In the breathless moment that followed, Eragon felt a blow land on the side of his face, and Murtagh shoved him away, rolling over and grabbing Zar'roc in a flash. Murtagh leapt to his feet and charged at Selena, and Eragon felt a sudden lurch of fear. He was going to kill her.
"No!"
Eragon jumped forward, elf-fast, drawing Brisingr and swinging it to meet Zar'roc in the air, sending a clang of metal across the grassy slope as the blades met.
"Wait!" Eragon shouted as Murtagh tried again, and was blocked again. One of the Urgals ran to usher Kharnine back, as she shouted for the dazed Shillith to get up.
"That is not your mother, Eragon!" Murtagh shouted, but Eragon couldn't let him kill the woman who stood there, dressed in mist, wearing his mother's face.
It made no sense. How was she here? What was this? Was he still having a vision? Was he lost in the Eldunari's consciousness, wandering in strange dreams and unable to distinguish reality?
Eragon and Murtagh's swords rang as they sparred, Eragon defending the woman in white while Murtagh tried to get past him to land a killing blow.
They were well-matched, but Murtagh was exhausted, and eventually Eragon was able to flip Zar'roc out of Murtagh's hand and land an elbow-strike to his face, sending him down to the ground. Eragon held the tip of Brisingr at Murtagh's neck and said,
"Stop!" In the ancient language. He felt Thorn's growl in his bones, but Saphira and Firnen stood in between Thorn and his rider, who panted for air as blood spouted from his nose.
"She…" Murtagh gasped, "Sh–she's going to take them," He managed, his face a roil of fear and anger and panic. "You have to stop her."
Eragon turned to the woman in white, who was watching the pair with a wide, almost blank expression. There was a breathless silence, all the gathered group standing utterly still, Kharnine still being held back from her weakened dragon.
"Who are you?!" Eragon called, trying to keep the tremble from his voice as his mind registered the face he was looking at.
"Don't you recognize me?" The woman asked softly, and Eragon felt a strange twist in his gut.
She is a deceiver, Eragon, Saphira's voice echoed warningly, Do not be drawn to the honey in her voice.
"Are you Selena?" He managed, his sword still holding Murtagh back.
"Yes. And no." The woman looked lazily around the slope as though observing the flowers and the sunshine, "Depends on what you mean by Selena," She mused. "Did this body once belong to your mother? Yes. But am I her?" The woman's smile was cold. "No, darling, I am not."
"She's the witch," Murtagh growled,, "She uses wordless magic, you have to kill her. Now."
"She just said her body–"
"She's lying!"
"I am no liar, Morzansson," The woman insisted.
"My name is Bachel. And I have been looking for this place for quite some time. But you need not fear me if you do as I ask. I am not here to harm any living creature."
Eragon felt Arya step closer to him, and he noticed that the woman in white was still standing over the crumpled form of the silver dragon Shillith, her hands poised as if to cast a spell. He was her hostage now.
"What are you here for?" Arya asked, her voice cool.
"Let my dragon go," Kharnine growled then, her shoulders hunched. Eragon worried what she might do, in her fear for her partner.
"Certainly dear," The woman nodded to Kharnine, "Once I speak with the Elder dragons."
Eragon felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut, and he met Arya's concerned gaze.
"Saphira is the eldest dragon here," Eragon said, "You may speak with her."
He gestured back to Saphira who still stood between Thorn and the witch.
"No," The woman returned. "I speak of the old ones–those without form–the Eldunari that you have in your keep at this very moment."
Eragon became very still, and met Arya's concerned glance. The woman sighed, as though disappointed, and crouched closer to Shillith like she was examining an interesting jewel.
"I would've been able to use your brother's body to walk right into the chamber and take what I wanted," She lamented, "But he finally spotted me in his consciousness when he tried to skry you. Annoying, to change a plan at the last minute. I had to emerge through this poor darling; beautiful scales he has, like mirrors."
Eragon glanced down at Murtagh, whose gaze was flicking between the woman and Zar'roc, which lay several feet away.
"I was impressed how quickly you figured out the mirrors," She said to Murtagh, "But you weren't as quick with realizing I was attached to your mind." She made a pitying face.
"You really thought you'd fought me off back in Ilerea, didn't you? Didn't put it together when your magic was inaccessible to you? When you had those dreams?" The woman met Murtagh's hateful glare with an amused expression.
"Quick thinking, though, forcing yourself into sleep so I couldn't take over. You're cleverer than you look. I had to muddle your dragon's memory just so I had time to figure out a new plan."
"And what is that plan? What do you want with the Eldunari?" Arya demanded, bringing Bachel's attention back to her. The witch sighed, a soft, distant smile on her face.
My mother's face, Eragon thought, his head still spinning.
"I simply wish to leave this world," She answered coolly.
"I'll help you leave this world right now," Murtagh growled, rising slowly and taking Zar'roc off the ground. Eragon shot him a look, but he did not seem to be poised for an immediate attack, and stayed behind Eragon's shoulder.
The witch woman only smiled again, and Eragon had to suppress a shudder.
"Oh, he's handsome and witty. The Queen has fine taste."
Eragon frowned as Murtagh's shoulders hunched, but the woman turned her careless gaze back to him now.
"Give me the Eldunari, and I will leave the hatchling," She gestured to Shillith, "I have no quarrel with anyone here."
"No one is giving you anything," Eragon responded passionately, just as Murtagh said,
"How many?"
Eragon looked at him, alarmed.
"How many Eldunari do you need?" Murtagh repeated.
"Murtagh–"
"Perhaps about twenty, of the oldest."
"No, Murtagh, we're not–"
"Half of them are mad, Eragon," He spat, "You think they'd know the difference if they were in the keep or with her?"
"That doesn't matter!"
"She's going to kill that baby!" He shouted, pointing with Zar'roc, and Eragon heard Kharnine let out a low whimper behind them.
"The Eldunari are not available for trade," Arya's voice came in coolly as Eragon tried to wrestle his disgust under control. How dare Murtagh come here and suggest that they would give up a single one of the dragon hearts to this monster?
"I do not wish to parlay with the underlings," Bachel said then, her voice growing angry and her brow dark, "Go into the keep, and tell Umaroth, that Bachel daughter of Formora would have words with him."
Eragon felt Murtagh inhale beside him, and his own skin grew numb.
"What?" Bachel smirked, "You didn't think you were the only child of the Forsworn, did you Morzansson?"
Her expression was deadened.
"You were only the worst kept secret."
"Why should we believe you?" Arya managed to speak clearly while Eragon's head was still spinning. He risked a look back at Murtagh, whose face, somehow, had grown even paler.
"Because if you don't do as I ask, I will kill this hatchling. And then I will kill as many of you as I can manage before the Eldunari overwhelm me. Ask Morzansson–he can tell you it will not be a small number."
Wind blew over the grassy slope, the gathered group of Urgals, Elves, Dwarves, Dragons and Humans all waiting with held breath–waiting for Eragon to decide.
He looked to Arya, his mind racing. Unsure. They could not give this woman any Eldunari–but they also couldn't let her murder Shillith. And Eragon knew deep in his bones that she was not making any bluff. If they tried to fight, many would die.
He and Arya passed a silent message between each other, not risking opening their minds, but able to communicate with expression alone. Then Eragon took a breath, and returned his eyes to the witch woman in his mother's form.
"Very well, Queen Arya will relay your message to Umaroth."
Bachel inclined her head, as Arya turned towards the keep. Shillith whimpered at the witch's feet.
"You say you are a child of the Forsworn," Eragon said, trying to keep the witch's focus on him so that Arya and Umaroth could come up with a plan to save Shillith. "How is it you have taken up… this–this form?"
"This is but one of many forms I have held in my long years," The woman returned calmly, as though they were merely exchanging pleasantries over a mug of ale.
"I was born to my mother a mere handful of years after the Forsworn rose to power, and was hidden, for fear of treachery from the other members," She glanced at Murtagh.
"My mother knew that I would be in danger all my life, and so she taught me magic before even she taught me how to speak. She had no deep love for Galbatorix–mad as he was–and so focused on accumulating power within this realm, that he had no eyes for the realms beyond."
The air felt still as Bachel spoke, and the gathered group waited silently, weapons clenched.
"My mother, however, spent her whole long years looking to stars–to realms past the stars–and to what magic she would need to learn to reach them."
"What do you mean? Realms?"
Bachel smiled, and tutted disapprovingly.
"I've spent a hundred years gaining my knowledge, and you would seek it for free?" She scolded with a dark humor. "No, young Shadeslayer, I think not. Suffice it to say–this world you know is not the only known world. And my mother, unlike the drunken fool Morzan and the mad tyrant Galbatorix–looked beyond the bounds of this world, and sought to escape." Bachel sighed, stroking Shillith's scales thoughtfully.
"Unfortunately she was killed before she could find her way. But she passed her fervor on to me, and I have spent every waking moment of my life pursuing this one goal. To pass beyond the confines of this world, to the sea of stars above."
"Still doesn't explain why you're charading around in this mask," Murtagh spat.
He, like Eragon, didn't seem to quite believe that what they were seeing was not just an illusion, meant to deter them from striking a fatal blow. The witch had claimed that she was walking around in Selena's body, but that was impossible… right?
Bachel sighed again.
"Well. Real magic is a dangerous endeavor. And there came a time in my search when I… miscalculated… and the body I had been born with was destroyed. However, I had studied enough to understand that one's consciousness and one's body are not one and the same–as we know from the existence of the Eldunari. And I was able to find another host, another body to inhabit, to continue my work."
The mist swirled around the woman, and Eragon's horror began to creep into his throat.
"I went through my fair share of hosts, but none of them were very suitable for my needs. Most were human, not elven, and none of them were quite in tune for the channeling of magic. I had to dispose of them when they grew too weak or too wounded."
"You mean kill them," Murtagh snarled, and Bachel shrugged.
"Call it what you will. They'd served their purpose." Bachel breathed deeply, "I was just starting to look for a new body, when a young woman came to me in Uru'baen, saying she had heard that I could weave magic that could go undetected."
Eragon felt a shiver down his spine.
"She needed to escape her brute of a husband, and to take her young son with her. She asked me if I could help, and of course I agreed."
Eragon saw Murtagh gripping Zar'roc so tightly his hands were shaking.
"She welcomed me to inhabit her body, so that I could work my nameless magic, and give her the appearance of death. When the time was right, I would arise from the grave, take her son from his father's estate, and flee. But, well… she was just so well-suited to being a host," Bachel's teeth flashed.
"A well-practiced magic user, young, human, but somehow stronger than most. It was perfect. I couldn't well give that up after she had so willingly thrown herself at me."
"You made a deal with her and you broke it," Eragon managed to say, his voice not as strong as he would've liked. "How can we trust any deal you propose now?"
"I kept my promise," Bachel spat back, "I promised I would get her and her son away from Morzan. And I did. She was released by her supposed death, and Morzan was killed, leaving young Murtagh free of his father's tyranny."
"Brom killed Morzan," Eragon spat, half in disbelief at the conversation he was having.
"And you think poor, angry, pathetic little Brom managed to hunt down the chief of the Forsworn? Kill him and his dragon? All by himself?" Bachel laughed now, and Eragon felt like he was going to be sick.
"If you're so powerful, why do you need the Eldunari?" He said through a tight throat.
Bachel sighed again.
"I think it's safe to say that the four most most powerful beings in Alagaesia are on this mountain right now," She said, her thin hands folding,
"But even together our strength could not achieve anything beyond what these host bodies could handle, which is pitifully little. What I wish to achieve is a crossing of worlds, and requires immense energy." She gestured to the grove of trees behind her.
"Even were I to decimate the whole of Du Weldenvarden and take the lifeforce of every plant and creature in it for my own, I could not achieve this. I need the strength of the dragons, and their connection with the energy of this and other worlds, to fulfill my goal. That is why I have been hunting for them these past years, ever since the fall of the king, when I began to hear whisperings of their existence." Bachel shifted her cold gaze.
"It might've taken me much longer, except that poor Murtagh was so intent to prove himself that he wandered right into my path and unwittingly revealed his identity. Once I touched his mind in that village, I saw a glimpse of what I needed, and I chose not to kill him, so that he could lead me here."
"You tried to kill the Queen and you failed," Murtagh snarled, "You're saying that was part of your great plan all along?"
Bachel shrugged.
"I would've liked to get rid of your little Queen–she's meddlesome and forces me to work my magic in secret," Bachel lamented,
"But my true goal was to gain access to you, without your knowledge, which I did. I could not arrive here by my usual means of travel, as it is much too far from any other suitable surface for me to jump, and because I have never been here before, lovely as it is," She looked around admiringly.
"My only other option would be going on foot, which I found to be loathsome. So I put up with your little detour in charming Palancar Valley, and waited for you to carry me with you to Mt. Argnor, which you did beautifully." Bachel gave a little bow, "Thank you, Morzansson. It is good to know the children of the Forsworn can work together."
Murtagh lurched forward, but Eragon put on an arm to stop him, and Bachel, lifting her hand toward Shillith in warning, gave sharp little laugh.
"You've really got to mind that temper of yours," Bachel chided, "Bit too much like your father."
Whatever Murtagh might've done after that was interrupted by a great echo that rumbled through the minds of everyone gathered, Umaroth's voice saying,
Witchhhhhh.
Bachel looked up, and smiled, then she brought her gaze back to Eragon and Murtagh.
"Sorry, boys, the grownups need to chat now."
Arya-Queen-Elves has told me of your wish, Formorasdaughter, Umaroth's slow voice shook Eragon's teeth, and he felt Murtagh wince beside him.
You would leave this world?
Eragon turned back to see Arya standing at the front of the keep with Umaroth and Glaedr's Eldunari floating beside her. Her sword was drawn, and she made her way towards them, while Blodgharm took up his place next to the floating orbs.
"I would, old one," Bachel curtsied, "I have no quarrel with you."
Mmmmm but you are assuming that we have no quarrel with you, Umaroth chided dangerously. Eragon felt a ripple of hot anger from him.
"Your qualms are with my mother, who is dead. Would you take out punishment for her evils upon me?"
You have your own evils to account for, Umaroth rumbled.
Bachel inclined her head.
"What you call evil, I call necessary. I care nothing for this world, one way or the other–what lives are taken or spared is of no concern to me."
And because of this, you are a blight worse than the tyrant king himself, Umaroth responded darkly. However…
Eragon swiveled his gaze to Arya, who came now to stand by his side, then back to the witch.
…we have decided to grant your wish. To send you beyond the confines of this world.
Bachel's eyes grew hungry with excitement, but she kept close to the weakened Shillith.
"You will give me enough to accomplish what I desire?" She questioned sharply.
No, Umaroth murmured, No Eldunari will be passed into your hands, for you to wrestle to your will. Even if we consented to this, you could not bring the dragonhearts with you into the sea of stars. For magic does not live there as it does in this world, and no material thing may pass between the barriers.
Umaroth seemed to take a deep breath.
Instead, we will willingly send you where you wish to go. And in return, you shall leave the silver dragon unharmed, and shall release your hold on the body of the woman you have kept enslaved for twenty years. You will not need that form where you are going.
Bachel's eyes were wild, and the mist whirling tightly around her.
"Swear it. That this is no trick, Umaroth. And I will agree to those terms."
Umaroth repeated his words in the ancient language, and Eragon was aghast. They were giving this woman exactly what she wanted? They were caving to her demands?
Now you swear.
And Bachel did, and Eragon's heart was pounding.
Then, the witch rose to her full height, removing her threatening hand from Shillith's neck.
"I thank you, Old Ones," She said, her face suddenly calm and content.
You may soon feel otherwise, Umaroth said with a low rumble like an incoming storm.
The sky around them had turned red with sunset, as the witch-woman Bachel closed her eyes and raised her hands to her side, breathing in the air of the world of Alagaesia for the last time.
Then Eragon felt magic moving past him, and the layered whispering of the dozens of Eldunari, channeled through Umaroth. A high pitched ringing sounded from the place where the woman stood, and her form began to brighten beyond bearability. Eragon winced and covered his eyes, and he saw Murtagh doing the same.
The ringing grew horribly loud, and enveloped the whole of Eragon's senses, bouncing in his head along with the whisperings of the old dragons.
Just when he thought his ears might start bleeding, the pitch of the tone rose sharply, and then was silenced. A great rush of energy seemed to blow past him, and the air shifted. And all was quiet.
When Eragon opened his eyes, he saw the curled form of a naked woman lying on the ground next to the silver dragon.
He tried to remember how to breathe, and looked around for any sign of the witch, but the day was darkening and the grassy slope was quiet. The birds, which had ceased their chirping for a moment, now resumed a soft trill.
He felt Murtagh stumble beside him, and caught his brother as he fell half-way to the ground, the toll of the magic he'd used only now catching up with him, when the witch had disappeared.
Thorn growled and pushed into the air towards them as Kharnine ran for Shillith, who was shaking himself awake as though from a dream. Saphira followed quickly after Thorn, sending out a questioning nudge to Eragon, full of worry.
Murtagh was struggling to catch his breath, and Zar'roc hung heavily from his hand as Thorn landed nearby, but his eyes were trained on the crumpled form on the ground.
When Eragon turned his own gaze back, he saw that Arya had hurried forward with one of the dwarves' cloaks, and laid it over the naked woman.
Eragon felt his heart pounding in his ears, his hands gripping Murtagh to keep him from falling.
The woman raised her head, blinking and confused, and saw Arya first, her eyes wide and befuddled.
"M–my lady…" The woman murmured.
Arya smiled gently.
"Hello, Selena," Arya said softly, holding the shaking woman's arms as she tried to sit up, the cloak covering her nakedness.
"Do you recognize me?" Arya asked.
Eragon was shaking, and he felt Murtagh trembling against his grip.
"I–I think so," Selena answered, breathless and frowning, "Y–how did I… where am I?"
Then she turned her eyes to the gathered group, and she saw Thorn.
Immediately her whole demeanor changed; she cried out in fear and pulled away from Arya, lifting a hand as if to cast a spell.
"You are not in danger, my lady!" Arya called quickly, jumping between Selena and Thorn.
"That is not your husband's dragon," Arya assured in the Ancient language, knowing the cause of Selena's sudden fear.
Selena gasped for breath, her hand still held out, the cloak clasped tightly around her. Then her eyes drifted from Thorn, to Saphira, to the gathered group, and finally, to Eragon and Murtagh.
"I am Arya," Arya said softly, still speaking the Ancient Language, so Selena would know she spoke the truth. "We have scryed before. We were allies, for a time." Arya tried to hold Selena's attention as confusion rolled over her face, and she met Eragon's eyes.
"This dragon is Thorn," Arya gestured, "And his partner is Murtagh, son of Morzan."
Arya shifted, so that Selena could see them clearly.
"This is Saphira," She pointed to Saphira, who was holding very still, her head low by Eragon, "And her partner, Eragon, son of Brom."
Selena's mouth was partly open, her gaze wondering, as if beholding something in a dream. Eragon felt a tingling along every inch of his skin, like it was suddenly suffused by magic.
The eyes he was looking at–they were his mother's eyes. This was his mother. The woman from the fairth, the woman he'd dreamed about his whole life, the woman whose life, he'd thought, had ended because of him.
Arya carefully helped Selena rise, keeping the cloak tight to preserve her modesty, and Eragon's mother stepped forward as if in a trance. Murtagh got his feet under him and stood shakily as Selena reached one trembling hand out.
Eragon held his breath, feeling a wave of emotion roll over him, from Saphira, from Murtagh and Thorn, and from Selena, who stood in front of him, her eyes misty.
When he felt the touch of his mother's hand on his cheek, Eragon thought he might crumble right there. It was cool, and soft, and gentle as a breeze.
She held his face with one hand, and Murtagh's with the other, confusion and wonder still playing across her features.
"My boys…" She whispered, "...has it been so long?"
Eragon felt like he had left his own body. He was experiencing sound, and touch, and smell and feeling, but he almost stopped existing for a few moments, unaware of anything but the eyes that looked up at him–his eyes–the ones he'd inherited from a mother he'd never met.
Arya was the only one who kept her wits about her, and before they had stood too long, wondering and confused, she put a gentle arm around Selena, and suggested that they go inside where it was warm, as night fell and a wet spring chill began to descend.
Eragon had followed his mother in a daze, as the rest of the company parted for her, all shocked and unsure. The elves nodded to Selena as she passed, and murmured greetings of honor in their tongue.
Arya quickly brought Selena to the healing room, where Blodgharm sat her down on the same cot Murtagh had lain in, and began to tend to her. Eragon turned away when Arya brought new clothes for Selena to don, but otherwise he did not take his eyes from her, Brisingr hanging unsheathed at his side.
As Blodgharm examined her, eventually declaring her physically healthy and unencumbered by any spells he could detect, Saphira nudged Eragon with her mind.
You should put away your sword, little one, it may frighten her.
Eragon complied quickly, blinking in surprise, coming back to his body after a hazy few minutes. Arya was handing Selena a cup of tea and speaking soft words to her. She met Eragon with a quick glance.
What was he to do? What should he say? What had just happened?
There is no danger, Saphira offered from the doorway, hanging back lest she scare Selena in her fragile state, The witch is gone. I feel only Selena, daughter of Cadoc. Speak to her… she seeks comfort.
Eragon swallowed through a dry throat, and at that moment realized that Murtagh was not in the room with him.
Where are they? He asked Saphira, seeing no sign of Thorn or his brother.
They are still on the slope. They did not follow. Do not worry about that just now.
Eragon took a panting breath and tried to sort out his roil of confused thoughts.
He looked at the woman sitting on the cot–thin and tired, with soft brown hair that hung loose down her back, and clothes that were slightly too large for her. She did not seem old enough to have passed twenty years since the image that Eragon had of her. He wondered if the witch had somehow slowed her body's aging.
Say something, Saphira urged, and Eragon managed a stiff step forward.
"M–mother?" He asked, feeling the strange word on his tongue for the first time. Selena looked up from her cup, still slightly dazed, but then she smiled, and it seemed like sun breaking through the clouds after a summer rain.
"My love," She murmured, and reached one hand out for his. Eragon took it, and knelt by her cot as she stared into his face.
"You look so much like your father," She said softly. Eragon did not know what to say to this–he'd never had a father to compare himself to, until after Brom was gone, and for all he'd been told he took after Selena. But no doubt she could see Brom's features in him better than anyone else.
"He is not here…" She continued softly, a question wrapped in her statement. Eragon lowered his head, his hand still clasping hers.
"No. I'm sorry, he died. Protecting me."
She lowered her head, but the news did not seem to surprise her.
"Then… you knew him?"
Eragon gave a soft smile.
"Yeah. Yeah, I knew him. Most of my life. Not as my father, though…" He took a breath to steady himself, and then relayed what he'd known about Brom the storyteller: how he'd found Saphira's egg and gone to the old man for wisdom, how Garrow had been murdered–a revelation which brought tears to Selena's eyes–how Brom and he had set out together for revenge, and how Brom had given his life to protect Eragon from the Ra'zac, finally revealing his identity as rider, but not as father.
"I think… he could just never find a way to say it…" Eragon said quietly. "Not when he was alive, anyway."
Selena's cheeks were moist with tears.
"And, uh… that's when I met Murtagh. He was following the Ra'zac, too."
Selena's expression grew more solemn.
"And Murtagh's father?" She asked darkly.
Eragon wasn't sure how she would feel, but he tried to relay the news gently.
"He, uh… he was killed… by Brom. Not long after…" Eragon drifted off. And Selena took a deep breath.
"Well," She said. And Eragon knew there was much behind that one word.
"Would you… um… I could introduce you to Saphira, if you'd like," Eragon offered, and at this Selena's smile returned.
"I would." She looked up at Saphira, who lingered in the doorway. At Eragon's beckon, Saphira gracefully entered the room and lowered her wide gaze towards Selena.
Greetings, Eragon-mother-Selena, Saphira crooned, and Selena's eyes were bright with wonder.
They talked then for a long while, while Selena drank, and then ate food that one of the dwarves brought for her.
He relayed to her the rest of his story, of his defeat of the shade Durza, meeting Oromis and Glaedr, his change by the elves, and his terrible reunion with Murtagh on the burning plains.
He reluctantly gave Selena what knowledge he could on how Murtagh had been captured and enslaved by Galbatorix, but he steered around some of the more horrifying details, not wanting to hurt her and knowing it was not his place.
Then they spoke of other goings-on in the world, while Eragon sat on the floor at his mother's feet like a child hearing a story, Selena stroked Saphira's neck, and Arya stood by watchfully. Eragon thought he might've felt perfectly content, except for the fact that Murtagh was not there.
He and Arya tried to inform Selena of all that had happened without overwhelming her, and Eragon knew it would take a long while for his mother to regain her footing, but she seemed to be doing rather well, all things considered.
He tried to imagine being captive in his own body for twenty years. She described the sensation like a state of being half-awake all the time. There were moments when she had been sharply aware of the world, and moments of total blackness, but in between she had been floating in her own consciousness like a dream, while Bachel daughter of Formora used her like a puppet.
"I was a fool," Selena murmured. "When I left you with Garrow, I knew Morzan would be furious with me for disappearing. I knew I had to get Murtagh out. I was desperate. And she used that desperation against me. I allowed her to fake my death so that I could save my son… but I ended up abandoning him to a madman."
Selena's voice was breaking with emotion, her hands trembling, and Eragon wanted so badly to fix his mother's hurts, to help her. But this was one truth they could not escape.
"He had a few good people in his life…" Eragon tried, thinking of Murtagh's mentor and friend Tornac, of the old servant woman in his memory. "People who showed him right from wrong, you know… and he was–he was a good man, when I met him."
Selena managed a smile, as though apologizing for her tears.
"From what I see… you are both good men," She said, patting Eragon's hand. "I am amazed, and so, so proud. And so sorry, that your father couldn't be here to see you."
Eragon smiled back, feeling both heavy and light at the same time. He, too, mourned for the fact that Brom had lost his love, and had not lived to see her returned.
Arya suggested that Selena get some rest after they'd talked a while, and so Eragon pulled himself away and said goodbye, for now. He knew where he had to go, when he'd left her to sleep in the dark of the night.
Saphira followed him down to the kitchen, where Eragon picked up a plate of food and ate it quietly in the dining hall. Then he grabbed another plate and made his way back out to the grassy slope, where Thorn's large shape was silhouetted by the moon against the stand of trees.
Murtagh sat on a stump by his dragon, a werelight hanging behind him and his dirty tunic hanging from his hands. He wore an only-slightly-less dirty tunic while he tried to mend a tear in the first one.
Eragon slowed and watched from a distance for a moment, as Murtagh struggled. He was not successful, it seemed, and he swore in frustration as he pricked himself with the needle, tossing the shirt to the ground.
Then Eragon stepped close enough for his brother and Thorn to notice.
"You alright?" Eragon murmured as he approached. Murtagh gave him a brief glance, before snatching up the shirt again, brushing off the grass and dirt, and stuffing it back into one of Thorn's bags.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" Eragon tried again. "Blodgharm can–"
"–I'm fine," Murtagh spat, his back to Eragon. Eragon pushed down a twinge of annoyance.
"You know we can just get you another shirt," He offered dully. Murtagh's hands slowed. He stood for a moment, his palms still resting on Thorn's saddle.
"...Katrina gave it to me," He murmured, surprising Eragon, "I just thought I should… mend it without magic, or something. Stupid."
Eragon stepped closer on the wet grass.
"Doesn't sound stupid to me," He returned, holding out the plate of food for Murtagh.
"Have something to eat, maybe your hand will be steadier."
Murtagh looked at the plate for a moment, before taking it in one hand and sitting himself down against Thorn's belly.
"The dwarves are cooking up some venison too, Thorn, I'll ask them to set aside a flank for you–"
Murtagh's hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
"The dwarves made this?" He asked, only his eyes moving.
It took Eragon a minute to catch his meaning.
"They didn't poison it," Eragon dismissed, but Murtagh was lowering the plate.
"I shouldn't eat this," He muttered.
"Why not?" Eragon asked, frustration growing. Murtagh gave him a drained look.
"It would be a show of disrespect," He concluded, "You know they didn't make it for me."
Eragon barely controlled rolling his eyes. But he supposed that Murtagh did have a point–if the dwarves had known he was getting a plate for his brother and not himself, they might not have been so ready to serve him.
"At least eat the bread," Eragon insisted, "One of the elves made it."
Murtagh looked like this was not much better, but he was apparently too hungry to argue, and he set down the plate, taking just the chunk of buttered bread in his hand.
Thorn's head twisted around and he sniffed the meat curiously. Then Murtagh gave him a look and pushed the plate towards him. He snapped it up eagerly, and Eragon smiled, sitting with his back to the tree stump, across from Murtagh.
"She's alright, you know," Eragon managed after a moment, and Murtagh's chewing slowed. He just nodded and kept quiet.
"She wants to see you."
Murtagh's eyes were down to the floor, his shoulders slumped. He looked very different from the last time Eragon had seen him–even from the vision Eragon had watched of his brother in the town of Ceunon.
He was travel worn, exhausted, and tense. Whatever healing he'd managed during his time traveling with Thorn, the witch seemed to have sapped it from him again, attached to his mind like a leech and draining his strength.
Eragon felt for him, but he was still annoyed.
"Would you at least go in to see her? Let her know you're alright?"
Murtagh was shaking his head, tearing the bread into tiny pieces.
"I c–I can't do that," He muttered, and Eragon huffed.
"You can't seriously be angry with her," He demanded, his frustration boiling over, "You think she left you on purpose?"
"What?" Murtagh looked up, squinting.
"You think she–she wanted to be held captive by a witch for twenty years? It was an accident; she didn't mean to leave you behind–"
"You don't think I know that?!" Murtagh shot back at him, throwing the bread angrily on the ground and clenching his fists, his arms resting on his knees.
"Y–you don't…" He shook his head, looking into the darkness, his hands restless, "If it weren't for me, she–she could've stayed in Carvahall, she could've–could've been with Brom, with our uncle, with you. She could've lived. But she had to come back. Because of me. I ruined her life."
Eragon sighed, understanding. Murtagh was not angry with their mother–he was angry with himself.
"You can't blame yourself for what happened, Murtagh," Eragon retorted, "You were five years old–"
Murtagh leaned forward, gesturing wildly.
"–and–and now she comes back to us and I try to–I try to kill her–" Murtagh's voice cracked, and he fell back against Thorn's side, his chin trembling, running his hands over his dark hair.
"I thought–I thought it was a trick," He whispered thickly, and Thorn bent in close, nuzzling his head against Murtagh's shoulder.
"I almost killed her," He choked up, holding back a sob.
"But you didn't," Eragon concluded softly, "And she's okay. And she's up in that room, waiting for you to come see her…"
A beat passed, and Murtagh sniffled in the nighttime air.
"If you really want to make it up to her, go–go talk to her," Eragon urged gently. "Please, Murtagh. She cares about you."
Murtagh looked like he wasn't ready to believe this.
Be patient, Saphira suggested, kneading the grass at her feet, He is more fragile than he looks.
It took him a few long minutes, and Eragon had to force him to eat the steamed vegetables that were left on the plate, but eventually Murtagh rose and followed him into the keep.
Thorn reluctantly came with, his head ducked and his shoulders hunched. Eragon realized that the dragon had quite a strong aversion to closed-in spaces, which he thought made sense, considering his first months of life.
When they reached the healing room Eragon saw that the lantern light still flickered from underneath the doorway. He was unsure whether Selena was asleep or not, but he figured she would not want to wait to speak with her elder son, if she could.
He rapped on the door quietly, and Arya opened it. She blinked when she saw Thorn and Murtagh behind Eragon, but she said nothing, and let Eragon in.
Selena was still awake, and Blodgharm was mixing some kind of tincture in the corner.
"Are you alright?" Eragon asked, concerned that she might be sick.
"Oh, yes, just… just having a bit of trouble sleeping…" She said with a soft smile, "Blodgharm here was going to–" Then she stopped when she saw Murtagh in the doorway.
Her face widened, and she stood slowly, loose clothes hanging from her frame.
Murtagh looked to be in pain when he stepped into the room, but he walked forward in a trancelike state, seeing no one but Selena.
Blodgharm gave him a dark look, no doubt bitter from the blast of magic Murtagh had sent his way, but Murtagh did not notice him.
Selena's expression was solemn when she reached up both her hands and cradled her son's face, searching him with melancholy understanding.
"I am alright, my love," She whispered, "I am alright."
Murtagh was trembling, and his breath caught, and he couldn't seem to look at her.
"I am alright," Selena repeated softly, trying to find his eyes.
Murtagh shook his head and managed to say,
"I'm sorry–" before a sob burst out of him and he began to weep.
He sank to the ground and Selena sank with him, embracing him as deep sobs wracked his body.
"Oh, my love, it's alright," She comforted, stroking his dark hair as he rested his head against her collarbone. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
Eragon stood in the doorway, his gaze lowered, feeling a sting behind his eyes. He felt like he oughtn't to be watching, but he couldn't stand to walk away. He met Arya's glance across the room and she gave him a small smile.
After a long moment Selena lifted her son's head so she could look into his eyes.
"You were my first light," She whispered to Murtagh, "You changed me. You freed me. And I will never forget that."
Murtagh's cheeks were dampened and Selena's eyes shone.
"I am so proud of you," She said, and Eragon lowered his head, trying to keep his own tears quiet.
The next day broke beautifully, with birdsong cheering the sun as it rose. Eragon had forced himself to leave Selena again in the wee hours of the morning, when she had taken Blodgharm's draught to try and sleep.
Eragon, too, felt drained from the waves of emotion, and he had slipped into his own dreams easily. Murtagh had gone back outside with Thorn, and they spent that night down the grassy slope by the stand of trees, out in the open and away from the glares of Eragon's dwarven companions.
When Thorn had met Selena, something had passed between them in thought–a deep acknowledgement of respect, not only because of the love they shared for Murtagh, but, Eragon thought, because they each knew what the other meant to him, and how they had both tried to protect him. Selena had touched Thorn between the eyes, and he closed his great lids and swayed, humming contentedly.
In the morning Eragon was alarmed to see that Thorn and Murtagh were not on the slope anymore, but Arya informed him that they had gone for a short flight that morning, to find Thorn some real food. Murtagh had been right–the dwarves were not willing to make a meal for either of them.
"We will leave the meat to you, and you may do what you wish," Duart had conceded solemnly, "But we cannot prepare a meal for anyone we consider… a non-being."
Eragon tamped down his frustration again, knowing that they would have to figure out this whole matter if things were to go as he hoped.
He'd cooked the food himself, and when Murtagh returned from his flight, he'd asked his brother to join him on the balcony for a meal.
Thorn and Saphira lay behind them while they sat on overturned crates and ate the food Eragon had prepared.
They spoke a while, and Murtagh was able to explain how he had ended up unconscious on Thorn's back, how they'd come across the witch's path and been tricked into confronting her, how they'd raced to Ilerea to save Nasuada, and then been attacked over Du Weldenvarden and forced to divert to Carvahall for aide, how they had spent several weeks with Roran, and had eventually been welcomed quite warmly by the folk of Palancar Valley.
"They're fine people," Murtagh commended, "I can see why they mean so much to you."
It felt surreal, sharing stories of Horst and Albrecht, Roran, Morn, Tara, Elain and Jaffe, all with his half-brother, who, had circumstances been different, might've grown up right alongside him.
He'd never imagined Murtagh meeting any of his childhood friends, much less building a house with them.
Eragon knew there was business he had to address, but he was trying to avoid it until there was a lull in the conversation and he plucked up the courage,
"I wanted to… to apologize," He began with a breath. "I'm not sure if you were conscious, but we had to… enter your mind, to try and figure out what was coming after you," He managed nervously, wondering if Murtagh would grow angry.
Murtagh looked down at the plate and picked at his food.
"I know," He murmured, "I don't remember much. But I felt Umaroth… waking me up."
"You put yourself to sleep to–to stop her?"
Murtagh nodded.
"I'd hoped that Thorn could tell you all what was going on, and that you could figure a way to get her out of me before waking me up. But she was too clever. She blocked those memories from him." He sighed, "I was stupid."
"No. You were trying to help."
"I should've noticed her," He shook his head. "I felt this heaviness, the–the drain on my magic, I should've known… but she was hiding in my memories, wearing our mother's face, so that any time I saw her in my dreams or… I just thought it was a vision of the past."
"She fooled a lot of people," Eragon excused, seeing that Murtagh was blaming himself for everything again, "But she's gone."
"Yeah. Wherever Umaroth sent her…" Murtagh squinted into the sun off the balcony. "He said magic doesn't live the same way in this–this other world."
Eragon nodded, his own curiosity running wild after the revelation the previous day.
"...I wonder if she will regret it, getting everything she ever wanted," Murtagh said.
Eragon took a moment to answer, turning the events over in his mind.
"All evil comes to nothing, eventually," Eragon decided. "I imagine the victory will be hollow, after all the acts she committed to gain it."
Murtagh nodded, and dropped the subject, seeming to decide that this was the best conclusion to come to. It was better than thinking that the witch had gotten what she wanted, and would be out there terrorizing some other world for the next few centuries.
Eragon had to trust that Umaroth knew what he was doing–that he had understood what Bachel was talking about, and had calculated the cost. Regardless, what was done was done, and at least for now, the danger was passed.
Eragon sought around then for a safe topic of conversation–he didn't want Murtagh to clam up and stop speaking with him. He felt worried that his brother was going to slip through his hands and disappear like mist. He'd waited so long to have a chance at reuniting, at rebuilding, and he was afraid of ruining it.
"So, in your memories…" Eragon began, "I saw there was, maybe a woman that–that you were close to," He suggested, hoping it wouldn't bother Murtagh to speak of whatever romance he'd had in Uru'baen.
Eragon couldn't blame his brother for wanting to find some happiness amidst all that terrible time. He would've done the same thing, if their places were switched.
Murtagh's expression was confused.
"A woman?" He asked.
Eragon stammered, but tried to act casually.
"A–a noblewoman, looked like–a bit older. You two–you seemed close, is all," Eragon shrugged, suddenly feeling awkward, talking about these sorts of things with his brother.
But when he looked back up, Murtagh's expression was not what he expected. He seemed to cave in on himself, his face darkening.
"We weren't close," He muttered.
"Oh," Eragon cleared his throat, feeling he had made some miscalculation, "It just looked like–"
"–I know what it looked like," Murtagh shot back quickly, picking the bread on his plate into miniscule pieces. Eragon's brow knit, confused. He didn't know what to say now.
There was a beat of quiet, and then Murtagh turned towards Thorn, as if the dragon had spoken.
Eragon watched a silent argument occur between them, but finally Murtagh sighed, and placed his plate down on the crate next to him. He stood and walked towards the balcony railing with a handful of the bread pieces, placing them in front of a curious raven who had lingered near.
The bird began to peck at the pieces, while Eragon waited, feeling like he was supposed to be silent.
"We weren't close," Murtagh repeated, looking at the raven and not Eragon, "Her husband was a very important man. And a very stupid one."
The bird followed the line of breadcrumbs laid out for it, hopping and twitching its head this way and that, heedless of the dragons sitting mere feet from it.
"He was smitten with her, even though her dalliances made him a fool at court. Anything she asked of him, he would do it."
Murtagh sniffed and watched the bird as it approached, reaching out a gentle finger to stroke its crest.
"So, when the king needed something from her husband…" Murtagh said as the raven blinked at him, "He offered… me… in exchange."
Eragon felt himself stop breathing for a second, and every muscle was still.
"Oh…" He said, feeling a twinge of sorrow from Saphira.
He looked down as Murtagh dumped the rest of the bread crumbs on the railing in front of the raven, and it began to eat happily.
Murtagh just watched the bird, while Eragon tried to think of something to say.
"At least… I mean I guess she seemed fair enough to look at," Eragon tried, and immediately felt a spike of disapproval from Saphira.
By the look on Murtagh's face, he had said the exact wrong thing.
"She's disgusting," Murtagh said, his pained glare turned to Eragon now, "It makes me sick just to think about her. And no, it didn't make it easier because she was fair to look at."
Eragon was already kicking himself and feeling Saphira's deep reprimand.
"I'm–I'm sorry, that was… I shouldn't have said that, that was a stupid thing to say."
Murtagh didn't respond, but he turned and picked up his mug of ale, draining the last of it before sitting against Thorn's torso and pulling out his knife and whetstone.
Eragon was embarrassed and confused, trying to figure out what to say, and Saphira was no help, still annoyed at his blunder.
You really must learn to think before you start talking, She scolded.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that.
Hmph.
"Did—I mean… wasn't the king worried about her husband finding out?" Eragon tried, hoping he wasn't pushing too far.
"If her husband didn't know, it was because he chose not to," Murtagh said dully, focused on running the stone along his knife, "She wasn't exactly shy about her exploits."
The sound of the stone was sharp in the silence around them, and Murtagh looked deadened, void of emotion, empty.
"Because of her, word got around in the court, that the king's pet dragon rider was… available… for the right price."
Eragon's sensation of unease grew.
"So there–there were other women?" He asked, not wanting to know the answer.
Murtagh took a moment to respond.
"Not just women."
This hit Eragon like a wave of cold water. He felt like he was going to be sick, but he knew he had to control his reaction. This was a deep-seated pain that his brother was sharing with him; he couldn't make another blunder.
"It's okay, you don't have to say anything," Murtagh said after a moment, glancing up only briefly from his knife-work.
"I'm… I'm just sorry that happened to you," Eragon said, unable to think of anything else. Saphira lowered her head to the ground and let out a soft, melancholy hum, in agreement. Murtagh didn't stop his sharpening, and Eragon tried to keep his voice even.
"Are they–are any of them still, you know, in Nasuada's–"
"–no," Murtagh responded quickly, "She got rid of them."
Then a small, humorless smirk came across his face.
"I imagine they lost everything," He said dully, "I like to think about them… breaking their backs working the fields, or stitching clothes 'til their fingers bleed, just to make ends meet."
He squinted at the sun over the balcony.
"Maybe even selling themselves on the street to buy a meal. That's satisfying to think on."
Eragon didn't know what to say to this either, so he just kept his mouth shut. He felt a swirl of nausea in his gut, and tried not to replay the images of Murtagh's memory in his mind.
I am flattered, that the King would send his most handsome servant to beseech me on his behalf.
How badly Eragon had misread that situation–the way Murtagh hadn't pulled away when she'd touched him. His stillness.
It is an evil thing, Saphira mused in Eragon's head, her sorrow and anger palpable, To turn what is meant to be joyous and full of love, into an act of force and manipulation. Even among dragons we do not do this. Both partners must be willing, in the dance of mating.
What do I say to him? Eragon asked her, distressed and unsure.
Say nothing, Saphira concluded after a moment, blinking her eyes in Murtagh's direction. Only make sure he knows you are not disgusted by him. I sense he may be disgusted with himself.