Chapter 48: Wonders of Ellesméra

The tea scalded his tongue. Its subtle flavour washed over his taste buds and suffixed within him a strange sense of tranquility. It was perfect. Exactly what he'd been missing for nigh on a year.

"Thank you," Ikharos said quietly. "Where'd you get your stock?"

Oromis poured himself a cup and inclined his head in the direction of Ellesméra. "The leaves are grown in the Ilithia Hall. I am sure that they would acquiesce to any request you make. You are an honoured guest; the luxuries of our city are at your disposal."

"Are they?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "From what I've seen, Islanzadí isn't that fond of allowing outsiders free reign."

Oromis sipped his drink. "You are new to us, bearing strange tiding and stranger powers. But rest assured, I will make every effort to speak on your behalf. If you have come this far, then you are no enemy."

It was a kind offer. Too kind. Formora and Eragon looked between him and Oromis in surprise. The dragons - Glaedr, Saphira, and the utterly disinterested Arke - momentarily broke their study of one another to curiously glance over at them.

Oromis's spot at the Crags of Tel'naeír was idyllic and secluded. A bare path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut grown between the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged from the moody depths of the forest. The ground fell as a sheer drop two hundred feet in the other direction. The elf had picked the perfect place to live in solitude, if that was really what he wanted. Ikharos felt touched that the elder Rider would invite him to his home. And, again, suspicious. The old elf knew something - certainly enough about Risen. And him.

Four stools had been carried out. On three of them were seated the three Riders. Ikharos had never felt so out of place.

"We going to cut to the chase or drag this on?" Ikharos said bluntly.

Oromis's eyes went wide for a brief moment. Then he chuckled, and in quite an unelvish fashion too. "So the tales are true." He leaned back and observed Ikharos without any restraint or hesitation.

"Tales?" Ikharos replied.

"Ancient scrolls and dragon-dreams."

"And what do those tales tell of?"

"That the Eld domia dauthné were strong of body, bright of mind, harsh of tongue, and unending in years."

"... Yeah," Ikharos muttered. "That's pretty much us."

"And they lived hand-in-hand with death."

"Again, us."

"You're... immortal," Eragon stated, looking at Ikharos. This time it was no question.

"I am, to some extent," he allowed.

"How?"

Ikharos paused. No hiding it now. "Because of Xiān."

Only Formora understood. She idly gazed into her own mug, content to let the conversation flow on without her. The other two Riders wore befuddled expressions. Oromis did so with a slightly more refined air. Ikharos held out a hand. Xiān materialized above it. He curled his fingers on instinct, as if to shield her from the sudden stares of the nearby drakes. Arke peered over with a newfound fascination. "Little Light," she whispered.

Xiān blinked. "Toothy chicken."

The Ahamkara laughed ever so softly. "You are a delight."

Glaedr then trained his eyes on Arke with what Ikharos imagined to be uneasiness. If the golden dragon had reached out to speak to her mind, he was unaware of it. Ikharos frowned. It was yet another conundrum he would have to solve. He doubted he held any more sway over Glaedr than he did Saphira - and likely less so.

But they had to listen to their Riders, didn't they? One simply couldn't ignore a partner-of-mind. And going down that route looked all the more appealing.

Xiān twirled around to face Oromis. "Hi," she said pleasantly.

Oromis leaned forward. "... Greetings, little... Light?"

"Ghost."

"Little Ghost?"

"Just Ghost. Unless you want to be an ass."

"... Ah. Greetings, Ghost."

"Elf."

"Excuse me?"

"I have a name."

"My mistake. I am sorry." Oromis smiled apologetically. As if he were talking to a child. A brief flush of white-hot anger told Ikharos that it was not well received. "What is your name?"

"Xiān," she said curtly. "Speak blunt, speak in riddles, but don't speak down to me... elfie."

Formora's sigh was the only sound to break the sudden and painful silence. Ikharos winced. Glaedr's harsh, and highly anticipated, growl was not long in coming. "Watch your tongue," the golden dragon mentally snapped.

Xiān, without so much as a shred of hesitation, turned on him and snarked, "Funny thing, that. Don't have one."

"Are you a hatchling child? My meaning was clear."

Oromis raised a hand. Glaedr fell silent. "No, the fault is mine. Apologies, Xiān." The name sounded odd coming from him. The old Rider had lmost tripped over the pronunciation.

"Apologies accepted." Xiān never let her burning eye stray from the dragon.

Oromis's curiosity returned, but with a blunted edge to it. He'd been burned and had no intention of enduring the same sensation again. "What are you? You call yourself a Ghost?"

"Yeah."

"And what-"

"Light," Ikharos interrupted. "She's living Light."

"Light is magic," Formora added helpfully. "Or rather a discipline and philosophy of magic. One separate to our own, and far more... potent?" She looked at him questioningly.

Ikharos nodded stiffly. "That's certainly a way to put it."

Oromis hummed. "And this magic, this Light... It can raise the dead?"

Ikharos hesitated. "Not exactly. What you're describing is necromancy. It's more commonly associated with heretical practitioners of the Dark - the opposing force to the Light. No, we Risen aren't so much inclined to necromancy as we are avoiding the finality within death."

"You speak of death as if it were a road rather than an end."

"Because death is a road. A metamorphosis of sorts. A grand test - but only a few possess the ability to pass it."

Oromis settled him with a strange look. "And you passed it?"

Ikharos didn't answer immediately. He glanced at Xiān. "Not alone. It was a two-fold effort. I needed someone to light the way." He shifted back. "You want to know about immortality. That's what this is about."

"I do," Oromis admitted.

"Don't go thinking it's something that can just be given. Or even earned. Immortality is not gained, but created. And the price is death."

"I... do not follow. Death?"

"It's a hefty subject to tackle. For some measure of understanding, I'd recommend the Warlock Marvo Teralef's On Death and Life volumes one to three." Ikharos looked past the Rider to his humble home. "But I suspect you don't have a datapad handy. Perhaps you could borrow one off Gilderien to receive the files."

Oromis blinked. As did Eragon. Their confusion was palpable.

"How would you know if Gilderien has a datapad?" Formora asked.

Ikharos shrugged. "I don't, but I wager it isn't out of question if he has access to simulation tech."

"Simulation tech?"

"Being there without actually being there."

"... Ah, the illusion."

"Exactly."

Formora nodded to herself. "Advanced colonial technology? That does explain a great deal."

Xiān flew from his shoulder and did a loop around his head. He stolidly ignored her. Oromis watched her fly. "Many of the things you speak of are lost on me," he murmured.

"Our lives are vastly different," Ikharos pointed out "That's to be expected."

"Forgive me, but... what is it Xiān does?"

"Keeps me alive," Ikharos murmured. "Provides me with company, guidance, and whole lot of bad advice. She's my guardian angel and the devil on my shoulders wrapped up in one tiny shell."

"And-"

"Yes, all Risen have Ghosts."

"From what I have observed," Formora said delicately, taking over for him, "Ghosts and Risen share a bond not dissimilar to that between Rider and dragon. In fact, they may have been the..." She winced. "The inspiration for the Blood-Oath woven in the years after Dur Fyrn Skulblaka."

Oromis slowly absorbed all they said. By his troubled frown, Ikharos could tell that the old elf either didn't believe most of it or simply didn't appreciate it.

"My turn," Ikharos quickly said before the elf could field any more queries. "How do you know about me?"

Oromis leaned back. "Your actions here, in Alagaësia, have not gone unnoticed. Ancient wards scattered throughout the land were-"

"Not that. How do you know what I am? How is it you, alone of all Alagaësia's native inhabitants, know about that?"

"Not alone," Formora muttered. "The Shades were well aware."

Ikharos inclined his head. "So they were. Much to our detriment. Regardless, my question still stands." Xiān landed on his upturned palm. A dull warmth pulsed just beneath her shell. Her pinions twitched and turned so they didn't stick into the flesh of his hand.

There was no way in any language to describe how much he adored her.

"Ancient scrolls and dragon-dreams," Oromis repeated.

Ikharos tilted his head. "Whose scrolls? Which dragon's dreams?"

Glaedr crawled over. The sound of scales scratching over earth and rock was explosive. "We dragons do not write. We do not scrawl on walls, vellum, or paper to keep our pasts alive. We carry our histories through memories and lessons instead. My forebears whispered of those who once walked the land we stand upon. Foes and allies both. Predators unequaled." His teeth flashed. "Are you one such predator?"

Ikharos caught the dragon's eye. "I don't care for boasting," Ikharos said carefully.

Arke chuckled softly. "Kingslayer," she purred. "Rivenbane. End-of-Hive."

"End-of-you in a minute," he grumbled. He turned back to the elves plus human. "And the scrolls?"

"Ah, yes." Oromis glanced back at his hut. "Ancient dwarven records correlate with the faded memories of dragons past, though they are often difficult to decipher. Our libraries of Vroengard held more valuable scrolls left by the Grey Folk. I once devoted many years to studying them, but I, like many others, only found limited success in interpreting their strange speech. Of your people, the Eld domia dauthné, there were many mentions."

"The Grey Folk?" Eragon asked. It was one of the few times he spoke up.

Oromis smiled kindly. "A story for another time."

Ikharos cleared his throat. "Have any of those scrolls with you?"

The old Rider shook his head. "No. Alas, they were lost during the Dragon war - seized or destroyed by Galbatorix."

The stone pavement was cracked and broken by the combined effort of time and determined weeds. At the end, a massive temple loomed, its roof collapsed and doors smashed in. It was even worse on the inside. All that remained was scorched stone and piles of ash. All that had once been stored in the archives were long gone.

"So it was." Ikhars shifted. "I saw the destruction he left in his wake. The loss of so much learning is nothing short of a travesty."

"You saw the library?" Oromis asked, surprised.

"I showed him," Formora answered in a low voice. "It was just after we met."

"And it was there you saw fit to strike an alliance?"

Ikharos met Formora's eyes. "In short, yes," he said. "It was a gradual thing, but we did."

She relaxed. Then tensed once more. "It was an alliance of equal gain," she began, "at first. But we... Oromis-elda, we... we uncovered the truth - behind Galbatorix, behind Durza, and behind the disappearance of the Grey Folk."

"The truth?" Oromis assumed a puzzled look. "Galbatorix went mad due to pain and heartbreak. There is no truth beyond that."

"I thought the same," Formora persisted. "But it's more than that. Durza was nothing more than a puppet. As is..." She took a deep breath. "As is Galbatorix."

Glaedr growled. "A puppet? To whom?"

"We went in search of that. Unknowingly, at the time." Ikharos looked down. "We found a Grey Folk city north of Vroengard. Lost to mist and Dark."

"And we found them. Him." Formora shivered. "We found a god."

000

Lifaen was laughing. Human laughter was different. Odd. They just didn't have the mandibles to laugh like Eliksni. Melkris didn't mind. As long as there were smiles, he was content to keep his jokes running. His eyes drifted back to the game board. A series of discordant patterns greeted him. The green tiles were more orderly - a cause for frustration. Why couldn't his blues do the same?

"I will never understand this," he grumbled dramatically.

Lifaen said something. Melkris had no idea what. He just liked to hear the musical elven voice draw out the ever-odd human words.

"I think he's saying it's your turn," Javek murmured. "Or he wants to eat you."

Melkris bared his teeth in a broad smile. "Eat me? I taste horrible. An Erechaani told me that."

Javek stared at him. "... You are strange," he decided. He pointed to the board. "It must be your go, then."

"What if I don't take a turn?"

"Then the game stalls."

"And you would all be upset. I cannot abide that." Melkris nudged one of his blue tiles. "There! A rune!"

Javek scoffed. "Oh yes, very mature. But the human cannot read it."

"Say it to him."

"I cannot speak their language well."

"Bah, just try!"

"Nama." Javek shook his head. "I will not. I will be no puppet to your ridiculous tendencies."

The door to their not-so-humble abode opened. Ikharos strolled in and closed it behind him. His half-hearted movements screamed exhaustion - though he had been away only a fraction of a local day. It wasn't even dark out!

"Kirzen!" Melkris greeted. He flushed his voice with amiability. "How was your discussion with the Beast Rider?"

"Slow," the human-not-human replied. His grasp on Eliksni was superb - and it never failed to amaze Melkris. "Tiring. And ultimately disappointing."

"He, ah, had nothing interesting to offer you?" Javek questioned.

Ikharos nodded glumly. He wandered over and exchanged soft words with Lifaen. Seeing the rune, his entire demeanour shifted. A smile broke out across his malleable human face and banished all traces of sullenness. "Melkris," he playfully admonished. "That's a... very forward thing to say."

Melkris grinned right back. "Not me, Ikha Riis. It was Javek."

The Splicer spluttered indignantly. "You-!"

"I'm going to wash and change," Ikharos announced. "If Kiph is looking for me, point him that way. But tell him to knock."

"Eia, eia, I will," Melkris said.

"I mean it. Or there will be hell to pay."

"I will warn him. Do not worry."

"But I have to. That's my job." And like that, their Machine-Chosen human was gone. Lifaen moved another of his tiles, creating a perfect serpent.

"I prefer the rune," Melkris told him. Lifaen, being the clueless elf he was, gave no indication of having understood.

"I bet you do," Javek grumbled, "you great psesiskar."

Melkris, in his infinite wisdom, chose to ignore him. "Formora must have remained to speak with the Riders."

"Probably."

"Pity for you, eh?"

Javek shuttered his inner eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Melkris chittered mischievously.

Javek, for the umpteenth time that day, fitfully glared at him. "She teaches me magic. If you are insinuating-"

"It is not her you like? Perhaps... Kirzen?"

Javek growled. "I do not see the humans that way. That is just you, what with your..." He waved towards the rune, "horrible messages."

"I adore them!" Melkris exclaimed. "They are so very interesting! And amusing, and strange, and exotic, and clever, and silly. They are so very like us, even if they look so odd."

"Not that odd."

"Oh, very odd. See?" He reached out to Lifaen. The elf froze as a claw tapped his cheek. "Squishy. Squishier than Uluru. More like Psions."

Javek scoffed. "Humans have bones."

"So do Psions."

"Not as many as humans. Too much cartilage. Psions are squishier."

"Eia, maybe. Humans are the perfect amount of squishy."

"... You are not only strange. More than that. You are demented."

"I am not wrong."

"I do not think there is a 'perfect' amount of squishy."

Melkris gestured to Lifaen. "Want to feel?"

Javek paused. "He looks unhappy with you. I will not."

"What if you ask Formora?"

"Melkris!" Javek slapped his shoulder. Melkris couldn't do anything other than laugh at the Splicer's scandalized expression. It felt good to laugh. And to know that others found just as much joy. Javek included, but it was deep down. Melkris knew there was a part of the Splicer that enjoyed it all, despite his claims to the latter.

Laughter was something he couldn't help but chase after fanatically, for the times without laughter always felt too quiet. He hated it when the world went quiet. It always felt like there was something else to mourn. Another loss to suffer. Laughter helped fill in the empty space between.

Ikharos returned before long, garbed in less extravagant clothing. His head-fur shone, having been doused in water, and carried with it a faint scent of something mildly pleasant. He carried a sheathed blade and said something to Lifaen. The elf responded, and then the game board was swept aside.

"What is happening?" Melkris asked.

Ikharos held up his sword. "I'm trying to find the elf responsible for forging these weapons. I intend to ask her to repair Orúm."

"Ah! The weapon snapped by the Star-Eater?"

The human grimaced. "Yes. That one."

"May I accompany you? This place is too stifling for me and I would like to see more of this city."

"Has Kiph ordered otherwise?"

"Nama."

"I don't see why not. Javek?"

The Splicer clicked his fangs together. "The offer is appreciated, Ikha Riis, but I shall remain. I must tend to Obleker and offer him tribute."

"Send him my regards." Ikharos frowned. "Can one send regards to a Servitor?"

"Eia. He will appreciate yours, Kirzen. I know it."

"Mine?" Melkris perked up.

Javek glared at him. "No. Go away."

Melkris placed a hand over his hearts. "That is wounding. Our Splicer loves me not!"

"Oh, cease your dramatics!"

He rose with a chuckle and shouldered his wire rifle. He reaffixed his facemask over his jaws and tested it with a heavy huff. His ether tanks were empty, so all he was rewarded with was freshly filtered air. "I am ready, Kirzen."

"Just a moment." Ikharos turned to Lifaen. The elf said something and nodded. More words were exchanged.

"I need to learn their language," Melkris decided.

Javek snorted. "You? Learn? I doubt it."

"You don't think I can?"

"You have not the intelligence."

"Oh, you Ba'sha!"

Javek beat a hasty retreat. Melkris mock-snarled at the fleeing Splicer.

Ikharos lazily looked over. "Everything alright?"

Melkris closed his outer eyes. "Eia."

"We're leaving now. If you need something, grab it."

"I have all I need here." He patted his rifle.

Ikharos made a strange expression. It was amusing to watch. "Ah. But I... I don't plan on killing anyone."

"Neither do I," Melkris tilted his head. "But we might be attacked by beasts."

"I'm not so sure there's... Nama. It doesn't matter. Let's go."

The city was alive and yet wasn't. Melkris didn't know if it was because humans at large were not as tightly-knit as Eliksni or if it was just the elves being their flighty selves, because there was no bustle to be found. No crowds gathered. No markets roared. It was... disconcerting. Even Ceunon had been more vibrant, after the Cabal had crushed its spirit.

That said, there were still marvels to be witnessed. He watched as an elven male softly guided a magnificent flowering plant into form. The petals were bright and gifted with a vast array of colours. It reminded him of the baubles his sire had saved from Riis. Pictures of a world he would never know.

Another elf laughed and sang with nearby birds. A third - with strange proportions for a human - stared right back at him from between two trees and then bounded out of sight like a common beast.

"Strange, no?" Ikharos murmured.

Melkris agreed. "Very."

"They... I'm not... sureif I approve of them, and yet they fascinate me. They are more like my kind than Awoken, but less too. I don't know what to make of it."

"I prefer the dwarves," Melkris admitted. "And the other humans. They do not frighten me as elves do."

"They are frightening, aren't they?"

There was no more to be said. They fell silent and picked up the pace. Lifaen didn't say a word - he led them onwards, through winding paths and open glades. They had covered some distance from Violmedr's hall when they reached an enclosed atrium made of tree trunks. In the centre of it was an unwalled hut, in which stood a clever (if primitive) forge.

Melkris gawked at it. It was a workshop worthy of an Archon. Where he, and others, could come to prove their worth and increase their stations. A figure worked at the forge. The elven Archon perhaps? He fielded the question to Ikharos.

"I don't think they have an Archon," the human replied. "Only a Kell - Islanzadí."

Melkris stalled. Only a Kell? Then... who would advise her? Who would tend to the souls of her people? Was that why the elves behaved so erratically? The person at the forge - a she-elf with a face full of weariness - turned to them. She bit out something in a voice rougher than Melkris thought possible for her ethereal kind. Lifaen bowed. Ikharos did not.

Melkris followed Ikharos's lead. Bowing to strangers was a mark of weak-will.

She frowned at him and asked something. Ikharos answered with, "Eliksni." Then he said something else and held up Orúm. The she-elf gingerly took the sheathed weapon; Ikharos did not resist. She grasped the hilt and pulled it out of its scabbard. She was evidently not expecting it to be broken, because the second half of the blade slipped out and clattered on the floor of her hut. The she-elf said not a word. Neither did Lifaen. They stared at the broken hilt, uncomprehending.

Then the smith released a stringent of what were assumedly curses. Or a scolding. If it was the latter, then Ikharos didn't look like he particularly cared.

Melkris tugged on the Kingkiller's arm. "What are they saying?"

Ikharos spared him a look, and though he possessed only two eyes, it was father-stern. "A moment, please. Xiān?"

A buzzing filled Melkris's eardrums. It receded after an irritating moment. The elves were speaking, but he still couldn't-

"-short of impossible!" The elder elf bit out.

"I can understand," Melkris whispered. "Thank you, Kirzen."

"What, not me?" A small voice snapped through his helmet's speakers.

He chuckled. "And you, little Xiān. Thank you very much. You are mine-favourite."

"And don't forget it!"

Ignoring them, Ikharos gestured to the sword. "Here's evidence to the contrary. Can you fix it?"

"Who are you?" The she-elf demanded.

"Me?" The Kingkiller tilted his head. "Ikharos Torstil. New arrival, so-"

"Ah. Yes. I've heard of you." The elderly elf scrutinized him. "The world beyond my forge is of little interest to me, and yet news continues to trickle in all the same. I have been told you are an ally of Formora Rílvenar." She lifted the hilt. "She gifted you this?"

"That a problem?"

"... No." The she-elf paused. "I am Rhunön."

"Can you fix my sword," Ikharos begged in a deadened voice.

Rhunön scoffed. "No flowery language?"

"I'm tired, give me a break."

"Tired of what?"

"Inane talk."

The old elf frowned. "Then don't talk."

"It'll insult people."

"If silence disturbs them, then they are not worth the effort."

"Therein lies my problem. There's a city full of them. Look, can you fix the sword or not?"

"No."

"No? Won't or can't?"

"Can't. I have sworn not to."

"Aw, psekisk. Why?"

Rhunön looked utterly fed up. Then again, Melkris could have been misreading the situation. It was difficult to tell what the two-eyed humans were feeling. "I swore to never create instruments of death again. Not after... No. I will not."

"You're not creating a weapon, just fixing."

"My oath is binding."

"Can I at least use your forge?"

Lifaen gasped. Ikharos didn't even deign to look at him. Rhunön crossed her arms. "You can work with metal?" She asked. It was a challenge. A test.

Ikharos nodded. "Have done, likely will again. Is there something special about your forge, or is it-"

"It is the process and material that give my weapons their durability and sharpness," she admitted sharply.

"Ah. You wouldn't happen to have any... what was it, bright metal?"

"Brightsteel. I do not." She sighed fitfully. "And I will not allow my tools to fall into the hands of someone with no prior experie-"

"I said I've dabbled in metalworking before. It isn't new to me."

"Then show me your craft, and I will decide whether you are fit to make use of my forge or not."

Ikharos held out a hand grabbed hold of his other blade just as it was transmatted before him. "Here."

Rhunön stared at him and then the blade. After a moment, she tossed Orúm onto a nearby workbench and took the second sword from him. "This is... your work?"

"Yes."

She looked up sharply. "Why are you so driven to repair Orúm if you have this?"

"Because this," Ikharos gestured to the unbroken blade, "doesn't suit me nearly so well. The design I based it off was a Hive Cleaver so... well, they're brutish weapons, and even my take on it can't ward away their clunky, obtuse nature. It'll cut through armour easy, but there's no finesse to be found."

"You want finesse?"

"I want a weapon that feels like an extension of my arm. Orúm did that. Eternity's Edge does not."

Rhunön looked it over. She ran her hand down the length of the blade, almost nicking her fingers on the molecular-thin edge. "It is... well-made," she begrudgingly said. She lifted it up and brought it down on a nearby stool. The sword carved right through the wood and carried on deep into the floor. "And it is of commendable quality."

"Thank you." Ikharos dipped his head.

"I detect no wards around or within it."

"Another reason I'd like to wield Orúm instead."

"How did you manage to break my blade?"

"Star-Eater."

"What?"

"A big, hungry monster," Ikharos said nonchalantly. "I stabbed it in the eye, but it didn't seem seem too keen in having a sword in its head."

"It broke Orúm?"

"Yeah."

"Where was this?"

"Beneath Du Fells Nángoröth."

"But why-"

"We were trying to kill a storm."

Rhunön stared at him for a long, long time. Finally, she shook her head. "You are a strange man."

"So I've been told. Have I passed your test?"

"I suppose so."

"I'll be back in a day or two, possibly. May I have my swords, please?"

"Take them."

Ikharos did so. Xiān - still unseen - transmatted them away. Rhunön took a step back.

"How do you keep doing that?"

"Transmat. Lifaen here knows all about it - I'm sure he'd love to tell you."

Lifaen looked between them. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

"Thank you for your time, Rhunön-elda," Ikharos turned around. "Come on, Melkris."

"That was illuminating."

Melkris spared his companion a glance as they walked. "It was?"

Ikharos nodded. "Very much so. There's nothing beyond magic and steel involved in the creation of a Rider's sword. It should prove simple to emulate." He breathed out heavily. "Thank the Great Machine that's over. Only thing I want to do now is kick back and stop thinking."

"It wasn't that exhausting, Kirzen."

"Not physically, maybe. But my mind is frazzled."

"Why?"

Ikharos shrugged. "Just the Riders. Oromis just wanted to pick my mind. Which is all well and good, but I'm looking for answers too."

"Did you find them?"

"Yes. It alleviated none of my concerns. He got my hopes up - and let them fall back down. I was hoping for more of what I found in Celbedeil."

"What did you find?" Melkris asked inquisitively.

Ikharos's shoulders slumped. "The Riders regarded my kind as little more than curious folktales. They knew of us - of the Six - through the half-forgotten memories of long dead desire-drakes. But no mention of caches, outposts, fortresses. And not even a whisper as to where Albazad might be."

"North, isn't it? You said it was to the north."

Ikharos sighed. "That's too vague. I need coordinates. Even landmarks would work. Not... not 'north'!"

Melkris mulled it over. "Why is it important to find?"

"Because it's a pillar for Nezarec's power. Knock it out, he grows weaker. Hungrier. And it might help us discover others."

"You believe there are others?"

"Undoubtedly. He's had almost eighty thousand years to spread his influence all around Kepler by my count. That's more than long enough to set up other cults across the planet. Alagaësia's at the heart of this, but it's not the only place worth investigating. Maybe that's how he's got so many Shades..."

"We do not have enough warriors to fight a world," Melkris realized. "Not even enough to fight a nation."

"Too right," Ikharos solemnly agreed. "We need the rest of the Scars - which leads us to the matter of the other conflicts we found ourselves embroiled in."

"It has not truly started, yes?"

"True. Right now it's just a waiting game. We're all watching each other, trying to figure out who's gonna make the first move - us, Krinok, Nezarec, or whoever the hell leads the Cabal."

"Scars will not be enough. Even if the elves gift us magic."

"No. You're right. We need allies."

"Elves are not enough. Humans are not enough."

"Tad harsh, but yes, not enough. We'll, I'll, have to go throttle Scipio until he gives me answers. And maybe a few more guns."

That Melkris could accept. "More guns is good."

Ikharos smiled tiredly. "You just want new toys to play with."

"Aha, you understand!"

"... Sure. Yeah, I mean..." The human trailed off. "... Anyways, where's Kiph?"

Melkris shrugged. "Kiphoris-Veskirisk was speaking with Violmedr-Mrelliks not long ago. Perhaps he speaks now with Islanzadí-kel?"

"Ever the politician. Probably for the best if we leave him to it."

They reached the Rílvenar hall and entered. No one was in sight - not Narí, Celdin, Javek, or Obleker. Only Kida remained, who had stood and was continuing to stand at the back of the hall by the stairs since that morning.

Ikharos grabbed a chair, sat down, and let loose an explosive sigh. "Better," he mumbled.

"Do you seek sleep?" Melkris kept standing. He wanted to do something. Silence never appealed to him.

The Light-Chosen human shook his head. "Not that type of tired. I just... need an out. Need to stop thinking about all of this."

"Hopefully not for too long," Melkris weakly joked.

Ikharos said nothing. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "I'm going to meditate. I would appreciate it if I could be left in peace."

Melkris understood and chirped to convey it. Skriviks-Archon, Drotos-Archpriest, and Inelziks-Captain had often exercised the same between battles or rituals dedicated to the Great Machine. "Will not disturb, on mine-honour."

000

"Slug rifle: fifteen clips. That's two-hundred-and-seventy rounds."

Zhonoch grunted. He wiped a dirty rag over the downed Legionary's corrupted shoulder wound. It was the best he could do. "Go on."

Neirim listed off the rest. "Projection rifle: forty-eight explosive rounds. Headhunter: twenty-two clips, which equals sixty-six high-calibre microrockets. Bronto cannon: seventy-three Void charges. Arc shotgun: fifty-three full battery cells."

"So shotgun's our best bet? Not fast enough for Thrall."

"Plenty for a Knight."

"Not the ones outside."

They both knew what he meant: the Darkblade and his elite regiment of butchers.

"Can you get up?" Zhonoch asked of the injured soldier. The Legionary shifted and gritted her teeth.

"I... no sir," the young Uluru gasped breathlessly. "Their damn... touch... has me..."

"We'll get you a-"

"Leave me... a gren... grenade..."

Zhonoch met Neirim's cold, one-eyed gaze. He wordlessly asked: can we afford it?

The Psion assassin reluctantly nodded. Zhonoch picked up a projection rifle round and pressed it into the wounded soldier's grasp.

"For the Empire!" The Legionary hissed. One of her eyes had already glazed over. The other burned with a fury only death could extinguish.

Zhonoch stood up. "For the Empire," he whispered.

They moved on. The Legionary wasn't left alone - three others marred fatally by Hive blades remained with her. Waiting to die. "And for what?" Zhonoch wondered aloud.

Neirim shot him a strange look, but Zhonoch didn't care. Neither did the others they had picked up along the way, all tiredly trudging along. Zhonoch looked around, counting the heads. There was barely enough to constitute a squad.

They found Neuroc by a broken radio transmitter in the corner of a grey corridor. She raised her head as they caught up. "Still nothing."

"Tlac must have led them away," Zhonoch mused. "Or Shu'av did. Or someone."

Neuroc motioned back to the radio. "Regardless, our communications are still cut off."

"How did it come to this?"

"Sir?"

"We're-" He realized what he was about to say and choked himself off, suddenly aware of those listening in. "Excuse me. Neuroc. Do you know how to disable the jammers?"

"Yes sir. They're using our own technology against us. I imagine the infected just activated the signal blockers in the bridge. It has a sphere of influence a hundred chrens wide."

"Bridge is on the other side of the hanger from us," Neirim pointed out. "Which is currently crawling with Hive. We'll never make it to the bridge and out again."

"Why not just leave?" Someone asked. It was a thin Psion technician hefting a rifle half his size.

"Because they're outside too."

"How many are there?" Someone else asked. An old Uluru this time. His helmet had been shattered and a few of his teeth were knocked out. Blood had trickled from his mouth to dry and crack over his skin.

"A cult's worth," Neirim announced grimly. "And worse yet: they have a Broodqueen."

A collective groan rose up from the disorganized ranks.

Zhonoch allowed himself to wallow in despair and bodily leaned against the wall. He held a hand over his eyes. "By Acrius's gleam..."

000

Formora walked with her head down. She didn't dare meet anyone's eyes. A part of her felt she hadn't earned that right yet. She blamed Oromis for that. He had seen her guilt and dragged it to the surface. She swallowed the bitter taste of anger. It wouldn't serve her well to let it be seen. It was bitter certainty she clutched to, because the alternative was less than ideal.

Nonetheless, the novelty of walking though her homeland without a mask was not lost on her. No blades, no poison, and no magic assailed her. She was left unharmed. Untouched.

Unfettered.

The sweet-ether taste of freedom pierced the wall of stagnating discontent. It gave her something to cling to, to keep her afloat. But it was a twisting hook marred by Glaedr's anger-fueled words. She almost tossed it on the wayside. Formora returned to her family's hall faster than she anticipated. Much of the walk had been spent lost in thought. Time had blurred right by. She gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was largely abandoned; her relatives and companions had jobs to do. Undertakings to see through.

But not all.

Ikharos sat by the table, eyes closed and barely breathing. Melkris was perched in the chair opposite him, uncharacteristically quiet. The Eliksni sharpshooter chirped to her a greeting.

"Vel," she replied. Formora crossed her arms. "What... are you doing?"

"We are Awake-Calm-Sleep," he said in Eliksni.

She was almost certain that she'd misinterpreted what he'd said. "What?"

"Meditating," Ikharos said suddenly. "Or, at least I am."

"Nama. We." Melkris corrected. His outer eyes were closed and his mandibles were clicking against his jaw. It sounded like alien laughter - which, she reasoned, it was.

Ikharos opened his eyes. "Melkris."

"Eia, eia, I quiet."

"You said that before. And you weren't."

"Ikha Riis, be quiet!"

"Oh, Traveler above..." Ikharos looked around at her. "How'd it go?"

She tried to respond, but nothing came to mind. Nothing good. His expression darkened. "Thought so."

"Oromis is not entirely wrong," Formora said quickly. The last thing she wanted was to allow a feud to build up between the Risen and the Riders. There was only one way it end.

Ikharos saw right through it. "That doesn't mean he's right. His viewpoint in all this is skewed. Biased."

"As is ours."

"He's lived in isolation for nearly a century, with no one but fellow reclusionists for company. You and I have been out in the world. I think his bias is more radical than ours. We're the only ones to see things clearly."

She almost argued. Her bitterness on the matter was private; it shouldn't prevent her from defending those of her old order. In the end, she didn't - though whether because she was too tired or didn't believe her own arguments was unclear. "Can we discuss something else?" Formora asked.

"What's to discuss?" It didn't sound like a bristling argument. It was closer to a genuine question.

Formora hesitated. She didn't know why. Their conversations had always been open and honest, with none of the stifling limitations her own people upheld. Melkris could barely understand a word of the human tongue, so there was little risk of their words finding other ears. Perhaps the fault lay in the fatigue that plagued them both. A fatigue given shape by continuous efforts to ready others for the changes approaching Alagaësia, and then finding that those they warned wouldn't give their words any credence.

"We could discuss something not of this world," she suggested. What went unsaid was: something far removed from all our frustrations.

For a moment, he didn't do anything. Ikharos said nothing, just looked down and thought it over. Finally, he stood up and walked past her. Driven by curiosity more than anything else, she followed him out. He wandered over to where Violmedr's garden bloomed and flourished in the spring air and golden sunlight. Ikharos hunkered down, held out a hand, and grasped... something.

"I'm not going to catch any rest," he muttered. "Not with Melkris there."

"Is this your alternative?" Formora crouched down beside him. With one hand Ikharos was scooping out a small hole in the ground. His other was curled around whatever Xiān had transmatted into the real world, hiding it from her eyes.

Ikharos shrugged. "I've never been much of a gardener. When it comes to trivial hobbies, I prefer to read, study, write, or swim."

"But you're doing it now."

"I feel it'd be presumptuous to grab a book from Violmedr's collections, Oromis has given me all too little to research, writing in my focus-deprived state is frankly impossible, and I don't want to accidentally take a dip in someone's sacred ancestral ponds. Thus: this."

"Planting something unknown in my family's gardens."

"Exactly. I knew you'd understand."

"Of course." She rolled her eyes and smiled. This was the conversation she needed. Blunt, inconsequential, and easygoing. Ridiculous too, but that was just an added benefit. "What are you planting, though?"

"Wait..." He pressed the plant - she hoped it was a plant - into the hole and rapidly covered it over. Formora only caught a glimpse of glittering purple before it disappeared beneath a clod of dirt.

"Shall I grow it?" She offered.

Ikharos shook his head. "Probably not wise. I don't know how your magic would react with it. It's not... normal."

"Few things ever are with you." She stood up. "How does it grow?"

"Gimme a second..." Ikharos splayed a hand over the dirt mount. A brief flash of flames burst from his palm, but they were calm. Tame. Not formed to destroy, but to encourage growth. He stood up too, and quickly stepped back. "Come on."

Formora followed him to a fair distance away. "How long will this take?"

"Just watch."

She did.

Nothing happened at first. Nor did she expect anything to do so. She watched the small rise in dirt expectantly, but as time went on and no change occurred, she found her attention wandering elsewhere.

The air was pleasantly cool. The light was turning bright evening-orange, casting Rílvenar hall in a bronze hue. There only sounds to pierce the air were the cries of birds, clicking of insects, and the soft, measured breathing of the Risen beside her.

She was home.

A glitter caught her eye. Formora watched as a purple cloud of shimmering dust rose up from the earth. It grew and grew until it was half as tall as she was. She wandered towards it for a closer look, which gave way to her second surprise. As she neared the cloud, it rapidly collapsed into a form resembling an ethereal sapling, still shining and still a rich violet.

"Baryon bough," Ikharos announced. "Found only in the Dreaming City - and the Distributary before it. The Awoken raise these things to be used in the spells of their Techeuns. I've heard Ahamkara like them too. There's something... magic about them. But there's something magic about everything that comes from the Awoken homeland."

"It's beautiful."

"It's the cream of the crop. Nothing else I have will beat that. Not unless you're really passionate about Spinmetal colonies or Dusklight shards."

Formora shook her head. "I don't know what either of those are."

"Spinmetal is a catenated-virtual-particle long-range spin-coupled nucleon metal," Ikharos explained, "and Dusklights are rocks changed on a molecular level by the corrupted Light leaking from the Shard of the Traveler."

"I... still don't understand."

Ikharos shifted and smiled sheepishly. "It's... they're resources. My people harvest them on a regular basis. Risen are a materialistic bunch. Anything to help us... nevermind. You want to ask about this, right?" He gestured to the phantasmal tree.

Formora nodded. "That would be welcome. How and why does it change shape?"

"From what I understand, it doesn't."

"It does," she objected. "It was a cloud, and now it's a tree."

"It's both. Alright, it's... it's a tree with infinite branches. That's the cloud. An unending number of possible paths to take. When we come near it, it collapses into... well, a tree without an infinite number of branches. Baryons are heavy subatomic particles, and how they behave normally is different to how they behave when under observation. It's called the Observer Effect."

"Subatomic particles?"

"Tiny, tiny pieces of matter invisible to the naked eye."

It jogged a memory. One of her teachers had broached a similar subject, long ago. "We know of this, though it is a matter our greatest scholars have only made marginal progress in. All things are constructed of tiny parts, whether living or not."

"Mhm," Ikharos hummed.

"Why is this tree different?"

"I'm not sure. Kalli - one of Queen Mara's surviving Techeuns - tried to explain it to me, but I wasn't getting it. The Awoken possess incredible technology - much of which is beyond my comprehension. All I know is that it's a species of diffusuceae from the Distributary and that it can grow if exposed to potent raw energy. Like Light. Or any raw magic-stuffs, really, but only if powerful enough."

"Even across the stars, magic is the end-all answer," Formora mused.

Ikharos nodded. "Magic is the method in paracausality - the cheat we use to bypass the normal routes of cause-and-effect. It allows us to maneuver energy as we wish, beyond the limits of causal beings." He hesitated. "I sometimes think that paracausality should never have made it into the hands of living creatures."

"Would you strip everyone of their magic if you had the opportunity?" She frowned.

Ikharos mulled it over. "I... don't know. I like being able to fight back. To hold my life in my own hands, as opposed to letting a god do whatever it wished. But the gods of this universe get to do that anyway, so... It doesn't matter. I'm already an eternity too late to change anything."

"So...?"

"Might as well enjoy it while we have it, I guess. So no. I wouldn't. And I would. I don't know. This is a tough question." He hesitated. "I could point at the Hive or Nezarec, or even the Scorn and say 'that's what magic leads to.' But I could say the same about the Awoken and all they've built, and I'd have a completely different opinion. I suppose magic itself is blameless."

"It's just what we do with it that matters," Formora finished. "I know. Magic allowed Galbatorix to rise. But magic allowed my people to lose their mortal shackles and enjoy life to the fullest. There is no right answer."

"Exactly," Ikharos agreed. "There isn't."

They fell into silence, watching the tree glitter before them. Formora couldn't take her eyes off it; it was a thing of otherworldly beauty. Something from another planet, another people.

"This will be the envy of all elvenkind," she murmured.

Ikharos made an amused sound. "Was this a mistake?"

"No." Formora touched his shoulder briefly. "Thank you for this."

"It wasn't... It's just a damn plant."

"Even so, it means much that you would share this with me."

He held out an arm. "Can't not share this. I planted it in the middle of your city, after all."

"Stop. I am grateful. Nothing you say will change that." She found his hand. "You have shown me a wonder from your Dreaming City. Come. I would return the favour."

000

A field bearing flowers of every colour and every shade. A glade cast in eternal birdsong. A tree half as tall as the Last City's walls. A grove filled with residual magic auras flitting in and out of his mind. Formora told him that they were called thought-spiders. When night finally descended upon them, she at last led Ikharos to an ancient sculpture carved from rock. As the sun's glare trickled away, pinpricks of dim light lit up across the smooth, magic-cut boulder.

"The stars," he breathlessly observed. Ikharos walked closer and, reaching the rock, traced a finger across a vaguely familiar constellation. Old friends. New strangers. He mapped out the sky, using them to find Sol. His finger rested just above the bright, mournful star.

Homesickness reared its ugly head. His hand fell away to dangle by his side. Something, someone, took hold of it. Cool fingertips, slender fingers, warm palm. Soft grip. Supportive. Comforting. Pleasant.

Ikharos suspected he was falling in love all over again.

There was no grand dinner waiting for them. Food, yes, but no lavish elven banquet.

Ikharos didn't mind. He preferred the quick bite to eat - a slice of buttered bread and something approaching a salad - so he could retreat to his room and dissect his thoughts in peace. Xiān left him be and for once Ikharos was glad for it. He didn't want anyone else's input. Not until he figured out his own.

His mind was a flurry with war. Fear battled with something else. Appreciation? No. Whatever it was, it felt stronger. Lust? He didn't give that any more attention than it deserved. Adoration? Perhaps. But recognizing one's own feelings with cold analytics was as difficult as drawing blood from a stone - which was decidedly too Hive-esque for him to humour. He gave up in favour of chasing the peace of the nullscape. It didn't work; the abyss lanced up and down within his discordant mind. His hands caught aflame with hungry purpose and his eyes lit up with purple nothingness.

When the smell of Voidburn grew too strong, Ikharos let go of his faltering control over the dark jaws between spaces and settled in for a good night's sleep. He dreamt of a sharp-looking old lady with a clever little smile.

Someone shook him. Ikharos awoke and had his knife against the stranger's throat in less than a second.

Melkris blinked with all four eyes. "Kirzen," he chittered nervously.

Ikharos dropped the weapon. "By the Traveler, Melkris! It's still-"

"News of Cabal!" The sharpshooter interjected. "Must go! Kiphoris is gathering others. Must go!"

"Cabal?" Ikharos tossed aside his bed covers and slipped into his combat robes. "'Course they pick now to... Xiān?"

"Here." She flew up before him. "Explosive or precision?"

"Precision," he replied, just as hastily.

She dropped him his bow. He attached the quiver to his back and folded up his bow to go with it. He hefted his sword and leaned it on his shoulder. His Lumina, as ever, rested at his hip. "Lead on," he told Melkris the moment he was ready. The sharpshooter scampered out of the room like a Thrall horde was on his tail. Ikharos cursed and ran after him.

They thundered down the stairs and bolted through the dining room. Kida watched them pass with his single blinking optic, and then they were out in the midnight forest. All the extra room gave Melkris the boost he needed. And he was fast. Ikharos found himself hard-pressed to catch up.

"What about the others?" He demanded.

"Must be there," Melkris shot over his shoulder.

"Where?"

And then they were upon it. The hall of House Tarmunora, where they had been first received upon arrival by Islanzadí and the elven nobility. Werelights flickered from within. Melkris slipped in through the slightly-ajar doors. Ikharos followed him inside.

Islanzadí and Arya were present. As were Violmedr and some of the other heads of the noble families, as well as Eragon and Saphira. Orik stood in the corner, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Javek stood by the end of the table with Kiphoris, Obleker and Formora.

"Everyone's here," Ikharos noted aloud. His eyes found those of the Scar Captain. "Legion's on the move?"

Kiphoris grimly half-closed his inner eyes and nodded. "Come, Ikha Riis."

Islanzadí cleared her throat. Her hair and clothes were as immaculate as ever - not that he expected anything else for an elf. Even so, she looked far from pleased. "Is there a reason for this, Kiphoris-vodhr?" She asked in a sharply expectant tone.

Kiphoris didn't rise to the bait. The poor guy looked like he'd accidentally kicked a puppy. "We are all in danger," he quietly announced. Ikharos walked around and stood beside Formora. She appeared just as resolute as he was: ready to take on all the alien warlords had to offer.

His heart thrummed excitedly.

Ikharos turned his attention back to Kiphoris. "Cabal are strong, but their tactics are lacking in originality," Ikharos mused. "We should be able to kick them back into retreat if we play our cards right."

"Nama," Kiphoris asserted. "It is not them I fear. It is... I don't... Obleker?"

The Servitor warbled and projected forth an image onto the table with its glowing eye. Ikharos ignored the surprised gasps of the gathered elves and zeroed in on the hologram, which depicted the Cabal encampment. The survivors of the crash had taken shelter in the shade of the downed carrier, but they were far from helpless. War machines were scattered around the camp, and it was ringed in barricades of broken salvage.

"Twenty Kepler hours ago," Kiphoris began, "the Cabal began jamming communications within a dome more than two-hundred rikha wide. Some of mine-people's scouts, stationed to watch over the Cabal, were caught within. They could not report what they saw until now."

The image morphed. Light flashed across the faint purple landscape. "A firefight," Ikharos realized. He frowned. "A mutiny?"

"Yes."

"That works in our favour, so-"

"Watch."

The firefight continued for another minute at triple speed. The feed slowed down just as the belly of the carrier began to bulge. Moments later, it burst altogether, and a swarm of tiny shapes spilled out like maggots from a rotting carcass.

Ikharos squinted. One of the tiny figures caught his eye, and...

His blood went ice cold. "Is that...?" He asked.

Kiphoris nodded gravely.

"It's... It's..." Ikharos stumbled back. He didn't care for all the eyes watching him. "You've got to be joking. Please."

Formora suddenly tensed up. She stared at the image. "I know them," she gasped. "I know them. I saw them in a... in a dream. But it was just a dream, it can't be..." She locked eyes with him - terrified and disbelieving. "Is it?"

"It never ends," he muttered shakily. "It never fucking ends." In a sudden fit of anger, he kicked a nearby stool. It shattered into a thousand pieces. "FUCK!"

AN: Massive thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!