Chapter Six: Reconciliation
Arya coasted down towards the slope in front of the dragon hold, feeling Firnen shift beneath her, and the silver dragon Shillith follow his movements. They had been teaching Shillith aerial maneuvers and endurance, training him for when he would be able to carry Kharnine on his back. This would be soon, Arya suspected, but being that the girl was larger and denser than Thrivka or Dusan, Shillith would have to be a little bigger than the other two dragons had been before he could comfortably manage his rider.
The young dragon was always bristling with excitement, always eager to learn, his infectious eagerness seeping into everything he and his rider did. He'd been quick to make friends with Isennath and Dorama, and even Thorn, whom the other two avoided. Arya loved to see the dragon thriving in his new home, and even more to see his rider grow accustomed to the rhythm of life at Mt. Argnor.
The girl would bear a heavy weight, as the first Urgal to ever join the dragon riders, representative of her race for the rest of time. Arya hoped the transition would be smooth, and that Kharnine would be able to find a place among her fellow riders, despite their differences.
When Firnen landed outside the hold, the sky was turning orange, and Arya imagined the dwarves would be setting out dinner soon.
I hope they have caught a deer today; I am sick of fowl, Firnen purred in her mind.
Go catch your own deer, if you don't like what they serve.
I do catch my own–but the short-beard-two-legs have a skill with the preparing of foods. The deer they cook has a tail-shaking flavor to it.
Firnen gave an excited little wiggle, thinking of the dwarves' cooking. Arya smiled.
Well, be sure to share with the others.
At this she felt a twinge of annoyance from Firnen–he knew that by "the others" she really meant "Thorn", with whom he'd taken a distinct dislike since his ill-fated attempt at winning Saphira's affection.
No matter how much Arya tried to explain that it had been a misunderstanding, that Thorn hadn't known they were mated, and that if it hadn't bothered Saphira it shouldn't bother him, Firnen refused to let it go, convinced that Thorn was some conniving rogue trying to woo his mate out from under him.
You're behaving very insecurely, Arya chided as they walked through the wide double doors of the keep, while Shillith bounded down the hill to find Kharnine.
I am insecure! You would be too, if you were mated with the only adult female dragon in existence, she of the Bright Scales, the savior of Alagaesia, King-Killer, Shadeslayer, Eldest of all our race–
–I understand, Firnen. She's very impressive.
If Arya allowed him, Firnen would wax eloquent on Saphira's merits for the rest of the evening, and Arya wished to have other conversations.
As it was, she saw Duart trotting towards them, clearly on a mission, his short legs swishing urgently.
"Arya Drottning," He said with a bow, "Firnen Greenscales. I was hoping I might have words with you before your meal."
Before? Firnen questioned, clearly disinclined to postpone his meal any longer.
"You need both of us?" Arya asked politely, inwardly smiling
"No, milady, if your dragon wishes to join the meal, he may."
Duart bowed again, and Firnen inclined his head, giving Arya a nudge with his snout before tromping into the dining hall where Saphira waited.
"Milady," Duart bowed, gesturing down the hall.
Duart was a very formal dwarf, always observing ceremony and honorifics, and rarely speaking casually, unless he had been enjoying much drink with his fellow Knurlan. Arya found him pleasant to speak with, when she wasn't in a hurry.
When they had walked aways from the hubbub of the dining hall, he turned about to face her.
"I have been considering, milady, a problem that shall have to be addressed, for the good of the academy, very soon."
Arya kept her face neutral, sorting through possible scenarios in her head.
"Yes?" She prompted, as the dwarf was clearly waiting for her acknowledgement to continue.
Duart cleared his throat, his weight shifting as he seemed to try and pick the right words.
"Shadeslayer… has a brother," He stated. And Arya squinted.
"Yes."
"And that brother is a rider."
"He is."
The dwarf was speaking around Murtagh like a careful dance, clearly trying not to break his shunning.
"And it is my understanding that you and Shadeslayer may have asked this brother to consider… staying here at the mountain. To teach."
Arya kept her face smooth, but didn't bother denying it; word had obviously spread enough for Duart to know, despite the fact that the dwarves made a point to excuse themselves from every conversation regarding Murtagh and Thorn.
"That is a possibility, yes," Arya returned.
Duart breathed deeply, tucking his chin into his beard with a thoughtful expression.
"The Knurlan here have been discussing this problem, and how best to help our Thrivka, and the other riders who will come along. Of course you see that we cannot abide a Shunned being allowed to teach Knurlan riders, nor can we break bread, share work, speak–"
"–yes, I'm aware," Arya interrupted. She liked Duart–he was reasonable and well-mannered, but he could be overly-loquacious at times, and Arya had little patience for the Dwarves' rigid customs–customs which, in her opinion, caused more problems than they solved.
"Well. We believe we may have come up with a possible solution, if… if the Shunned would be willing to participate."
"Participate in what?"
Duart said a phrase in dwarvish that Arya had to take a moment to work out.
"The Blood Tears Ritual," Duart translated, "If a Knurla is shunned–or convicted as guilty of a heinous act against another Knurla–a member of the wronged clan can offer him a chance at the Blood Tears Ritual once sufficient time has passed. If he chooses to participate in the trial and succeeds, that would allow him to redeem himself in the eyes of the clan and be welcomed back from his shunning."
"And this could apply to a non-Knurla?" Arya questioned.
Duart made a little face.
"We have been reading the texts trying to find whether it is clear. Though we do not know of any non-Knurla participating in the Blood Tears before, we have not seen anything indicating that a person could not, in theory. We also agreed that, since the Shunned is the blood brother of Eragon Shadeslayer, and since Shadeslayer is an adopted member of the Durgrimst Ingeitum, we could… bend our interpretation, a little."
A dwarf being flexible, imagine that, Arya mused, forgetting that Firnen was not around.
"So, if Mur–Eragon's brother participates in this trial then he will be welcomed back to the clans as a friend?"
"Mmm, not so simple," Duart rumbled, "The trial simply allows for the guilty to be forgiven–to give the choice of forgiveness to those Knurla who were once bound by honor to shun him. No Knurla is required to offer forgiveness to one who has wronged him; the act of forgiving will still be up to each one. But it will release those of us here, and any Knurla riders who come along, from our obligation to shun… the Shunned."
Arya nodded, her mind quickly running through all the possibilities this offered.
She and Eragon and the Eldunari had worried what the dwarves would say if the Riders were to take Murtagh and Thorn on as instructors. Would their dwarf builders and workers and assistants leave? Would King Orik stop offering support to Mt. Argnor? Would they refuse to have their children touch the dragon eggs?
"So what exactly is the ritual?" Arya asked, straightening.
"...sounds pleasant," Eragon returned dully when Arya said the words "Blood Tears."
She stood now in front of the desk where he was trying to catch up on all the work that had fallen behind since Murtagh's appearance and his mother's return.
Murtagh stood at her side calmly, a hand on the pommel of his sword.
"It's not," Arya confirmed,
"Duart tells me it's a series of five ritual punishments that the… guilty party…" She glanced quickly towards Murtagh, "Must undertake willingly and without complaint. He said he couldn't tell me what they were, but that if Murtagh completed them successfully, it would lift any obligation Duart and Thrivka and the others have to shun him."
Eragon sighed, setting down his quill and leaning back tiredly.
"And I assume they're painful punishments," Eragon said.
"That was my understanding."
"And if he fails?"
Arya inhaled.
"He remains shunned. Forever. No retrial."
Eragon eyes flicked to his brother, clearly reluctant.
"I'm not going to ask you to do this, Murtagh."
"You don't have to," Murtagh responded, "She already did. And I said yes."
Eragon's expression flattened, and he shot Arya an annoyed look. She'd had to take the matter to Murtagh first, knowing that Eragon might ask her not to bring it up to him at all.
"And Thorn's okay with this?"
"He's not happy about it, but he's agreed to not kill them."
"Will he have to do the trials too?"
"No," Arya said, "He's–he's really only shunned as an extension of Murtagh."
"He didn't kill Hrothgar," Murtagh interjected strongly, "I did."
Arya admired his willingness to accept responsibility for the king's murder, and to undertake these unknown pains for the sake of the academy.
"You don't have to keep punishing yourself, Murtagh," Eragon murmured, his face in a grimace.
"That's not what this is about," Murtagh answered, his face set, "You asked me if I would be an instructor here. I can't do that if half of my pupils aren't allowed to speak to me."
"We could convince them–"
"If I don't figure a way to pay my debt to the dwarves, then every single dwarven rider who comes to live here will be forced to choose between shunning one of their instructors, and betraying their beliefs. I won't ask anyone to do that for me."
Arya raised an eyebrow, impressed at Murtagh's resolve. Eragon was the most reluctant person in the room, and he wasn't the one facing an unknown series of extremely painful dwarven punishments.
He looked up at her, as though loathe to make the final decision, but Arya kept her mouth shut. This was a discussion to be had between Murtagh and Eragon, she was merely the messenger.
Duart had told her first, she thought, because he could not talk to Murtagh, and he knew Eragon would be more reluctant to pass the message along.
Arya, for her part, thought it was an excellent idea. Painful though the trials may be, if Murtagh was able to complete them to the dwarves' satisfaction, their problems would be solved, and Arya could leave Mt. Argnor knowing that Eragon had another rider at his side.
"Eragon," Murtagh continued, his voice soft but determined, "I never expected to be able to mend the rift with the dwarves, after what I did; and I know this doesn't fix it, and I can't ever take it back. But if this trial can cover even a part of the debt I owe, I want to do it. I want to make sure they remain our allies, and that Thorn can stay here and not be ostracized."
"And you," Eragon reminded, "And so that you can not be ostracized."
Murtagh gave a little sigh, but didn't argue.
It was clear he wasn't doing this for himself, which, Arya supposed, meant that he had exactly the correct attitude going into the trial. The ritual sought for total repentance, a complete renunciation of the evils one had committed to the point where one would be willing to accept painful punishments without complaint. If anyone was repentant of a past wrong, it was Murtagh.
Eragon twisted his mouth in thought, clearly not liking the idea, but also desiring for his brother to stay and teach, and knowing that that couldn't happen unless something were done with the dwarves.
"Alright, if–if you and Thorn consent to it, then… sure, I'll allow it."
Murtagh nodded, and Arya folded her hands, satisfied.
"So…" Eragon continued after a moment, "...then does this mean you… you've decided to stay?"
Murtagh shifted, his face scrunching in a grimace that reminded Arya very much of Eragon.
"Thorn, is quite set on it, yes."
Eragon tamped down a small smile.
Arya knew this would cheer him up after his mother's departure; he had had his heart set on Murtagh coming to Mt. Argnor for well over a year, and had been asking for any and all news of his brother since the day he'd left Alagaesia. Having Murtagh around, Arya thought, would be good for both of them.
But it won't please Firnen, She thought, knowing that it wouldn't sit well with her partner to think of Thorn and Saphira living and working side by side without him. She supposed he would just have to work through his own insecurities.
When Eragon agreed to set the dwarves' ritual for the following day, Arya and Murtagh left him to his mountain of work, and made their way through the keep back to the dining hall, where Murtagh took a mug of ale and a plate from Astirith–making sure that the dinner had been prepared by the elves that day–before turning to the open front doors
"May I join you?" Arya offered, surprising the young man, who stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth.
"Um. C-certainly," He agreed. Arya nodded, and strolled without comment through the doors into the evening air.
Thorn was down at his usual spot by the stand of trees, and Arya carried her plate of food without waiting for Murtagh.
"Hello, Thorn," Arya said with a small nod. Thorn gave her a blink and tilted his head at his rider, who was following after her.
Arya sat with her legs crossed on a stump, and Murtagh sat against Thorn's side, and they both ate in silence for a long while. Arya appreciated that Eragon's brother could sit quietly and not fill the air with speech, as many humans felt the need to. He had less of the nervous energy that Eragon often radiated, and his presence somehow felt heavier to her, like he was weighed down by his melancholy.
She tried to remember if he had been like this before being taken by Galbatorix, but in the days immediately after her rescue from Gil'ead she had been focused on many other things, and had not paid much heed to the young human who had ridden with Eragon across the Hadarac, except to mark him as a possible enemy, considering his parentage.
Now, since knowing that he and Eragon were of the same blood, and having met Selena properly, she could weigh his bearing and stature against the other humans she knew. She saw echoes of his mother and brother, but it was clear that he and Eragon's contrasting upbringings had resulted in two very different men.
Arya had agreed that Murtagh coming to teach at Mt. Argnor would be best for the riders, but she had her doubts about his stability and reliability, and wanted to assure herself that when she departed for Ellesmera with Firnen, she would not be leaving Eragon with a greater burden than he could handle.
She was of the opinion that Murtagh, like Firnen, was going to have to overcome some of his insecurities if he were to be an effective teacher. The way he put his dragon's needs ahead of his own was admirable, but not, Arya thought, a sign of a healthy relationship between rider and dragon.
She thought that Thorn was probably more frustrated than helped by his rider's self-effacing tendencies, and if Murtagh didn't learn to respect himself, then it was going to be difficult for him to earn his pupil's respect.
There was also the matter of his drinking problem. Arya had noticed it within a few weeks of his arrival; on a daily basis he seemed to imbibe strong drink at a level that most humans would reserve for great celebrations or terrible losses. He held his liquor well enough, but Arya noticed the toll it took on his mental acuity and self-control. It would not do for an instructor of the riders to be drinking himself to sleep every night.
One issue at a time, Arya reminded herself as she ate.
"You're sure about this ritual, then? That you want to go through with it?" Arya asked without ceremony. Murtagh lifted his head half-way through chewing, and Thorn gave a little annoyed snort, his head resting on the ground.
Murtagh glanced at his partner before looking back down at his plate.
"Aye," He answered. "It's got to be done."
"It'll be very painful. The dwarves' practices can be brutal."
Murtagh frowned up at her.
"I can handle it."
"I wasn't suggesting you couldn't."
He held her gaze for a long second, before looking back down at his food.
"I'd like to ask you a question," Arya continued casually, "but if you feel you'd rather not answer I will not be offended."
"Okay," Murtagh said with another frown.
"Why did you do it? That day on the Burning Plains? Why did you kill him?"
Thorn twisted his head a little in the silence that followed, his deep red eyes moving from Arya to Murtagh, but he said nothing. Murtagh continued his eating for a long moment before answering.
"The King–" He stopped, "Not–not Hrothgar, the… G…" He was staring down at his plate, trying to spit out the word.
"Galbatorix," Arya offered gently, and he nodded.
"He… he told me Eragon was my brother," Murtagh spoke softly, twisting the fork in his hand, "And then he sent me to that battle with an oath to take him captive. And I knew…" Murtagh squinted up the slope.
"...I knew Eragon and Saphira would sacrifice themselves rather than serve the king."
He twisted his mouth.
"If he didn't kill them for refusing, then he would drive them mad by forcing his way into their minds. Either way, I was going to deliver them to the same… the same torture, and pain that Thorn and I had gone through. And then they would be dead. And it would be my fault."
Arya distinctly disagreed with this assessment of things–that it was in any way Murtagh's fault what the mad king had forced him to do, but she held her silence as he continued.
"When I went into that battle all I could think about was that I was going to have to kill the one person in the world who shared my blood, my only family." He pushed the food around on his plate, no longer eating.
"And I just wanted to… stop… caring. Wanted to show that–that I was on the king's side, and… I don't know, maybe convince myself I had chosen that. That I'd wanted it." He paused then for a long moment, his shoulders weighed.
"And I saw the king there, fighting, surrounded by his–his men and I just…" Murtagh grimaced, replaying the scene in his head, clearly trying to understand his own actions, "I just wanted to get it done with. Prove to myself that it didn't matter, you know, because nothing mattered. And if nothing mattered then I could kill my brother, and still live with myself. So I killed the King."
He sniffled, and set the plate down for Thorn to lick clean as he twisted his hands together.
"But it did matter. And I still cared. And the moment I'd done it I wished I could take it back."
He met Arya's eyes then, and she saw the weight of a pain she knew well. Short though his life had been compared with hers, she recognized the burden he was carrying on his young shoulders. And she recognized from experience, that until he exorcised these demons, they would plague him for the rest of his immortal life.
"Everything I did in his service I could blame on him," Murtagh said grimly, "Except that."
Arya nodded. And she no longer had any doubts that Murtagh could see the dwarves' Blood Tears ritual through. He was determined to right the one true wrong he had committed.
The next day, in the late afternoon, everyone in the company of the dragonhold assembled in the wooded clearing where Kharnine had had her trial. The dwarves all wore their best clothes, with Duart donning what Arya knew was a ceremonial sash across his shoulders, signifying his role as arbiter of the ritual that was about to take place.
Eragon had asked if it could just be he, Murtagh, and the dwarves, to save his brother the shame of having others watch his punishment, but Duart had shaken his head,
"I am sorry, Shadeslayer, but the Blood Tears is a ritual of total repentance; the Shunned must demonstrate to all, that he accepts his guilt, and not perform the ritual in secret to hide his indignity."
Eragon had accepted this, and given the word for the elves, urgals, dwarves and dragons–except those wild dragons who were not around that day–to gather in the training glen.
Murtagh now stood beside Thorn in the clearing, wearing an old gray tunic and worn work pants that Eragon had lent to him–knowing that whatever ritual punishments the dwarves performed would likely not be clean and comfortable.
I do not think I would allow such a thing if he were my rider, Firnen supposed, his eyes flicking at Thorn with dislike as he licked his claws.
I think it's brave of Thorn to allow it, Arya countered, He knows that this will be the best way to bring his rider closure. If the dwarves can't accept him they might as well remain traveling vagabonds the rest of their days.
I certainly wouldn't object, Firnen thought snidely. Arya gave him a disapproving look–when it came to Thorn, he was implacable.
He doesn't strike me as a very competent protector, Firnen sniffed, I should think Eragon's brother would want to look for a dragon who could shield him from harm.
Firnen, you can't say that. Thorn is perfectly nice, you're just jealous.
Firnen scrunched his snout in displeasure.
He sits back and allows his rider to be used in ways I would simply not tolerate, Firnen said proudly, I would have torn Uru'baen apart with my claws rather than watch my partner be traded around like a piece of jewelry.
Arya frowned, turning to Firnen, unsure what he was getting at .
What is that supposed to mean?
Then Firnen shared with her a quick flash of images, snaps of speech between Eragon and Murtagh on a balcony, feelings of anger and sorrow radiating from Saphira.
Arya took a step back involuntarily, her breath uneven as the dwarves stoked the flames of a small bed of coals and hauled in a tub filled with water.
A few pieces of knowledge clicked into place, and immediately Arya regretted knowing them.
You should not have shown me that, Arya said, controlling her face as she saw Eragon approaching through the trees.
You asked me, Firnen excused.
Well, Saphira should not have shared that with you. That was private.
I do not think she meant to, Firnen admitted, We were just enjoying the company of one another's thoughts, and it sort of slipped in.
Arya felt a tightness in her stomach, her mind suddenly elsewhere as Eragon stepped up next to her, and the dwarves stood themselves behind Duart. The dwarf raised his hands out to his sides, and began reciting verses in their tongue.
Arya met Eragon's tense gaze and nodded to him, suddenly distracted from the ceremony about to take place.
Duart beckoned Murtagh forward, speaking the dwarvish tongue while Ithki, the oldest of the women dwarves, translated for the crowd.
"The Shunned has, by Knurla Duart of Durgrimst Ingeitum, today been offered a chance at the Blood Tears trial, to show his repentance for the acts he has committed against the Ingeitum."
Duart turned to Murtagh, cupping a white rock in his palms.
"Do you, Nameless of the Shunned, accept the punishment for the deeds you have done?"
Murtagh touched the white rock with the hand that held his Gedwey Ignasia, his face solemn but determined.
"I do."
Arya felt Eragon shift next to her.
"If you attempt any violence against the Knurla who administer your punishment, your repentance will be void. If you protest the punishment you have agreed to receive, your repentance will be void. If you ask for a reprieve, or walk from the trial, your repentance will be void. Do you accept this?"
"I do."
Duart then took the white rock and placed it on the ground at Murtagh's feet.
"This is your promise. If you pass the trials with success, you may take up this stone and show it to any Knurla, as a sign of your repentance. Do you accept this?"
"I do."
The clearing was silent as the dwarves led Murtagh to one of the large rocks that were spread around the grass, and had him kneel. Then Ithki had him pull his shirt off over his head while Duart took from one of the other dwarves a long, thin, leather-wrapped stick with a switch at the end. He held it flat on his palms, reciting a quick verse in the dwarvish tongue, and said,
"A shedding of blood, for the blood shed."
Arya saw Eragon lower his head, his lips pressed together, his hand clenching and unclenching. Thorn was sitting very straight at the end of the row of spectators, his muscles taut. The clearing was silent and everyone was still.
Murtagh put his hands flat on the large rock that he knelt before, his already-scarred back open to the air.
"Do you, Nameless of the Shunned, repent of the evil you have committed against the Knurla?"
"I do."
Then Duart brought the switch down on Murtagh's back. Murtagh flinched and grunted, as a line of red cut onto his pale skin.
"Do you repent of the evil you have committed?" Duart asked again.
Murtagh breathed in slowly, then said,
"I do." And the switch came down a second time.
Again Duart asked, and again Murtagh answered, and again the switch came down.
It was a small whip, but it had a sharp bite. Arya kept herself very still and forced her eyes to remain open, despite a desire to look away as the lines formed one after another on Murtagh's back. The switch came down an eighth time, and Murtagh cried out involuntarily, and Arya heard Thorn's low growl ripple across the clearing, Murtagh looked quickly in the dragon's direction with a hard glance that Arya read clearly.
Don't.
Thirteen times Duart asked, and thirteen times Murtagh answered, and thirteen times the switch was brought down, cutting a new line into his skin, and sending blood rolling down towards the small of his back.
Finally, Duart stepped back and turned to the gathered crowd.
"Thirteen stripes for thirteen clans," The dwarf announced, lowering the switch. "The blood has been paid for by blood."
The other dwarves gathered barked a dwarvish word that Arya knew to be,
"Blood!" And stamped their feet in unison.
As Ithki handed Murtagh back his shirt, which he donned with a wince over his bleeding back, Duart went to the fire and drew out a metal rod, and Arya heard Eragon mutter a curse under his breath.
The dwarves had Murtagh stand with his right forearm outstretched, the sleeve of his tunic rolled up to the elbow. Arya noticed a thin scar that rose from the skin near his wrist, and wondered at it, as Duart held up the fire-heated metal rod and said,
"Fire, which purifies the old evils," He announced, and he turned to Murtagh, whose shoulders were straight and whose face was determined.
"Do you, Nameless of the Shunned, repent of the evil you have committed against the Knurla?" Duart asked again.
"I do."
Murtagh responded, and then Duart brought the searing metal down on Murtagh's skin, and he flinched, his arm twitching involuntarily.
The second time Duart asked the question, it was harder for Murtagh to answer, but he gave an affirmative,
"I do," Through gritted teeth, and the rod came down again.
Two dwarves stood at his side, and when the iron rod touched his skin for the fifth time and his knees buckled, they caught him and held his arm up.
Arya closed her eyes for only a second, her mind brought back to dark places. She felt Firnen's comforting mental nudge and took a breath to calm her beating heart, before forcing herself to watch again.
He is doing this for the sake of the riders, She reminded herself, It is my duty to bear witness.
For their part, the dwarves conducting the ceremony were solemn-browed and sympathetic. They took no joy in causing Murtagh pain.
Despite his shaking, Murtagh did not fight back when the rod burned his skin again, bringing the total to half a dozen thin black lines along his forearm, his hand now hanging limp. If the dwarves weren't holding it up, Arya thought his arm would have fallen. She wondered if it was worse, not knowing how many he had to endure, not knowing what would come next.
She could feel Eragon trembling next to her, and Saphira's unease grew. Thorn was digging a hole in the grass at his feet, and Shillith whimpered on the ground by Kharnine's legs.
Nine burns Murtagh received on his arm, before Duart lifted the rod and said,
"Fire has purified the evil of past deeds."
Then the dwarves called,
"Fire!" And again stamped their feet.
The next trial was of stone, to "break down the old spirit", and Murtagh was forced to lie on his back in the grass, while one by one, the dwarves piled more and more flat rocks on his chest, each time asking him if he would accept the weight.
His body was shaking and it was clearly difficult to breathe, but he managed to say,
"I do," After every question.
Eragon's own breaths were uneven, and he seemed unable to stand still.
Arya gripped his hand tightly and gave him a bracing glance.
When the last stone had been laid, the dwarves quickly took the weight off of Murtagh's chest, and he rolled to his side, coughing and gasping for air. The back of his shirt was caked with blood and dirt now, and his hair hung in sweat-drenched strings.
Thorn growled and his weight shifted, and Ithki gave the dragon a concerned glance.
"The stone accepted; the spirit, broken!" Duart announced.
"Stone!" The dwarves shouted, and the ground felt their feet again.
They need to be done with this quickly, Firnen mused, watching Thorn's discomfort grow, his own pompous attitude dampened. Arya steadied herself with a breath, as the dwarves helped Murtagh rise and ushered him over to a hole they had dug.
She cringed inwardly when she realized what the hole was for.
"Earth, to bury the old self," Duart said, as Murtagh stood before the long ditch, staring into it, his body shivering despite the warm day.
"Do you, Nameless of the Shunned, repent of the evil you have committed against the Knurla?"
Murtagh's eyes were glazed, fixed on the dirt in front of him, frozen.
Do not fail now, Arya thought urgently, as Duart repeated his question.
Murtagh was trembling, his burned arm held away from his body, blood caked on his back. It seemed the idea of allowing himself to be buried alive was going to be too much for him.
Arya closed her eyes and said a silent mental plea.
Then Murtagh looked over his shoulder at Thorn, who gave a short whine and lowered his head, shifting from foot to foot with unease.
"I do," He finally managed in a hoarse voice, and held the dwarves' arms as he stepped into the ditch and laid himself down.
Eragon's grip on Arya's hand tightened as the dwarves began to shovel dirt over his brother, muttering words of ritual in their tongue. Murtagh's arms were flat at his sides, his mouth and eyes closed in a grimace, and his breaths coming in uneven spurts, until the dirt began to fall onto his face. Then he took a deep breath, just before a shovelful covered his mouth, and he disappeared from view.
The atmosphere in the clearing was icy with tension, and Arya felt every pulse of blood through Eragon's hand, as the dwarves continued to shovel until the hole was filled. The moments crept by, and Arya felt a sharper awareness than usual of the life around her–the rustle of the leaves, and the crackle of twigs under a deer's foot, and Murtagh's heartbeat in the dirt below.
She waited, and felt Firnen shift uncomfortably, as the dwarves stood around the mound of dirt.
"He can't breathe!" Eragon protested, unable to hold his tongue any more. Ithki gave him a warning look and Arya squeezed his hand,
"Eragon, don't…" She urged softly, willing him to keep his peace. Thorn was buzzing with pent up energy, his wings twitching like he was preparing to take off, his snout curling in anger. If the dwarves miscalculated how long his rider could last under there…
She met Blodgharm's cool glance from across the way. He was thinking the same thing.
When they began to dig, Arya's heart pounded. She could no longer feel the pulse of life from the dirt below, as their movements disrupted her sense of things. She could feel fear and anger radiating from Eragon as strongly as if he were Firnen. She heard Kharnine growl, the Urgal girl's fists clenched tightly. Her own skin was hot and her pulse racing.
Finally, Arya saw the shape of Murtagh's arms, as one of the dwarves grabbed it and pulled him up out of the dirt.
Murtagh gasped for air as he sat up, sputtering and coughing to get the dirt from his mouth. Everyone in the clearing breathed a palpable sigh of relief, and Thrivka even smiled, as Ithki helped Murtagh climb from the hole.
He crawled out on his hands and knees, coughing and absolutely filthy, his arms trembling.
"The earth covered, the old deeds dead," Duart announced, and the dwarves all said,
"Earth!"
Finally, Duart lead Murtagh to the large tub of water that they had filled and dragged down from the spring.
"Water. To bring new life."
Duart helped Murtagh step into the tub and sit low in the water, his body still shaking from the other trials. Then Murtagh took a breath, and Duart held the back of his head, and lowered him beneath the surface.
Arya worried that he would have to endure a long stretch of time under the water, risking drowning, but a count of ten had not yet passed when Duart raised Murtagh up again, and allowed him to take a deep breath of air, his hair dripping.
"From the water, reborn!"
Then the dwarves all cheered,
"Water!" And stamped their feet vigorously, clapping and cheering and whooping, and Arya felt herself release the tension in her muscles for the first time in nearly an hour.
All the dwarves crowded Murtagh as they helped him step out of the tub, looking like a drowned rat, rivers of mud and blood running down to his feet, but his face somehow brightened.
As he panted for breath and each of the dwarves patted him on the arm or gave him a bow, he was smiling, and his eyes were shining. It was like a great breath had been held for years, and was finally released.
Arya let go of Eragon's hand and gave him a small smile. He still looked peaked, but he was applauding along with the rest of the company, as the dwarves ushered his brother back to the small white stone that lay on the ground. Duart turned to the gathered group and raised his hands again.
"Today we welcome back to life, Murtagh Morzannson!"
He took Murtagh's hand and lifted it as high as he could reach, and all the dwarves cheered their approval, but Murtagh leaned to Duart's ear, still dripping wet, and whispered something. Duart's brow creased, but he gave him a nod.
"No longer Murtagh Morzansson," Duart corrected, his voice ringing off the trees, "But Murtagh Selenasson, of the Riders!"
At this the applause was much louder, and Thorn and Saphira let off great roars, with jets of flame that licked into the air. Eragon's smile was full of relief as he clapped, and Murtagh seemed a hundred times lighter than the young man Arya had shared a meal with the previous night.
Duart then beckoned him to kneel, which he did, and the older dwarf gestured for him to pick up the white stone, which he did, and hold it to his forehead, which he did.
Duart asked Thorn to stand at Murtagh's side, and then he said,
"I, Duart of Durgrimst Ingeitum, do accept your repentance, and name you friend."
Duart bowed low, his beard brushing the ground. When he stepped away, every single one of the dwarves followed suit, bowing to Murtagh, who held the white stone for them to see, and accepting him as friend. Thrivka and Dorama came last, and Thrivka added,
"We will be honored to learn from you, Murtagh-Elder, Thorn-Elder."
Thorn snaked his head close to Thrivka, and blew a light breeze on her warm face. Whatever he spoke to her and her dragon, the dwarven girls' eyes danced, and she gave a deep bow again.
The atmosphere in the clearing was joyous then, and even the elves offered Murtagh their congratulations. The Urgals commended him for his bravery and strength, clapping him enthusiastically on his wounded back and calling him, Stoneheart, for enduring the weight of many rocks.
"Strength like a kull he's got; must run in the blood of the Stronghammer men!" Nal declared, and the others laughed.
It was some time before the clearing began to empty, and they all started to disburse towards the keep, where the dwarves began to prepare a fine feast, singing into their beards as they worked.
They had urged Murtagh to come share in the meal with them, but Arya could see that the trials had taken their toll on him. He shuffled up the hill weakly, cradling his burnt arm against his side, and leaning on Thorn every few steps.
"You don't have to go. They'll understand," Eragon assured, matching his brother's slow pace.
"No, I… I want to," Murtagh grunted, wincing.
"Why don't you let me heal you," Arya suggested as they walked, "I asked Duart–there is no stricture against healing wounds from the trials."
Murtagh looked over at her as he shuffled forward, the white rock still gripped in his mud-smeared hand.
"You shouldn't expend your strength."
"I am well-rested, and have no pressing matters come tomorrow," Arya insisted, receiving Eragon's thankful glance. But Murtagh still looked reluctant.
"Please, the dwarves will want you at full strength for celebrating."
Arya gave her warmest smile, hoping to convince him. Again, his head turned to Thorn, and whatever the dragon said must have persuaded him, because he nodded and ducked his head.
"Thank you, I would… appreciate that."
Eragon left them in the corridor by the dining hall, joining the dwarves in their raucous meal preparations, and Arya lead Murtagh to a small alcove near the library, where a long bench sat.
Thorn would have followed them, but Murtagh assured him that he was alright alone, knowing that his dragon preferred not to be indoors.
Arya started with the whip-marks on his back, which had been caked with mud and crusted over. It was painful for Murtagh to pull his shirt off, as the fabric had stuck itself to each scab, but when his back was bare Arya was quickly able to clean the dirt away with magic, and mend the skin that had been torn by the thirteen stripes.
"This scar, from your father…" She said quietly as she worked, "You never thought of healing it yourself?"
The noise from the dining hall drifted towards them for a quiet moment, before Murtagh answered.
"Thought about it," He murmured, twisting the dirt-caked shirt in his hands. "Never felt right, though. To just… erase it, like that."
Arya understood. She had scars that she kept, too–like memories, to keep her anchored when the world felt unreal.
When Arya finished with his back she checked the bruises on his ribcage and sternum, from the stones. Nothing was broken, and his insides were undamaged, but she healed up most of the bruised area to offer some relief. She felt now a slight drain, but nothing that a little rest and food wouldn't fix.
Murtagh then put his tunic back on and held his burned arm out for her. She sat it across her lap and began to work the spells, watching each one of the burns fade back into the skin as he clenched his fist. Arya knew the discomfort, the itching, burning sensation that occurred as the skin knit itself back together, but when she reached the last burn, which crossed over the ridged scar that she had noticed on his wrist before, he stopped her.
"I think… I'll leave that," He murmured, taking his hand from her and touching the scar with one finger. Arya nodded, understanding.
"Thank you," He said, rolling his sleeve back down over the crossed scars.
"Of course. Thank you for what you did today, for the riders."
Murtagh looked like he was going to dismiss the complement, but he just ducked his head.
The sound from the dining hall drifted towards them, as did the scent of the dwarves' cooking and their boisterous song. Murtagh rose on steadier feet then, and they made their slow way towards the sound of the gathering.
For a moment they stood in the archway, watching the elves set the long table with their finest wares. Blodgharm added fresh sprigs of summer wildflower along the length of the table, and Astrith sang magic over them to grow up the candlesticks and goblets.
Arya noticed that Murtagh's expression held a hint of confusion, as if he wasn't sure why so much trouble was being gone to, seemingly for him. No doubt he was not accustomed to anyone celebrating him, not used to the honor and respect that Eragon had received during his years as a rider.
Arya sighed.
"I have to apologize to you, Murtagh," She said reluctantly, hoping to get a burden from her chest before it lingered too long. He frowned then, turning his head toward her only slightly.
"I was told something I don't believe it was your intention for me to know, and I'm sorry for it."
He squinted in the light from the setting sun, which drifted through the open doorways.
"What do you mean?"
Arya kept her eyes on the movement in the dining hall as she spoke, trying to allow Murtagh the privacy of not being stared at.
"Firnen told me something that you shared with Eragon and Saphira, which I think Saphira accidentally passed on to him. About your… suffering, at the hand of some of the king's nobles."
She felt him shift uncomfortably beside her, and risked the smallest glance. His jaw was tight and his gaze lowered.
"I told Firnen he ought not to have shared it with me, and I don't think Saphira meant to betray your confidence, but–"
Murtagh gave a sad smile, scuffing his dirt-smeared boot along the floor.
"I suppose that's what I get for being friends with dragon riders"
He wasn't looking at her, but she didn't sense any anger from him, only a sort of guarded melancholy. She hated to bring him back to that place, after his triumph that afternoon, but she felt it was his right to know if a long-held secret of his had been spread around, and she empathized deeply with his pain.
A quiet beat passed before she spoke again.
"When I was a captive in Gil'ead," She began, her thoughts drifting to old hurts, "I had never felt more helpless in my life."
Murtagh frowned, surprised by her sudden speech. He was listening to her intently, his eyes down but his body very still.
"And I was angry with myself… ashamed for being weak, helpless, foolish… ashamed for having been captured when I felt I should've died with–with the rest of them."
Arya breathed through the tightness in her chest, feeling Firnen's concerned nudge from across the room.
"And much of the time during my captivity I was unconscious–keeping myself oblivious to the world, in order to save my waning strength."
Murtagh nodded, no doubt he remembered the mad dash across Alagaesia, carrying her limp form like so much cargo. She had not forgotten his role in her rescue, despite all that had happened in the intervening years. She knew she was still in debt to him for her life.
"And to this day… I do not know for certain all that the guards did to me, while I was unaware… unable to defend myself…" She lowered her own gaze to her hands, "...but I have my suspicions."
She felt his head turn, and she met his gaze, and he didn't need further words to understand. But Arya took a steadying breath, and turned her feet towards him.
"I was ashamed of myself, for a long time… for being helpless." She straightened her chin in resolve, remembering the long journey she had taken, the long healing road she had walked, to piece together a version of who she had been before Durza's attack.
"But I no longer allow that shame to claim me. Because I survived…" She watched Murtagh's eyes drift downwards, clearly lost somewhere in memory, "...and that is something to be proud of."
She stepped a foot closer and took his right hand, lifting it so he could look down at the new burn mark on his arm–a symbol of his strength and resolve.
"It is they who ought to be ashamed. Not us," She whispered fervently, hoping he could hear her, amid the torrent of all his hurts.
"And I hope you'll come to see that you have much to be proud of, and much to offer."
She held his wrist turned over for a while, the new burn covering over the long, thin scar, whose cause Arya had guessed at. Then Murtagh said,
"Thank you," And he lowered his wrist back down.
Arya nodded with a soft smile, breathing in deeply the scent of the meal, and turning to see Eragon carrying in a steaming dish, laughing in conversation with Nal. She liked to see him like this–free of care and surrounded by friends. She liked the way his ears tapered against his hair, and the lines in his cheeks when he laughed, the easy way with which he moved. She found herself thinking of leaving, in the coming weeks, and growing sad again.
Then his eyes found the two of them standing in the archway, and he smiled in Arya's direction, giving her a little nod over the table, which she returned.
"If I may, your majesty," Murtagh said quietly beside her, to her surprise,
"I think there are not many in this land that one could call worthy of winning the hand of an Elven Queen and Dragon Rider."
Arya felt a hotness in her chest.
"But if I were a wagering man… I would bet on my brother."
Arya kept very still, taken aback by Murtagh's forwardness, but when she turned her head towards him, he only gazed at her frankly, a small upturned curve in his lips.
A beat passed.
"And are you? A wagering man?" She asked, her heart feeling strange.
Murtagh smirked warmly.
"Sometimes," He said, and he gave his brother another sidelong look, before loping out into the sunset to usher Thorn to the feast.
That night they feasted long and joyously, and the dwarves treated the company to a performance of many of their favorite drinking songs. Duart stood up on the table after imbibing a fair amount, and raised his mug, announcing that he would be sending a letter of request to King Orik, giving his sponsorship to induct Murtagh into Durgrimst Ingeitum,
"As blood brother of our foster brother!" He said, and clapped Murtagh on the back.
Eragon seemed a little concerned by this announcement, and Arya knew why–it was one thing for the small group of dwarves at Mt. Argnor to forgive Murtagh and pledge friendship; it was another thing entirely to ask King Orik to publicly declare Murtagh an honorary member of the clans–a thing that had never been done, before Eragon, and which would certainly turn Knurlan against him.
If Murtagh objected to this idea, by this time in the evening he seemed too drunk to care. He merely applauded with the rest of the dwarves and joined in with their next drinking song, though he didn't speak the language and had never heard the performance before. Thorn lingered at the edge of the party, half-outside, as always, and looked more and more melancholy as the evening stretched on and the company–including his rider–grew more intoxicated.
Arya wondered if she could beseech him to do something about his rider's problem, but she didn't yet know him very well, and wasn't sure how to approach such a conversation. Besides, she got the feeling that Thorn had likely attempted to curb his partner's penchant for overdrinking many times, and had so far gone unheeded.
The day after the Blood Tears trial, the atmosphere on Mt. Argnor, especially amongst the dwarves, was distinctly uplifted. Eragon and Arya took Murtagh and Thorn to speak to the Eldunari in their chamber, and they gave their blessing for the pair to take up roles as instructors of the new generation of riders, under the watchful care of the elder dragons.
Each of us here will strengthen and uplift the others in this our most important mission, and none stands alone, Umaroth encouraged. You have demonstrated your renunciation of the evils of your past. As long as you value the lives of the people of Alagaesia, and the lives of the riders you serve, you will have a place here.
"Thank you, Umaroth-Elder," Murtagh said, kneeling in front of the old dragon's massive Eldunari.
Do not think, Glaedr rumbled, That peace and good can endure without a battle. The Tyrant King was not the root of all wrongs, and the witch Bachel was just one of many evils that have grown, and will continue to grow in Alagaesia. The life of a rider is a life of service: ever striving to provide clean fields for others to till.
Yes, Glaedr-Elder, Thorn answered softly, his head low with melancholy.
Do you swear to share your knowledge and strength with the riders who come after you? Dilal'ah, a female, red Eldunari asked. To teach them to wield their power, and wield it rightly?
Murtagh and Thorn glanced at each other.
"We will…" Murtagh said quietly, "...on one condition."
Arya noticed Eragon look up at this, and she raised an eyebrow.
Murtagh took a breath and turned back to the Eldunari, his expression pained.
"Thorn and I... we must ask an allowance of you... and of-of Eragon," He glanced at his brother, "We are willing to teach the young riders, to show them how to use their power. But we cannot put a sword in their hands, and teach them to kill with it. We cannot arm them with magic to end another person's life. We cannot show them how to how to crush the life out of someone, or maim with teeth and claws." He shook his head, his gaze to the stones below, Thorn's head hanging close.
"From the day we were bonded, we were only taught to kill, and control, and harm," He murmured, "I would ask you not make us pass that knowledge on."
There was a stretch of quiet in the room, and Arya felt Firnen shift.
But the younglings will face battles, Umaroth rumbled heavily, And they will need to know how to fight.
Murtagh nodded.
"Aye. But they have others to teach them this."
Arya glanced at Eragon. She knew he had been hoping Murtagh would teach swordsmanship, as he was masterful with the blade and the only true human at Mt. Argnor. Those without an elf's strength and speed would need an example, but it seemed Murtagh was unwilling for it to be him.
"We would teach them how to heal, Masters," Murtagh continued passionately, "How to listen. How to fly, and hunt, and lean on each other. How to live."
Again there was silence, but Arya sensed a wash of satisfaction from Dila'ah and some of the others. Then Glaedr said,
As for me, I can agree to this.
Umaroth rumbled–if he'd had a head he might have been nodding.
If you will it to be thus, I will not object, He agreed.
It is an admirable thing, Dila'ah put in, To value peace over power, and healing over hurting. I deem this choice good.
The other Eldunari whispered their agreements, and Thorn blinked, clearly pleased. Arya watched Eragon work through his disappointment silently, trying to support his brother's decision and rearrange his own plans.
As for herself, Arya sided with Dila'ah.
She saw Murtagh and Thorn's choice as wise, self-knowing, restrained. Whatever they had to teach regarding combat and lethal magic had been given to them by a madman who valued no life. For them to pass that knowledge on would not be the same as for Eragon–who had also learned the twelve killing words and studied all manner of fighting styles, and had ended his fair number of lives, but who had been taught by Oromis and Glaedr, given tools to defend the good of Alagaesia, to fight for the oppressed, and bring down tyranny. Thorn and Murtagh had only tools of evil at their disposal, and they were asking to be excused from using them.
When the Eldunari had given their blessing on Murtagh's assignment as teacher, the three riders and their three dragons left the hall of the Eldunari and emerged back into the midday sun.
"I'm sorry," Murtagh said to Eragon, sensing his brother's confusion. Eragon sighed with a small smile.
"You don't have to be. I understand," Eragon answered, and he meant it, "There's plenty besides fighting that they'll need to learn. I'm just glad to have you here–both of you."
He smiled between Thorn and Murtagh, and gave Arya a small glance. She returned a soft smile, feeling more calm about her imminent departure now that things were stable for Eragon.
He would have his struggles, she was sure, but he would not feel so alone now, she thought, and that filled her heart with warmth.
Before the last month of summer began, Arya had packed Firnen's saddlebags, prepared for her journey back to Ellesmera, and begun saying her goodbyes. Her duties as queen were calling, and she could not delay any longer, despite the simple joy she felt in the rhythm of life at Mt. Argnor-the freedom of riding with Firnen, sharing walks with Eragon in the woods, reading from the library and listening to the warm chatter at dinner. Part of her wished she didn't have to return; despite her love for her home, it was there that her duties lay, and her attention would be demanded.
One of those duties would be investigating whatever it was that had attacked Murtagh and Thorn over the forest in mid-winter. Murtagh's description of the attack and the subsequent wounds had not made it clear what manner of thing had done it, and though Du Weldenvarden held many strange and unknown creatures, Arya was concerned that something was creeping so close to the edge of the forest, and waylaying passers-by.
In Firnen's bag lay a new dragon egg–one of those given to the riders before the fall, prepared for its dragon to choose a partner. Arya wondered what manner of rider the next would be–human, urgal, elf or dwarf.. It was exciting, to begin a new journey, but also melancholy, to be leaving Kharnine and Shillith behind in Eragon's hands. She knew he was capable, but she would miss the opportunity to train and teach.
Until the next egg hatches, Firnen reminded.
Until the next egg, Arya agreed with a smile, and this is what she said to Eragon, as they stood on the slope in front of the keep and said their farewells.
"I hope it won't be long," He returned, melancholy.
"As do I."
She gave Murtagh a nod, and said,
"You two take care of each other. Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you."
Eragon smiled, and it made her heart do a turn. Murtagh only nodded, his demeanor reserved, as it always was when he was sober.
"Thorn, Saphira, it's been a pleasure," She gave a small bow, and they ducked their heads in return.
When she mounted Firnen, and allowed him to give Saphira one last nudge on the snout, she gazed back down at Eragon with a soft smile
He looked handsome in this light–strong and calm and full of the breath of a new day, his hand resting on Brisingr, his face upturned to meet hers. She found herself already waiting eagerly for the next time she would see that smile, those eyes, that kind expression, and the way he stood when she was near, like he was drawn towards her as water is drawn to the sea.
She wondered who he would be, the next time their paths crossed. Dragon Rider, Shadeslayer, King-Killer, brother, cousin, son, leader, teacher… lover.
Atra esterni ono thelduin, She murmured, her eyes dancing, and Eragon repeated it back.
Then Firnen proudly flared his great wings, and took a leap into the sky, allowing the currents to lift him off the slope of the mountain. He wheeled once around the spire of the keep, flapping and gaining altitude as the wind danced through Arya's hair. As Firnen turned in the sky, she looked down to see the blue and red dragons sitting on the grass below, watching their flight, guarding over the shapes of their riders, whose sword-sheaths glinted in the sun.
Then Arya raised her gedwey ignasia in farewell, and Eragon did the same, and it felt to her as though their hands were clasped, no matter the distance.