn could snap him up in one bite if he tried.
"...is that him?" Eragon pointed to the person in the saddle. Thorn hunched his shoulders, his deep red eyes flicking in every direction, calculating every weapon pointed towards him.
"Thorn," Eragon tried to call the dragon's attention back to him, "I'd like to–I'd like to help him, if I can…" He offered, moving carefully, step over step towards Thorn's side. Thorn followed him with his head every inch, and gave no indication of consent or disapproval, but Eragon kept moving.
"Can I–can I come up?" Eragon asked, gesturing to Thorn's leg. The dragon became very still, but he blinked once, deliberately, and Eragon took that to mean yes.
"Be careful," Arya warned again, as Eragon slowly sheathed Brisingr, moving as though he were on a thin ledge inches from a drop, every muscle tensed.
With trembling hands Eragon reached out to Thorn's foreleg, placing his palms against the warm scales. Thorn did not snap at him, so he continued his movement, placing his foot down and pushing himself up onto the dragon, until he was level with the saddle.
Thorn watched his every move as he put one arm under the torso of the unconscious man and pulled him back. Sure enough, Murtagh's head lolled back into Eragon's arm, his form limp.
Murtagh was soaking wet and very pale, but Eragon quickly searched him for a severe wound and found none. He glanced at Thorn, whose eyes were still fixed on him, and then said,
"I'm going to undo the leg straps," He gestured to the rows of supports–the only thing keeping Murtagh's unconscious body from falling off his dragon. Eragon did this as quickly as he could manage. Reaching over Murtagh's body to undo the left side, he saw Zar'roc hanging from its sheath off Murtagh's hip.
Eragon grunted with effort when he pulled Murtagh from the dragon's back, and several of the elves carefully hurried forward to help catch the man's weight.
Thorn let out a low growl, as if to say,
Be careful with him.
When Murtagh was on the ground, Eragon assessed him again–he was breathing, that was a relief, and he had a steady heartbeat. There was no dried blood and no severe bruising, and besides being soaking wet, unconscious, and uncomfortably thin, he appeared to be healthy.
Which means it's magic, Eragon thought uneasily.
"Do you know what's wrong with him?" He asked Thorn as the dragon turned his bulk, causing the elves with their bows to tense.
Eragon did not expect a response, but he was surprised when a consciousness made contact with his own and Thorn said,
Asleep, The worry in his voice sharp.
"He's not asleep, he's unconscious," Eragon tried. But Thorn cocked his head in confusion. He pushed his great snout forward, causing the other elves to back away quickly, and he sniffed Murtagh's face.
Asleep? Thorn asked again, but then he shook his head. Eragon opened his mind to respond, and suddenly felt a sharp slap of thought against his consciousness, a wave of confusion and a flash of disconnected images.
Eragon dropped back onto his hands and Arya turned with her sword, shouting a warning in the ancient language.
Thorn let out a sharp whine, crouching, his eyes wandering, and Eragon felt now confusion and fear rolling off him.
"It's okay, Arya," Eragon managed, wading through the emotions coming from Thorn and trying to focus.
Slowly, Eragon steadied himself, sorted out his own mental barriers, and reached out a tentative thread of thought towards Thorn. The swirl of disorientation met him again, but he was ready for it this time, and he waded through until he found the musical thread of Thorn's thought.
Thorn, it's Eragon, He tried, still half-way on the ground next to Murtagh.
Eragon saw himself in quick images.
Yes, it's me.
Eragon-brother-Murtagh, Thorn thought at him, cloudy and uncertain.
Yes, I'm Murtagh's brother, He confirmed, Can you tell me… what's happened?
Thorn seemed to frown down at Murtagh's unconscious form, and again a muddled mix of images came through, but nothing clear or distinct.
Need help, Thorn managed.
Okay. Why do you need help?
This was met with nothing but fog. Thorn shook his head like a horse shaking off a fly. Something was very wrong.
What's wrong with Murtagh? Eragon tried again, but Thorn just looked at his rider and let out a worried whine.
Is he hurt?
Thorn looked back at the sky, then back at Murtagh, then at the gathered crowd around them. Then he whined again, and brought his gaze back to Eragon.
No memory.
Eragon caught an image of blackness. No memory. Thorn did not remember.
Need help.
Eragon looked at Murtagh, unconscious and pale in the half-light, and then he met Arya's gaze.
The dwarves left immediately.
Eragon had convinced Thorn to allow him to take Murtagh to the healing room. The dragon winced with unease, but he consented to follow, wanting to keep close to his rider.
When Eragon had asked Blodgharm to help him carry Murtagh into the keep, the elf's fur had bristled, but it was nothing compared to the scorn of the dwarves, who gave Eragon a dark look, and, almost as one, turned and stomped around the back of the keep, muttering and looking darkly in Eragon's direction.
Thrivka, after a moment of hesitation, followed them with an apologetic glance.
Eragon pushed this worry to the back of his mind as he undid Zar'roc from Murtagh's belt and handed it to a waiting Urgal. Then he and Blodgharm lifted his brother from the wet grass and carried him out of the cold.
Murtagh was laid on the cot that had been set up in the healing room, and Blodgharm set to work checking him for wounds.
"This is dangerous, Eragon," Arya murmured as Blodgharm worked, and Thorn stuck his great head in the wide doorway.
"We can't just turn them away," Eragon pleaded, distressed. Arya sighed, her arms crossed tightly as she watched Blodgharm.
"Whatever is powerful enough to do this to them…" She didn't have to finish her sentence. Eragon understood. If Thorn and Murtagh were running from some threat, then it was a threat to Mt. Argnor as well.
Blodgharm concluded that there was nothing physically wrong with Murtagh. He'd had no blows to his head, no stab wounds or burns, no new injuries of any kind, just old scars.
Thorn did not remember anything.
The last thing he recalled, they had passed the Hadarac desert and were making for Mt. Argnor. Why? He could not say. He only knew that it was urgent they reach Eragon, to warn him.
Warn me of what? Eragon had asked the dragon, glancing at Arya. Thorn had growled again and shaken his head,
I do not know.
Thorn was speaking now more clearly than at first–still confused, but coherent at least. He'd flown through the thunderstorm with the knowledge that he needed to reach the keep at Mt. Argnor, to reach Eragon. He didn't know when Murtagh had fallen unconscious or what they were trying to warn Eragon about.
This was disturbing enough on its own, but the fact that Murtagh's state had no clear explanation worried Eragon even worse.
"Perhaps he has done this to himself," Blodgharm mused.
"Put himself in a coma?" Eragon glanced at Arya, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. She had done that once.
"But why…" She murmured. "He does not seem to be fighting any poison or illness."
When any of them tried to probe Murtagh's mind they found walls of stone blocking their path. Even unconscious, Murtagh had sturdy mental defenses.
Any plans they had concocted for the first day of the Elves' arrival were put on hold. Eragon made sure a dozen people were on guard duty at all times, and no one was allowed to wander, even the wild dragons, who were displeased at this restriction, but consented to stay near the keep for the time being.
The dwarves would not even pass by the door where Murtagh lay, and they did not speak of him or Thorn in any way. For all they were concerned, nothing of note had happened the previous night, and they were on guard duty for no other reason than the Elves being newly-arrived.
Eragon knew they were engaged in the practice of shunning, which was expected among dwarves towards someone they considered a traitor or murderer. It upset Eragon, but he kept his peace about it, knowing he could not win an argument with the dwarves regarding the man who had killed their king, even if that man was his half-brother.
Eragon and Arya consulted the Eldunari, but Umaroth and Glaedr had no particular insight as to what might have caused Thorn's frantic flight and memory confusion, or Murtagh's unconscious state.
Eragon had wondered if they'd had something to do with it–considering their history with manipulating memory–but the Elder dragons knew nothing of it. Eragon wondered if Glaedr would be upset with Murtagh and Thorn being present at the keep, but he sensed no difference in the old dragon's energy.
Eragon himself sat by the cot in the healing room and tried to reach out to Murtagh's mind, hoping perhaps his brother would be able to sense his presence and lower his defenses, but the walls were just as impenetrable. It was surreal, to stare down at Murtagh's face for the first time in two years; he had been waiting for this day for a long time, but now it was not as he had hoped.
Night fell over the keep and nothing more had been learned. Thorn lay on a balcony close to the hallway where the healing room was. Eragon offered one of the dragon-sized rooms for him to sleep in, but he demurred, preferring to stay outside and close to his rider.
Saphira brought him some meat and water, and even introduced him to Firnen, though he seemed too preoccupied with his worry over Murtagh to be much company to the other two dragons.
His mind is foggy, Saphira told Eragon when they had returned to their own quarters. Someone has been weaving webs within it.
This made Eragon even more uneasy, and he found it difficult to enter his dreamstate.
Day broke again and nothing had happened; the night guards reported no suspicious activity, and Murtagh still lay utterly still on the cot in the healing room, appearing dead but for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Arya came to Eragon's study after consulting with the Eldunari that afternoon, and proposed an idea.
"The Eldunari are willing to help us break into his mind," She said when Eragon had set aside the work he was doing, "To find out if he knows any more than Thorn."
Eragon grimaced. He didn't like the idea of forcing his way into Murtagh's mind, knowing how deeply his brother had always guarded his personal thoughts, and how they had been violated in the past.
"I know," Arya answered before Eragon could say anything, "It's not a pleasant idea, but we need to know what this threat is, and if Thorn doesn't know, the only person we have is Murtagh."
Eragon heaved a long sigh, looking out the window at the westward-leaning sun. In the yard below, Dusan and Thrivka were showing Kharnine the first few steps of the rimgar, which Eragon had asked them to relay. That, at least, was going well so far. Kharnine and Shillith had received a warm welcome, and the other two young riders were kind enough to their new co-apprentice.
"If they are to do it, Umaroth says we should join them, to make sure he does not get lost in their minds," Arya concluded. Eragon understood–touching the minds of the combined Eldunari was a dizzying experience, one had to be careful not to lose one's footing, especially with the older dragons, who were always in a sort of half-conscious state of feeling, and whose pull could be very strong.
"You think it's a good idea?" Eragon asked, not wanting the responsibility of making the final decision. Arya looked at him with sympathy,
"I think it is… the only idea, in our current state. The longer we wait the more likely that whatever they were trying to warn us about catches up with them."
Eragon knew this to be true. Everyone on the mountain was tense with worry. They'd never faced a problem like this before.
"Very well," Eragon consented heavily, hoping that what they were about to do wouldn't cause his brother to hate him for the rest of his life. "But we have to get Thorn's consent."
Arya nodded.
Getting Thorn to agree was not easy, but Eragon managed it, arguing that it was the best way to keep Murtagh safe.
If we get into his mind, we can try to wake him up, He offered, And Arya and I will be there to make sure he isn't harmed.
I must come, Thorn determined, and Eragon felt uneasy about this.
It may hurt, to get past his defenses Will you be able to stand by and allow it?
Thorn seemed unsure, shifting his weight nervously.
Whatever caused you to lose your memory, we do not want the same to happen to Murtagh. It may be better for you to stay out of his mind for now.
Thorn had consented when Eragon promised he would be allowed to be in the room and watch. Eragon hoped Glaedr and the other Eldunari would keep their peace. He was about to throw oil on a hot fire and hope that no one would get burned.
Let's just get this over with, Eragon said to Saphira as he and Blodgharm carried some of the Eldunari to the healing room. They placed the dragon hearts in an arc around the cot where Murtagh lay, and Thorn stuck his head in the doorway, while Saphira sat in the back of the room.
The healing room, as with all the rooms in the keep, was big enough for several decent-sized dragons to enter, but Thorn preferred to stay in the open hallway.
Arya and Eragon stood amid the ring of Eldunari, and Blodgharm waited in the corner. He would not be joining his mind with the Eldunari, but standing watch for any outside threats.
Please do not harm my rider, Thorn said to Eragon's mind, his voice soft and pleading, full of worry.
I won't, Eragon promised.
The light outside was glowing with afternoon sun when Eragon closed his eyes, and gradually lowered his mental defenses, feeling the deep thrum of Umaroth and the other Eldunari, the familiar touch of Glaedr and of Arya, and the safe folds of Saphira's mind.
Follow me, and do not resist, Umaroth beckoned, as Eragon began to see gray swirls of mist. Sound in the real world ceased, and he felt himself enveloped in the whispers of the many minds around him, his own consciousness blurred and indistinct.
Then, as one, all their whispering minds turned towards the walled-off cordons of Murtagh's mind, and Eragon felt a rush like a great wave dashing itself against the defenses.
He felt Murtagh's consciousness flinch. The walls held, shaking, for several long seconds, and Eragon felt the strain as Umaroth pushed against the sturdy blockade.
For a moment Eragon thought perhaps the Eldunari wouldn't be able to overwhelm the shielding, but then it felt like Umaroth pulled back, and instead of hitting directly at the rock-hard fortification, he drew all their consciousnesses into a sort of liquid, spreading out and sliding in between the cracks.
Eragon felt a spike of panic when the defenses began to crumble, and suddenly, the wall dissolved.
They were inside Murtagh's mind.
Echoes of indistinct sounds filled Eragon's consciousness. He felt as though he were standing on a gray plane, surrounded by mist, an empty world of half-remembered dreams. His chest felt tight, like he couldn't get enough air, even though he wasn't really here in this dream-state.
He was in the keep, in the healing room, next to Arya and Saphira, but he was also in this nether-world, this mind-state, existing only as an extension of Umaroth's awareness. He had experienced similar things when Umaroth and the Eldunari showed him visions, but this felt more intimate, more confined, because they were not looking at something occurring in the wide world. They were peering into the depths of his brother's mind, and he did not know if he would like what he saw.
The first distinct sound he heard was a woman's soft voice,
"Hello, darling."
Eragon turned to see where the voice came from, but the gray world was still empty of all but mist.
Then a soft pattering sound. Like rain. It was rain. And Eragon blinked, and suddenly he was in a wooded clearing, and Murtagh was kneeling with his back to them. Eragon had the strange sensation that he somehow was Murtagh, and yet was also watching Murtagh from afar.
I have to try, Murtagh said, his voice echoing and distorted, We can't make it through this storm.
He seemed to look back towards Eragon, but then Thorn's voice echoed in his mind,
I can do it.
It's not safe, Thorn, you'll get hurt.
Thorn let out a displeased little huff.
Let me just try this first, Murtagh said again. He was wearing the same clothes in this vision as he was in the real world, with Zar'roc strapped to his belt. He had a slight red flush on his neck that matched a faded burn mark Eragon had noticed on him.
Eragon watched his brother pour out a skin of water into a bowl, and lean his head over the surface.
Draumr kopa
Eragon expected to see the water shiver and show an image of something, but instead there was a sudden shriek, like the rending of metal, and Eragon felt himself flung away as the dream vanished.
He blinked, and found himself in a lush garden on a warm summer's day. He heard a voice say,
My lord,
And he turned to find a woman in servant's garb, curtsying low, her eyes solemn, a bundle in her arms.
I'm afraid I have grave news, my lord.
Eragon followed her gaze, expecting to find some man in noble's clothes enjoying the garden. Instead his eyes landed on a boy of no more than five, sitting on a bench, his feet not yet reaching the ground.
The boy looked up.
Your father has been killed.
The boy blinked, confusion clear on his face, as the woman handed him the bundle, within which was a shining silver helm. The boy touched the surface of the helm.
Do you understand, my lord?
He looked up, still confused and unsure.
He's gone to find my mother?
The older woman gave a sad, pitying smile; then she knelt, and let go of her formality.
Yes, my dear, I'm afraid so.
The world blurred again and suddenly Eragon was in a courtyard, and the ringing of sword-on-sword caught his ear.
He turned, and saw two people sparring, an older man, well-built and graying, and a young lad around fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and a thin frame.
Come on, Tornac! You're not even really trying! The boy complained with a good-natured laugh, as the old swordmaster calmly deflected his blows.
When you make it necessary for me to try, Murtagh, I'll try, Tornac responded, defending yet another feint without breaking a sweat.
Young Murtagh's laugh rang in Eragon's ear for a long moment, and then it turned into a scream, and suddenly he was in the same courtyard, and it was dark, and there were shouts, and Tornac was falling to the ground, and Murtagh turned to help him as a pair imperial soldiers charged towards them.
Go! Tornac wheezed, pushing Murtagh's scrabbling hands away.
Come on, Tornac! Come on! Murtagh screamed, but the old man's eyes were already growing dull, and his shoulders went limp.
Murtagh scrambled back as the soldiers descended, and he ran for a bay mare that waited by an open portcullis. He leaped on the horse and charged away, looking back at the fading shape of the old swordmaster, tears streaming down his face…
…then suddenly Eragon saw himself–younger, less elven, travel-worn and heavy with exhaustion, and Murtagh saying,
I won't go to the Varden, and you wouldn't want me to.
Look, whatever you've done I'm sure they–
I haven't done anything, Murtagh responded, putting his waterskin back in Tornac the horse's saddlebags.
I'm sure there'll be a way out of the valley, once we get further in, Eragon explained, and Murtagh gave him a dark look.
Let's just keep going. The Urgals aren't going to rest.
The world became suddenly quiet after that, and Eragon saw Murtagh sitting on a bed in the corner of a small room, reading.
Is that to your liking? A voice asked, and Nasuada came into view, young, and unwearied by the long toil of war. Murtagh stood immediately and bowed.
My lady.
Well? Nasuada smiled.
Well what?
Is it to your liking?
Murtagh looked down at the book in his hand, then back at the woman across from him.
Yes, I think so.
A chaotic onslaught of sound hit Eragon, and he recognized the noise of battle. It was dark, and Murtagh was beneath Farthen Dur, and there were explosions, and the sound of a roaring dragon and the call of many Urgals. Then suddenly a shattering, and a thousand red crystal shards sprayed out from the top of Tronjheim. Murtagh looked up, drenched in sweat, his sword heavy in his hand.
Eragon… He murmured, his expression fearful. Then,
"Eragon!" This was a scream for help, and suddenly they were in a dark tunnel, and there was a flash of light, and rough hands were grabbing him and the world grew muffled.
Then for a long moment everything was dark. And Eragon felt a wave of pain, a sharpness in his head like fire, a cackle of two high voices.
I'll kill you, Murtagh's voice threatened, but then there was more pain.
Then Eragon was on a cold floor in a cold cell, his wrists and ankles chained.
Very disappointing, A voice said, and Eragon recognized the deep, sickening murmur.
Another scream, and the person on the floor writhed in pain, unable to move for their shackles.
Don't. No, get out of here. You have to get out of here, He was pleading now, the world hazy, Fly away from here, find the Varden. Find Eragon, he can help you.
Then a spark of light, and Murtagh was cradling a tiny red dragon, no older than a few days, an iron collar around the dragon's neck and shackles binding Murtagh's wrists.
Then heavy boots tramped into the room, and hands ripped the dragon from Murtagh's grasp, and he shouted and pulled against the arms that held him back.
Don't touch him! Let him go! Let him go! He demanded helplessly, straining to escape as the dragon squawked in fear.
Then Murtagh was on a table, tied down and unable to move, and Eragon heard roars of hurt coming from a distant room.
What are you doing to him?! Murtagh screamed, straining at the shackles even as they cut into his skin. Stop! What are you doing?!
Murtagh found Thorn curled in the corner of a dark room, much larger than he ought to have been.
It's alright, Murtagh said, approaching as though Thorn were a wounded dog. He had bruises and burns all along his arms, and his clothes hung loosely over his haggard frame.
Thorn whined, and tried to stand up, but his limbs were too large for him, and he stumbled clumsily, fearful at the sudden change to his body.
It's okay, it's alright. I'm here.
Murtagh curled himself up to the dragon's neck and held him, his eyes closed.
Then Eragon was standing beside Murtagh and Thorn in a throne room that he recognized, a shadowy figure sitting above them. And Murtagh was speaking oaths in the Ancient Language, tears streaming down his face. And Eragon felt a vice clamp around his heart with the finality of a death blow.
Then the dungeon was gone, and he found Murtagh and Thorn in an elegant room with a fireplace and drapes and a fine bed. Murtagh wore well-crafted clothes, though his frame was thin and his eyes were sunken.
Even if we could get word to them…
Murtagh started, but he was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.
I have a task for you, A disembodied voice echoed in Eragon's mind.
Then Murtagh was standing in an elegant entryway, dressed for a fine evening, and an older woman in stylish clothing and sparkling jewels was smiling in his direction.
I am flattered, that the King would send his most handsome servant to beseech me on his behalf, The woman said in a smooth voice, and she was standing very close to him, and Eragon felt a flush of embarrassment, like he was seeing something private.
The woman put a hand on Murtagh's chest, and he did not move.
What are you prepared to offer me?
The scene shifted and Murtagh was flying, and the world was orange, and he was rising above a cacophonous battle field, and Eragon recognized the burning plains of Alagaesia.
Then Eragon saw himself again–altered by the elves, drenched in blood and sweat, frozen on the ground by magic.
Besides, Morzan's blade should have passed to his eldest son, not his youngest.
Then the world shifted and Murtagh was standing once more in the throne room of the King, who examined a red sword that lay on his lap.
He was more powerful than we anticipated, Murtagh's voice echoed, laced with hidden fear.
He is nothing! The King boomed, and suddenly there was a spike of pain.
Murtagh's screams were horrible to hear, and the feelings washing towards Eragon were almost overwhelming. He vaguely felt Saphira's supporting presence beside him, but he was lost in a swirl of agony as the world shifted again.
Murtagh was at a well-set table, across from an old man in fine clothes. He looked physically ill, and was almost teetering, as if drunk.
What can I do for you? The old man asked with a warm smile.
Then Murtagh was back in the room with the bed, angrily pulling off his gloves and undoing his sword belt, and Thorn was lying on a cushion in the corner, his neck craned,
Let me help you, Thorn's voice echoed deeply, Murtagh, please, do not shut me out.
Thorn pressed his consciousness in, but Murtagh whirled and grabbed a vase from the bedside table.
"Leave me alone!" He shrieked, throwing the vase, which hit Thorn on the side of the face and shattered.
Eragon saw a flash of a battle, of a burning city, of a crumbling citadel, of a gold dragon falling from the sky.
He heard someone sobbing, then he heard a young woman's voice saying,
Thank you, my lord.
And then it was a dark night, and the wind was whistling past them, until there was fire, and noise, and shouts, and suddenly Murtagh was bursting into a tent, his face void of emotion, and Nasuada was screaming, and he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her through the Varden camp.
Then Thorn was flying, and Arya was clinging onto him desperately, and Murtagh turned to strike a killing blow, but something stopped him.
Then Murtagh was standing over Nasuada's shivering form in a round room, and she was screaming, and then they were huddled together on the floor of the same room, clinging to each other like anchors in a storm-riddled sea.
And then Murtagh's voice was saying,
If Demelza can get a message to Fasaloft…
It will not work, Thorn rumbled in his mind, The Varden are too close.
I have to do something! Murtagh pleaded, his face pained.
Then swords were ringing once again, and an icy pain spread from Eragon's abdomen, and there was a sudden flash of light, and a surge of power, and Eragon felt like he had taken a breath for the first time in years.
Wiol ono!
Now they were flying, the sky was clear and the day was calm. And light was in the world, and it sparkled from Thorn's scales as he made lazy turns on the warm current.
I never noticed how green the world was, Thorn said, humming contentedly in his mind.
There was a small campfire, and the sound of crickets.
Then a tavern, and a group of rough-looking men, and they were speaking, but their voices were strangely distorted, like the words were being hidden. Eragon recognized the place. He had seen this before. He had seen these men before, he knew who they worked for.
They were suddenly flying over green plains, madly racing towards the shining city of Ilerea.
Nasuada appeared again–Queenly and regal, with sparkling eyes and a soft demeanor. But the words she was speaking were also distorted, like something was blocking the information from reaching Eragon's mind.
It was dark again, and they were skimming over a wide stretch of trees, under the dome of a great storm, and then there was shivering in the air and a bright flash, and Eragon felt Murtagh smart with pain all along his side, and Thorn growled.
Then the world shifted, and Eragon was looking at his cousin Roran–standing in soft lantern light in the hallway of a modest home, a child on his hip.
May I?
Murtagh asked, and he was looking at a collection of fairths that Eragon knew.
Suddenly Carvahall was before him–or at least, he assumed it was Carvahall, changed as it was from what he'd known as a child. Murtagh was sitting high on the beam of a half-built structure, his skin exposed to the sun, laughing as Horst's son Albrecht hammered in a peg across from him.
Eragon felt bewildered as the vision twisted once more, and he found himself returned to the same clearing he had first beheld, and Murtagh was bending over a bowl, after having whispered the words of a scrying spell.
Draumr kopa.
He said, and then the water shifted, but before Eragon saw any clear vision formed on the surface, Murtagh jumped back with alarm, and dropped the bowl, scrambling to his feet.
"She's here!" He shouted, and snatched up his sword and saddlebags, flinging them onto Thorn and leaping onto the dragon's back.
As he frantically strapped his legs into the saddle, Eragon felt a dark pull on his consciousness, like a creature of the deep trying to drag him underwater. He felt Murtagh's panic as a great presence started to envelop his own like a stifling blanket of darkness.
In the ancient language, Murtagh shouted,
Thorn, get us to the mountain! Find Eragon!
And then all went dark.
Eragon was on the gray, misty plane again, and turning to spot any distinct shapes among the shifting shadows, trying to sort out the flood of horrors he'd just seen. He felt the deep voice of Umaroth rumble in his head, the force of the Eldunari behind him.
WAKE.
Eragon gasped for air and nearly stumbled backwards, and just at that moment he saw Murtagh's eyes snap open.
"No!" Murtagh shouted, and before anyone in the room could recover themselves, he had thrown himself out of the cot and launched towards the door, grabbing Zar'roc from where it lay on a chair.
Blodgharm leapt to stop his mad rush, but Murtagh spoke the Name of Names, and cast a spell that sent Blodgharm flinging backwards.
Eragon barely had time to register that he was in his own body again, before he was sprinting after Murtagh down the tunnel.
"Wait!" He shouted as he ran, faster than his brother but several seconds behind. He heard Saphira and Thorn both let out roars behind him, shaking the walls of the keep.
Murtagh burst into the sunlight where the others were gathered, and as Eragon emerged behind him he saw that his brother was charging straight towards Kharnine and her silver dragon, unsheathing Zar'roc as he did.
Kharnine crouched to block his way and let out a growl, but Murtagh spat a quick spell and sent the girl flying back–an immense display of strength that would've left anyone panting for air.
But Murtagh was still running, Zar'roc raised, straight towards Shillith.
"No!" Eragon shouted as he caught up. Without thinking, he launched himself at Murtagh's feet, tackling him to the ground as the others cried with alarm.
There was a high-pitched whine echoing in his ears as he scrabbled on the ground with Murtagh.
"Get off!" Murtagh shouted, struggling.
Then Murtagh held his palm out and opened his mouth to speak a spell, but Eragon was faster. He silenced Murtagh with a hurried sentence in the ancient language, and struggled to wrestle his brother under control as Murtagh reached for Zar'roc, lying several feet away.
The whining noise increased in pitch, and Eragon heard Thorn's furious roar as he burst from the tunnel.
"Get out of here!" Eragon shouted to Kharnine and Shillith; the silver dragon was huddled by a rock on the grassy slope, Kharnine just getting to her feet after being flung to the ground. No doubt Murtagh had seen the Urgal girl and thought her an enemy. He might've killed her if Eragon hadn't been fast enough.
"Murtagh, stop! You're safe!" Eragon tried, pressing his weight down on Murtagh's arms so he couldn't move. The sharp whine became so loud it grated Eragon's teeth.
Murtagh tried to shout something, but his voice was silenced by Eragon's spell.
Then, Eragon felt a piercing lance of thought in his head.
LOOK UP, Murtagh's voice reverberated in his mind, and almost involuntarily, Eragon's head snapped up, so he was looking at Shillith, who was huddled in fear.
At that moment he saw a strange ripple dancing across Shillith's mirror-like scales, a shadow caused by no cloud. The young dragon twisted in discomfort, and Kharnine turned.
Before Eragon could register what was happening, Shillith let out a cry and fell to the ground, and Eragon saw a mist-like form begin to rise from the shimmering surface of the dragon's skin.
He blinked, and suddenly, a woman was standing before them, shrouded in a white-mist cloak, rising to her feet as though she had materialized from the dragonscales themselves.
Eragon's mouth was gaping, and his grip on Murtagh loosened, and the woman stood straight, and smiled at him with a smile that he recognized–a familiar face that he had never met.
"Hello, darling,"
It was his mother, Selena.