Hello, hello! Weird title, I know, but not to worry, it'll make sense!

Enjoy.


Chapter 43 – The Search For a Flower

It had taken them nearly two days to reach the dwarven home of Tronjheim, and Eragon had kept a weathered eye on the horizon. So far during their journey, they had seen no sign of Thorn's presence. Eragon had even attempted to scry the Shade-dragon during one of their brief stops in the Hadarac Desert, but all he had been able to see was a white void. He had even cast his mind to the land to feel for Thorn, using Alagaësia itself to glean his whereabouts, but had not been able to sense his presence.

Either his spell had worked, and Thorn's Eldunarí was hidden from the Shade, or the creature had yet to recover from its crash. Still, they did not delay, and Saphira flew without rest until they stood at the entrance to Farthen Dûr late in the evening.

A contingent of soldiers met them outside the tunnel entrance, and Eragon was heartened to see Orik at the forefront. The dwarf wore fine garments that were inlaid with gold, and he saw the dwarf grin at the approach.

"Hail Eragon, hail Saphira!" The dwarf cried out, and the guards behind him echoed his call. They stomped their feet and pounded their shields as the dragon and Rider approached, and Eragon could not help the smile that grew on his face from their greeting.

Leaping down from Saphira's back, Eragon walked forward towards Orik and extended his arm out in greeting. "Orik! It's been some time, my friend."

The dwarf surprised him by ignoring his arm and pulling him into an embrace, though it was slightly awkward due to Orik's shorter stature. Eragon patted his hand against Orik's back, his smile widening as the dwarf pulled back and beamed at him. "Indeed," Orik grinned. The dwarf's face clouded over, "these are troubled times we find ourselves in, and your presence here may be the weight to tip the scale."

"That is why we are here," Eragon stated.

Orik gave him a sharp nod before peering around at Saphira, and Eragon was pleasantly surprised when Orik rushed forward towards the dragon. "Saphira," Orik greeted, holding out the palm of his hand to her, "it eases my worry to know that you are with us once more. I heard tales of your fight with Thorn outside the Varden's encampment; there was never any doubt in my mind that you would prevail."

Saphira lowered her head down until it was level with Orik, and then gently pressed her snout against his hand. She hummed gently at his words, and Eragon could feel her preening at the Orik's compliment. Such a creature could never stand against once such as I. She withdrew her head and sniffed at the dwarf, making his guards shift in unease. It is good to see you once again. Nasuada has told us that you have been elected as Grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, and I could see no one better to inherit Hrothgar's legacy.

The dwarf sniffled, wiping at his nose. "Ah, your words are most kind. Thank you. Come," the dwarf said, beckoning them towards the other end of the tunnel. "I will personally show you to your rooms. I am afraid that the dragonhold is still unusable, but I have prepared one of our larger rooms for your use."

It heartened Eragon to see a dwarf and dragon treat each other in such high regard, and the sight of the two of them conversing as friends made something hopeful bloom in his chest.

At Orik's gesture his guards turned and started down the tunnel, and Eragon walked beside Orik while Saphira trailed behind. Her wings scrapped against the edges of the tunnel as she walked, her bulk nearly too large for her to fit. Eragon whispered a spell to protect her wings from the sharp rocks, feeling her gratitude flow from their bond.

"How has the election gone?" Eragon asked. As much as he hated politics, he would rather not be kept in the dark about the current dwarven state of affairs.

"There are four grimstborith who are in the running," Orik grunted, "including myself. Íorûnn of Dûrgrimst Vrenshrrgn, who is currently only backed by Dûrgrimst Urzhad. Gannel of Dûrgrimst Quan, a dwarf priest of renown. He is backed by Ûndin of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn and Hadfala of Dûrgrimst Ebardac, but my main worry lies with Nado of Dûrgrimst Knurlcarathn. Three clans support him, and may prove the most difficult of rivals; Galdheim of Dûrgrimst Feldûnost, Havard of Dûrgrimst Fanghur, and Vermûnd of Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin vie for his claim."

Eragon nodded, keeping the names of the clan chiefs in mind as he mentally sorted through all he knew of the dwarven clans. "And who can you call on for support?"

"Dûrgrimst Gedthrall, Ledwonnû and Nagra," Orik answered. "There support was easy to gain, as they were fond of Hrothgar and his rule."

"How far into the election are you?"

"We have yet to vote on whether we are prepared for the election."

Damn, Eragon thought to himself. From what he recalled it took nine votes in favor of proceeding in the preliminary election in order to actually get to the real election. Often, clans would wait until they were secure in their alliances before holding the vote, and Orik's answer meant that the proceedings might take longer than he had anticipated.

"Do you want me to attend these meetings?" Eragon asked.

Orik gave the question some thought as they walked, his guards guiding them down the twisting passageways towards Tronjheim. "Aye," Orik answered after nearly a minute passed. "I expect some of the other clans to protest, but you were named friend of Ingeitum by Hrothgar, and by our own law you have the right to sit at the table." The dwarf eyed him, and Eragon could see some weariness in his gaze. "Remember that you do not have the right to speak unless called upon. If we wish to garner support for the Varden, then we must adhere to mine kin's traditions and laws."

"As you wish," Eragon replied. "I spent some time with Hrothgar some centuries ago on Vrael's request, and I know how… strict some of the clans can be in that regard."

Orik nodded. "My best chance at claiming the throne is to sway Íorûnn and Gannel to my side, bringing with them their own supporters. Nado, I'm afraid, is adamantly opposed to marching against Galbatorix. His clan believes against any involvement with those living outside of the Beor Mountains, and his supporters uphold that belief."

"Tell me the best way I can be of aid," Eragon said. "I am here as a representative of both the Riders and the Varden, and it is my intention that you sit on the throne, but Orik, I must tell you that I have to look beyond just one race."

"Meaning?" Orik asked in a deadly quiet voice.

Eragon stopped, and Orik did the same. He heard one of the guards ahead of them call out in dwarvish to halt, and Eragon waited for the men to settle in place before speaking. "I will support you, as I promised, but I must ensure that one who is favorable to the Varden is elected. If it comes to it, will you do the same?"

"I have no desire to see a grimstnzborith elected who is hostile to the Varden," Orik answered after a moment, and some of the tension the both of them were holding eased. "But I do not believe that will happen. I will not allow our race to cower in tunnels like frightened rabbits until the wolf outside digs his way in and eats us all. We must continue our fight against Galbatorix, for his hunger for power is insatiable and he will not stop until all of Alagaësia lies at his feet."

Eragon clapped Orik's shoulder and nodded. "Good. Forgive me for asking, but I must be sure."

Orik stroked his beard and called out to the captain of the guard, ordering him to march once again. Eragon fell in step beside the dwarf, heartened to see that Orik's face had lost some of the tension from earlier.

"I know that this cannot be easy for you," Orik said after a few minutes passed in silence.

Tilting his head at his friend, Eragon curiously asked, "In what way?"

"You have been adamant in the past about remaining outside of other races politics," Orik pointed out, "yet here you stand in the middle of our election."

"Aye," Eragon answered slowly. "This a delicate situation, I must admit, but I am not here to usurp any dwarf who is elected. I will respect the traditions of your people, but if my support can ensure Alagaësia's future, then this is the course I must take. Supporting your ascension to the throne is different than demanding it."

We trust that you know best how to proceed, Saphira added.

"Then I am glad of your trust," Orik said. "For now, your presence should be enough."


Orik showed Saphira and Eragon to their room, a large hall in Tronjheim that was ample enough space for Saphira. The dwarves had even kindly provided her with a stone dais for her to rest on, and Eragon was surprised to see that they had gifted him with fine clothing and a new pair of boots.

Orik even offered a few personal guards for Eragon, but he waved the dwarf off. When Orik had protested, claiming that any number of clans would be angered by his mere presence and thus likely to strike out, Eragon had simply told him that it would be unbecoming of the Leader of the Rider's to be seen as needing to be guarded, and that he had spent nearly two centuries protecting himself from any who meant him harm. That caused Saphira to snort in amusement, but she agreed with his assessment. Orik had accepted after some debate, though the dwarf grumbled to himself as he left about "Riders who were as stubborn as mules."

Eragon helped Saphira out of her saddle, and she tiredly settled down on the dais after bidding him goodnight. He knew that she was tired, having flown for so long after only having a brief respite in Ellesméra. She would have plenty of time now to rest, as Saphira was unlikely to attend the dwarven election meetings herself. Having a Rider present would already be contentious enough with the clans, and Eragon doubted that they would even let a dragon through their door.

As if that would stop her, Eragon mused. As he felt Saphira drift off to sleep, Eragon walked around the hall and placed a number of wards around its perimeter, each of the spells draining more from him as he went. When he was satisfied Eragon sat down heavily on the provided cot, glad that it was one made to support a human-sized individual.

Pulling one of the saddle bags close to him, Eragon pulled out the enchanted mirror he used to communicate. It was late enough in the evening that Arya should be back at her tent, readying herself for the next day. He had wanted to scry her when they left Ellesméra, though he did not have the time during their flight.

Muttering the spell of scrying, Eragon waited as an image slowly formed on its surface. Arya's tent took shape before him, though from the changed positions her belongings were in he knew that they must have been marching recently. In the corner of the mirror he spied the wooden carving he had made of Saphira, the figurine pristine with its freshly applied paint. A smile broke out over his face, though when he gazed around the tent and failed to spot Arya it slowly fell.

Damn, Eragon thought. She must still be in some meeting.

Letting out a sigh, Eragon placed the mirror down next to him on the cot and undid his boots. When he had finished, he stretched out over the cot, and its firm frame made him miss the comfortable bed the elves provided him. He grabbed the mirror from its resting place next to him and propped it up on his raised knee, angled so that he could see its contents easily.

He lost track of the time as he waited, and it was only the soft whisper of his name that made Eragon realize he had dozed off. Groggily, he opened his eyes and peered around the hall. A second call of his name had him gaze down at his lap, and the sight of Arya in the mirror nearly made his heart skip a beat.

Arya's face took up much of the available space on the mirror, and he could not help his gaze that roamed over her beautiful features. Her smile made him blink, and her light chuckle finally shook the last of the sleep away from his mind.

"Arya!" Eragon called out, wincing when Saphira shifted in her sleep. He sat up in his bed and whispered a spell to block her from hearing, though his gaze never left Arya.

An arched brow answered his earlier call of her name, and the amusement on her face only made his heart pound heavier in his chest. "I did not wish to wake you, but I did not want you to continue expending your strength on the spell." Arya leaned back away from the mirror, and Eragon realized suddenly that her hair was down, no longer held by her usual leather strap. Arya only ever relieved her hair of its constraints when she was readying herself for sleep, which meant that she must have waited before calling out his name.

"Its fine," Eragon responded when he finally remembered to speak. "I did not realize I had fallen asleep."

A soft smile bloomed on her face, though when her eyes moved behind him to his surroundings a frown slowly took its place. "Where are you?" Arya asked. "I cannot see your location."

"In one of the halls in Tronjheim," Eragon answered. "We only just arrived."

"I see." Her frown disappeared, something else flashing briefly in its place. "How was your flight?"

"We left two days ago, and Saphira did not rest until we reached Farthen Dûr," Eragon explained. "Forgive me for not scrying you earlier."

"No," Arya said, shaking her head. "I can understand why you could not. How is Murtagh? Is he settling in with the Mourning Sage?"

Eragon offered her a half-hearted shrug. "As best he can, I suppose. It remains to be seen if Murtagh can be successful."

"Have you met with Orik?"

"Aye, he greeted us when we arrived. He explained the current political situation here. It is more favorable than I anticipated, but Orik has to still sway the other clan chiefs to his side." Casting aside thoughts of dwarven politics, Eragon asked, "How is the march proceeding?"

"Well," Arya answered. "The Varden has been able to maintain a good pace so far. Nasuada expects that we will reach Feinster by weeks end. We have only just made it to the banks of the Jiet River, and I expect that the soldiers will depart soon after for Aroughs."

Eragon nodded, "And how have you been?"

Her gaze danced on the mirror, seemingly jumping between his own eyes. "I am ready to face any challenge Galbatorix may place before us, as is Fírnen."

He had to choke back a light chuckle; as an answer, it was a typical Arya response. "That is good to hear."

Arya frowned, and Eragon realized that she must have seen his amusement. "And you?"

Again Eragon offered her a shrug. "I've never been one for politics, even if I understand the necessity of it. When Orik does not need my presence, I expect that I may end up winding the halls of Tronjheim just to escape the political games."

"There are many strange things hiding within Tronjheim's walls." Arya paused, and Eragon waited until she took a breath and continued. "A number of years after I left Du Weldenvarden, when I had finally become accustomed to my role among the Varden and the dwarves, I found myself with a great deal of time alone. Fäolin and Glenwing were away, and I spent most of it wandering the empty reaches of the city-mountain. One day I discovered a room somewhere high in Tronjheim – I doubt I could locate it again, even if I tried. A beam of sunlight seemed to pour into the room, though the ceiling was solid, and in the center of the room was a pedestal, and upon the pedestal was a single flower."

He was captivated by her story, unable to tear himself away as she continued, "I do not know what kind of flower it was, nor have I ever seen anything like it again. The petals where purple, but the center of the blossom was like a drop of blood. There were thorns upon the stem, and the flower exuded the most wonderful scent and seemed to hum with a music all its own. It was such an amazing and unlikely thing to find that I stayed in the room for longer than I can remember."

"Must have been some flower," Eragon smiled. A thought popped into his head, but he did not give it voice.

Arya shivered in the mirror, and he felt a longing to reach out to her. "It was then and there that I learned who I was and who I am."

Eragon blinked, surprise filling him. Arya learned her true name after staring at a flower? Only an elf…

"I'm afraid my journey of self-discovery is nowhere near as beautiful as your own," Eragon said after a moment. "But, if you are willing, I would like to share it."

Whatever emotion she was left with from her own memory disappeared, and Eragon found only curiosity left in her gaze. "Please," Arya responded.

Glad that he could move her thoughts away from whatever was lingering in her mind, Eragon said, "It was nearly a century after Saphira and I departed for our journey, and after our encounter with the elves."

For a split second, Eragon thought he saw anger flash on Arya's face. "After Seril, you mean."

Offering her a slight smile, Eragon nodded his head. Surprisingly, the feeling of betrayal and sadness was not as sharp as it used to be. "Aye. We fled from their forest that very night, and Saphira took me south into a mountain range. There we spent the next ten winters together, and during one of the worst storms I've ever seen we were separated."

Arya's brow crinkled in worry, though she remained silent.

"It was a stupid mistake on my part," Eragon murmured. He glanced over his shoulder at Saphira, letting the sounds of her slow rhythmic breathing fill him. "The blizzard came unexpectedly, and it did not leave for months. We were living inside of a cave on one of the mountains, and for nearly eight weeks we held up inside against the raging snowstorm. Saphira could go longer than I without eating, and she insisted that I use her own rations of meat, but it had been too long since either of us had eaten anything proper. Our food supply had run out, and even the energy I had stored away in Brisingr could not sate our hunger."

"So you left."

Eragon nodded at her words. "So I left. Saphira wanted to, but the winds were too strong even for her. If she so much as stepped outside of the cavern her wings would have been ripped open, so it was left to me to forage for some food. I must have worn nearly every piece of clothing I had to combat the cold, but the chill of the air still clung to me. I do not know how long I walked in the storm, but it never ceased. I had barely enough energy to walk, and after days spent wandering there was no way I could manage to find my way back to Saphira without collapsing from the cold. By sheer luck I found another cave, though this one was not so empty; a pack of Shrrg's had taken up residence from the storm, and I found myself sharing their home for the rest of the storm."

Despite his story, he saw a hint of a smile rising on Arya's face. "How long did you live amongst the Shrrg?"

"A few weeks," Eragon answered, a chuckle escaping him as he recalled his time living amongst the immensely large animals. Shrrg were a native giant wolf of the Beor Mountains, though it was unsurprising to find that some managed to live outside of Alagaësia's borders. "I somehow managed to convince them that I meant them no harm, and their pack leader even brought me food."

"I cannot imagine that they make for good company," Arya stated, her smile on full display for him.

Eragon laughed. "Fortunately, there were no conversationalists among them. I spent most of my time surrounded by the pack for heat, and many more simply thinking over how I ended up there. I don't recall exactly when my name occurred to me, but by the time the storm subsided I knew it. Saphira was not pleased with me when she finally managed to find me, and she swore that the next time I ended up living with the Shrrg she would leave me there."

Arya laughed, the melody of her voice pulling at Eragon. She shook her head at him as though exasperated, "Why does it not surprise me?"

Eragon smiled at her, and the one he received in return made something shift inside him.

When their mirth finally died down, Arya glanced towards her side away from where he could see. "It is late," Arya stated, and he thought he could detect a hint of regret in her tone.

"Aye." He did not want to end their conversation, but by the dark of her tent, Eragon gathered that it was later in the night then he previously thought.

"Good luck tomorrow with the dwarves," Arya offered him. "I know how difficult their politics are to navigate."

"Be safe," Eragon returned.

Arya's lips twitched as though his words where humorous to her. "It is you who should be careful. I wouldn't want you to end up having to live among the Shrrg, after all."

"As you will, Arya."

Her eyes narrowed at him, but Arya merely said, "Goodnight."

Eragon returned the sentiment with a smile, and after a moment of memorizing her face, ended the spell. The relief was immediate; he had forgotten that he had been holding the spell for what must have been hours. Exhaustion pulled at him, and Eragon answered its call.

After all, he wanted to wake early enough so that he could find Arya's flower.


The meetings that took place within the circular chamber under the center of Tronjheim were some of the longest Eragon had ever endured. Each of the thirteen clans argued for nearly three days over nothing but the most inconsequential things, and even Eragon's well tested patience was beginning to wear thin.

The first day Eragon had joined the clan chiefs the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin -to no one's surprise- objected vehemently to Eragon's presence. Despite the legality of the situation they forced a vote, which had only delayed the proceedings a further six hours. His right to attend in the end was upheld, but it did not stop the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin Dûrgrimst Vermûnd from spitting at his feet whenever the dwarf saw him.

He did not know what to do with the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin; their vendetta against dragon's and Riders was absolute, and Eragon did not want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Saphira offered no solution either; she spent most of her time in the hall the dwarves had provided, feeling that her presence was unnecessary for the election. When he returned from the meetings he would find her communing with the purple hatchling, their minds shielded from him until they were done. Still, he could feel her growing boredom as the days continued to go by.

When he was not sitting through meetings listening to Nado openly oppose any involvement with the Varden, Eragon spent his time wandering the halls of Tronjheim. He stopped at nearly every door he found in the upper halls of the city, but no matter how long he looked he could not find any trace of the flower Arya described to him. He even stopped many wide-eyed dwarves to ask after it, though they all claimed to never have heard of such a thing.

Each night he would return to his room disappointed with his search, though he tried to remain unrelenting in finding the flower. Saphira snorted at him in amusement when he told her of his self-imposed quest, though she did not try to stop him.

Of the rest of his time in Tronjheim, Eragon took Oromis's recommendation of reading Tenga's works to heart. The hermits journal on time was harder for him to comprehend then the scroll of Grey Folk magic, and so he would switch between the two whenever his mind started to wander.

The scroll was written in Tenga's hand, though its flowing script showcased a younger author then the one that had written the journal. The first few inches that he had read outlined techniques used to calm the mind, prepping the caster so that they could better focus their magic. He had skimmed ahead of the techniques he already knew, surprised that the teachings of the Grey Folk had made their way into elven and Rider teachings.

The first passage that he read after the mediations was quite surprising:

The Grey Folk practice of magic, at its very core, is the power to shape the world in the casters image. It is only dictated by the strength of the user, and the imagination of the mind. Despite what has been taught, magic in its primordial form does not require one to hold a detailed image of their wish in their head; the mind controls the magic, wills it into shape, but magic itself fills in the missing knowledge. This 'missing knowledge' comes from the casters own subconscious mind, and the more robust one's underpinned thoughts are, the more complete the image can become.

One's mind need only be capable of containing and maintaining its form, lest a stray thought destroy their imagined reality.

On the fourth day Eragon sat down across from Orik in one of the many common eating halls. The dwarf was busy tearing into his food and only offered him a short nod in greeting, and Eragon waited as one of the kitchen aides placed a steaming plate in front of him. He offered the dwarf a quiet thanks, picking at the vegetables they kindly provided him. A quick spell ensured that they were not overheard, and Orik offered him a grateful nod.

"Havard agreed to my proposal after you left," Orik said.

Eragon frowned. "The one about the tax on salts?"

"Aye."

Fighting back a sigh, Eragon offered the dwarf a small smile. "Some progress, finally."

Orik eyed him as he chewed a piece of bread. "Not what you were hoping for?"

"I know how these matters drag on. I had only hoped that my presence would have been more helpful to you."

"Oh but it has," Orik pointed out. At Eragon's skeptical glance he continued, "Despite Nado and Vermûnd's best efforts, my kin offer you whispered praises wherever you walk. Hrothgar's opinion of you weighs heavy in their heart, and that you are here during this election has shown them how different you are compared to the Riders of old. They never cared for our traditions unless it benefited them, and my race's memories are as deep as the stone of this mountain."

"Nado is still stroking their fear," Eragon stated.

"He is trying," Orik responded. The dwarf said nothing further until he finished his plate, downing his tankard of ale in a single swig. "Nado knows how to control the clans fear, but Hrothgar taught me how to control their hearts. Az Sweldn rak Anhûin are the epitome of what we must overcome should I be crowned king, but I am more then up to the task."

Eragon was glad to see that Orik's conviction was strong, and he believed that Hrothgar had chosen well to appoint him his heir. "If you're sure, then I leave this to you. Saphira is growing restless, and the quicker we can resolve this the better for everyone."

"Better you then her in the meetings," Orik chuckled. "Though the way you've been wandering our halls of late, I'm beginning to question if it is you who has grown bored of these talks."

"Politics try me," Eragon admitted, "but that is not why I've been walking the halls."

At Orik's raised brow Eragon explained Arya's encounter with the mysterious flower, though he felt it better that he did not include her journey of self-discovery with it. When he was done Orik shook his head, "In all my years in Tronjheim I've never heard of such a flower before. Though perhaps…"

As Orik trailed off Eragon felt a bubble of excitement rising inside of him, and he slapped the dwarf's arm from across the table. "Well? Out with it."

Orik smirked at him, as though amused by Eragon's determination. "Why do you seek the flower? Are Glenwing's ramblings true? Have the two of you finally tied the knot?"

Eragon grimaced. "Elves do not marry. Have the two of you been scrying?"

"We have. Glenwing was one of the first elves I've ever had the pleasure of calling friend, and he gifted me a personal scrying mirror before I left to return Hrothgar to his rest."

Damned elf, Eragon thought to himself. Orik was a trusted friend, but Glenwing had a terrible habit of opening his mouth. In an attempt to steer the conversation away from his relationship with Arya, Eragon asked, "What of you? I know that you were promised in marriage to Hvedra."

"We were wedded," Orik answered, and a wide smile bloomed underneath the dwarf's bushy beard. "We had planned to join hands in the spring, but after I returned, and the families of the clan accepted me as their new grimstborith, we thought it the perfect time to consummate our betrothal and become husband and wife. None of us may survive the year, so why tarry?"

Eragon reached over the table between them and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. "Congratulations! Why did you not tell me earlier?"

"We've both been rather preoccupied, and when I made to give my invitation to you Glenwing advised that you wouldn't be able to attend." Orik shook his head, narrowing his gaze at Eragon. "Your subversion was well tried, but you did not answer my earlier questions."

He shifted uneasily on the stone bench, searching for words. "Arya and I…" Eragon let out a sigh, glancing around at those around them. Despite knowing that his spell would make it impossible for others to hear his words, Eragon still lowered his voice. "We are mates."

"Hah!" Orik hammered the table with his fists, making the two plates jump slightly and the empty tankard of ale tumble onto its side. "The elf spoke true! I must say that I am most surprised, but you have my heartfelt congratulations as well."

"Thank you," Eragon murmured, his face feeling slightly warm. "I only ask that you keep this to yourself. I've already had to tell Oromis, and I have yet to inform Arya that he knows."

Orik's face sobered of his excitement, and gave Eragon a sharp nod. "Aye, I will not speak of it, you have my vow on Hrothgar's hammer. Is that why you seek the flower?"

"It meant much to her," Eragon answered after a moment of hesitation. "Arya said that she never saw it again, so I figured while I was here, I would search for it."

The dwarf stroked his beard in thought. "There are some who may know. Gannel may have heard of it, but seeing as you support my claim, I do not think he would be one to offer help. There may be another… Kvîstor's mother, Glûmra, is a deep dweller of the Family of Mord. They are the last of an ancient family, and she may be the one to ask about the flower."

Deep dweller? Ah, right. Deep dwellers where dwarves who despised the surface world, choosing to live permanently underground. Many of them where extremely devout in Dwarf religion, though his memories of their practices were hazy at best.

"I would like to speak with Kvîstor and his mother, then."

Orik nodded. "I will send word right away. I would advise you tread carefully as if you were on rotten shale; the deep dwellers keep to themselves for the most part, and they are prickly to an extreme about their honor."


The homes of the deep dwellers were only visible by the flameless lanterns soft red light, hidden by the pillars of stone that were thicker than even the largest trees Eragon had ever seen. Kvîstor led him down deep under Tronjheim and into a large cavern thousands of feet long, all the way up to one of the nondescript doors of the small huts. Eragon carried with him a bag that contained a slate tablet, which only drew curious glances from his company.

Kvîstor, his guide, was a youngish dwarf no older than sixty. Saphira did not accompany him, as she had finally left the hall they slumbered in, claiming that she needed to stretch her wings outside of Tronjheim. She snorted in amusement when he told her of where he was headed, though she did warn him to be wary of those who lurked in the shadows.

Kvîstor knocked softly on the door of the hut. Footsteps echoed from the other side of the door, and when it opened Eragon could smell a mix of food and coal dust that emanated from inside.

A dwarf woman stood at the entrance way, her face lighting up when she caught sight of Kvîstor before her.

"Son!" she cried out in dwarvish.

"Mother," Kvîstor replied, stepping forward to embrace Glûmra. They lingered for a moment before Kvîstor pulled back, gesturing at Eragon behind him. "It's good to see you, but I'm afraid this is not a social visit. This is…"

"Eragon Shadeslayer," Eragon introduced himself, switching over to the dwarvish language. He had gotten better since the last time he was in Tronjheim. Orik spoke with him in dwarvish occasionally during their stay in Ellesméra, and the practice helped Eragon remember the pronunciation of some of the more difficult words. "Rider of Saphira and leader of the Order."

"Agretlam," Glûmra muttered, bowing her head to him. She cautiously glanced around them. "It is an honor; please, come inside."

She opened the door further to them, and Kvîstor was the first to pass through. The dwarf immediately made for the stove in the corner of the hut, where a pot sat simmering over the heat of the flames. Glûmra led Eragon to a small granite table, and he had to fight back a grimace as he sat in the too small chair. The table came up to his knees as he tried to arrange himself, though he was careful to make sure his discomfort was not easily apparent.

Glûmra scolded Kvîstor lightly when he reached into the pot, and the dwarf gave him a sheepish look as he made his way over to them. When they were all settled Glûmra turned to Kvîstor, a question clear on her face. "Why have you brought a Rider to my door, my son?"

Kvîstor glanced at Eragon before answering, "The Shadeslayer is searching for something above Tronjheim, and Grimstborith Orik asked that I bring him here to you."

The dwarven woman turned her gaze to Eragon, her plump face stiff. "What need have you of the last of Family Mord?"

"I'm searching for a flower," Eragon began. He explained, to the best of his abilities, of the flower Arya had once found, leaving out that it was Arya who had discovered it. When he was done Glûmra sat silent before him, her gaze searching his own.

"Why do you seek the Blessing of Sindri? Do you mean to take it for yourself?"

Blinking, Eragon carefully chose his words. He was surprised that she knew exactly of the flower he asked after, though he supposed an ancient dwarven house would be the one to know such a thing. Gesturing at the bag he carried, Eragon said, "I only wish to take a seedling, and barring that its likeness. I did not know that it was from the goddess."

Sindri was the dwarven goddess of the earth. According to dwarven religion, it was she who created humans from the soil. She was only one of a handful of dwarven deities, though Eragon had long since lost his faith in believing in any higher power. Spending time among the elves had dissolved him of that notion, though he was not as outspoken about his disbelief as Arya.

The tension that was in the air dissipated at his words, and he could see Glûmra offer her son a brief glance. She stood from the table and went over to the small counter, rummaging around. Eragon could not see what she was doing, but from the sounds of scratching he gathered that she was writing something down.

A minute passed before she returned, holding out a simple piece of parchment towards him. Eragon took it from her and glanced down at it, frowning at the dwarven runes before him. "Forgive me, but I cannot read this. I can speak Dwarvish," Eragon explained softly, "but I never learned your runes."

Kvîstor held out his hand, gesturing for the piece of parchment. "If you will, Shadeslayer."

Eragon handed the parchment to the dwarf. Kvîstor's eyes roamed over the writing quickly before he nodded. "I know where this is."

"If you would?" Eragon asked, letting the rest of his question trail off.

Kvîstor nodded his head again before standing. He turned to his mother and bent down, whispering in her ear quietly. She responded quickly, and the two of them descended into a quiet talk. They must have been unaware that he could hear their words, so Eragon tuned out their conversation and waited patiently.

When they were done Glûmra stood, and Eragon followed her movement. "Shadeslayer, you slew Durza and so saved Tronjheim and the dwellings below from the clutches of Galbatorix. Our race shall never forget this so long as Tronjheim remains standing. In repayment of this, I offer to you the location of Sindri's Blessing. I only ask that you do not disturb the flower; it is said that Sindri herself planted the seed when Tronjheim was first built, and has since watched over all those who pass under its roots."

Eragon nodded. "I promise."

Her words drew low, only slightly louder than the whispers she and her son shared a moment ago. "It is said that the flower will only produce seeds when Sindri's champion comes forward, and that the knurla who is chosen will forever change the fate of all knurlan."

An odd myth, Eragon thought to himself. But there are stranger things under this mountain then a flower.

"I understand," Eragon said. He bowed to Glûmra, "Thank you for your assistance."

Glûmra nodded sharply. She turned and strode towards the door, opening it for them. Eragon caught her unspoken message and exited the hut, turning at the entrance and waiting for Kvîstor. The warrior dwarf stopped and embraced his mother once again, though this time their conversation was too low for Eragon's ears to pick up.

Kvîstor followed him out soon after, and Glûmra stood on the other side of the doorway from them, one of her hands holding the door so that it blocked some of the view into her home. "There are those who wish you dead, Shadeslayer," She warned. "Walk softly upon the stone, so that none may hear where you tread."

Eragon nodded. "I shall. Again, thank you for your help in this matter."

Glûmra offered him a sharp nod and closed the door between them. Eragon shook his head and glanced at Kvîstor. "Are you ready?"

"Aye, Shadeslayer," the dwarf said. "This way."

Kvîstor led him up from the deep, the journey seeming to take half the time it did going the other way. Eragon had never before been down to the land of the deep dwellers, and it was not an experience he wished to repeat.

Their journey continued up into the city proper, where Kvîstor easily navigated the twisting halls. Before long they were finally in the upper levels of the mountain-city, and as they walked Eragon realized that he had passed down a few of these corridors before in his search.

They passed many dwarves on their way, each of them bowing to Eragon as they walked. Those that murmured their praises Eragon thanked softly. Some stopped him and asked for blessings, of which Eragon carefully doled out. His words were received with heartfelt eyes and murmured reverence, and Eragon smiled politely at each of them in turn.

Long ago Eragon would have grimaced at such things, but the centuries that had passed taught him to better respect those that offered their thoughts to him.

After the latest dwarf bowed to him, Kvîstor raised a brow at Eragon. "Pardon me, Shadeslayer, but may I ask you a question?"

"Aye."

Kvîstor hesitated. "You do not seem bothered by the masses, Agretlam. Many in your position would grow tired of stopping to help each person, yet I have not seen you once show any sign of agitation."

Eragon smiled at the dwarf. Despite Kvîstor not actually asking a question, Eragon responded, "Once upon a time I would have."

"And now?"

"Now I understand better why they ask for blessings. If it is in my power to help, even in a such a small way, then I shall."

Kvîstor seemed to mull over his words, though he said nothing as they continued down the corridors. Eventually Eragon lost track of where they were in Tronjheim, his mind boggled by the many twists and turns they journeyed down.

Suddenly Kvîstor stopped before a non-descript door. The dwarf pulled out the parchment Glûmra had written upon and checked it, offering Eragon a nod when he asked if this was the correct place. "Aye this is it," the dwarf said. "The House of Mord has always kept Tronjheim's secrets in heart, and mother has always been rather steadfast in remembering them."

Kvîstor pressed on the door, which slowly creaked open under the pressure. Light spilled out into the hallway, and Eragon had to blink his eyes as they adjusted. With the light came a pleasant smell, one that Eragon could not place, but filled him with a sense of peace. A waved hand from Kvîstor drew his attention, and Eragon entered through the doorway. He glanced back towards the dwarf, but was surprised to see the door slowly shut behind him, leaving him alone in the room.

Frowning, Eragon strode forward, his eyes adjusting to the light that shining down. A glance the solid ceiling made him pause, and Eragon could see why this room had captivated Arya. It the center of the room, directly in line with the light, was a pedestal. Eragon slowly approached it, his footsteps the only sound. As he came to a stop before the pedestal, Eragon took in the single flower that sprouted before him.

It was as perfect as Arya described; the flower was a beautiful shade of purple, and the center was of such a startling red that Eragon briefly thought someone had indeed spilled blood over it. The scent that filled the room emanated from the plant and filled his nose, making his head swim. His gaze traced over the flower for a long while, until the distant sound of feet shuffling outside the door reminded him of why he was here.

Eragon made to pull out the slate tablet he had prepared but paused when his eye alighted on something resting on the ground. Curious, he kneeled down on the stone floor and carefully picked up the small object. He turned it in his hands before holding it up against the light, his whole body freezing as he took in what he held.

A seed.

Glancing around the room, Eragon frowned. Was this seed from the flower, or was it from something else? There was nothing in the room besides the pedestal. The dust that floated gently in the air told him that it was unlikely anyone had been in the room some time, though as he gazed at the seed he marveled at how fresh it appeared.

At once Glûmra's words flowed into his mind. Shaking his head, Eragon softly began to cast wards around the seed in his hand. His spells would keep the seed from degrading, as well as protect it from harm until he was ready.

It doesn't mean anything, Eragon thought. Saphira would laugh herself to death if she knew what I was thinking.

Letting out a sigh, Eragon withdrew the slate tablet from the bag. Just in case the seed was not from the flower, Eragon wanted to immortalize this moment for Arya. Holding the image of the flower carefully in his mind, Eragon whispered the words to create the Fairth.

Colors shifted on the slate tablet, twisting and turning until they slowly formed into the image of the flower. As the image settled Eragon critically examined his work, making sure that the colors were accurate and that the flower was as close as he could manage. Satisfied with his work, Eragon warded the tablet and placed it back inside his bag.

For a few more minutes he stood in front of the flower, admiring it in the light. A powerful sense of longing emerged from within, and Eragon wished that Arya were here with him. Eventually he turned and made for the door, taking one last glance at the flower as he left.

Kvîstor was standing guard outside, the dwarf offering him a nod as Eragon exited. "Satisfied, Shadeslayer?"

"Aye," Eragon quietly murmured. "Thank you for this."

Kvîstor shook his head and gestured for him to follow behind. "It is of no consequence, Shadeslayer."

The dwarf led him down the hall, following the same path they had just used. As Kvîstor turned around a corner to another hallway, Eragon felt the hair begin to rise on the back of his neck. For some minutes they continued forward, and he tried to place where his unease was stemming from.

As his eyes roamed over the many doors of the hall, Eragon was struck by a sudden thought. Where are all the people?

Before, there had been plenty of dwarves roaming the halls above Tronjheim, each of them scurrying off to parts unknown.

He made to speak, pausing when he heard a faint scuffling sound behind him. Whirling around, Eragon saw seven dwarves garbed completely in black sprinting towards him. Their faces were covered by a dark cloth, blotting out all but the slit of their eyes. Their feet were muffled by rags, though they moved with a surprising speed that he thought a dwarf incapable of. Each of them carried in their right hand a long dagger, and the lead dwarf extended his arm as though to stab him.

Instinctively, Eragon raised his arm to parry the blow, unsurprised to find that Brisingr was already in hand, experience teaching him to always be prepared. The ring of metal from the clash of blades echoed down the hallway, and from behind him he could hear Kvîstor cry out in alarm. Two more assassins followed their leader's example, stabbing at him with their daggers. A flick of his wrist directed the daggers away from him, and just as quickly he beheaded the two dwarves, their lifeless bodies slumping to the floor in front of their companions.

A bellowing war cry came from behind him, and Eragon caught a glimpse of Kvîstor as the dwarf swung his ax towards three masked dwarves. Reaching deep inside of him, Eragon drew on the magic that was always waiting for him. He did not rely on the ancient language as he usually did, instead focusing his mind on the same principles he had only just started to learn from Tenga's scroll.

Without speaking a word Eragon released the flow of magic, determined to keep the dwarf safe. In an instant the world rearranged itself to a more pleasing state; Kvîstor flew several feet backwards towards the end of the hall and away from the assassins, while the five remaining dwarfs suddenly fell to the ground.

Immediately, the draw of magic made Eragon fall to his knee. He had to brace himself with one hand on the ground, and his vision began to dim slightly. Whatever spell he had unleashed, the amount of strength required to combat the dwarves' own wards was immense.

Distantly he could feel Saphira's alarm, her worried roar echoing through their bond.

Brisingr gripped tightly in hand, Eragon slowly stood. His knees shook with the effort as he went, and even through his blurred vision he kept a wary eye on his surroundings. Swallowing heavily, Eragon extended his mind slowly out to Brisingr, a rush of relief filling him as he replenished himself with its stored strength.

The echo of a footstep next to him made Eragon turn, Brisingr raised to strike.

Kvîstor jumped back, his ax held in hand. "Agretlam! It is only me!"

With a relieved sigh Eragon lowered his sword. "Sorry," he muttered.

The dwarf waved his apology aside, striding over to the now dead assassins lining the hallway. Using the curved side of his ax, Kvîstor nudged the closest body to him. After ensuring the assassin was dead he spit on the ground, muttering a curse.

While Eragon recovered Kvîstor searched the bodies. The dwarf returned to him after a few minutes, displaying a bracelet made of braided horsehair. The amethyst imbedded in it was polished to a fine sheen, cut so that it appeared dome shaped.

Taking the bracelet in hand, Eragon asked, "Do they bear any markings of a clan?"

"No, Shadeslayer, only these bracelets. This particular kind of amethyst only grows in four parts of the Beor Mountains, and three of them belong to Az Sweldn rak Anhûin."

Damn it, Eragon cursed. This was not good. Why did the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin continue to antagonize him?

"Are you injured?" Eragon asked. From what he could see of the dwarf, Kvîstor showed no visible signs of harm.

"Nay," the dwarf answered. "I've never seen such a thing before, Shadeslayer. One moment I was charging towards the enemy, and the next I was down the hallway. Was that you?"

"Yes. Forgive me for not warning you."

Kvîstor shook his head. "You saved my life, Shadeslayer. I've heard tales of your power, but to see it myself…"

Striding over to the nearest dwarf, Eragon slowly examined the assassin himself. When he found nothing on their person, he whispered a spell under his breath.

"What are you doing?" Kvîstor asked. He hefted his ax, casting a wary eye around them.

"Checking to see how they died."

An incredulous sound came from the dwarf. "Did you not say that you did this yourself?"

The results of his spell made him frown. "Not in the usual way." His answer only seemed to make Kvîstor even more confused, but Eragon blocked out the dwarf's questions as his mind raced. From what he could tell, there were no signs of any direct cause of death. Even the trace amounts of magic remaining from his wordless spell gave him no hints as to how the dwarf suddenly passed. It was as though life itself had simply abandoned the dwarf, leaving behind an empty husk.

The sounds of a distant boom made both Kvîstor and Eragon jump in surprise. Nearly a split second later Saphira's mind slammed into his own, her worry spilling over their bond and making Eragon shield his mind slightly from her.

Little-one!

I'm fine, Eragon answered. He opened his mind to her, letting her examine his wellbeing for herself. Her worry died down slightly when their minds melded together, though he could feel a lingering fury beginning to build.

What happened? Saphira asked. Her mind grew stronger with each passing moment, and Eragon knew that she was probably the source of the loud sound from earlier.

Assassins. They came from behind us while we were returning to the city.

Her answering growl reverberated in his skull. I'm coming to you.

Get Orik first, Eragon stated. He felt her begin to protest, but Eragon continued before she could. I'm alright, but Orik needs to be here. They were likely sent by Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, and this just became a political nightmare.

I will burn them all.

Eragon shivered in response to her tone, knowing that she was serious. I know how you feel, Eragon tried to calm her, but we cannot act too hastily. The situation is volatile enough with this assassination attempt, and it is not our jurisdiction. We are guests here, and by right Orik is responsible.

Saphira sniffed, but after a moment responded. Very well. But if he cannot find the one who commanded this attack upon your person, I will fill their mountain with fire until the rats scurry from their nest.

Eragon let out a sigh, motioning to Kvîstor next to him to step back. "Orik is on his way. We do not want to disturb anything until he gets here."

Kvîstor did as he asked, "Aye, Shadeslayer. Whichever clan this was, if it is indeed Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, have violated the law of hospitality. They attacked an honored guest, one who has saved our people from a terrible fate. Such a thing will not stand unpunished."

Eragon's gaze remained on the seven dwarf's dead on the ground: two of them by his sword and the rest by his spell. What kind of magic did he unleash? From what he could recall, all he had wished for in that instant was for Kvîstor to be safe, and for the assassins to cease their attack. Had that necessitated killing them? He was not one to shy away from death, but the results of his spell was not what he had intended. This, he knew, was the power the Grey Folk feared, and one that he needed to understand.


Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, way more than I did, lol. Writing politics really isn't my thing, and I don't want to rehash literally all of the stuff that happens in Brisingr during the election period. Hopefully it was enough to satisfy and not feel as if I just skipped over it.

The next chapter will contain the election and coronation, and then its back off to Alagaësia proper.

Thanks a bunch for reading, and for your awesome reviews! It keeps me going with this story!

Also, I'm going to update the summary for the story. Let me know what you think!


Ancient Language translations (Old Norse):

Italics represents the Old Norse translation; Bold represents Ancient Language.

Fyrir Neðan – Below Something. Fallen One

Du vættr Bani The Bane of Spirits: Name of the Brotherhood

Vættr - being, creature; supernatural being, spirit

Bani - death; bane, cause of death, slayer

Skörungrleader, notable or outstanding person, paragon. Title for Leader of the Riders; given as an honor.

Guliä waíse medh ono, Skörungr - Luck be with you, Leader.