Stargazer

by Keltoi

"Every end crawls from the same pit, rising from the schism to swallow matter, Light and life. It cannot be stopped, but here, it can be slowed."

40. Chapter 40: Crowning

Chapter 40: Crowning

He leaned against the wall of the hallway just outside and waited for the elf. She passed him without a second look and continued onwards. Ikharos didn't think she was the forgetful type, but he wasn't going to play into her games. He stayed where he was and waited, and eventually both dragon and boy appeared.

Eragon put his hands on his hips, tilted back his head, and exhaled.

"I feel the same way," Ikharos said. "The stress is bloody inhumane."

"Why did you do that?" The boy asked. "Why did you say the things you did?"

"I was hoping that it would kick those bastards into action, but I guess only one of them is willing. It doesn't matter. Nasuada has them all handled."

Eragon looked at him strangely. "How do you figure that?"

"Because being able to read people and their itty-bitty intentions is the only reason I'm still alive." He pointed down the hall. "Your elven friend went thataways."

The dragon snorted and went ahead. They followed her. From the way that Eragon moved his head, Ikharos assumed he was speaking with Saphira. It gave him time to think and clear his mind. The Varden's choice didn't really surprise him. They hadn't dragged their way through the same brutal history his people had. They were soft and untested. Inaction had rotted them inside out.

Saphira stopped. They stood before the carved archway of what appeared to be Tronjheim's grand library. The vast, silent room seemed empty, though the ranks of back-to-back bookshelves interspersed with columns could conceal any amount of people. Lanterns poured soft light across the scroll-covered walls, illuminating the reading alcoves along their bases. Ikharos grinned; he hadn't imagined there to be archives within the mountain city. A welcome surprise, for sure.

Weaving through the shelves, Saphira led them to a particular alcove where Arya sat. She seemed more agitated than he had ever seen her, though it manifested itself only in the tension of her movements. Her expression was carefully maintained, like always.

"What have you done?" Arya asked them with unexpected hostility. Ikharos crossed his arms.

"What do you mean?" Eragon replied nervously.

She lifted her chin. "What have you promised the Varden? What have you done?"

"We only did what we had to. I'm ignorant of elves' customs, so if our actions upset you, I apologize. There's no cause to be angry."

"Fool! You know nothing about me. I have spent seven decades representing my queen here - fifteen years of which I bore Saphira's egg between the Varden and the elves. In all that time, I struggled to ensure the Varden had wise, strong leaders who could resist Galbatorix and respect our wishes. Brom helped me by forging the agreement concerning the new Rider - you. Ajihad was committed to your remaining independent so that the balance of power would not be upset. Now I see you siding with the Council of Elders, willingly or not, to control Nasuada! You have overturned a lifetime of work! What have you done?!"

Ikharos didn't say anything. He opted to watch instead. He wasn't the boy's father or guardian or otherwise responsible for him. He had too much on his plate to factor in yet another ward (even the one had him feeling all sorts of awful). Eragon would have to learn to stand up for himself. And he did. The boy floundered, but he found his courage and, in a most concise and assured manner, explained just what had happened: Nasuada was in position to take over where her father once led, and the Council of Elders had unwittingly handed the crown over.

"Cheaters never prosper," Ikharos mused.

"No, they do not," Saphira agreed.

He withheld a shudder. He didn't like how the dragon's voice could reach him through his mental barricades. And he didn't exactly like the dragon itself either. It didn't have to be a pure Ahamkara to put him on edge. Ikharos took a nearby seat just to get some distance and leaned back, one leg crossing over the other.

"So," Arya stated, brow still furrowed. She studied Eragon intensely. "Your position is not what I would wish, but better than I had hoped. I was impolite; Saphira... and you... understand more than I thought. Your compromise will be accepted by the elves, though you must never forget your debt to us for Saphira. There would be no Riders without our efforts."

"The debt is burned into my blood and my palm," Eragon said with finality.

Ikharos picked a book from a shelf at random. He quickly skimmed through it, but was disappointed to find it written in a runic language he didn't understand. He returned it and started looking for something more comprehensible.

"You were... unusually invested in choosing a leader," Eragon stated nervously. Ikharos heard, recognized it was directed at him, and waited a few moments to prepare his carefully worded answer.

"Yeah," was all he could come up with.

"Even though you're from foreign lands."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because it's a damn shame to see it?" Ikharos jutted his thumb over his shoulder. "What happened back there was nothing more than a farce. I'm happy with where it is now, but scenarios like that don't usually get such happy endings. Those rats aren't invested in the Varden's purpose. They're nothing more than parasites leeching off all the people here have to offer. They don't care about fighting the empire. They just want to get powerful."

"Why do you oppose the empire?" Saphira asked sharply.

Ikharos shrugged. "Because they attacked me without reason? Because they orchestrated the subjugation and destruction of Kuasta? Because they employ the help of Shades, who are natural enemies of mine?"

"Natural enemies?" Eragon asked curiously.

"I'm Risen. They're Shades. We're mirrors of one another. Same metaphysical niche. One of us has to go, and it won't be my kind."

"Risen?"

"... That explanation entails a long story that I don't care to tell right now. The short of it is this: imagine a Shade, but without all the evil spirit things and with a more... well, as much as I'd like to say benign disposition, the truth of it is we're as neutral as anyone."

"I... don't understand," Eragon admitted.

"It's complicated," Ikharos said with a shrug.

"Why are you here?" Arya inquired, eyes narrowed suspiciously. She never wasn't suspicious of him. It never ceased to be annoying.

"To kill Durza, first off," Ikharos replied. "That monster had to go. Secondly, I had to ensure Tellesa wasn't to die. Thirdly, Kiphoris wanted to collect his warriors. Can't blame him for that, can you?"

"I'm not blaming anyone."

"But you want to. More specifically, you want to blame me." Ikharos met her cold gaze. "Let's be real, you don't like or trust me. And I honestly couldn't give a damn if you don't. I'm not here to make friends. But don't lump me in with those Council of Elders snakes. I'm not after anything. I arrived in Alagaësia because there's people I need to kill and nothing more."

"Who?"

"Anyone who makes life hell for the ordinary, common people. You might be pleased to know that Galbatorix falls under that category, so he's going to die."

"That's not so easily done," Arya said bitterly.

"Maybe not, but I'm going to see it through regardless."

000

He pressed the wet rag against Ka'Den's blade and slowly, delicately, slid it down the silver edge. The rag ripped. His skin parted. Blood bloomed like sun-hungry flowers. Kiphoris held up his bleeding palm and marveled at the pain. He marveled at the red-violet drops that slid down his claws to fall to the floor of the command deck. He marveled that all it took was a soft kiss from the blade.

The Ahamkara had not just summoned the ancestral sword of the Wolves. It had improved it. Made it sharper. Made it stronger.

And now it was his.

"You could attain much more than a sword." A four-eyed robin with a beak full of teeth hopped onto his shoulder. Arke raised her gold-green plumage and chirped inquisitively, appraisingly, critically. A test and an offer.

"I indeed want more than a sword," Kiphoris admitted. "But I think it would be most wise if I attain it all myself. I must grow, and growth needs a steady, gentle touch to weave it into beauty. The journey will be mine-loom. And I am a gentle weaver."

The little dragon said nothing. She had her answer.

Javek climbed up through the hatch. The Splicer looked at the not-bird with some confusion, but he said nothing. He only twiddled his claws, waiting for permission to speak.

"What do you think of the humans?" Kiphoris asked. He wanted to know his crews' mind. Paltis already approved and Eldrin had already made clear his stance, but the rest were unknowns. Kiphoris didn't like that. He was a Wolf. He needed to learn all he could so he might make the best possible decision. He needed to understand.

Javek shrugged his dominant shoulders. "I do not know for sure, mine-Captain. I like Kirzen and Zeshus, but I have not met many other humans."

"Then what of the humans you do know?"

"... Drotos-Achris proclaimed Ikha Riis to be the emissary of the Great Machine. That we should listen to him and consider his words with great reverence."

"Drotos is old. He was little more than a hatchling when the Whirlwind consumed Riis, but the devastation imprinted upon his mind. He attempted to find answers in the scriptures of Rain to ease the pain, but instead he found faith. I do not blame him. I cannot. You and I never knew the glories of home, so we cannot bemoan its loss. Not as he can. But I fear it clouds his judgement. Drotos has my respect, but not mine-confidence. I choose mine-verdict over his."

Javek half-closed his inner eyes. "That is..."

"Dangerous? Eia, division under a banner always is. I know he is your mentor, Splicer, but do not forget that I am not Scar-born. We are the sum of our experiences. Drotos was shaped by the Whirlwind. I was shaped by Sol. I was shaped by the screaming machines."

"You do not trust Ikha Riis?"

"I trust him to fight as our ally. He is a broadsword, not a curved knife. His fight is forward, always forward. I trust in the safety at his flanks. I trust that he will fight to his dying breath to do what he believes is right. I trust that he will not break his word. I trust that, above all, he will choose to save as many of his humans as he can. That is what I trust. But I do not trust that his eyes see clearly. He is a being of the moment, of the present, but not the future. His foresight extends only as far as to stockpile rations for the next winter. He does not dig out his trenches for the war that waits ten years on. He arms himself to fight the nearest foe, not the villain a million rikhas away."

And I trust he will honour my demand for a final dying-duel, Kiphoris thought, but that went unsaid.

The Splicer looked torn for a few moments, but he gathered himself and did something unexpected. He lifted his head proudly and clicked his mandibles in an ordered, patterned manner. "I trust Kirzen. He has power, and yet he has not used it over us like Hive would."

"He may be using us to defend his people," Kiphoris replied. He wanted to test the Splicer's newfound convictions.

"Eia, I imagine he is, but he has treated us fairly. If we assist, we may endear ourselves to him. We will become reliable to him. And he to us. It would be a noble and just alliance."

Kiphoris chuckled. He admired the young Splicer's certainty. "You are growing bolder, Javek. You speak to your Captain fearlessly. Do you not worry for stern reprisals? Has your growth of arms fueled your courage?"

Javek blinked. "I, ah, apologize Kiphoris-Veskirisk. I did not mean to-"

"Bah! Do not bother yourself with placating words. I appreciate plain speech. If I hadn't, Melkris would be dead thrice over."

"You are... growing bolder too, mine-Captain."

"Oh? How so?"

"You are opening up. The humans have rekindled the life in you."

Kiphoris caught himself. Had he? He had been speaking rather... broadly of late. But he was never one to disguise his thoughts before. Was he?

Javek cleared his throat. "I did not mean to insult, mine-Captain."

Kiphoris waved his concerns away. "No offense taken, Javek. Perhaps I merely find mine-self gladdened to have a living planet upon which to exercise my sword arm."

"A dangerous planet."

"All planets are dangerous. The danger only differs in how quickly it kills you." He climbed to his feet. His helmet's wings tapped against the ceiling.

Formora clambered up onto the command deck. She afforded both Scars with respectful nods and stared at the Ahamkara. "So it's true," she said quietly. "The feather regrew."

Arke turned into a long, thin serpent with bony ridges running down its spine. She curled around Kiphoris's neck once, twice, like a tightening noose. He held his breath and strangled his nervousness. "Off," he ordered gruffly.

The serpent became a fanged spider with a single eye and leapt onto the holotable. The dragonling was the embodiment of trickery and illusions, but Kiphoris strived to be above the weakness of lesser Eliksni. He held himself above the Ahamkara's honeyed words as if he were both a serene, purposeful Paladin of the Reef and a unfaltering, prideful Captain of the Scars. Let her temptations break upon his hadium-will.

"It is true." Kiphoris met Formora's gaze. "Arke will be a new limb for mine-banner to fight with. And if it misbehaves, we dock that limb like an errant Drekh."

"That explains Ikharos's dire mood."

"Eia. He is right to keep his trust from dragons, but his hatred is... wildly unnecessary. I yet begrudge him for what he did to me, and I yet work with him. He needs to learn the same."

Formora nodded slowly. She pointedly avoided looking at Arke. "I've been informed, by Saphira, that the Varden has its new leader chosen."

"Who?"

"Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad."

Kiphoris hummed. "I do not know her, but I do not know many of the Varden. Is there ceremony, or do I merely send my regards?"

"I... believe there is a ceremony. She will be installed as leader after her father's funeral tomorrow."

"Are we expected to attend?"

"I imagine so."

He grunted. "Human politics is slow. So be it, I will humour them."

---

Kiphoris led his warriors to the dwarven city. Their amour gleamed and glinted in the daylight streaming through the open crater far above. Their eyes were bright with sustenance and they all carried sheathed blades at their hips. They moved in as an ordered pack, not one making a step out of line. Melkris did not make himself an irritation and Eldrin kept his growing displeasure from showing. Paltis packed away her sorrow for other days and Javek once more summoned his new courage to stand tall. True Eliksni, each and every one of them. Kiphoris surged with pride.

They left Calzan and Obleker in the Skiff. Formora and Ikharos, their humans, went with them. The Wishbreaker and the Kingkiller marched on either side of Kiphoris at the head of their group, as befitting their noble status. Ikharos wore his robes and armour with familiar grace, and Formora moved with inhuman elegance. They were not orthodox of a crew, but they reflected well on the Scars, so Kiphoris was satisfied with how they held themselves.

A carefully arranged column of mourners was set just within the gates of Tronjheim. Ajihad lay at the front, cold and pale on a white marble bier borne by six men in black armor. Upon his head was a helm strewn with gems. His hands were clasped beneath his collarbone, over the ivory hilt of his bare sword, which extended from underneath the shield covering his chest and legs. Silver mail weighed down his limbs and fell onto the bier.

Close behind the body stood who Kiphoris presumed to be Nasuada - grave featured, sable-cloaked, and strong in stature, though tears adorned her face. To the side was King Hrothgar in dark robes. Behind them was Arya, and behind her were the humans Ikharos named to be - in a faint whisper - the Council of Elders, all with suitably remorseful expressions; and finally a stream of mourners that extended a mile from Tronjheim. Tellesa and Murtagh were somewhere in the crowd - Kiphoris couldn't see them, but he caught a trace of their scents.

Kiphoris took up position on Nasuada's other side, as a human soldier subtly indicated. His Eliksni joined the dwarven and human guards. Ikharos and Formora made their own way beside Arya.

"Sire-loss is a hard pain," Kiphoris said in a quiet voice. Nasuada glanced at him. "You have my sympathies, Ajihad-heir."

"You know it?" She asked, her voice little more than a murmur.

"I do. When mine-father died at Ceres, I was left lost and hollowed. It took me time to leave that pain behind, but leave it I did." He paused. "If it is not clear, I am attempting to console."

Nasuada muffled a laugh behind her hand. "I understand. Thank you, Kiphoris."

He nodded and straightened up to his full height. He towered over everyone present.

They were joined by Eragon, Saphira, and another dwarf not long after. The dwarf took up position behind Hrothgar, and the Rider and dragon joined the Council of Elders.

Deep in Tronjheim, a drum gonged. Boom. The sonorous bass note resonated through his chitin and bones, vibrating the city-mountain and causing it to echo like a great stone bell.

The column stepped forward. Kiphoris moved with it, limiting his long strides to keep pace with the humans.

Boom. On the second note, another, lower drum melded with the first, each beat rolling inexorably through the hall. It propelled them forward with more force.

Boom. When the tunnel ended, Ajihad's bearers paused between the onyx pillars before gliding into the central chamber. A massive red gem rested in the centre of the ceiling, like a great crystalized rose. It was glorious. It was magnificent. It was art on a sophisticated level he hadn't seen since visiting the Dreaming City so long ago.

Boom. The bearers continued forward, between the countless razor edges. Then the procession turned and descended broad flights of stairs to the tunnels below. Through many caverns they marched, passing stone huts where dwarven children - so very tiny - clutched their mothers and stared with wide eyes. They looked at him with open wonder. Kiphoris tilted his head and blinked his eyes at random. He was rewarded with a series of innocent giggles that melted his hearts.

Boom. And with that final crescendo, they halted under ribbed stalactites that branched over a great catacomb lined with alcoves. In each alcove lay a tomb carved with names and house crests. Hundreds of thousands were buried here. The only light came from sparsely placed red lanterns, pale in the shadows.

After a moment, the bearers strode to a small room annexed to the main chamber. In the center, on a raised platform, was a great crypt open to waiting darkness. On the top was carved in human runes:

May all, Knurlan, Humans, and Elves,

Remember

This Man.

For he was Noble, Strong, and Wise.

Gûntera Arûna

When the mourners were gathered around, Ajihad was lowered into the crypt. Those who knew him in life were allowed to approach. Kiphoris kept back, allowing others to pay their respects. It didn't feel right to join them, considering he had met the man only three to four times.

When at last everyone had paid their respects, Nasuada bowed over Ajihad and touched her father's hand, holding it with gentle urgency. Uttering a pained groan, she began to sing in a strange, wailing language, filling the cavern with her lamentations.

Then came twelve dwarves, who slid a marble slab over Ajihad's up-turned face. And he was buried forever more.

---

When the humans grew exhausted with mourning the man the procession moved into an amphitheatre beneath the city.

"This is where the crowning happens," Ikharos had muttered. "I think. That, or we're about to hear long-winded speeches about death and hope and all the bullshit that comes with it."

Formora subtly elbowed him. "Be respectful."

The Lightbearer rolled his eyes. "Yeah, alright. But when I die, don't drag my funeral out. Bury me, have a drink, move on."

"Noted," Kiphoris murmured. "Now be silent before someone hears you."

They had, in fact, already been overheard. Arya, sitting on the row ahead of them, spared Ikharos a distasteful look. Everyone else missed it, enraptured with their own muttered discussions.

They had a prime spot. At least, that was what the humans who gave them their place said. They were second from the front, level with the podium. Kiphoris would have rather clung to the ceiling. It would have provided a better view. But their dwarven and human hosts didn't account for that, clawless as they were, so uncomfortable stone benches it was. The rest of the important figures in the city were around them; Hrothgar and that dwarf from earlier who may have been his heir, Arya, Eragon and Saphira, Nasuada, and the Council of Elders. Both the dwarven king's guards and Kiphoris's soldiers were nearby.

It took several minutes for the amphitheater to fill. Then one of the Council of Elders, a man in ornate armour, stepped up to the podium. "People of the Varden, we last stood here fifteen years ago, at Deynor's death. His successor, Ajihad, did more to oppose the empire and Galbatorix than any before. He won countless battles against superior forces. He nearly killed Durza, putting a scratch on the Shade's blade. And greatest of all, he welcomed Rider Eragon and Saphira into Tronjheim! He welcomed the arrival of Kiphoris and the Eliksni! However, a new leader must be chosen, one who will win us even more glory."

Someone high above shouted, "Shadeslayer!"

Ikharos lowered his head. "Psekisk," he muttered.

Kiphoris felt a smile tugging at him. He was grateful his helmet hid it.

The man on the podium shook his head gravely. He said, "He has other duties and responsibilities now, and allegiances to other peoples. No, the Council of Elders has thought long on this: we need one who understands our needs and wants, one who has lived and suffered alongside us. One who refused to flee, even when battle was imminent."

They were making quite a show of it. Kiphoris found it remarkably similar to rhetoric of the more traditionalist Eliksni nobles. And he wasn't impressed. The old ways were good, but only to an extent. The ways of Riis should have been remembered and cherished, but not all of it was healthy for a house. Some of it, the useless extraneous parts, necessitated cutting away.

The name came as a whisper from a thousand throats and was uttered by the man on the podium himself: "Nasuada." With a bow, the soldier stepped aside.

Next to stand up was Arya. She surveyed the waiting audience, then said, "The elves honor Ajihad tonight... and on behalf of Queen Islanzadí, I recognize Nasuada's ascension and offer her the same support and friendship we extended to her father. May the stars watch over her."

Hrothgar took the podium and stated gruffly, "I too support Nasuada, as do the clans." He moved aside.

Kiphoris rose up and stepped over the bench in front of him. He marched onto the podium and swiveled to face the massive crowd. "I, Kiphoris-Veskirisk pak Drakkir," he rumbled, "represent Tarrhis-Mrelliks on this day. Mine-banner, the House of Scar, do so support Nasuada. May her arm be strong, her ether be cold, her eyes be bright, and her spirit be valiant."

Silence - some of it respectful and most of it confused - reigned supreme. Kiphoris went back to his seat.

Then it was Eragon's turn. Standing before the crowd, with all eyes upon him and Saphira, he said, "We support Nasuada as well." Saphira growled in affirmation.

Ikharos's turn came around. The Warlock rose, practically glided onto the podium, and said, "Nasuada is a prime candidate. I approve of and support her."

He returned and stiffly sat down, aware of all the eyes on him.

Pledges spoken, the Council of Elders lined themselves on either side of the podium, the soldier at their head. Bearing herself proudly, Nasuada approached and knelt before him, her dress splayed in raven billows. Raising his voice, the soldier said, "By the right of inheritance and succession, we have chosen Nasuada. By merit of her father's achievements and the blessings of her peers, we have chosen Nasuada. I now ask you: Have we chosen well?"

The roar of the crowd was overwhelming. "Yes!"

The soldier nodded. "Then by the power granted to this council, we pass the privileges and responsibilities accorded to Ajihad to his only descendant, Nasuada." He gently placed a circlet of silver on Nasuada's brow. Taking her hand, he lifted her upright and pronounced, "I give you our new leader!"

For ten minutes, the Varden and dwarves cheered, thundering their approbation until the hall rang with the clamor. Once their cries subsided, Eragon and Saphira started toward Nasuada. Eragon bowed and kneeled, and slipped his red sword from its sheath. He placed the sword flat on his palms, then lifted it to Nasuada. "Out of deep respect... and appreciation of the difficulties facing you... I, Eragon, first Rider of the Varden, Argetlam, give you my blade and my fealty, Nasuada."

The Varden and dwarves stared, dumbstruck. Ikharos chuckled quietly.

Nasuada smiled and grasped Zar'roc, placing the sword's tip on Eragon's forehead. "I am honored that you choose to serve me, Rider Eragon. I accept, as you accept all the responsibilities accompanying the station. Rise as my vassal and take your sword."

Eragon did so, then stepped back with Saphira. With shouts of approval, the crowd rose to their feet, the dwarves stamping in rhythm with their hobnail boots while human warriors banged swords across shields. It was chaotic and entirely like home - albeit without the roars of nobles and the warbles of Servitors.

Turning to the podium, Nasuada gripped it on either side and looked up at all the people in the amphitheater. She beamed at them, pure joy shining from her face. "People of the Varden!"

The silence was back.

"As my father did before me, I give my life to you and our cause. I will never cease fighting until the Urgals are vanquished, Galbatorix is dead, and Alagaësia is free once more!"

A smattering of cheers and applause accompanied her bold statement.

"Therefore, I say to you, now is the time to prepare. Here in Farthen Dûr - after endless skirmishes - we won our greatest battle. It is our turn to strike back. Galbatorix is weak after losing so many forces, and there will never again be such an opportunity. Therefore, I say again, now is the time to prepare so that we may once more stand victorious!"

Kiphoris stilled. Ikharos lost his smile. "Psekisk," they both said at once.

Now was not the time for humans to make noise. It would attract the attention of those who would see them dead.

---

"That's not good."

"Nama."

"If the Cabal don't smash them, then it'll be Krinok's bunch. If not them, the Exos could get involved."

"Can we convince them otherwise?"

"They've spent nearly a century building up to this. Not a Traveler-damned chance."

Kiphoris growled. "Fools! They will die!"

Ikharos shrugged and leaned against the bulkhead. "I know."

"There must be something we can do!"

"Kiph, they aren't going to change their mind because... what? Me and a couple of Eliksni warn them otherwise? You heard them back there. They aren't going to stop until they've drawn blood."

Formora cleared her throat. "What if we help them?"

They turned to her. She sat by the holotable, wearing a look of faint concern.

"What if we help them... not die? Work with them so that if the Cabal do attack, we're ready for it. Maybe even use the Varden to our advantage. The Cabal, or Krinok, likely won't expect much in the way of defense if they target the Varden. They reach out, we cut off the hand."

Ikharos frowned. "That's... ruthless. People would die."

"More would die if the Varden is left to to fend for itself."

"Still ruthless." Ikharos looked down at the floor. "It could work, to some degree. But it could also be a wasted investment. We just don't have the manpower to do this sparingly."

Formora continued. "The Varden and their allies know this land. They have access to resources. The Cabal and Krinok won't have that advantage. We do, if we make our alliance with the Varden and dwarves more... structured."

Kiphoris nodded along. "That is good. We need not station many warriors with the humans. Only enough that our influence is felt and our voices heard. A few who may give advice where Krinok and his traitors or the Cabal are concerned..."

"You have an idea?"

"I am the Dreamer. I have many ideas. But yes, there is one in particular I am considering. Let me speak with Tarrhis-"

"The Rider is outside," whispered the feathered lizard in the corner of the room. "He seeks the Child of Light."

Ikharos spared Arka a hateful glare and disappeared down the ladder.

"Your plan?" Formora asked, ignoring the Ahamkara entirely.

Kiphoris shrugged and strode over to the radio. "I must clear it with mine-Baron first. He may see it as a waste of Eliksni effort. You might help me convince him otherwise."

000

It was evening outside the Skiff. Eragon stood by the foot of the Skiff, feeling terribly out of place, what with his funeral clothes. It didn't feel right when the grandiose creation of Eliksni handiwork stood before him. He felt as if his garb brought with it an essence of sorrow that only hurt the-

"Hey," Ikharos greeted.

Eragon jumped and turned around. He hadn't heard the wizard step out. "Hello. I'm sorry if I interrupted-"

"Don't worry, I was just poring over essential battleplans with Kiphoris that may decide the fate of his entire people," Ikharos said drily. Eragon shrank. His blood went cold. The wizard groaned. "A joke. Nothing that can't wait a little while. What brings you here?"

Relief flooded his heart. Eragon let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. "I... wanted to speak with you."

"And now you are." Ikharos smiled in a strained manner. The person before Eragon was different to the one he'd first met. More patient and less confrontational. Approachable - to a degree.

"I wanted to know... if you would teach me to use magic as you wield it. So that I might pose a better chance at-"

Ikharos shook his head. "I can't. Light is inherent to Risen and no one else. It's not a gift we can hand out; It's tied to our souls."

Eragon nodded glumly. "I see."

"What did you hope to use it for?" Ikharos asked curiously.

"I hoped that if I ever face something like Durza again, I might be better prepared."

Ikharos's smile faded away. "No. You shouldn't be fighting. You're too young."

Eragon frowned. "But-"

"But nothing. These people shouldn't be throwing you out into battle, hoping it'll make a difference."

"But... but I can fight!" Eragon argued.

"The issue isn't whether you can, but whether you should. Doesn't it bother you? That you have to kill? Do the faces of your victims haunt your dreams?"

Eragon fumbled for a response and found his words had deserted him. His silence was all the answer Ikharos needed. The wizard placed a hand on his shoulder - supportive, warm, and heartfelt.

"I don't like this," Ikharos admitted. "And I'm not alone. Kiphoris thinks the same. All the Scars will. War is not a place for children."

"I'm not a child."

"... No, perhaps not. But you're not a grown man either. I know I can't be there to stop you, and neither do I want to. It's your life. Your choice. But next time someone points at the enemy and tells you to fight, ask them why they need you to fight. Why they need you to kill. Could be there's an easier path where no blood is spilled. No one wants to die, Eragon. But everyone wants to win."

"So... you want me to question those who command me?"

"I'm trying to say that you should make your own choices, everyone else be damned. Just make sure they're the right ones."

---

Ikharos's words haunted Eragon's thoughts through the night and well into the next day. When he and Saphira were eating lunch, he barely touched his food. He was distracted with internal debates concerning the matter of choice. Ikharos let nothing control him and he advised others to do the same. Saphira had surprised Eragon by agreeing with what the 'rude man' had said and left it at that.

Jarsha trotted up to them. Like before, he stared wide-eyed at Saphira, following her movements as she nibbled off the end of a leg bone. "Yes?" asked Eragon, wiping his chin and wondering if the Council of Elders had sent for them. He had heard nothing from them since the funeral.

Jarsha turned away from Saphira long enough to say, "Nasuada would like to see you, sir. She's waiting in her father's study."

"Sir!" Eragon almost laughed. Only a little while ago, he would have been calling people sir, not the other way around. He glanced at Saphira. "Are you done, or should we wait a few minutes?"

Rolling her eyes, she fit the rest of the bloody haunch into her mouth and split the bone with a loud crack. "I'm done."

"Alright," Eragon said, standing, "you can go, Jarsha. We know the way."

It took almost half an hour to reach the study because of the city's size. As during Ajihad's rule, the door was guarded, but instead of two men, an entire squad of battle-hardened warriors now stood before it, alert for the slightest hint of danger. They would clearly sacrifice themselves to protect their new leader from ambush or attack. Though the men could not have failed to recognize Eragon and Saphira, they barred the way while Nasuada was alerted of her visitors. Only then were the two allowed to enter.

Eragon immediately noticed a change: a vase of flowers in the study. The small purple blossoms were unobtrusive, but they suffused the air with a warm fragrance that - for Eragon - evoked summers of fresh-picked raspberries and scythed fields turning bronze under the sun. He inhaled, appreciating the skill with which Nasuada had asserted her individuality without obliterating Ajihad's memory.

She sat behind the broad desk, still cloaked in the black of mourning.

As Eragon seated himself, Saphira beside him, she said, "Eragon." It was a simple statement, neither friendly nor hostile. She turned away briefly, then focused on him, her gaze steely and intent. "I have spent the last few days reviewing the Varden's affairs, such as they are. It was a dismal exercise. We are poor, overextended, and low on supplies, and few recruits are joining us from the Empire. I mean to change that.

"The dwarves cannot support us much longer, as it's been a lean year for farming and they've suffered losses of their own. Considering this, I have decided to move the Varden to Surda. It's a difficult proposition, but one I believe necessary to keep us safe. Once in Surda, we will finally be close enough to engage the Empire directly."

Even Saphira stirred with surprise. The work that would involve! Eragon thought. It could take months to get everyone's belongings to Surda, not to mention all the people. And they'd probably be attacked along the way. "I thought King Orrin didn't dare openly oppose Galbatorix," he protested.

Nasuada smiled grimly. "His stance has changed since we defeated the Urgals. He will shelter and feed us and fight by our side. Many Varden are already in Surda, mainly women and children who couldn't or wouldn't fight. They will also support us, else I will strip our name from them."

"How," Eragon asked, "did you communicate with King Orrin so quickly?"

"The dwarves use a system of mirrors and lanterns to relay messages through their tunnels. They can send a dispatch from here to the western edge of the Beor Mountains in less than a day. Couriers then transport it to Aberon, capital of Surda. Fast as it is, that method is still too slow when Galbatorix can surprise us with an Urgal army and give us less than a day's notice. I intend to arrange something far more expedient between Du Vrangr Gata and Hrothgar's magicians before we go. If the Eliksni will share their secrets, then we may hold an even greater advantage in that area."

Opening the desk drawer, Nasuada removed a thick scroll. "The Varden will depart Farthen Dûr within the month. Hrothgar has agreed to provide us with safe passage through the tunnels. Moreover, he sent a force to Orthíad to remove the last vestiges of Urgals and seal the tunnels so no one can invade the dwarves by that route again. As this may not be enough to guarantee the Varden's survival, I have a favor to ask of you."

Eragon nodded. He had expected a request or order. That was the only reason for her to have summoned them. "I am yours to command."

"Perhaps." Her eyes flicked to Saphira for a second. "In any case, this is not a command, and I want you to think carefully before replying. To help rally support for the Varden, I wish to spread word throughout the Empire that a new Rider and his dragon have joined our cause. I would like your permission before doing so, however."

"It's too dangerous," Saphira objected.

"Word of our presence here will reach the Empire anyway," Eragon pointed out. "The Varden will want to brag about their victory and Durza's death. Since it'll happen with or without our approval, we should agree to help."

She snorted softly. "I'm worried about Galbatorix. Until now we haven't made it public where our sympathies lie."

"Our actions have been clear enough."

"Yes, but even when Durza fought you in Tronjheim, he wasn't trying to kill you. If we become outspoken in our opposition to the Empire, Galbatorix won't be so lenient again. Who knows what forces or plots he may have kept in abeyance while he tried to gain hold of us? As long as we remain ambiguous, he won't know what to do."

"The time for ambiguity has passed," Eragon asserted. "We fought the Urgals, faced Durza, and I have sworn fealty to the leader of the Varden. No ambiguity exists. No, with your permission, I will agree to her proposal."

She was silent for a long while, then dipped her head. "As you wish."

He put a hand on her side before returning his attention to Nasuada and saying, "Do what you see fit. If this is how we can best assist the Varden, so be it."

"Thank you. I know it is a lot to ask. Now, as we discussed before the funeral, I expect you to travel to Ellesméra and complete your training."

"With Arya?"

"Of course. The elves have refused contact with both humans and dwarves ever since she was captured. Arya is the only being who can convince them to emerge from seclusion."

"Couldn't she use magic to tell them of her rescue?"

"Unfortunately not. When the elves retreated into Du Weldenvarden after the fall of the Riders, they placed wards around the forest that prevent any thought, item, or being from entering it through arcane means, though not from exiting it, if I understood Arya's explanation. Thus, Arya must physically visit Du Weldenvarden before Queen Islanzadí will know that she is alive, that you and Saphira exist, and of the numerous events that have befallen the Varden these past months."

Nasuada handed him the scroll. It was stamped with a wax sigil. "This is a missive for Queen Islanzadí, telling her about the Varden's situation and my own plans. Guard it with your life; it would cause a great deal of harm in the wrong hands. I hope that after all that's happened, Islanzadí will feel kindly enough toward us to reinitiate diplomatic ties. Her assistance could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Arya knows this and has agreed to press our case, but I wanted you aware of the situation too, so you could take advantage of any opportunities that might arise."

Eragon tucked the scroll into his jerkin. "When will we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning... unless you have something already planned?"

"No."

"Good." She clasped her hands. "You should know, others will be traveling with you." He looked at her quizzically. "King Hrothgar insisted that in the interest of fairness there should be a dwarf representative present at your training, since it affects their race as well. So he's sending Orik along. And, as per Arya's request, the Eliksni are to send along both their own dignitaries and guards, though I presume they are one and the same. Kiphoris will lead them, alongside Ikharos."

Eragon's first reaction was irritation. Saphira could have flown Arya and him to Du Weldenvarden, thereby eliminating weeks of unnecessary travel. The other's presence would confine them to the ground. But upon further reflection, Eragon acknowledged the wisdom of Hrothgar's and the Kiphoris's request. It was important for Eragon and Saphira to maintain a semblance of equality in their dealings with the different races, even the newly-arrived Eliksni. He smiled. "Ah, well, it'll slow us down, but I suppose we have to placate our allies. To tell the truth, I'm glad they're coming. Crossing Alagaësia with only Arya was a rather daunting prospect. She's..."

Nasuada smiled too. "She's different."

"Aye." He grew serious again. "Do you really mean to attack the Empire? You said yourself that the Varden are weak. It doesn't seem like the wisest course. If we wait-"

"If we wait," she said sternly, "Galbatorix will only get stronger. This is the first time since Morzan was slain that we have even the slightest opportunity of catching him unprepared. He had no reason to suspect we could defeat the Urgals - which we did thanks to the Scars - so he won't have readied the Empire for invasion. Some of the Eliksni will be joining us on the route to Surda, and I have word from Kiphoris that another Eliksni Captain will be there to assist us."

"Really?"

"Yes. A Scar named Palkra, the Pikeman."

"Pikeman?"

Nasuada hesitated. "I understand no more than you do. The Eliksni have a tradition of identifying themselves with strange titles. Did you know that Kiphoris is named the Dreamer?" She leaned back. "They're… a strange people."

Eragon nodded. "When you invade the empire, what will you do if Galbatorix flies out to face you?"

"From what we know of him, he won't fight until Urû'baen itself is threatened. It doesn't matter to Galbatorix if we destroy half the Empire, so long as we come to him, not the other way around. Why should he bother anyway? If we do manage to reach him, our troops will be battered and depleted, making it all the easier for him to destroy us."

"You haven't answered the question."

"That's because I can't yet. This will be a long campaign. By its end you might be powerful enough to defeat Galbatorix, or the elves may have joined us... and their spellcasters are the strongest in Alagaësia, barring perhaps Ikharos. No matter what happens, we cannot afford to delay. Now is the time to gamble and dare what no one thinks we can accomplish. The Varden have lived in the shadows for too long - we must either challenge Galbatorix or submit and pass away."

The scope of what Nasuada was suggesting disturbed Eragon. So many risks and unknown dangers were involved, it was almost absurd to consider such a venture. However, it was not his place to make the decision, and he accepted that. Nor would he dispute it further. We have to trust in her judgment now.

"But what of you, Nasuada? Will you be safe while we're gone? I must think of my vow. It's become my responsibility to ensure that you won't have your own funeral soon."

Her jaw tightened as she gestured at the door and the warriors beyond. "You needn't fear, I am well defended." She looked down. "I will admit... one reason for going to Surda is that Orrin knows me of old and will offer his protection. I cannot tarry here with you and Arya gone and the Council of Elders still with power. They won't accept me as their leader until I prove beyond doubt that the Varden are under my control, not theirs."

Then she seemed to draw on some inner strength, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin so she was distant and aloof. "Go now, Eragon. Ready your horse, gather supplies, and be at the north gate by dawn."

He bowed low, respecting her return to formality, then left with Saphira.

---

After dinner, Eragon and Saphira flew together. They sailed high above Tronjheim, where crenulated icicles hung from the sides of Farthen Dûr, forming a great white band around them. Though it was still hours until night, it was already nearly dark within the mountain.

Eragon threw back his head, savoring the air on his face. He missed the wind—wind that would rush through the grass and stir the clouds until everything was tousled and fresh. Wind that would bring rain and storms and lash the trees so they bent. "For that matter, I miss trees as well," he thought. "Farthen Dûr is an incredible place, but it's as empty of plants and animals as Ajihad's tomb."

Saphira agreed. "The dwarves seem to think that gems take the place of flowers." She was silent as the light continued to fade. When it was too dark for Eragon to see comfortably, she said, "It's late. We should return."

"Alright." She drifted toward the ground in great, lazy spirals, drawing nearer to Tronjheim - which glowed like a beacon in the center of Farthen Dûr. They were still far from the city-mountain when she swung her head, saying, "Look."

He followed her gaze, but all he could see was the gray, featureless plain below them. "What?"

Instead of answering, she tilted her wings and glided to their left, slipping down to one of the four roads that radiated from Tronjheim along the cardinal compass points. As they landed, he noticed a patch of white on a small hill nearby. The patch wavered strangely in the dusk, like a floating candle, then resolved into Angela, who was wearing a pale wool tunic.

The witch carried a wicker basket nearly four feet across and filled with a wild assortment of mushrooms, most of which Eragon did not recognize. As she approached, he gestured at them and said, "You've been gathering toadstools?"

"Hello," Angela laughed, putting her basket down. "Oh no, toadstool is far too general a term. And anyway, they really ought to be called frogstools, not toadstools." She spread them with her hand. "This one is sulphur tuft, and this is an inkcap, and here's navelcap, and dwarf shield, russet toughshank, blood ring, and that is a spotted deceiver. Delightful, isn't it!" She pointed to each in turn, ending on a mushroom with pink, lavender, and yellow splashed in rivulets across its cap

"And that one?" he asked, indicating a mushroom with a lightning-blue stem, molten-orange gills, and a glossy black two-tiered cap.

She looked at it fondly. "Fricai Andlát, as the elves might say. The stalk is instant death, while the cap can cure most poisons. It's what Tunivor's Nectar is extracted from. Fricai Andlát only grows in caves in Du Weldenvarden and Farthen Dûr, and it would die out here if the dwarves started carting their dung elsewhere."

Eragon looked back at the hill and realized that was exactly what it was, a dung heap.

"Hello, Saphira," said Angela, reaching past him to pat Saphira on the nose. Saphira blinked and looked pleased, tail twitching. At the same time, Solembum padded into sight, his mouth clamped firmly around a limp rat. Without so much as a flick of his whiskers, the werecat settled on the ground and began to nibble on the rodent, studiously ignoring the three of them.

"So," said Angela, tucking back a curl of her enormous hair, "off to Ellesméra?" Eragon nodded. He did not bother asking how she had found out; she always seemed to know what was going on. When he remained silent, she scowled. "Well, don't act so morose. It's not as if it's your execution!"

"I know."

"Then smile, because if it's not your execution, you should be happy! Unless you're traveling with that fun-killer Ikharos."

That surprised him. "You met him?"

Angela scowled. "Yes. He's a rude man."

Saphira chortled with amusement deep in her throat. "Finally, someone understands."

Angela hooked a fingernail underneath a mushroom and flipped it over, inspecting its gills as she said, "It's fortuitous we met tonight, as you are about to leave and I... I will accompany the Varden to Surda. As I told you before, I like to be where things are happening, and that's the place."

Eragon grinned even more. "Well then, that must mean we'll have a safe journey, else you'd be with us."

Angela shrugged, then said seriously, "Be careful in Du Weldenvarden. Just because elves do not display their emotions doesn't mean they aren't subject to rage and passion like the rest of us mortals. What can make them so deadly, though, is how they conceal it, sometimes for years."

"You've been there?"

"Once upon a time."

After a pause, he asked, "What do you think of Nasuada's plans?"

"Mmm... she's doomed! You're doomed! They're all doomed!" She cackled, doubling over, then straightened abruptly. "Notice I didn't specify what kind of doom, so no matter what happens, I predicted it. How very wise of me." She lifted the basket again, setting it on one hip. "I suppose I won't see you for a while, so farewell, best of luck, avoid roasted cabbage, don't eat earwax, and look on the bright side of life!" And with a cheery wink, she strolled off, leaving Eragon blinking and nonplussed.

After an appropriate pause, Solembum picked up his dinner and followed, ever so dignified.

000

Ikharos waited at the gate of Tronjheim and meditated. He did his best to ignore Melkris's attempts to break his focus, but he suspected it was a losing battle. The shockshooter tried to get a rise out of him with cheap jokes and awful insinuations to... stuff Ikharos wanted to forget entirely. Kiphoris was no help. The Captain just stood there and waited with his lower arms crossed and his upper hands resting on the hilts of his swords. Arke was perched upon his shoulder in the form of a hooded crow, watching him, but that was something Ikharos didn't want to go near with a ten-foot pole.

Javek, though, was a noble soul through and through. He tried to distract Melkris - but in vain, as the latter was able to see through it. At least Obleker's whining warning got through in the end. Melkris stopped the moment the Servitor told him to. Ikharos had been so close to snapping. He sent a soft wave in the nullscape to Obleker to convey his thanks.

Melkris wasn't done, though. He just picked a new victim: Formora.

"What's he saying?" She asked, alarmed.

Melkris cackled. Kiphoris just sighed tiredly.

They were joined by Eragon and Saphira just before the sun rose up. The newcomers exchanged greetings with those they knew. The Rider nervously asked, "Who is that?"

A soft, metallic sound followed. "Designation: Kida 99-40, R5 Specialist.

"Uh..."

"His name's Kida." Ikharos opened his eyes and stood up. "He's a Frame. A type of machine, much like the Skiff or a gun."

"He's... alive? Living metal?"

"Not exactly. He's got programming, like instincts, but no independent thoughts of his own. As smart as a weed, but infinitely more useful. He's here for security."

The Frame nodded. "Affirmative. Primary directive: obey R5 Specialist Ikharos."

Eragon stared at Kida and nodded oh so slowly. Saphira sniffed the Frame and leaned back, eyeing it distastefully. Their horse - a beautiful snowy white beast - didn't look like it cared. Not that he imagined it would.

"What of your other soldiers?" Eragon eventually asked Kiphoris, eyes still flitting to the robot. "What will they do?"

"They will guard Nasuada and watch for threats the Varden cannot hope to defeat," Kiphoris explained. "And they will act as a voice for mine-Scars. It is a risk," he glanced at Ikharos, "but we must all take risks in times of war."

Ikharos didn't pay him any mind. He just waited for the inevitable. And it arrived, just as he anticipated.

"You have a bird?"

Kiphoris spoke slowly, carefully considering each word. "This is Arke. I do not trust her if she is out of sight. I implore you, both of you, to keep away from her. Do not attempt to speak with her with word or mind. She is... dangerous."

The Ahamkara clucked in such a way that it sounded like a laugh. But she didn't say anything. Kiphoris had ordered her silent. She complied dutifully, yet the way she hungrily looked at everything around her still put Ikharos on edge.

Before long they were joined by a dwarf. Ikharos presumed him to be Orik, Hrothgar's emissary. The small man bore a heavy pack over his shoulders and held a covered bundle of cloth in his arms. He too asked after Kida. Ikharos gave him the same explanation, which came the same confused result.

In an obvious effort to change the subject, Eragon asked the dwarf, "What, no horse?"

Orik grunted. "We'll be stopping at Tarnag, just north of here. From there we take rafts along the Az Ragni to Hedarth, an outpost for trading with the elves. We won't need steeds before Hedarth, so I'll use my own feet till then. As I imagine our Eliksni friends will."

Kiphoris eyed Eragon's steed dubiously. "I do not believe horses can carry me," he admitted. "But there is no need. I am fast and far-reaching on mine-feet."

Orik nodded. He set the cloth bundle down with a clang, then unwrapped it, revealing Eragon's armor. The shield had been repainted - so the oak tree stood clearly in the center -and all the dings and scrapes removed. Beneath it was the long mail shirt, burnished and oiled until the steel gleamed brilliantly. No sign existed of where it had been rent when Durza cut Eragon's back. The coif, gloves, bracers, greaves, and helmet were likewise repaired.

Ikharos looked it over. It was... good, considering the technology of Kepler, but it wouldn't even stop a Dreg with a shock dagger. Not what he'd call quality. Then again, his standards for equipment were rather high. The Awoken had spoiled him.

"Our greatest smiths worked on these," Orik said, "as well as your armor, Saphira. However, since we can't take dragon armor with us, it was given to the Varden, who will guard it until our return."

"Saphira says thank you," Eragon said. "As do I."

The Rider laced on the greaves and bracers, storing the other items in his bags. Last of all, he reached for his helm, but Orik held onto it. The dwarf rolled the piece between his hands, then said, "Do not be so quick to don this, Eragon. There is a choice you must make first."

"What choice is that?"

Raising the helmet, Orik uncovered its polished brow. Etched in the steel were the hammer and stars of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. Orik scowled, looking both pleased and troubled, and said in a formal voice, "My king, Hrothgar, desires that I present this helm as a symbol of the friendship he bears for you. And with it Hrothgar extends an offer to adopt you as one of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, as a member of his own family."

Ikharos raised an eyebrow. He decided against asking after the technicalities of it. He was curious to see how it would play out.

"Hrothgar seeks to restore the imbalance of power by doing this," Formora said, touching his mind. "Everyone wants a Dragon Rider."

"They say the same about Risen back in Sol, what with all the factions, but on Kepler I'm the only one around. For once being solitary has worked out in my favour."

"The Eliksni already have you."

Ikharos frowned. "Wouldn't put it like that. I'm still independent."

"How long will that last, I wonder? Tarrhis wants your strength as part of his house. He'll do what he can to gain it. Mark my words."

"You think so?"

"I've played politics for most of my life, both as a Rider and Forsworn. I know so."

"How often has this been done?" Eragon asked cautiously.

"For a human? Never. Hrothgar argued with the Ingeitum families for a day and a night before they agreed to accept you. If you consent to bear our crest, you will have full rights as a clan member. You may attend our councils and give voice on every issue. And," Orik grew very somber, "if you so wish, you will have the right to be buried with our dead."

Grim. But powerful. The enormity of the action was not lost on Ikharos. With a swift motion, Eragon took the helm from Orik and pressed it down upon his head. "I am privileged to join Dûrgrimst Ingeitum."

"Hook, line, and sinker," Xiān whispered.

Orik grinned. "We are of the same clan now, eh? You are my foster brother! Under more normal circumstances, Hrothgar would have presented your helm himself and we would have held a lengthy ceremony to commemorate your induction into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, but events move too swiftly for us to tarry. Fear not that you are being slighted, though! Your adoption shall be celebrated with the proper rituals when you and Saphira next return to Farthen Dûr. You shall feast and dance and have many pieces of paper to sign in order to formalize your new position."

"I look forward to the day," Eragon said.

Orik shrugged off his pack and drew his axe, which he proceeded to twirl between his palms. After several minutes, he leaned forward, glaring back into Tronjheim. "Barzûl knurlar! Where are they? Arya said she would be right here. Ha! Elves' only concept of time is late and even later."

"Have you dealt with them much?" asked Eragon, crouching.

The dwarf laughed suddenly. "Eta. Only Arya, and then sporadically because she traveled so often. In seven decades, I've learned but one thing about her: You can't rush an elf. Trying is like hammering a file - it might break, but it'll never bend."

Ikharos and Kiphoris subtly glanced at Formora. She looked right back. The Warlock got the sense that she was glaring at them with equal parts resentment and exasperation.

"Aren't dwarves the same?" Eragon asked, heedless of the unspoken death threats being flung left, right, and centre.

"Ah, but stone will shift, given enough time." Orik sighed and shook his head. "Of all the races, elves change the least, which is one reason I'm reluctant to go."

"But we'll get to meet Queen Islanzadí and see Ellesméra and who knows what else? When was the last time a dwarf was invited into Du Weldenvarden?"

Orik frowned at him. "Scenery means nothing. Urgent tasks remain in Tronjheim and our other cities, yet I must tramp across Alagaësia to exchange pleasantries and sit and grow fat as you are tutored. It could take years!"

Ikharos's expression shifted from one of amusement to one of horror. "Years? Not me."

Orik turned to face him. "Oh? You've business elsewhere?"

"Of course! I can't be wasting my time drinking faelnirv and singing to flowers, as idyllic as it sounds. There's a war to be fought." If looks could kill, Ikharos suspected he would have been dead a hundred times over. Formora's mounting irritation was hardly subtle.

Orik hummed in agreement. "There is that." Another few minutes passed. "At last!" The dwarf said, pushing himself upright.

Nasuada approached, flanked on either side by the armoured and hooded forms of Paltis and Eldrin. Following her was Jörmundur, Murtagh, Tellesa, and Arya, who bore a pack like Orik's.

Nasuada stopped before Eragon and simply said, "You accepted."

The boy looked down.

"I wondered if you would. Now once again, all three races have a hold on you. The dwarves can claim your allegiance as a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, the elves will train and shape you - and their influence may be the strongest, for you and Saphira are bound by their magic - and you have sworn fealty to me, a human... Perhaps it is best that we share your loyalty." She met the Rider's surprise with an odd smile.

Jörmundur extended a hand, which Eragon shook, feeling a bit dazed. "Have a good trip, Eragon. Guard yourself well." The man offered the same to Ikharos. The Warlock took it. "And you, milord."

"Do well by your people," Ikharos told him. Jörmundur nodded gravely.

Tellesa hugged Eragon and Saphira, then, without time for him to decline, Ikharos. He felt like she intentionally put more effort into his - or at least more squeezing force. "You trying to kill me?" He muttered.

She let go and rolled her eyes. "Just take care of them."

He scoffed. "Of course I will. You think I'm a heartless bastard?" When Tellesa didn't answer, he sighed and said. "I swear I'll guard them. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Tellesa made a funny face. "That's not very binding with you, is it?"

Kiphoris brushed past them and addressed his Marauders in Eliksni, saying, "You know your duty. Uphold the honour of our banner. Do not bring us shame. Understood?"

"Understood," the two barked in unison.

Ikharos's attention was redirected when Murtagh stepped in front of him. The young man dipped his head. "Thank you," he muttered, "for getting me out of the tunnel."

"You're very, very welcome. Keep Tellesa from making bad decisions."

Murtagh smiled. "Aye, I'll do that."

"You two think you're so funny," Tellesa rolled her eyes.

"Come," Arya said, gliding past them into the darkness of Farthen Dûr. "It is time to leave. Aiedail has set, and we have far to go."

"Aye," Orik agreed. He pulled out a red lantern from the side of his pack.

---

They walked for days with nothing but Eliksni flashlights and dwarven lanterns for light. Ikharos hated every moment with it. He didn't like caves. Caves were Hive territory. The Aphelion encounter had only dragged his paranoia to new heights. Nothing bothered them, though. And Melkris's efforts to lighten the mood almost took Ikharos's mind off the fact that they were at the mercy of whatever imaginary beast stalked the tunnels of the Beor Mountains. The shockshooter was ridiculous. He was always, always, a glass half-full eliko, and Ikharos didn't know whether to laugh along or throttle him.

Of course, the others weren't silent. And there were times that vibrant conversation ran supreme. Eragon was full of questions and Kiphoris was always ready to answer.

"How does the Skiff fly?" The Rider asked.

Kiphoris paused. "If I drop a yaviirsi fig, what will it do?"

"It will... fall?"

"Eia. Gravity is a force. It keeps us upon this world. How does Saphira fly?"

"She uses her wings."

"To exert enough force to overcome gravity. Many creatures do this. But there are other methods besides wings. Mine-Skiff uses complex technology to power through gravity and attain control over where it goes. But this is all of only one approach: overpowering gravity. Ikha Riis, I think, employs another."

Though he couldn't see it, Ikharos reckoned all eyes were on him. He reluctantly said, "True. I can use my Light to nullify gravity's effect on me entirely. I will go by, completely ignored. But I don't fly, per se. Just glide. It doesn't last very long."

More conversations followed that dynamic. Eragon would ask, Kiphoris would answer by explaining the physics or science behind it, and then he'd involve Ikharos by deflecting the question onto matters of paracausality. It wasn't unwelcome; Ikharos did like to teach. But he would have rather kept silent all the same. Their voices sounded all too loud to him. It could have been the echoes or it could have been the fact that there was no other sound for miles in either direction.

Even the quietest of whispers became explosions of noise underground.

The worst part was the sheer... potential in the air around him. Paracausal potential. More than half of those present were capable of magic, with varying degrees of prowess. Javek was just a small spark waiting to be cultivated, while little Arke was a raging bonfire of otherwordly strength. The Ahamkara was the main worry - especially with the unpredictable Saphira in such close proximity - but the others were still cause for concern. Eragon could kill with a single word. For someone of his age, it wasn't a power to be taken lightly. Ikharos's only consolation was that the Rider seemed a good sort. Not someone inclined to acts of casual violence.

It was the end of the second day that the tunnel ended and Orik led them back out into glorious sunlight. Ikharos held a hand over his eyes as they struggled to adapt to the glare of the sun. A wide, relieved grin was fixed on his face. The wilderness of the above was where he belonged, not buried beneath literal mountains of rock. The smell of pine and feel of the spring chill was just the familiarity he needed. It was something to ground him in reality and flush away the worries that had plagued him day and night within Farthen Dûr.

He didn't envy Formora. She had to keep her helmet on all the time, or risk being ousted as a former enemy by their comrades.

Orik led them to a granite outcropping, which stood a hundred feet above a not-so-distant lake painted purple by the evening light. The lake filled the bottom of the valley, surrounded by thick forests and mountains. From the lake's far side, the river - named the Âz Ragni - flowed north, winding between the peaks until, in the far distance, it rushed out onto the eastern plains.

Ikharos held out his arms and exulted in the feeling of the wind pulling at his combat robes. "The world is ours," he stated cheerfully.

Kiphoris chuckled and stood beside him at the outcropping's edge. "So it is. I think I am beginning to love this land, despite its horrors."

To their left, far below, stood the city of Tarnag. Here the dwarves had reworked the seemingly immutable Beors into a series of terraces. The lower terraces were mainly farms - dark curves of land waiting to be planted - dotted with squat halls, which as best he could tell were built entirely of stone. Above those empty levels rose tier upon tier of interlocking buildings until they culminated in a giant dome of gold and white. It was as if the entire city was nothing more than a line of steps leading to the dome. It had no great walls, no anti-air cannons to speak of, but it was all the more beautiful because of it. The people of Kepler hadn't suffered the global nightmare that was the Collapse.

"That is Celbedeil, the greatest temple of dwarfdom and home of Dûrgrimst Quan - the Quan clan - who act as servants and messengers to the gods," Orik explained.

The back of Ikharos's neck prickled and he narrowed his gaze upon the massive structure.

---

In the temple by the river, he must say his name
And thus he will be bade enter.

---

"And this is their city?" Eragon asked.

It was Arya who answered him. "Nay," she said, stepped past the outcropping to follow the trail down the valley. "Though the Quan are strong, they are small in numbers, despite their power over the afterlife... and gold. It is the Ragni Hefthyn - the River Guard - who control Tarnag. We will stay with their clan chief, Ûndin, while here."

The path took them down to the edge of the lake before rising back toward Tarnag and its open gates. "How have you hidden Tarnag from Galbatorix?" asked Eragon. "Farthen Dûr I understand, but this... I've never seen anything like it."

Orik laughed softly. "Hide it? That would be impossible. No, after the Riders fell, we were forced to abandon all our cities aboveground and retreat into our tunnels in order to escape Galbatorix and the Forsworn. They would often fly through the Beors, killing anyone who they encountered."

Ikharos resisted the urge to look at Formora. Her mind brushed against his. "Do you see why I must hide myself like a common criminal? It will only worsen when we encounter the elves."

"No one is going to die," Ikharos reassured her. "Especially you. Kiphoris and I will be there. If worst comes to worst, I'll Warp us out of danger."

"I'll hold you to that."

They had just crested a mound of dirt when an animal ran onto the path before them. Eragon and Saphira jolted with surprise, but the Eliksni and elves just stopped and watched the animal. They'd all seen it coming from some distance off. The animal looked like some sort of mountain goat except it was as large as a mule. It was saddled and ridden by a dwarf armed with a lance.

"Hert dûrgrimst? Fild rastn?" The strange dwarf shouted. He stared at Obleker uneasily. The Servitor, in turn, looked right back in eerie silence.

"Orik Thrifkz menthiv oen Hrethcarach Eragon rak Dûrgrimst Ingeitum," Orik answered. "Wharn, az vanyali-carharûg Arya oen Eliksni-Grimstborith Kiphoris. Né oc Ûndinz grimstbelardn."

The goat stared warily at Saphira. It knew what she was and what it potentially was to her. It had bright, intelligent eyes. Two massive horns curled around on either side of its head.

"Azt jok jordn rast," came the strange dwarf's reply. He directed his oversized goat to turn about and bound back into the forest.

"What was that?" Eragon asked, amazed.

Orik resumed walking. "A Feldûnost, one of the five animals unique to these mountains. A clan is named after each one. However, Dûrgrimst Feldûnost is perhaps the bravest and most revered of the clans."

"Why so?"

"We depend upon Feldûnost for milk, wool, and meat. Without their sustenance, we could not live in the Beors. When Galbatorix and his traitorous Riders were terrorizing us, it was Dûrgrimst Feldûnost who risked themselves - and still do - to tend the herds and fields. As such, we are all in their debt."

"Do all dwarves ride Feldûnost?"

"Only in the mountains. Feldûnost are hardy and sure-footed, but they are better suited for cliffs than open plains."

"Sloan'ze?" Melkris quietly muttered.

"What did he say?" Eragon asked.

Ikharos rolled his eyes. "He wanted to know if he could eat one."

Saphira snorted. "A question I too would like answered. Those animals would be good hunting, better than any I had in the Spine or hence!"

"I instruct you both to wait until the dwarves allow it," Kiphoris grunted. His eyes flickered with amusement.

Orik chuckled. "I advise the same. Many a knurlagn would be infuriated if you preyed upon their flocks."

Saphira took it in stride, but Melkris sulked. He looked longingly in the direction the Feldûnost had gone.

"I'm sure there will be food in the city," Ikharos told him in Low Speech. "Just be patient."

The shockshooter lifted his head. He pulled his mouth back into a fanged smile. "That is good. It has been so long since I have partaken of anything besides ether!"

"No it hasn't." Javek closed his inner eyes. "You ate something in Ceunon."

"That does not count."

"You said it was the greatest thing you ever tasted."

"Stop talking."

"Nama."

"Traitor." Melkris jostled the Splicer. "Where has all this new courage come from, I wonder? Magic has turned you!"

Javek scoffed and jostled right back. "Do not change the subject, you glutton!"

The two continued to squabble all the way to Tarnag. They only stopped when the city's gates came into view.

Groups of observers had already begun to gather in the fields when seven Feldûnost with jeweled harnesses bounded out from the city. Their riders bore lances tipped with pennants that snapped like whips in the air. Reining in his strange beast, the lead dwarf said, "Thou art well-come to this city of Tarnag. By otho of Ûndin and Gannel, I, Thorv, son of Brokk, offer in peace the shelter of our halls." He frowned at the sight of the Eliksni and their Servitor, but he masked any fear he held well.

"And by Hrothgar's otho, we of the Ingeitum accept your hospitality," Orik responded.

"As do I, in Islanzadí's stead," Arya added.

"And I, on behalf of Tarrhis, Baron-Regent, and Mezha, Scar Kell." Kiphoris dipped his winged head graciously.

Appearing satisfied, Thorv motioned to his fellow riders, who spurred their Feldûnost into formation around them. With a flourish, the dwarves rode off, guiding them to Tarnag and through the city gates.

000

The central atrium of the Monoliks-Syn had been built to accommodate for the entirety of the Ketch's crew, but even so it was overflowing with Scars. The loss of sister-ships to the Hive - destroyed some time before coming to this accursed paradisiacal world - had resulted in overcrowding and put a strain on resources. Even without those who followed Tarrhis, there was far too little room.

All the same, the Scars made way for him. Skriviks shuffled his way forwards, his staff clanging off the metal floor with every step. Eyes were upon him, dragging him down with the weight of their gaze, but he soldiered on. Skriviks wouldn't give Krinok the satisfaction of seeing him falter, even if his withered body betrayed him at every turn. Finally, he joined those nobles who stood at the far end on the immense pedestal. Monoliks Prime warbled a greeting. Skriviks dipped his head in reverence to the machine, a smile dancing in his inner eyes.

"Take your place," their Kell demanded.

The Archon suppressed a growl and stepped up to stand far to the right. His movements were stiff - both from age and reluctance to cave into Krinok's demands.

Others, both nobles of Valdas's making and Krinok's, watched him closely. Those given power by the Ether-Thief mistrusted him, Skriviks knew. The others, though, he knew not where their allegiance lay. The lesser Barons - Vasto, Lokiis, Eskran - were not yet followers of the False-Kell, but neither did they support Tarrhis. They may even have had their own plans in place when Valdas passed. The Captains were easier to read. When they should have answered to the Kell above all else, they in truth only followed their Barons. Ralkrosk and Krayd were different in that they answered directly to Krinok. They were vying for the Baronhood left in Tarrhis's absence. Blood was likely to be spilled over it.

It would have been different if Valdas were still alive. She had been respected. Her orders were followed. Her word was law. Not so with Krinok. Nor, Skriviks reflected with no shortage of regret, Tarrhis. The wounds laid bare by Taniks were still fresh in the eyes of many. For Tarrhis to desert them dredged up memories they would have rather forgotten. It hadn't earned the exiled Baron any favours.

"Scars!" Krinok bellowed. He held out his arms in an effort to increase his perceived size. It was a petty effort; he already stood larger than anyone in the House. Skriviks scowled. "You have seen the world outside, yes?! You have seen the weakness of its natives?! The richness of their world?! There are lakes of ether to be had! Mountains of alloy! An abundance of power! These pests are dull! They do not see the weapons which lie within easy grasp!"

Laughter swept through those degenerates who followed the Ether-Thief without question. Most of them were gathered at the front of the massive crowd. Their vileness was rewarded with good standing. Skriviks despised it. Krinok's rule was of inverted order and wasteful death.

"If they are not capable of the necessary thought, then we will be cunning in their stead! This world hides secrets, and those secrets will bring us strength! We will tear those secrets from the clutches of these dirt-squatters! We will rip their petty kingdoms from them and take them for our own! We will run no longer! We flee no more! This will be the seat of our House!"

"What about the Great Machine?" Someone called from the crowd. A chant echoed it. "Great Machine! Great Machine!"

Krinok roared. The crowd quietened. "The Great Machine?!" He shouted incredulously. "Bah! It is gone! A forgotten thing of a forgotten age!"

Skriviks bristled. How dare he-

Claws wrapped around his shoulder. "No," murmured Inelziks, the Poet. "Be careful, Skriviks of Elder Days. They watch you."

The Archon gritted his fangs. He looked around and... yes. On the walls and the ceilings, hidden amongst those gathered to watch were those in Krinok's employ. They studied the nobles with narrowed eyes.

Krinok continued his tirade, unaware of Skrivik's near-fall into rebellion. "The Great Machine abandoned us! So let us abandon it! The Cabal needed no Great Machine to build their empire; neither will we! We will employ other machines, machines of our own making! Behold!" He swept an arm out. Behind him rumbled forward a monster of steel and wire. A skeletal creature with too many legs and too few arms.

Skriviks gasped. There were Servitor parts in it. "The heresy!" He hissed. He barely constrained it to a whisper. His survival instincts were smothered with rage.

"Stay yourself, mine-Archon. For your own health." Inelziks went on for a closer look, following Lokiis - her sworn-Baron.

He growled. This was too much. Krinok was mad. He had crossed every law the Eliksni held sacred. To touch the flesh of a Servitor with malice? I cannot stomach this. I cannot. Skriviks leaned on his staff, only half-aware of Monoliks Prime's horrified scream and the unnerved gasps of the gathered Scars. Tarrhis must return. Must! Even a child-kel is better than this.

Eskran smiled broadly - not for the horrific machine, but for Krinok's words. A mere mention of the Cabal was enough to garner the Wildfire's interest. Oh, how he admired the Cabal for all their strength, all their power, all their ambition. His armour was forged of Cabal plate, ripped straight from their beloved Goliath hovertanks, and it clanked with every movement. His wings - imitations of the ceremonial garb worn by Uluru - swung out on either side of him. He began to laugh and cheer Krinok on.

Skriviks scowled. Another traitor.

Lokiis looked the massive war machine over and quietly returned to his perch. He was a gangly and sharp-eyed creature. His mind was sharper yet, like a new-forged plasmacutter. There was hope with him, but Skriviks didn't dare reach out. Lokiis was given to a cunning that had been the downfall of many a house. He was materialistic above all else, and valued only results.

His mate, Velekris, was more agreeable and perhaps someone who could be turned to Tarrhis's side, but he was absent. Overseeing the construction of artillery emplacements around the downed Ketch while they began repairs. Such important work could not have been delayed any further. Even maddened Krinok knew that.

---

Skriviks retreated to his workshop. It was his temple, where he freely loaded faith and tribute onto his Servitors and where his people came for both guidance and stories. Few came anymore. All knew he was no friend of Krinok and no more than a handful dared to risk their lives by making their own loyalties obvious. Fear permeated everything within the remnants of the House of Scar.

Those who did visit were often the untouchables. Those who did not care for the grunts and minions of the Ether-Thief. Inelziks was one such being. She was the pride of the house. And a source of bitterness for Skriviks.

"What is it?" He demanded. His tools were in disarray. Skriviks had been rushed through his clean-up to attend the Kell's summons. He hated an untidy workshop.

"You are not long for this life," she glided across the floor and picked up a hydrotool. She was elegant and graceful, but her presence only irked him.

Skriviks huffed. "Oh? You think Krinok will kill me?"

"He seeks to replace you with someone more... loyal."

"To kill an Archon is heresy."

"You know he doesn't care about what is and what is not permitted. In his eyes, there are no laws but his own."

Skriviks sneered and bared his teeth. "And you came to warn me? I had not thought you cared for our faith. Not after you abandoned it."

Inelziks didn't look at him. She was too proud for that. "I never abandoned it. I merely found another place in which to practice it."

"In battle? In songs? You think those please the Great Machine?"

"You think they don't?"

"We had many songs before the Whirlwind. And many warriors armed with great skill. None of it stopped the Great Machine from leaving us." His voice fell to a growl. "You were an Archpriest. I considered you to be mine-heir. And you chose to become a Captain, lesser in standing."

"Drotos is faithful enough, no? Mine-voice aches for creating new art, not chanted mantras. It is mine-destiny to sing. I will give us new history to remember, new heroes to commemorate, new glories to weave onto our banner. Your tales give us pride, Skriviks, but it is a bitter pride. You remind us of champions and riches we will never recover. I only wish to give our people hope."

"And what hope would that be?" Skriviks snapped. "Krinok's madness?"

Inelziks sighed. "I have come because we have heard whispers across the radio channels. Tales from our exiled kin. Mere scatterings of words, but important enough to garner attention."

"Speak it, then. And do not sully this place any longer."

"The Great Machine. Tarrhis's people speak of a blessing from the Great Machine. They speak of it with giddiness and yearning. They have found something, but we do not yet know what." She dropped the hydrotool. "I thought you would like to know."

She left him alone with his questions.

---

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!