Chapter 43

She saw a pale world of snow and ice stamped beneath the feet of a shambling, hungry horde. In the centre of it all stood an obsidian citadel, the obsidian hue of it contrasting harshly against the surrounding winterland. The tall spire reached to the sky, as if to pierce the veil of clouds overhead, but it was engulfed in ruin. The fortress lay gutted by fire and smoke.

Two figures struggled over the archway of the mighty gate. One held a warhammer of solid flame and the other a sceptre carved from glass. They struck one another again and again, but neither relented. Not until, at last, the citadel collapsed upon itself. Destruction engulfed all.

Three green stars glared at her through the darkness.

Formora woke with a start and grabbed Vaeta. The campfire had flickered its last dying breath not long ago, plunging the cove into shadow. The moon was hidden from them, but the stars were bright. She relaxed. Nothing was amiss. Formora took the time to reflect on the last lingering traces of the images within her mind and mull over it all. Never before had her dreams been so visceral. She could almost feel the chill of the place. Almost taste the smoke in the air.

Almost hear the screams.

Whatever it was, it was a place of death. A killing ground to surpass all others. There was no joy or hope in it. Only hatred and rage and a terrible sort of hunger.

Formora quickly forced herself to move on, eager to put those thoughts behind her. Hatred and rage were old friends, and hunger was no stranger, but joy and hope were to be cherished. It had taken so very long to rediscover them, and now she didn't want to let go. Never again, Formora promised herself. Her eyes fell upon Obleker and Kida and Ikharos, all settled into their own versions of slumber. Hope was a forgotten memory, one she had thought long-dead. But as the Risen had shown her, death wasn't always the end.

Formora stood and started to walk. She did not know where, and neither did she care. She just wanted to distract herself from the haunting memories of the dreamscape. Obleker's eye suddenly lit up purple. The Servitor trailed after her. It hummed quietly, in a curious manner.

"I need to stroll," she told it with a smile. "But thank you for your concern."

Obleker just looked at her in that uncompromising, expectant way.

Formora relented. "Come along, then." She resumed walking. The Servitor floated beside her, never deviating from the course she set. How Obleker flew and how it understood her words was beyond her understanding, but those were questions that could wait for another day. One with less excitement.

Soon they arrived by the river. The water flushed past, quite unconcerned with the troubles of the world. What did the currents care if the dragons were on the verge of extinction? If invaders from worlds between the stars had come to lay claim to land and lives? No, not at all. There was nothing. In that it was like...

No. Nothing was like the nullscape. Ikharos called the nullscape an ocean, but what was an ocean without waves? Still. That was the only word she could allow for the nullscape. All-encompassing stillness. No high cheers of glee, no low cries of sorrow. No feeling. No conflict. The nullscape did not suit her. Ikharos could wallow in the absence of being as comfortably as he desired, but not her. No, Formora realized, I am more like the current.

She held out a hand and marveled at the strand of Arc passing between her fingers. It was nothing compared to the storm the Risen could summon, Lightless as she was, but it was power nonetheless. It was too weak to fight her control, so it just went with the flow of her will, with her Intention - the Psion magic so painstakingly learned. Like the river before them.

Formora sighed. She sat down, cross-legged, and asked Obleker, "What am I to do?"

The Servitor, beautifully alien with its purple eye and inky-black shell, rotated and whirred questioningly. It was marvelous how much emotion could be put into simple wordless sounds.

"What I have here is good. It is not perfect, but I... have come to know that perfection is not good. In the path of perfection lies madness, jealousy, anger. No, perfection is not for me. I am happy as I am, with Kiphoris, Melkris, Javek, Ikharos, Xiān and you. I haven't felt at ease with another soul for a very long time. Too long. But it could change. It likely will. All because I am going home." Formora clenched her jaw. Bitterness flushed through her. "I did not choose my past. I have done terrible things... and terrible things have been done to me. And yet I am to be judged for it."

She paused. "Do I deserve to be judged? Even unwilling, I was there. My people are angry. A century has passed, but I wager time has only fanned the flames of their rage. They will not care whether I was in control or not, because I am the face of their 'imperfection.' I am the reminder that they failed just as badly as the humans. They are proud and self-serving. We elves think ourselves above the troubles of peoples who lack magic. We do not like to have our flaws pointed out." A cruel, sad smile made its way to her face. "Kiphoris is right. Ikharos being there will have an impact. But not the one he envisions. The elves will learn what the humans and dwarves feel when they look upon us. Some will even hate him for it, I think."

Obleker hummed thoughtfully.

"My point is... I don't know what my point is. I am upset. I am scared. And I am excited to see how this pans out." Formora shrugged. "My emotions have gotten the better of me. Thank you for listening. I would appreciate it if you don't tell Javek."

The Servitor turned ever-so-slightly. It murmured in its own incomprehensible manner.

Formora shook her head. "I cannot tell if you are acquiescing or refusing. I suppose it does not matter. Dawn is almost upon us. Shall we return?"

The camp was abuzz with activity as they arrived. Eragon had awoken. Kiphoris, Javek, and Melkris had returned. And Ikharos had reclaimed the Shade knife.

"Many apologies," Kiphoris bowed his head earnestly. He had a thick brown-silver pelt hanging from his shoulders. Part of an Urzhad claw hung from a string around his neck like a pendant. His chestplate had been gashed open, along with the chitin beneath, and he looked like he was in immense pain for every breath he took. His upper left hand was in even worse shape, as if he had grabbed onto a hot brand and refused to let go. "I did not think we would be needed."

"What the hell happened?" Ikharos asked, baffled. "You look like you've been through a war!"

Melkris, despite not comprehending, snickered. "Kiphoris-Veskirisk shar. Ra shes."

Kiphoris clacked his fangs together, silencing the shockshooter. "I fought the bear. It was a mighty opponent." He gestured to Javek, who clutched something covered in a bloodstained cloth. "We bring a feast of victory."

Ikharos assumed a flabbergasted expression. "Just... why?"

The large Eliksni shrugged. "I desired to hunt. It is natural." His four eyes lit up. "We found wolves. They are mine-favourite. When I have time, I shall adopt them into mine-crew and mine-banner. They are greater than Cabal warbeasts. Much greater. They are worthy of great respect."

"Now you want a mutt?" Ikharos sighed. "Forget it. Can I borrow Javek?"

"Eia, take him. Keep him if you wish."

"Someone's in a good mood."

Kiphoris said something to Javek. The Splicer handed the bounty of the hunt over to Melkris, who sniffed it with relish, and joined Ikharos as he walked back towards Eragon's tent. The young Rider was already up and out in front of it, straining his eyes against the glare of rising sun.

Formora followed them. If nothing else, she hoped to ease any difficulty in communication. Ikharos's direct manner could involuntarily alienate those they were here to protect, and that was far from ideal in a diplomat - particularly a reluctant one such as he.

Fortunately, his tone with Eragon was both considerate and understanding. He explained the nature of Eragon's wound and the procedure necessary to alleviate him of the pain. "Alternatively, I can use a Rift to dull the pain here and now, and maybe further on, but those are temporary solutions. The pain will return - and I will not be around to help you."

"I don't want to live in fear of myself," Eragon said immediately. "I am useless like this. Whatever needs to be done, I'll do it."

"You don't need to do anything," Ikharos assured him. "I just wanted you to be aware of your options. Reopening the wound is not without its risks. We're in the wilderness here, not a hospital. This place isn't ideal for surgery. Neither do we have the proper equipment. We might extract the infection, but you could die all the same. Arya tells me that there's a place of healing in Ellesméra - the Gardens of Tialdarí Hall. It might have what we need. You're gonna have to hold on until then."

Eragon nodded glumly. "I understand."

Ikharos patted him on the shoulder. "Good lad. Next time you feel a seizure coming on, get my attention. What Durza did was inexcusable." The Risen turned about and started to chat with Javek in the Eliksni language. Formora could only pick out bits and pieces.

"How do you feel?" She asked Eragon.

The young human looked tired and unhappy - and utterly hopeless. "... I am a broken vessel. I cannot train. I cannot fight. If I cannot recover, I will be useless. Nay, worse than useless - a drain on resources. At best I might be a figurehead. At worst, an unwanted guest."

"You can learn," Formora softly told him. "You are a Rider. Even the littlest actions can change entire lives. Do not forget that."

Eragon looked at her with surprise. "I... will not. Thank you."

She spent most of the day by herself, sitting by the raft's cabin and enjoying the untouched scenery around them. Javek was there with her, unendingly curious in matters of magic. The trials of communication tested both of their abilities to the extreme, but the Splicer was determined and Formora was happy to reward his diligence with what she knew.

The Az Ragni almost doubled in size as they left the Beors behind. The currents grew stronger and propelled them downstream more quickly than before. The Urzhad meat and the accompanying tale of battle went swimmingly with the dwarves. Whatever reservations they had for the Eliksni before were quickly washed away. After hearing of his interaction with the Shrrg, they went on to refer to Kiphoris as the Wolf-Lord, or Shrrg-Borith. The Captain, for his part, wholeheartedly embraced it.

"What of your pelt?" Formora asked. "You don't wear it very often"

"It will be a gift," Kiphoris answered cryptically. His eyes were full of unrestrained joy. The slaying of the mountain bear had released something in him. Something good.

"To whom?"

"Ah, but that would be telling. Nama, I cannot give it away." He flexed his formerly injured hand experimentally. Ikharos had healed it and the chest wound before they set off, cursing the Captain for being so reckless. Kiphoris had only laughed when he did so, much to the surprise of all. "But I will allow a hint."

"Oh?"

"Her name rhymes with Tundrass."

Formora smiled despite herself, even if it went unseen beneath her accursed helmet. "Ah. I understand."

Kiphoris bared his many serrated teeth in a broad, if terrifying, smile.

Leaving the Beors was freeing for others too. Saphira and Eragon flew more often. Formora often watched them do so, battling the envy and sorrow in her heart with gladness to see them free of Galbatorix's grasp. It was inspiring, even if it dredged up memories she would rather have left forgotten.

Except those with Ilthorvo. Good or bad - if her dragon was present, then those memories were to be cherished.

It was at the junction between Az Ragni and the Edda River that they found Hedarth - a dwarven outpost for trading with the elves. There were a few new dwarves present and all stared at Saphira, Obleker, Kida, and the Eliksni as if they were wild figments of their imagination. It took some time for Orik and Thorv to get through to them. It was mildly amusing to see others experience, in some part, the sheer shock she'd gone through when her eyes had been opened to the wonders of different worlds. The dwarves exchanged the rafts for donkeys to carry them. They were the only ones to do so. Formora, Arya, and the Eliksni could keep up with or even outrun the beasts of burden with ease. Eragon had his horse Snowfire, Obleker could float speedily enough, and Kida was simply tireless.

Ikharos could have ran with them too, but he surprised them by taking out his long-teased Sparrow. Everyone, even the Eliksni, watched with avid interest as the huge metal object took form before their very eyes. It was a pretty pale snow-white with two dangerous black tusks. It floated much like Obleker did, but whereas the Servitor could move almost silently, the Sparrow gave out a low, dangerous growl that Formora swore she could feel in her bones.

Ikharos looked over it lovingly. "Josef called this his magnum opus. He named it the Shrike. His life's work. I've never seen its equal since." He sucked in a deep breath and mounted the Shrike. He gave them a quick salute, pressed down on a pedal with his boot, and summarily shot off.

It was fast. Very fast. And it screamed. Like the wail of a lost spirit or the cry of a predatory bird. A flare of burning light trailed behind it.

Kiphoris grunted, unimpressed. "A Pike would suit me better."

"How did he bring it here?" Eragon asked, struck by wonder. The dwarves echoed the question.

"Transmat," the Scar Captain explained gruffly. "Powerful creations, like mine-Skiff. Shall I explain it to you? I assure you, you will not understand."

They followed the Edda river to its source, Eldor Lake. The dwarves and Eragon ambled along on their beasts. Kiphoris and his Eliksni watched over them vigilantly. They stalked around like predators searching for prey, on the look out for the first hint of attack. Formora stayed with them just to have people to talk to.

Ikharos, for the most part, scouted ahead, only returning when night fell. His machine, the Shrike, was as fast as a fired arrow. It cut through the air effortlessly, as if it held no weight at all. He clearly held the device close to heart, and not just for its function. There was something else to it that endeared it to him.

On the second morning after Hedarth, he held out a hand to her and said, "Come on."

Formora hesitated.

Ikharos snorted. "You've killed two Ahamkara. Surely a Sparrow ride won't best you."

She couldn't resist the dare. Formora climbed aboard behind him and held onto him tightly. She'd seen just how fast the Shrike could accelerate. For once, she was glad for the helmet. The machine took off like a bullet, and the force of it almost threw her off. Formora struggled to recover and gritted her teeth - they were too close to the ground for her liking. Riding a Sparrow was very much like flying, and it gave rise to the Rider in her.

Ikharos turned the Shrike. The movement was abrupt and, again, almost threw her from the saddle. It was almost like he was attempting to test her resolve. Ikharos shook with what she deciphered to be laughter. Not almost. He was testing her.

Formora steeled herself. She wasn't to be so easily beaten. He wouldn't hear her give in to fear.

Then the Shrike tumbled sideways through the air after a particularly vicious turn. Formora held on tight and scrunched up her eyes, sure they were about to crash, but the device balanced out and resumed course. Ikharos's laughter hadn't ceased.

"You... argh!" She growled.

Ikharos tapped something on the side of his helm. His voice filtered in through the sides of her helmet. "Sorry, what was that?" She could hear the smirk in his voice. "I didn't quite catch."

"You are despicable."

"You've flown atop a dragon. Is a Sparrow too much?"

"Dragons don't fly so dangerously to the ground! If you crash, you'll kill us both!" Or just me.

"Then you best hope I don't crash." He did something that sent the Shrike even faster. It sliced across the open fields, startling grazing gazelles and foraging birds into fleeing.

As time went on, the fear faded away. It was replaced by the unique exhilaration only high speeds could bring. Ikharos showed off more of his terrifying tricks, each one more suicidal than the last, but he continued to display tight control over each of his bodily movements.

"I've piloted Sparrows all my life," he explained when prompted about it. "For over three centuries I've relied on them. And this one is the best I've ever owned."

"How did you come by it?"

"It was a gift. For my two-hundredth rebirthday."

"From this Josef, correct? Who is he?"

Ikharos faltered. The Shrike lost speed. "Was. He was my... ward, for a time. When I reached the Last City, I handed him over to a family more responsible than me. Still, we kept in touch. I owed him that much."

"Why?"

"His mother died on the road to Normandy." Ikharos paused. An old, harrowed fatigue crept into his voice. The same tiredness he'd held onto at Vroengard. One borne of too much loss. "I remember her. I remember her parents. And their parents. They were part of the settlement under my protection. I couldn't keep that protection going. We had to move. Some of them didn't make it. Too many. Devils killed her. I wasn't enough to ensure their safety, even though I promised it to them. I failed them. And him."

"I'm-"

"Sorry. Yeah, I know. I know." Ikharos pressed down on the pedal. They rapidly sped up. The winds howled past them, but it wasn't enough to cut away the suddenly tense atmosphere.

"Did you kill those responsible?" Formora inquired.

"Some. Not all. But they'll die off. The Eliksni in Sol are in a bad way. Either they'll join Mithrax or they'll be Wormfood. And those bastards won't give in to the House of Light. Not in a million years."

Du Weldenvarden came into sight on the third day. The forest first appeared as a hazy ridge on the horizon, then quickly expanded into an unending emerald sea of dense foliage. When night fell, Formora gathered Kiphoris and Ikharos. They each gave her a questioning look, almost in unison, but she waited until she was sure that none were eavesdropping before saying, "We must speak of manners."

"I take it this is aimed at me?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow.

Kiphoris clicked his mandibles in a laugh. "Most likely."

"No," Formora said crossly. She needed them to understand the gravity of what faced them. "Both of you. I must instruct you both so that, even if you don't follow my instructions, you won't be ignorant of what occurs around us." She took a deep breath. "My people are... old. I understand that both Risen and Eliksni are the same, but an overabundance of years and magic has shaped my people into the way they are. We, us, are all long lived, but only elves live in a world soaked in magic - or at least the magic of my world. Both of you rely more so on the machines you build." When Kiphoris opened his mouth to argue, she held up a hand to silence him. "I mean no insult. Your lifestyle is one to be admired, and do not mistake me, I admire it. But not all elves will share that sentiment. Many will prefer to look to the traditions of the past rather than the opportunities of the future. We must keep that in mind if we are to traverse this diplomatic nightmare.

"You cannot afford to give offense when a grudge can be held for decades or centuries. Courtesy is the only way to prevent such hostility from accumulating. Given our lengthy lives, we adhere to our rituals rigorously, for they protect us from extremes. We cannot allow conflict to mar our years. If we did, we would go extinct.

"What do you ask of us?" Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes.

"To learn, or at least memorize, our mannerisms. We must be prudent where my people are concerned."

Ikharos blinked. "Sure. We can promise that much."

"I'd hoped so." Formora quickly ran through elven mannerisms and greetings. Ikharos and Kiphoris were quick learners - likely why they'd survived as long as they had. They soaked up the traditional phrases and gestures in little time. "What you have learned is basic, but given that both of you are strangers to Alagaësia, it is more than can be expected. If nothing else, performing only those customs will offer you some measure of credence."

"You're making me dread what lays ahead of us," Ikharos muttered.

Formora smiled regretfully. "Our home is wonderful and fantastic. I think you will both enjoy the visit. But I find my people... flawed. You may think otherwise upon meeting them; neither Arya or I are fair representatives of all elvenkind."

The fringe of Du Weldenvarden was almost upon them. Formora's heart was in her throat. She could scarcely breath.

Her only comfort was the nearby presence of those she trusted with her life. Melkris was silent and alert, Javek was tensed, and Kiphoris... was the same as he always was: attentive and shrewd. Ikharos came after them. He walked boldly, confidently, and yet full of knowing caution. He knew his worth, but he wasn't foolish enough to disregard the threat of what waited ahead. Kida was mute and dangerous, as usual, and Obleker was still just as otherworldly.

For better or worse, they were prepared.

At last they came upon a small meadow set between the Edda river and forest. "Stop here," Arya instructed. She treaded forth and called out, "Come forth, my brethren! You have nothing to fear. 'Tis I, Arya of Ellesméra. My companions are friends and allies; they mean us no harm."

"Do you vouch for them?" A voice sang out so quickly that Formora almost missed it.

Arya bowed her head. "I do."

Four elves appeared like nighttime wraiths. Two bore spears and two bore bows. All were garbed in tunics the color of moss and bark underneath flowing cloaks clasped at the shoulder with ivory brooches. They separated from the tree-line and encircled Arya, laughing with unrestrained joy, singing merrily all the while.

"Is this some sort of trap?" Ikharos whispered. "Because this is odd."

Formora groaned, exasperated. "Don't insult them. Or anyone, for that matter."

"Wasn't going to," the Risen grumbled.

Saphira glided over the river and landed beside Eragon. The startled elves leveled their weapons, but Arya spoke to them with quick, soothing words in the ancient language, gesturing to Saphira and Eragon. The Rider pulled off his glove and revealed his gedwëy ignasia, saying, "Eka fricai un Shur'tugal. Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Formora's own marking itched. She drowned the feeling with forced disinterest. She couldn't afford to give into melancholy. Not when others needed her as their guide.

The elves lit up with relief and joy. They lowered their weapons and pressed their forefingers to their lips, bowing and murmuring, "Atra du evarínya ono varda."

Their attention soon turned to the Eliksni, whose eyes were unmissable in the dim evening light. Kiphoris lowered his head, closed his outer eyes, and brought the fingers of an upper hand to his facemask. "Atra esterní ono thelduin," he said. His deep, discordant voice had minor difficulty in pronouncing the flowing words. "I am Kiphoris-Veskirisk pak Drakkir, representative of mine-people, the Eliksni of the Great House of Scar. We come in peace and offer friendship."

The elves gushed, laughing and singing. They pointed at the dwarves, still laughing gladly, and retreated to the forest. "Come, come!" They called out.

Formora made to follow with the rest, but Ikharos grabbed her hand. She stopped and gave him a hard look.

"Hey," he said softly. His expression was one of concern. "Are you alright?"

"I think so."

"We've arrived and... I just want to know if you intend to reveal here or later."

Reveal her identity. Formora's blood went cold. "Later," she croaked.

Ikharos nodded. "Later then." He squeezed her hand and let go. "Whatever you decide, we're with you."

000

Kiphoris growled as a branch whipped across his helmet. He had to stoop low to follow the path of the elves, though it allowed him to pick up on their scent all the better. In the end he reverted to all six limbs and scuttled through the forest, allowing him to catch up with the dancing creatures. Melkris followed close behind, giggling along.

"I like these ones!" The shockshooter called out. "They are not as stern as Zeshus or Arya."

Kiphoris grunted noncommittedly. "Do not speak ill of our allies."

"I only meant that they should be more happy."

"We are not all like you, Melkris. Happiness can be hard to come by."

A fire glowed through the trees, casting shadows as large as dragons. Kiphoris and Melkris were first to reach it. Three small huts clustered together around the base of a large oak. High in the tree was a roofed platform where a watchman could observe the river and forest. A pole had been lashed between two of the huts: from it hung bundles of drying plants, likely herbs or foodstuffs.

The four elves vanished into the huts, then returned with their arms piled high with fruits and vegetables - but, curiously, no meat. It must have been a race-wide trait of elves, not just something confined to Arya and Formora. A tad disappointing, Kiphoris thought. His kind were natural carnivores. Ether would sustain them, and edible fruit would enhance that diet, but the flesh of wild beasts was the most delectable of delights. If they had to play by the rules of the elves, it was going to be sorely missed.

Though, he reflected with amusement, it might rein in Melkris's growing appetite. The shockshooter had no self-restraint when it came to food. At least Javek had the decency to wait until others had their meals portioned out - not so with Melkris.

"Let the others have their fill," Kiphoris ordered.

Melkris chittered unhappily. "But it is their fault for being slow!"

"What have I said?"

"Fine, fine, so be it! I will... wait..." The shockshooter continued to salivate at the sight of the laden platters.

He was as insatiable as a starving Drekh.

The dwarves, human, dragon, and automatons caught up. Ikharos and Formora trailed behind them at a slower pace. Kiphoris gave Melkris a last warning look as he stalked over to the two.

"Are you well?" He asked the elf.

Formora nodded. "I am. Thank you."

He half-closed his outer eyes. "I can imagine how you feel. I do not think I would be brave if I had the chance to return to mine-former house. Nama, I would be terrified. Our kin give rise to the fear in us. Terrible fear. You are brave to do this."

Formora shrugged. "I'm only doing this because you say it will... help us, though I'm still not certain how. We elves are set in our ways."

"As I've discovered," Ikharos mumbled. He received an elbow jab to the ribs for his troubles. "Ow."

"As I was saying," Formora said, giving the Lightbearer a dirty look, "my people are set in their ways. Explanations, even in the ancient language, may not satisfy them. Not after all they lost..."

"Zeshus," Kiphoris said in a solemn, serious voice. "You are an ally of Scar. You have done well by us to slay the Wish-Beast of Ceunon. We will not allow you to fall. And I will make that clear to these elves. I cannot imagine them to be fools. If harm befalls you, they will contend with the wrath of mine-people. We are honour-bound to stand by you."

Formora inhaled deeply. "Thank you, Kiphoris. Truly."

"Why does everyone always thank me preemptively? It is silly. Do not thank me now. Not until mine-words save your life." Kiphoris returned to the camp, where the elves were handing out food to their guests. Javek sat with the dwarves, quiet and respectful, but Melkris was near trembling with excitement. It evidently unnerved their hosts. "Do not mind him," Kiphoris reassured them. "He is a harmless fool with eyes bigger than his stomach."

One of the elves, a male with dark hair, smiled. "And there are four of them. I understand." The elf handed a full wooden plate to the shockshooter. "Enjo-"

Melkris tossed his helmet aside and set in with all the manners of an animal. Kiphoris grabbed him by the neck, jostling him, and pulled his face away from the plate. "Melkris!"

The shockshooter looked around at the many disturbed faces with something akin to guilt. "Ah... Zes'bas." He turned to the elf. "Th... Tyen-kyo."

Kiphoris briefly closed all his eyes and let go with a grumble. Guilt forgotten, Melkris dove back in. "As I said," Kiphoris told the bewildered elf, "a fool."

Normality returned. Melkris was denied, by Kiphoris, further opportunities to embarrass himself. There was no need for them to gorge themselves. Obleker had ether enough.

"We have never seen anything like you before," the male elf openly looked Kiphoris over with wonder and intrigue. "Who... who are you?"

Kiphoris closed his outer eyes. "You are not the only people to wonder. The dwarves asked the same. I am Kiphoris the Dreamer, Captain of the Scar House. That," he pointed at the Splicer, "is Javek the Technician, and that," to the shockhooter, "is Melkris the Sharp-Eyed. We are Eliksni. We come from a... distant place."

"This... this is incredible."

"You compliment us," Kiphoris dipped his head. "So we must do the same. You are most gracious hosts."

The elf's inquisitiveness didn't end there. "Ah, but what is he? And what is that?"

"That is Kida. Nothing more than a construct. A servant built from metal. And that is Obleker, our sacred Servitor."

Obleker hummed a greeting. The elves stared at it with brilliant smiles.

Orik cleared his throat. "Might I trouble you for your names, master elf?"

The male elf nodded graciously. They were just like Arya and Formora - every movement they made was elegant and quick. "I am Lifaen of House Rílvenar. And my companions are Edurna, Celdin, and Narí."

House Rílvenar. Kiphoris closed his inner eyes and tilted his head. It stuck in his head, for some reason. It sounded... familiar.

All it took to remind him was to glance in Formora's direction. She stood still and tense with alarm. Ah, it was her noble house. Her helmet did well to hide away the shock she must have been feeling. Kiphoris quickly averted his gaze. His thoughts whirled and jumbled around the discovery. The journey to Ellesméra had grown all the more dangerous.

The dwarves introduced themselves. Eragon and Saphira made their greetings after that, and then it was Ikharos's turn.

"Who are you?" Lifaen asked pleasantly.

Ikharos allowed for a lazy half-smile. "Tired, that's what."

Kiphoris groaned loudly. "Do not exaggerate. Our trek was not taxing. You sat around for most of it."

"Well, maybe I sat in a bad position."

"You merely do not want to speak to anyone."

"Dammit. You caught me out." The half-smile had become a full grin. Ikharos turned back to Lifaen. "Ikharos Torstil, Warlock, Shadeslayer, Aphelionbane." He held out his hand.

Lifaen took it gingerly, his expression mirroring that of Ikharos. It seemed the elves of the forest were capable of more patience than their counterparts who led lives outside their borders. Or perhaps Arya and Formora were as serious as they were because of overexposure to the other, less carefree human races.

"You are a Shadeslayer?" Narí inquired. His smile, unlike Lifaen's, was halting and marred by disbelief.

"Aye," Thorv grunted. "He slew Durza in Tronjheim, and thus saved the city."

The elves cheered. Kiphoris was not surprised by the sudden show of joy. Shades were vile creatures, in both concept and physical manifestation.

If he had the power to, he would have killed them all.

Eliksni and humans were so vastly different that their cooperation should have been impossible. Yet, Kiphoris discovered that those differences stopped at communication. The ability to talk and convey information was the solution to every problem. The only difficulty lay in conveying that information. Humans expressed emotion differently. Their faces were unlike that of Eliksni. They had malleable skin and flesh, and watching their expressions change and morph was always fascinating. They did not communicate with their eyes to the degree that Eliksni did, and they had no mandibles to speak of, but they made do.

Even so, his time among the Awoken had taught him that humans weren't entirely subject to the same involuntary tells of emotion as his people.

"I think I remember you."

Kiphoris sat against Saphira's flank. The wind-daughter was half-asleep, and she hummed as he scratched her head behind her horns. The dragon was half again the size she had been when he first met her, but little had changed personality-wise. Smarter, perhaps. More experienced, of course. Her temper hadn't changed, though. And her patience was still disturbingly low. Like Ikharos.

His comfortable position against the dragon allowed him a great view over those by the fire. The perfect place to watch drama unfold.

"Me?" Ikharos looked at Eragon with obvious confusion. "I should hope so. We have been traveling together for over a week now."

Saphira snorted. "That's not what he meant, rude-man."

Kiphoris closed his outer eyes in silent laughter.

"Alright, I'm all ears." Ikharos leaned back. "How do you remember me?"

Eragon paused. "You were at Carvahall."

"Carva... Oh yeah. That northernish village. Yeah, I was there. Were you?"

"I lived in Carvahall. I was there when you argued with two Imperial traders."

"You..." Ikharos frowned. "You were the lad pissing off Bolver and Kranti."

Eragon's cheeks reddened. "Er... yes. I was."

"It's a small world. Funny how that worked out."

"I had no idea you were a wizard then."

"You were right. 'Cause I'm not a wizard now either. I really, really, dislike that term."

"You would rather be called Risen?" Arya said quietly. It was more a statement than a question, and meant to draw out information. Which it did. To some degree. The chatter of the elves and dwarves fell away. Even Melkris, who had been happily yapping away to a very confused Dûthmér, went silent. He was a fool, but only intentionally so. He knew how to read the room.

Ikharos nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. "The same way I wouldn't call you a magician. I'd simply say elf."

"You are not human, are you?"

"What gave that away?"

Arya had a cold look to her. Kiphoris could almost feel the high spirits that previously permeated the night drain away. "You move too fast. You wield magic unlike anyone else. You killed Durza."

"I thought I explained this to you already."

"You likened yourself to a Shade."

A tense pause stretched out. "That's because," Ikharos said with careful consideration, "Shades are a twisted imitation of my kind. I'm pretty sure they're designed to emulate the function what my people are."

"But what are you? And do not make a joke of the question."

"Want me to say it here?" Ikharos challenged. "Really? In front of everyone?"

Arya didn't say a thing.

"Suit yourself. Risen. I'm of the Risen. We're not Shades, we're not baseline human, we're... something else."

"Yet you appear human," Arya challenged - not to prove something, but to draw out more.

"Elves look human," Kiphoris muttered. Ikharos threw him a grateful look.

"Yeah, that's the framework. I'm the result of Light fusing with what used to be a flesh-and-blood person. In your ancient language, you might call us..." He glanced at Formora, as if to confirm something. "How about... Dauthné."

The concept was there, but not the meaning. Kiphoris did not understand. Not completely. Neither did his Eliksni or the dwarves. But Saphira stiffened and stopped her humming. Eragon flinched. And the elves... they looked both insulted and very, very nervous.

"Dauthné?" Arya repeated. Her brow was furrowed with confusion. "Deathless?"

"That's it."

"You... call yourself deathless?"

Ikharos nodded grimly. "I do. Because, by all causal conventional means, it's what I am. My flesh might be destroyed, but my life or my soul, whichever you prefer to call it, will not be. And it will return to flesh reforged in Light. If you draw a knife across my neck and allow me to bleed out, I'll come back. Pissed off too, but that's just how it is."

"... That is ridiculous."

Ikharos turned his gaze to the fire. His expression had melted into one of indifference. "Suit yourself."

000

The wind tossed sand up into their eyes in a vain hope to blind them. It mattered not. They had prepared accordingly, with thin cloths tied around their heads to guard their vision. Tellesa glanced to the side - Maranthas was keeping pace. They had their prey trapped, and the slavers didn't even know it.

Grieg's bands of kidnappers had been an issue for the Varden for a time now, and if they were around when the caravans of people were on the move, they could have caused irreparable damage. The solution to the problem was simple: run them down.

Tellesa's outriders were one of many units assigned to the task. Her commander, a man by the name of Parzald, had devised a cunning plan. She and Maranthas were to flush the slavers out. Even if they were outnumbered, the sight of soldiers equipped with proper arms and armour was enough to make any foe of the Varden think twice before engaging.

Hence why the slavers were on the run. It was the second band of miscreants they'd found - and they weren't any wiser than the first.

Tellesa held her course. The slavers rode ahead, desperate and fearful, right into the open Hadarac. She pressed a button on the strange device tied to her belt.

The Eliksni Skiff uncloaked, soared ahead, and killed all of the slavers with a burst of crackling lightning bolts.

Tellesa slowed her steed to a canter. Maranthas stopped beside her. He was a grizzled fellow in charge of another squadron. He offered her a nod and cheery smile. "That's another one!"

"So it is!" She called back. The desert wind howled past them, making every word difficult to make out. She jutted a thumb back the way they had come from. "I'll need to report this!"

He nodded and, with his group, stayed behind to comb through the corpses. The Skiff overhead turned about and retreated to the mountain valley. Tellesa watched it all the way back. She would never get bored of the sight of the flying construct.

The forward camp was full of noise and life. Soldiers milled about, doing whatever needed to be done. The smell of stews and spices filled the air. Tellesa breathed it in as she picketed her horse. She looked forward to snagging a bowl of whatever the camp cooks had put together.

Her soldiers followed her in. Her soldiers. She never would have imagined it possible, even after all that had happened. The surprise of it all hadn't yet left her, but she hadn't let it stop her from doing her job to the best of her ability. In some ways, she was glad for those she had with her. Most of them had quickly accepted both her and Murtagh's addition and worked with them. Only Honsel had trouble with them, but given that he was alone in it, there wasn't much he could do other than grumble and carry out her orders to the basic minimum.

She motioned for her followers to rejoin the rest of the scouts by the cooking fires, then continued on to the command tent. Three figures were inside - Sir Parzald, who commanded all the outrider divisions, Fendrel, who was his second and replacement if he were indisposed, and Paltis. They pored over a large, detailed map of the Beors. They glanced up as Tellesa entered, but quickly resumed their discussion.

Paltis tapped a place northwest of their position. "Palka here."

"It's widely exposed," Fendrel muttered. "If Grieg has archers in place-"

Paltis chuckled. "Not ex-po'ezed for Eliksni. Palkra have Skiffs."

"How many?"

"Three. And Pikes. Many Pikes."

"What good will pikes be against archers?"

Paltis chuckled again, at the humans' expense. "Nama. Diff-ar-ent. Like Skiff."

"So they'll be secured? We won't need to escort them to safety?"

"Nama, they fight good."

"We'll hold you to that." Parzald looked up. "Tellesa. What do you have for me?"

She stood to attention, hands clasped behind her back. "The slavers we encountered are taken care of. We trapped them for Calzan. None survived."

"That's good to hear. And of yours? Any casualties?"

"None, sir."

"Are your people rested?"

"They've only just arrived, but they won't need long."

"Is that so?" Parzald raised an eyebrow. "You'll have a chance to prove that. Paltis here has reported that Captain Palkra of the Scars will arrive at Tjana's Ford. If they have Skiffs, and I am told they do, then we'll clean up these slaver scum in little time. How is your Eliksni?"

Tellesa hesitated. "Lacking. I don't know more than a handful of phrases."

Parzald winced. "Then you have more than anyone else. Your orders are to meet with this Captain, attempt to make the situation clear, and work with him where needed. Paltis will be accompanying you. Shall I repeat?"

"I understand, sir."

"Good. Get going; we don't want to keep our allies waiting."

The moment they were free of the tent, Paltis pulled her in for an embrace. Tellesa hugged back tightly.

"How fare?" Paltis asked in a low voice.

"I'm doing well." Tellesa disengaged and smiled. She worriedly searched Paltis's eyes, but reading Eliksni was still a difficult process. "What about you?"

Paltis hesitated. "Some good, some bad," she decided. "Miss... Alkris."

"So do I." Tellesa paused. "I mean, I miss him, but I can't presume to-"

"Speak much."

"Sorry."

"No anger." Paltis started walking. Tellesa rushed to catch up. "We meet Palkra."

"What's he like?"

"Big. Bigger Kiphoris. Strong. Great fighter. Very loud."

Tellesa had a difficult time imagining an Eliksni larger than Kiphoris. The Captain she knew was already of similar size as Kull. "Is he... agreeable? Easy to work with?"

"Palkra loud. But know allies. No trouble. Hope."

Tellesa gathered her riders, grumbling and complaining as they were, and had them mount up. Paltis waited for them by the edge of camp. The Eliksni nodded to them and set off at a speed no human could reach. Tellesa and her outriders galloped after her.

Tjana's Ford was little more than a gurgling brook over a bed of sandy sediment. Unlike most valleys within the boundaries of the Beors, though, it had the space for more than a few Eliksni Skiffs to land. The forest receded and left in its wake a grassy plain veined with streams of fresh meltwater. There was little cover for miles around. Nowhere for Grieg's slavers to mount an ambush even if they did know the Eliksni were coming.

Tellesa, Paltis, Murtagh, and the scouts waited for an hour or so before the low crackling hum of cloaked Skiffs reached them. The moment it did, however, they lurched to and stood to attention.

Four Skiffs uncloaked at once. Three of them made to land while the fourth stayed up in the air, likely to cover them. Strange objects were attached to the back of each vessel, unlike Calzan's Skiff, and all the Skiffs that landed quickly dropped them. The strange objects didn't fall completely, however; they stopped in midair and floated just above the grass-covered earth.

"Pikes," Paltis pointed them out.

Tellesa scrutinized them, but she couldn't decipher their function. They were shaped so oddly. While they had three pointed fins towards the back, none were sharp enough to be used as a weapon. "What are they for?"

"Move fast," Paltis explained. "Like horse. Faster."

Hatches opened and Eliksni streamed out, barking and shaking weapons. There were far more soldiers per Skiff than there had been in Calzan's when he and Kiphoris arrived at Farthen Dûr. Most were similar to what Paltis's friend Melkris had looked like, but a small handful were cloaked and hooded like her.

One of them, whom Tellesa instantly knew was Palkra, had heavier armour for his larger frame just like Kiphoris. There was a marked difference between the two, though; Palkra was certainly bigger. Not all that much taller, but thicker of limb and torso. He made giant Kiphoris look as lithe as an elf in comparison. And his helmet was different. Whereas Kiphoris had two proud wings, Palkra had a single pointed spire-like crest on the back of his helmet - which appeared overall more streamlined. Quicker.

"Paltis!" He bellowed. Tellesa already missed Kiphoris's softer, more considerate tone of voice.

Paltis stood rigid in place. She bowed her head, held out her lower arms, and chittered rapidly. "Palkra-Veskirisk!" She gestured to the humans. "Varden-En'ha! Tellesa... ne ze-Kelekhira!"

Palkra tilted his head. His four eyes blinked at once. "Ze-Kelekhira?"

"Eia. Shas hus."

"... Ne ra kle." Palkra strode forward, lower hands resting on the hilts of his swords. He offered an upper arm and clasped her forearm tightly. Tellesa forced a smile. He could have broken her bones if he pressed any tighter; he looked as strong as a dragon.

"Welcome, Palkra," she greeted in what she hoped would be perceived as a pleasant tone. Paltis translated for her. "I have been sent on behalf of Lady Nasuada of the Varden and Sir Parzald of the second banner. Thank you for..."

000

The conversation drifted away to other topics, but from all the glances he received, he knew that what had happened wouldn't be so easily forgotten.

"Well, that was..." Xiān hesitated. "... something," she finished lamely.

"I... may have... overreacted." Ikharos sighed.

"You let loose the big bad secret."

"I'm sick of all this no-trust bullshit."

"To be fair, we not exactly trusting these people back. Not completely."

"You should be the one talking. Not me. I don't know how to do this."

"What, want me to control you?" Xiān chortled. "You're reminding me of... what was it... oh yeah! A children's movie. There was a mouse, or shrew or something pulling a guy's hair like a steering wheel."

"You're not pulling my hair."

"Nah, I'd go for your stupid beard."

"It's not stupid."

"It's everywhere. You need to brush it."

"Haven't had a chance yet. It's not my fault. We just don't have the right facilities at hand."

"What about after this? The Scar camp? Because they're the only ones with the equipment to house us comfortably."

"No. After this, we're going straight to Scipio. He knew about the Morgan, Hezran, and all the rest. He's going to give us the answers we need."

"Ooh, fighting talk. You do realize the guy you're angry with is a Warmind? As in, one of the most dangerous weapons ever created by mankind? If we're going in swinging, I don't rate our chances very high."

"I won't start a fight with him. I only need answers."

"And if he doesn't give you those answers?"

"Oh, I'll get them."

"So we are going in swinging?"

"No. I don't need to hurt him. Just threaten. He's a hyperintelligent AI. He'll know it's better to work with me than not."

Night fell. Excitement couldn't stave off exhaustion and they were indeed exhausted. While the journey to the forest wasn't quite as taxing as it could have been, as Kiphoris had so eloquently pointed out, the dwarves - as well as the honourary dwarf, Eragon - were too tired not to sleep.

Ikharos too might have given into slumber if Formora hadn't drawn him away. As they were prone to, they walked some distance from camp and to the edge of Du Weldenvarden, where they could freely look upon the vast grassy plains to the south. The moon was full and bright, casting everything in a low silver hue.

"I-" He began, but Formora shushed him. Her mind reached out to his.

"It would be to our advantage to not speak out loud. My people are sharp of hearing and endlessly curious."

"As I've discovered," Ikharos agreed. "So many questions. You never asked so much - at least before."

"You killed Enduriel just before we talked. I was under the impression that if I tested your patience, violence would ensue." Formora exhaled slowly, quietly. It came out as little more than a low hiss. "And these welden-älfya are young and eager and inquisitive, and you've just shown them a whole other world."

"I was overly hasty, I know."

"We should have accounted for that. I cannot expect you to turn into a politician overnight. That is not where your expertise lies, is it?"

He allowed himself a smile. "You know it's not. Still, what's done is done. Any idea how we swing this our way?"

"Follow Kiphoris's lead. Make it appear as if you and he are aligned."

"Which we are."

"Make it more obvious. Emphasize the alliance where possible. It will give him another tool with which to press his case."

"And you?"

Formora didn't immediately reply, but her mind was still connected to his. After a while, she said, "I shouldn't be here. My presence is too dangerous. It could jeopardize all we seek to gain."

"We've been through this. As long as they hear the-"

"Lifaen is a relative of mine. His grandmother was Alenya, who was cousin to my father, Káslidn."

"He's... oh." Ikharos looked down, deep in thought. "But I thought... I thought your family was gone?"

"My immediate family. My mother was slain by Glaerun, of the Wyrdfell. Kialandí... fell to madness and took his own life. During the last days of Galbatorix's initial rebellion, I received word that my father…" She looked away. "All that remains are distant branches of House Rílvenar."

Ikharos peered at her helmet in an attempt tory to glean something, anything, but it was in vain. He couldn't see a thing past the visor. "And... how do you feel about Lifaen's presence?"

"It only increases the danger. I can't imagine he would be pleased to learn of my survival. Or my presence in Du Weldenvarden."

"He's your family."

"No. He's my kin, yes, but not my family. I don't know him. We share a noble lineage, and only barely. If nothing else, my arrival would jeopardize his own family's standing. I have a stronger claim to the Rílvenar name than they."

"So this is cutthroat stuff?"

"Murder is too hefty a crime for a long-lived race as we. No throats are cut in elven politics. But that isn't to say it's a pleasant, peaceful affair. Nor are we above the petty vices that plague the other races. There are those of us who desire power, even if my people deny it. Let the other elven Forsworn, those who joined of their own volition, stand as proof."

"That's tough... I probably sound like a broken record, but if it isn't clear enough, I am here to be on your side. If you ever need to talk, I'm open to it, though I'm certainly not the right person to come to for a solution. Kiphoris would serve you better on that front. He seems a bit more sensible where all this - politics and family - is concerned."

"I appreciate your offer all the same." She gave him what he thought was a funny look. "I've learned something."

"Oh?"

"You are... remarkably patient with those you consider your... what's the word?"

Ikharos smiled. "Gang? Crew? Pack? Fireteam?" His smile disappeared. "Aw shit. This is my Fireteam."

"Is... that a problem?"

"There's a Fallen Captain in my Fireteam."

"I thought you weren't allowed to use that word?"

Ikharos rolled his eyes. "Sorry, there's an Eliksni Captain in my Fireteam." He rubbed his temples. "Traveler above..."

"And yet you two have learned to behave well around one another. How admirable." A warm flush of amusement came from the other end of the mental connection.

Exasperated, Ikharos strolled from the treeline and onto the plains. "Laugh all you want, but keep in mind that everything about this, us, is nothing short of miraculous. We are an odd bunch. The oddest."

"That we are."

"But it works. We've survived so far."

"It does, and we have."

"Wonder how long that's going to last..."

"You don't think we'll live through this?"

"All of us? I doubt it. Especially not me."

"Ah, but you would come back."

"Not if my killers pack the right weaponry. And I imagine our enemies- Nezarec's bunch at the very least - are stockpiling tools capable of snuffing out a Light. I would if I were them."

"Why would they focus so much on you?"

"I'm a threat to them. Not just as an opposing soldier. My Light is an affront to their Dark. They'll swarm me like moths to a flame. It doesn't matter how many of them burn up in the process, as long as the flame is smothered. It's their safest option."

"So... then you keep quiet. Stay unnoticed."

"Easier said than done. I have to use my Light to fight. And if not Nezarec's cult, then the Cabal, and Galbatorix's empire, and Krinok's Scars could get me."

"You don't sound very concerned." Formora frowned. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"Fear is a bodily instinct designed to increase odds of survival. It's useful sometimes. But not always. If the fear is useless, it deserves only to be ignored. I was terrified when I fought Oryx. I was terrified when I fought Riven. I was terrified when I fought the Aphelion. But I couldn't let fear rule me. Fear is the surest of killers in a war that depends on bravery. So does this scare me? Sure. Yes. The thought of a Shade driving a Dark-infused knife, like the one I have here," he dangled the dirk between two fingers, "through my heart will probably haunt me for the duration of my stay on this world, but I can't let it distract me."

"That's brave."

Ikharos shook his head. "No. Just disdain. So, do you need to eat or... are we just out here to chat?"

"The latter. I've partaken of a meal earlier. When Javek and I were working on spells."

"What were you teaching him?"

"How to throw a stone with force. How to start a flame. Things like that."

"Ah yes, the essentials."

"And how to mend lesser wounds."

"No one ever died of a skinned knee, so... not quite as essential."

"It's the basics. You would know if-"

Ikharos clapped his hands together. "Speaking of magic! Can... you, uh, teach me how to speak magic? Fluently?"

Formora groaned. "That would take time."

"We have time. We're not in Ellesméra yet."

"... You're right. You should be able to hold your own when questioned in the ancient language. And my people will question you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're welcome." Formora glanced back the way they came. "Let's begin with... dauthné."

"Deathless, right?"

"Not exactly. Through a direct translation, it comes very close. It translates as 'death-refusal', but the word stands for something else. Rather, the meaning stems from the word dauthleikr, as an opposite, which means 'mortal.' Dauthné is, in truth, 'the refusal of mortality.' It's a concept not of an immortal or deity, but of something that does not allow death to be an obstacle."

"Doesn't that and deathless mean the same thing?"

"Deathless is to be without an end. Dauthné is to circumvent death - but that does not mean an end does not await."

Ikharos frowned. "That fits far too well."

"It does, doesn't it? Perhaps your people had something to do with that."

"Getting conspiratorial, are we? No. They didn't live long enough to chat with your folk."

"One might have."

"You mean the journal's last entry? Maybe. But if any lived long enough, they would have to have kept quiet throughout the years. No contact, even with elves."

"You truly don't think any survived?"

"Not a chance."

"That's a grim outlook to hold to."

"It's our lot in life," Ikharos retorted. "We aren't like your people. The world doesn't offer us all we desire on a silver platter. We are the butchers of physics and the breakers of fate, and as a result we're wanted dead by a primordial force of the universe. It isn't nice, but reality seldom is."

"Don't you ever begrudge the Traveler for forcing all this on you?"

"Of course. Every Risen does, at one point or another. But the only thing we can do is accept that there's a target painted on our backs and carry on." He knelt down and tried to place the constellations high above. There was always a spark of joy when he recognized a familiar star. "Let's get back to the ancient language."

"Let's."

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue!