Sorry it's been so long! Please R&R, hope you enjoy
Don't...own...Eragon...Amaka...is...mine...collapses
The morning dawned cool and bright, the chirping of the birds caring nothing for what horrors the day would bring. Eragon turned off Oromis's contraption; he had managed little sleep anyhow, thoughts of Amaka filling his mind. He stood, pulling on his shirt and shaving without waking Saphira. He didn't really want to discuss this with her; he had a feeling it would only make trouble.
He went down the stairs, running his fingers through his hair. What was he expecting, exactly? He shivered as his feet hit the hard earth, the balls of his feet tingling. Magic? It seemed that the earth vibrated with anticipation. A strange and hollow feeling rose in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, rubbing his arms to warm them. But the air around him was not cold; what under the sun was going on?
A party of elves appeared at the corner of his vision, approaching from the palace. Queen Islanzadi walked at the front, dressed the purest white shimmering samite. Arya walked slightly behind her, her head bowed, clad in a simple white dress that fell to the ground. Their escort, a party of ten elven warriors, was also clothed entirely in white; their proud heads held high and spears in hand. As they walked, elves trickled out of the surrounding houses to join them. All were dressed in white; Eragon felt decidedly unclean as the billowing cloud of elves approached. An unearthly silence blanketed the crowd, broken only by the cries of "Wyrda!" that erupted from the white raven hovering above them. The solemn procession strode down the avenue and towards the center of town.
Eragon started walking as the royal party passed him, walking apart from Arya. If she saw him, she gave no sign; his heart panged to be so near to her, but so far away.
They came to a halt at a crossroads; two of the other three roads were filled with silent elf-folk. In the center, a huge byre had been raised. The deadwood wound together like snakes, the lifeless branches reaching skyward in a futile search for redemption. Eragon shivered again; the presence was stronger here, the tension becoming so intense the air nearly crackled with it. Over the horrible silence, the creaking of cartwheels could be heard.
The collective heads of the crowd turned as one towards the empty road that led into the woods; slowly, a small wagon came into view, escorted by the four guardsmen. Sitting in the middle of the wagon, her flaming hair flowing out behind her like a defiant banner, rode Amaka Yannickosi.
The cart rumbled to a halt at the edge of the crossroads, the mule leading it shying nervously. The elf riding it unhitched it from the cart, pulling it off to the side. Two of the guards lowered one side of the wagon; reaching up, they grasped Amaka about the waist and hauled her from the cart. Her hands were bound before her, her burgundy cloak replaced by a sleeveless white shirt. Her fawn breeches were dirty and torn, as though she had fallen to her knees several times. A spectacular purple bruise had blossomed down her left arm, but she did not even blink as her captors hustled her forward roughly. Dragging her before the Queen, the guards released her, standing on her either side.
Her wild beauty had only increased with the look of quiet nonchalance she had plastered on her face. She stood before a multitude of seething hate, her eyebrow raised as if in polite question.
"Nameless One!" Islanzadi called, her voice shattering the quietude. Her face was pale and drawn, her hand clenched tightly on her scepter as she spoke. Her daughter stood motionless at her side. Arya's silence spoke volumes; he could tell that she had never expected this to really happen. He took an involuntary step towards her, to comfort her; she did not notice, her eyes trained on the prisoner.
"You have been found guilty of breaking our sacred traditions and treaties by first killing another being without provocation…" Amaka made as though to speak, but the guards restrained her, "and then returning from your gracious exile without cause. Therefore, in disowned shame before your brethren, you are condemned to death by fire."
All eyes watched the prisoner as the Queen's ringing tones faded into oblivion. Amaka shook her magnificent head, a strange convulsion racking her body. She raised her head to the sky. She was laughing.
The laughter carried around the silent crossroads, cold and mocking. Eragon shivered as the Queen ordered the guards to carry her to the pyre, the high, crazed laughter ringing in his ears. The guards lifted her from the ground marched her up the byre, tying tightly to a long, thin spike that seemed to pierce the darkening sky. Clouds had gathered as the elven people had, circling the sky like prowling gray wolves.
The guards stepped back and the Queen stepped forward, taking from one of her escort an unlit torch. She held it into the air and it burst into flame. "Tradition demands that you speak your mind, such that it is," the Queen said coldly as the laughter stopped. Amaka gazed down at her with piercing jade eyes, her mouth a wide grin. She looked past the Queen, gazing first at Eragon and then Arya. He felt the princess shudder beneath the verdant gaze as the two locked eyes. Then Amaka spoke.
"You were my friends. Though my ancestry was tainted, you swore to see past it. I lived in your homes, I played with your children; but I knew I would never be the same. I would never be one of you." She paused, her eyes boaring into Arya like hot coals. "I don't deny my charges. I accept them wholeheartedly. However, since I am not one of you…you hold little sway over me." Some in the crowd seemed uncomfortable, becoming shifty. Amaka did not notice; her eyes were only for Arya. Eragon glanced at her to see silent tears tumbling down her ivory face, her lower lip trembling. Amaka's lips parted in a wolfish smile, her gaze never wavering. "Do your goddamn worst."
With a cry of rage, the Queen flung her torch to the wood, which it lapped up greedily. Amaka began to laugh once more; suddenly, her hands were free. Almost instantly she was atop the stake, fire licking at her ankles. Eragon stood glued to the spot, unconscious of the terrified people fighting to get away. The sky rumbled with thunder. Their eyes met.
The orbs of burning jade softened for a moment. Her free hand strayed to her breast, her long fingers wrapping around her necklace. She yanked forward violently; the thin golden chain snapped free. She tossed it into the air.
Eragon saw it pass through the air as though in a dream. The colors of the dancing flame were unreal, the slow arch of the sparkling chain seemed to take an eternity. His gray eyes followed its progress across the stormy sky, until it fell at his feet. He reached for it, feeling the metal that was still warm from her skin. He forced his head upward to look at her, to understand. A bright flash of light filled his vision. A fork of lightning snaked down from the heavens, engulfing the waspish figure atop the burning stake. Dimly, he heard a cry behind him; a pair of indigo claws wrapped around his waist, dragging him into the air. His eyes never left the smoldering stake as they flew away, Sapphira pumping her wings as though Galbatorix himself was nipping at their heels.
The swollen sky burst, and glistening rain pelted the land.