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Chapter 48 – Hope
Eragon had forgotten how slow an army could move. Despite having marched with the Varden from Surda to the Burning Plains, the slow pace they set after crossing the Jiet River was nearly agonizing enough that Eragon wanted nothing more than to fly straight to Dras-Leona atop Saphira's back. Crossing the Jiet had taken nearly half the day, as the various carts, wagons, and herds of animals the Varden brought with them could not all fit on the old stone bridge.
When they had finally brought over the last of their convoy, Nasuada had set the Varden to the road snaking towards the north following along the shore of the lake on their left. An army of their size could hardly afford to move across the open fields, and the old paving stones that had been built centuries ago provided even ground that allowed them to move quickly.
For an army, at least.
The call to stop had been sounded long before the sun had set, allowing the Varden some time to set up their tents. Nasuada situated them close to the lake and off the road, far enough away from a small fishing village to the north that none of the villagers would dare trek across the open ground during the night.
Setting up his own tent had been a quick affair, though he did not fill it with his meager possessions. Instead, he had only set up his own cot, the remainder of his time spent redoing the various straps that secured Saphira's saddle to her back. She had complained earlier that some of the leather straps were too tight, and Eragon knew that he could spend nearly all night adjusting them until she was satisfied.
His fingers fiddled with one of the buckles lightly, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted Fírnen and Arya making their way towards him.
She was sans the telltale bundle that was a standard tent, and Eragon sparred her a frown. "Spending the night outside?"
Arya shook her head, her hand trailing over Fírnen as the green dragon laid heavily upon the ground next to Saphira. Though her words were low and in the elven tongue, Arya still glanced around hesitantly as she spoke. "I see no reason to set up two tents, when inevitably one of us will end up with the other."
His fingers fumbled on the clasp, trapping one of them and making him yelp in surprise. Saphira let out a loud snort that startled one of the roaming guardsmen, and Eragon could feel a rush of heat climb up the back of his neck. Fírnen rumbled next to Saphira, his version of laughter shaking the ground beneath Eragon's feet.
Clearing his throat as he pulled his finger free, Eragon tried to ignore the amused smirk that Arya beheld. Saphira pulled away from him and abruptly settled down on the dirt, blinking a sapphire eye at him when he scowled at her. A hand settled on the back of his arm, and Eragon followed the line of it until he met the emerald gaze of its owner.
"Do you disagree?"
Her words were carefully measured, carrying with them a hint of uncertainty, and Eragon quickly replied, "No, I-"
An inhuman scream echoed from the south and they both turned quickly, their hands descending down and grasping their swords tightly. As he gazed upon the rows of the tents, Eragon spotted a few men bumbling about, but it was the darting feminine figures that drew his attention. Four of them descended on a single tent carrying cloths, buckets of water, and other items that he could not clearly discern.
Roran appeared from next to the tent, dodging his way towards them. When his cousin reached him Eragon grasped his shoulder, and the startled look Roran gave him made the pit of worry in his stomach deepen.
"What is it?" Eragon asked.
"Elain," Roran burst out, "she's giving birth!"
It took him a moment to place the name; Horst's wife, the woman that Eragon had met during Roran's feast. Roran grabbed Eragon's arm and pulled, pulling him towards the Carvahall tents. "Come, come! If something goes wrong, your magic may be able to help."
Eragon let the man tug him along, but the both of them paused when they heard a soft, "Wait."
Arya spoke, and though she was gazing at Eragon, he knew her words were meant for Roran. "May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the birth easier for her."
He knew what humans often thought of the elves, but Roran displayed none of the usual prejudice when he eagerly nodded. "Aye, thank you, Arya."
To Saphira, who had followed their conversation but had not stirred, Eragon asked, Will you go with us?
I will stay, she answered. Tell me when the child is born.
Eragon nodded.
They followed Roran towards the tent, their way lit by the torch lights the Varden had begun to erect around the perimeter. Katrina was standing outside the tent, her form vibrating; whether it was from nervousness or excitement, Eragon could not say.
"Eragon," Katrina greeted, giving him a brief curtsy. When her gaze landed on Arya he saw them widen. "Lady Arya."
"She says she has experience with births," Roran quickly explained when Katrina glanced confusedly at Roran.
"I do," Arya stated. "I've assisted many of the Varden women during my time, and I can ease the pain and help her when the time comes."
Katrina's expression eased, and she beckoned Arya towards her. "Good, come with me." She pointed towards the side of the tent, where two men sat upon barrels. "You two, over there."
Without waiting for them to respond, Katrina disappeared into the tent, Arya following quickly behind. Roran spared Eragon a bewildered glance, but did as his wife bid.
The two men, Albriech and Baldor, Eragon recalled, looked up from their improvised seats and greeted Roran lowly. They seemed surprised that Eragon accompanied them, but otherwise elected to ignore him and pick at the grass growing at their feet.
Roran sat down on an upturned barrel, which wobbled whenever he shifted. Eragon laid down on the grass besides his cousin, letting out a soft sigh. He knew there was nothing he could do; the women would not allow a man inside the tent during the birth, and he was sorely out of practice in such matters. Oromis had taught him the song the elves used to sing the child out of the mother's womb, but it had been centuries since and he had never needed to use it.
His cousin grumbled next to him, setting his chin on his folded hands. He glanced at Eragon and raised a brow. "How can you be so calm?" his cousin asked, even as a high pitch scream rang out from the tent across from them.
Eragon snorted, "Worried for when your time comes?"
Roran glared at him briefly, but after a moment sighed and nodded. "Aye." His cousin turned his gaze back towards the tent, but something in his posture told Eragon that he was not finished.
"This life we lead," Roran ground out, his voice low and rumbling, "how can I be expected to provide a safe home for a child during a war? If she gives birth during the war, Katrina intends to leave and go to Surda. I can't lose her again. I can't."
"The measure of a man is not what you can do, Roran, but what you can give."
Roran frowned, his eyebrows dipping. "What do you mean?"
Eragon sat up and locked his gaze on his cousin, taking in all he could see of the man. Roran was nervous, that much Eragon could see, and frustrated. Underneath all of that, buried so deeply that Roran himself probably did not know, was the truth: Roran was afraid.
"Providing a home and safety is something you do, but providing love is something you give." Eragon answered softly. "So long as you love your child -which I have no doubt you will- then there is nothing else you can give besides hope. Hope for a better future."
Roran ran his hands across his face. "How can we have hope when we are up against monsters? Did you not see what Thorn did to Belatona?"
Eragon's gaze fell to the soft grass in front of him, dancing merrily in the wind; what he would give to be like that, blown about without any of the responsibilities that bore down on him. "I did."
"Then how can you say we have hope? He reduced an entire city to ash. I do not doubt your power, cousin, but how can you stand against such a creature?"
Eragon was quiet for a moment as he gathered his words, so long in fact that Roran turned away from him, believing that he would not answer.
"Because I must. Because I am one of the only few who can."
Roran made to retort, but something in Eragon's tone must have made him pause. His cousin let out a sigh, and turned to Eragon with a forlorn look. "I forget sometimes," Roran murmured. "Who you are. Our prayers were answered when you returned; a Rider returned from the grave, one who would rid Galbatorix from our world."
The reminder of his ultimate duty hung over Eragon like a cloud. Roran and the others did not know Galbatorix's true power, and until Eragon found a way to circumvent the Mad King's Eldunarí he knew that he would likely lose that fight.
"I am only a man," Eragon whispered softly. "Fallible, like all others."
"Yes," Roran nodded, "but you have something many do not. A true sense of purpose, and the determination to see it through."
"If only that were enough," Eragon muttered under his breath.
Soft footsteps approached, and Eragon tilted his head to see their new guest. Glenwing ambled over to them, grimacing when another echoing cry rang out from the tent where Arya and Katrina disappeared into.
"That's unpleasant," Glenwing murmured in the elven tongue, before switching over to the common one. "Is someone giving birth?"
Roran glared at the elf, but Eragon merely replied with an "Aye."
"I see." Glenwing sat down besides Eragon on the grass, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands. He glanced at the two men to his left, a small smirk rising on his face. "And the two of you? Readying yourselves for when it's your turn?"
Eragon ignored the teasing remark, despite the redness that tinged his ears, but Roran blanched. "Does everyone know?"
"Only those with eyes," the elf snorted, "and ears." Glenwing glanced around curiously, then to Eragon he asked, "Speaking of which, where's your other half?"
Since Saphira's form was unmistakable over the tents to the north, Eragon figured he was asking after Arya. He waved a hand towards the tent in answer, surprised when Glenwing merely nodded in return.
"What," Eragon asked incredulously, "no comment?"
Glenwing shrugged. "Arya's always in the middle of the action, much like yourself. It's why I think the two of you are perfect for one another."
"Hmm."
"Although-"
"No."
"But-"
"No."
Glenwing let out a sigh, turning his head towards the dark sky. "Spoilsport," he murmured.
Roran gave them a bemused look, which caused Glenwing to waggle his eyebrows at the man.
They were quiet for some time, the only sounds around them the echoing sounds of the Varden at night intersperse by the echoing cries from the tent. Eragon shifted and turned towards Glenwing, switching to the ancient language. "Why do you provoke Arya?"
The elf blinked at him, startled out of whatever trancelike state he had been in. "I don't provoke her," the elf denied, "I merely tease."
"With Arya it might as well be one in the same," Eragon argued, a slight frustration at his friend's antics building inside him. "Don't avoid my question. Why tease her incessantly? It may have been amusing at first, but even I have grown tired of the constant badgering."
Glenwing glanced away, his gaze landing on some distant tent that Eragon could not see. "The truth?"
"Please."
"I am jealous," the elf answered, before holdings his hands up before him as though to calm Eragon. "Not of you or her! Only what the two of you have. I am overjoyed that you and Arya finally admitted to each other how you feel, but I find myself longing for something similar." Glenwing let out a sigh, "Perhaps such things are not meant for me."
Eragon knew how much Glenwing admired Yaela, but he did not know before how deeply his feelings ran. "If there is one thing that is certain of the future, it is that it is uncertain."
Glenwing raised a brow at him. "You're a well of wisdom today."
Letting out a sigh, Eragon leaned back, lying once more on the grass.
Tense hours passed, and Elain's cries gradually decreased in severity. Every so often Katrina or another woman would emerge and acquire newly boiled rags, but Arya had only emerged once to speak with one of Blödhgarm's spellcasters. He could see from the thin line of her mouth that it was going badly, and he knew that Arya was frustrated she could not help any further.
Roran glanced at him then, but Eragon had merely shook his head. "If she needed my help, she would have asked."
His words set his cousin somewhat at ease, but it was not so for the two brothers beside him. They grumbled under their breath and watched with serious gazes at any who entered the tent, eager as the rest of the Carvahall villagers for any news.
Brom had joined them before long, and many of the villagers eagerly greeted the old Rider when he settled onto a stool next to Eragon and the others. His father said nothing and simply pulled at his pipe, his blue eyes fixed squarely on the tent Elain was housed in.
The sun had long since crossed the horizon when a loud agonizing scream came from Elain. All of the villagers assembled -and from what Eragon could tell was nearly all of them- froze at the sound, their worried gazes turned towards the tent. Silence rang out after, only broken by the unmistakable wailing of a child. Albriech and Baldor grinned and clasped each other tightly, and even Glenwing seemed pleased. Cheers from the waiting men dwarfed the child's lament, but were quieted when a heartrending keen rose from inside the tent.
Something terrible had happened, and Eragon stood from his place on the grass.
Arya tore out of the tent and bound straight for him, and Eragon felt a chill run up his spine. When she slowed before them Baldor stepped forward and asked, "What happened?"
She ignored him, her piercing green eyes fixed on Eragon. "Come with me."
"What happened?" Baldor repeated, reaching out to grasp Arya's shoulder. Faster then the man could see she twisted away from him and grasped Eragon's arm, pulling him towards the tent.
"If you want your sister to live, then stand aside and do not interfere!" she called out.
Brom cuffed Baldor on the head and pushed him towards his brother, letting out a variety of curses that Eragon was sure would make even Glenwing blush.
Eragon let Arya tug him towards the tent, and in a low voice asked, "What did happen?"
"The child is healthy, but she was born with a cat lip."
It certainly explained the cries of grief that the women had let out; children born with a cat lip were difficult to raise, and often shunned by society for their deformity. Many believed that they were better off stillborn, and Eragon had seen before firsthand the cruelty that the children would be forced to live with if they survived.
"You have to heal her," Arya stated.
"Me?" Eragon turned to her, pausing outside the tent. "But you-"
At once he understood her reasoning. If Arya had healed the child, it was possible that the people would claim she stole her and replaced the babe with a changeling. The prejudice against elves ran deep in most humans, so unused to the other races that they were often thought of as mere myth instead of truth.
Eragon gave her a nod, pushing past the heavy fabric of the tent flap and entering the tent. The only source of light inside were lit candles, and as his vision adjusted quickly he saw five women clustered together close to one of the walls. They were keening and tearing at their hair, and the noise grated on his sensitive ears. The man Eragon knew to be Horst stood at the end of cot, arguing with an older women Eragon did not know. She held a bundle of cloth close to her chest, one that Eragon realized concealed the infant from gaze.
Katrina sat at the head of the cot, wiping the sweat from Elain's brow. The woman looked worn; her dark eyes wandered around the tent unseeing, and every so often she would mutter unintelligible words that Katrina would gently hush. A bloodstained cloth covered her, and the taste of iron was strong in the air.
Horst and the unnamed woman did not see him until he stopped before them. Arya did not follow him all the way into the tent and instead took up position near the entrance, though he knew she would listen intently to whatever was said. The argument died when Horst turned to him, surprise flitting across his face. "Shadeslayer!"
The other women turned a critical eye on him, "What business have you here, Rider?"
Eragon gestured towards the covered infant. "If you will, I can try to heal the child."
Her eyes narrowed, but Horst clasped Eragon strongly on the shoulder. The man leaned heavily on him, as though he was losing the strength to stand. "Can you, Shadeslayer?"
"Call me Eragon, please."
Horst nodded and gestured towards the women opposite him, cradling the child close to her chest. "This is Gertrude, our village healer." Gertrude did not say anything, her gaze flickering towards Arya behind him. "Please," Horst said, "Is there anything you can…"
To Gertrude, Eragon gently asked, "Can I see her?"
The older woman examined him for a moment, her flittering up and down his person. "You are Brom's son, are you not?"
Eragon nodded. "I am."
Her face flashed with something akin to disbelief briefly, but she slowly extended the bundle of cloth and placed the child in his arms. With a soft hand Eragon pulled away the cloth, revealing for him the child at the cause of so much trouble. Her skin was a dark red and her swollen eyes were shut, and the babe grimaced as though she was angry at the world for her recent treatment.
Eragon did not blame her.
The cause of so much worry was easily apparent; there was a wide gap stretching from her left nostril all the way to the middle of her upper lip, revealing her small pink tongue.
"Is there anything you can do?" Horst asked, wringing his hands through his beard.
"Possibly," Eragon answered. He glanced behind him, both towards the women in the corner keening and Arya. He wanted to leave the tent and heal the infant away from the others, but he thought better of it after a moment's consideration. He may have been human, but his appearance too closely resembled that of an elf's, and he did not want any misfortune to befall the child because of old superstitions. "I need a bassinet or something to place her on."
Gertrude turned a sharp eye towards Horst, and the man quickly nodded. "Aye, we have something for her." The man cast one last look at his daughter before exiting the tent hurriedly, barely even sparing a glance at Arya who stood silent besides the entrance. The old healer never took her eyes off Eragon, her troubled gaze watching him intently.
Saphira's mind stretched out and pressed into his own, peering through his eyes and down at the infant cradled in his arms. I had forgotten how small your kind are when they are born, Saphira snorted.
You were nearly this size once, too.
I was not.
Her indignant tone nearly made Eragon chuckle.
She dragged his gaze towards the cat lip, examining the deformity for a moment before releasing him. You have healed worse before, Saphira stated. And in far worse conditions than this.
A memory, dragged up by both of them, appeared in his mind: Once, long ago, he had fallen upon an old rusty sword from a battle lost to time. It had been during his trek to the east with Saphira, and he had been exploring one of the many ruins they had found in their journey. The old stone buildings floor collapsed with him on it, sending him down into the depths of the ruins.
Back then, he hadn't bothered to place many wards around himself, and an old blade had pierced his back and exited his stomach. Luckily, it had missed many of his internal organs, though it was not an experience he wished to repeat. It had taken him nearly two days to completely heal the wound after he removed the blade, and the only reason he hadn't bled out was because Saphira made him cauterize his own flesh. It was not an overall pleasant experience, and had taught him both to take great care in unfamiliar places, and to properly ward himself.
Two things he thought he knew, but only true experience could teach.
His reminiscing was broken when Horst returned, carrying with him a handmade bassinet. He placed it before Eragon, pulling blankets from around the tent and piling them into the cradle hastily.
Gently, Eragon lowered the infant down on the provided blankets, moving them around gently as the child squirmed uneasily. All the while he catalogued the words necessary to heal the child; unlike an adult, a baby's tissue was soft and pliable, meant to grow and stretch with them as they aged. He could not form bone where there was meant to be cartilage, and it would have to be worked far deeper than just the surface.
The keening of the women in the tent was still loud to his ears, and he wished nothing more than to silence them with a spell. Such a thing would not go without consequences, so Eragon had to push aside their noise and concentrate totally on the work before him.
As the spell formed in his mind, he could see the others peering at him closely. Several minutes had already passed, and Gertrude shifted uneasily besides him. "She looks the same as ever. The work goes badly, doesn't it?"
Without glancing away from the infant girl, Eragon replied, "I have not even started."
The woman sank back, her gaze returning towards the child in front of them. Horst moved uneasily on his feet, swaying side to side and tugging harshly on his beard the whole time. Behind him Arya was silent but watchful, and he knew that she would be there if he only asked.
He pondered using the Grey Folk way of magic, but cast aside the notion quickly. Though the work would be far easier, he was not yet confident in his ability to maintain his focus; the slightest slip of his mind and he could accidently deform the innocent girl even worse than she was currently.
When he was ready, Eragon began to speak softly in the ancient language, the elven tongue flowing from his lips as easily as the one he was raised with.
Once, he would have relied upon others to ensure his words were correct, but as far as Eragon knew, he was one of the oldest beings within the Varden besides a few of Blödhgarm's elves, and perhaps Angela. He could have drawn upon their experience, but even they did not have the training that he did; all Riders were trained far beyond even the education most elves received, and his time in the east had proven valuable in sharpening them.
The first part of his spell sent the babe into a deep sleep, one that would mean his work was uninterrupted. The second he took far more slowly, stopping every so often to check his progress.
When the first hour passed, Gertrude and Horst sat heavily upon the edge of the cot Elain rested on, though their gazes never left the infant inside the bassinet. The keening of the women had died down significantly, the low murmur of the ancient language soothing despite their lack of understanding. Arya never moved from her spot, but he sensed her hesitant mind touch his periodically, withdrawing when she saw that he did not need her aid.
A few more women bustled past him into the tent and attended to Elain, and though Eragon was aware of their presence he did not let his words slip in the slightest. Saphira offered him her energy silently, and he let her strength replenish him as he continued his work.
It was slow going, but the fissure fused together seamlessly, the soft tissue flowing like water together. Her upper lip gradually formed, the pink skin perfect to his gaze, but he did not relent until he was sure that no flaw was left under the surface.
When he saw that he could do no more, Eragon ceased his incantation, the words dying on his dry tongue. It was only then that he realized more time had passed then he thought; Horst was fighting against sleep from his seated position on the cot, and Katrina had left the tent entirely. Even the other women in the corner had left, leaving only Arya and Gertrude aware that he had finished his healing.
The older woman stood, peering down at the sleeping child in the bassinet. "Never did I think to see such a thing," she said, her wide eye stare flicking between him and the child.
Her words stirred Horst from his half-awake slump, the blacksmith jumping to his feet hurriedly. He opened and closed his mouth several times, as though to speak, and Eragon gestured at the infant sleeping silently before him. "It is done."
Horst moved quickly towards his child, reaching a delicate finger into the bassinet and touching her upper lip. "I can't believe it… I can't believe it." He turned to Eragon, his eyes wet and wide. "Elain and I are forevermore in your debt. If there is-"
"There is no debt," Eragon spoke quietly, feeling drained. "Not for this."
"You healed her," Horst bowed his head. "For that, I'm grateful."
Eragon bowed slightly in return, stepping back away from the father and daughter. A hand grasped his shoulder tightly, and Eragon turned his head to see Arya peering up at him. She smiled at him, and Eragon returned it weakly. "You should be proud," she murmured.
"Thank you for helping Elain," Eragon returned.
"I would have been remiss not to."
Horst picked up his daughter from the bassinet, and she let out a loud cry that made them all smile. The blacksmith held her before him and gazed at her for a moment before cradling her in his arms, sweeping past the flap of the tent and out towards the others.
Eragon followed behind, and a loud cheer roused from the crowd when they saw Horst and the infant. Horst's two sons appeared before their father, peering down at the bundle in his arms. Moving towards the side, Eragon found one of the now empty barrels and sat heavily down upon it. He did not see if Arya followed him, as the crowd of onlookers quickly swarmed around Horst and his children.
He let out a relieved sigh, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. A hand gently patted his shoulder, and Eragon opened one eye to see his father standing next to him. A proud look displayed prominently on Brom's face. "It went well?"
"Aye," Eragon answered. He opened his other eye and peered back at the crowd, surprised when he saw Arya and Katrina speaking quietly off to the side. Katrina handed something to Arya that Eragon could not see, and Arya gave the other woman a quick nod before turning towards Eragon. As she approached he saw that Katrina had given her an apple and a wineskin, and Eragon gratefully accepted them from her.
"Thank you," Eragon quietly murmured. He quickly wet his tongue from the wine, the refreshing liquid soothing his throat. As he bit into the apple he asked, "How did she know apples are my current favorite?"
"She didn't." Arya shifted lightly in front of him, and an amused smirk appeared on Brom's face opposite her.
He could not help the smile that drew up on his lips, and Eragon gently moved over on the barrel. Arya perched next to him on top of it, the line of her body pressing close to his own. "Thank you," he whispered quietly again.
It had taken a long time until Eragon was able to escape back towards his tent, the lengthy line of villagers each having to stop and thank him for his aid. Horst had declared loudly that he intended to name the child Hope, one that Eragon thought oddly fitting. Even the elves appeared and stopped before the infant, and despite the suspicious looks the villagers gave them offered the young girl brief words in their tongue.
When he was finally able to slip away and collapse onto his cot, Arya beside him, sleep had claimed him quickly. It was only the loud bellowing horn of morning that woke him, the loud call rousing all from their slumber and compelling them to prepare for the march ahead.
Not even something like the birth could slow the ever-churning tide that was war.
Over the coming days, a familiar routine set in place in the Varden; horn bearers would signal the start of a new day, long before the sun even touched the horizon, and when the sun was a few hands high in the sky the Varden would resume their long march towards Dras-Leona. By early evening Nasuada would, after consulting various advisors and sometimes Eragon himself, choose a new campsite.
When Helgrind appeared over the edge of the horizon, rising above the landscape like a jagged tooth, a hush fell over the marching Varden. The men began to mutter to themselves, prayers reaching out into the void, and even the Urgal's under Nar Garzhvog seemed disquieted by its presence. To Eragon it was a simple feature of the landscape, but the historied associations it made with the Ra'zac loomed over the memories of the humans they had once hunted.
A few hours later they left the dark stone mountain behind, and Dras-Leona revealed itself. The city was situated next to Leona Lake, and the dozens of ships that waited in its harbor marked it as a central trading hub for the Empire. The city itself was made of low, densely packed buildings, with a yellow mud wall that surrounded the center of the city. Placed beyond the wall, and thus cut off from the rest of the city, was the fabled cathedral Eragon had learned was constructed during his centuries long absence.
The Dras-Leona that Eragon knew looked nothing like the tangled, sprawled mess that it was today. Huts laid outside the city, piled on top of each other and pushing close to the very wall that kept them out. The streets, from what he could see leagues away, were narrow and twisting, as much as puzzle to navigate as they must have been to construct.
The black-spired cathedral that loomed nearly five hundred feet above the city, and from what Brom told him, housed the priests of Helgrind. These priests worshipped Helgrind, and the Ra'zac it once contained, and practiced what Brom called a "cruel religion." They would drink human blood and make flesh sacrifices, believing that the less bone they had the farther they were from mortal life.
Refugees leagues away could be seen leaving the city, a long stream of people heading north. They likely sought refuge among the other cities, such as Teirm or Urû'baen, trying to escape the Varden's advance.
When Nasuada called for them to halt, the Varden had maneuvered under her direction towards the long series of fields to the southeast of the city. Once more the men were put to work, constructing their campsite and fortifying their position. Jörmundur recommended that the sieges of war be constructed here as well, one that both Brom and Nasuada's other advisers agreed with.
Eragon helped where he could, leveraging his elven strength to accomplish feats that would have taken several men. Glenwing joined him after some time, and together the two began to long outpace the men in moving the long beams of a siege tower into place. The dragon's helped as well, gouging deep trenches into the ground and leveling buildings with their strength, finishing in minutes what would have taken men days.
Many of the Varden soldiers gave the dragons a wide berth, both respectful and fearful of their strength, but a few of the more courageous soldiers began directing Saphira and Fírnen's efforts to better fortify their position. And thus, by the time night fell upon them, the Varden had finished their preparations.
When Nasuada called for all of the soldiers to bed down, including the Urgal's, dwarves, and men, Eragon instead made his way towards the meeting he knew the others were attending. He was unsurprised to find Arya and Brom already awaiting him outside the command tent, their clothing dirtied from their own labors.
His father clapped him on the shoulder and grunted before entering the tent, pushing past Nasuada's Nighthawk's with a brief nod in greeting. Arya stood silent before him, her emerald eyes shinning in the moonlight, and Eragon offered her a brief smile before following his father inside.
Nasuada stood in front of her long war table, leaning on the wooden frame and peering down at one of the cities many maps they had acquired. King Orrin lounged beside her, giving off a bored expression, while Jörmundur and a few other of the Varden's captains waited at the tables edge.
Murmured discussion kept a steady pitch inside the tent, each of those gathered debating whether to siege the city in the morning or wait. Some argued that to delay was folly, and that they should strike before Lord Marcus Tábor was able to secure reinforcements, while others argued that waiting for the arrival of the dwarves would better secure their chances of taking Dras-Leona.
Brom found his place beside his liege lord, and Eragon moved his gaze around the assembled. Of Grimrr there was no sign, nor of any of the werecat's that often accompanied the King. Taking one of the few remaining openings opposite Nasuada, Eragon and Arya drew up next to a captain that Eragon had never seen before.
The man offered Eragon a slight nod in greeting, one which he returned, but any conversation that might have been had was interrupted by Nasuada when she raised her head to speak. The silence that fell quickly told Eragon how deeply the men under her respected her authority, reminding him deeply of her father.
"We will wait," Nasuada declared. "Orik and his clans are expected to arrive in two days. With them at our back, we stand in a far better position in our siege of Dras-Leona."
"What of the men at Aroughs?" Jörmundur asked. "Captain Brigman has yet to secure the city." The veteran soldier glanced at Eragon, a thoughtful expression on his face. "We could send Eragon; he and Saphira could take the city in a day, giving us nearly the entire southern half of the Empire."
Part of Eragon bristled at the implied order Jörmundur gave, but Nasuada shook her head. "I cannot order Eragon to do anything, and even if he agreed to take the city, it would leave the Varden defenseless if Thorn decided to return." Her gaze fell on Arya, flicking towards the side of the tent where the two dragon's laid listening to their conversation. "Not that I do not believe you or Fírnen incapable, Arya."
Arya merely inclined her head. "Fírnen and I have seen Thorn's power for ourselves, and we are in agreement that only together with Saphira and Eragon could we overcome his strength."
Seemingly satisfied that she had not offended Arya, Nasuada pushed aside the numerous maps of the city and withdrew one of the Empire. She studied it for a moment before nodding to herself. "Captain Brigman has failed, and so I shall send another who can succeed. Roran Stronghammer has proven himself capable, and he is equal to this task."
Brom shifted slightly beside her, pulling at his pipe. "Roran has no experience in sieging a city, my Lady."
"Aye," Jörmundur agreed. "He has already shown that he will disregard orders before, my Lady, and we cannot chance that he will do so again."
Nasuada's gaze met Eragon's, her steely eyes searching. Eragon kept his face impassive and unreadable, curious to see what she would do. Though he had not known his cousin long, but the disregard for orders did not seem out of chord for Roran. The man held strong convictions, that much was certain, though Eragon did not believe that Roran would disregard direct orders unless he thought it necessary.
"He has," Nasuada allowed, "but there are few men like Roran. He has proven to me that he has mastered what few others have not, whether you can win. I will not squander such talent or luck when I find it, and Aroughs will allow Roran to decide for himself whether he is worthy of the captaincy I wish to bestow upon him."
Eragon had no wish to see his cousin come to any harm, but it was not for him to decide whether Roran would fight. Still, he would visit Roran before he departed and refresh the wards he placed on him, even if the others thought his energy better spent elsewhere. Roran was the last living link to his mother besides Murtagh, and he had become fond of his cousin.
"As you wish, my Lady," Jörmundur murmured. When she glanced at Brom beside her, his father offered her a brief nod before fiddling once more with his pipe.
"Now that we have settled that matter, we can discuss how we can breach Dras-Leona."
The battle discussions raged deep into the night, long enough that Nasuada had summoned pages to bring chairs for the attendees. The conversations ranged from how they would breach the gates and take the city to both Saphira's and Fírnen's own strategies, as their movements would be limited inside the cramped city space. When they were finally released from the meeting the soldiers were already deep into their sleep, the half-crescent moon high in the night sky.
Brom stopped Eragon before he could leave to find his tent, pulling him to the side of the tent and out of earshot of the others. To his surprise, Arya followed them, her steps quiet upon the soft field that laid underfoot. Unlike him, Brom did not seem surprised, merely giving Arya a brief nod in greeting.
"What is it?" Eragon asked in the elven tongue. There were few enough who could speak it fluently in the Varden, and his habit of conversing with Arya in her native language often made him opt to choose it in turn.
"Our spies reported in from Dras-Leona," Brom muttered lowly, his gaze moving around the Varden's newly established campsite. "Murmurs about another order warring with the priests of Helgrind."
Eragon's eyes narrowed, even as his heart lurched in his chest. "Du Vættr Bani?"
He had told Brom what he had witnessed inside the magician's mind, hopeful that the vast spy network his father had built within the Empire would be able to find this Brother Keres.
The same Keres that had transformed Thorn into an incomplete Shade.
His father puffed on his pipe, the smell of tobacco strong in the air. "Perhaps. This order has taken over the Cathedral from the priests, claiming that Galbatorix has charged them with the defense of the city. The priests were none too happy; apparently they have tried to retake the Cathedral, but the wards around it are strong. Strong enough to keep out even our spies, at the very least."
"They intend to create another Shade?" Arya asked, her eyebrows lowered in concern. "They could potentially destroy the entire city."
Brom shrugged, his shoulders tense. "I don't know," he scowled. "If their claim of being under Galbatorix's order is true, then it makes sense. Without Murtagh or Thorn, the Mad King has lost his most precious weapon against the Varden's assault."
Rubbing his forehead in frustration, Eragon said, "It doesn't make any sense. It never has."
"What?" Brom asked.
"Why Galbatorix would allow Thorn to be taken," Eragon murmured. "If the Brotherhood was acting alone, then why would Galbatorix order them to defend the city?"
"And how did they capture both Murtagh and Thorn?" Brom added, lowering his pipe and emptying its contents. His father's gaze shifted away from him as he repacked his pipe, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. "Questioning Galbatorix's mind is madness. He is the Mad King, after all."
Arya shook her head, "Galbatorix is a despicable human, but he is cunning. Whatever his reasons, having Thorn be made into a Shade must be part of them."
Eragon sighed, shifting his gaze towards Dras-Leona in the distance. Few lights could be seen from the city behind its walls, but the great pyres built atop the nearby gate illuminated the road brightly. The low huts situated outside the city were dark, likely emptied of their residents once the Varden's approach had been made known.
"We may never know," Eragon stated, "Not until we reach Urû'baen. Until then, we should focus on how we deal with this Brotherhood here and now." To his father, he asked, "Does Nasuada know?"
"Aye," Brom nodded, having finished packing his pipe. He lit it with a murmured Brisingr, and Eragon could see the old Rider flinch slightly as the energy left him. "She did not wish to speak of these rumors during the war council, at least until we're able to determine a solution. If they haven't already created one, then it would be in our best interest to see that they do not."
"The moment we strike they will likely start the process," Arya added. "Shades have, in the past, normally turned on their creators. I doubt these magicians will be able to contain it."
"Aye," Eragon agreed. His gaze lingered on the gates in the distance, a half-plan forming in his mind. "It would be easier to stop them before they started."
Brom blinked at him, his pipe freezing inches away from his gaping mouth. Lowering it, he asked, "And how do you suppose you enter the city? You could scale the walls, but you'd likely be shot from the top by their archers. Even if you did, the amount of energy you'd need to expend would be wasted before the battle."
"Where's Jeod?" Eragon asked instead of replying. "Did he ever return to Teirm?"
"He came with Roran aboard the Dragon Wing," Brom answered. "His wife is in Surda, though she's been none too happy about how her life has turned out. He's here in the camp at my behest."
Ah, that's right, Eragon remembered. He had seen the man on the ship when they arrived during the battle, but his mind had been preoccupied. "Good," Eragon said. "He found the hidden path into Urû'baen, and I would like for him to do so here again."
Brom sighed, but nodded. "I'll speak to him." His father followed his gaze towards the city, watching as the fires flickered in the distance. "And if he cannot find a way in?"
Eragon shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time I snuck into a city."
Leaning heavily against Saphira's flank, Eragon turned another page in Tenga's journal. It was early morning, and the light provided by the rising sun too dim for human eyes to read. The two of them had left the camp behind and ventured towards Leona Lake after waking, where Saphira had used the warm water to cleanse her scales before laying down before the shoreline. The soft sounds of the water had long since lulled Saphira back into her slumber, and Eragon had spent his time reading more into Tenga's notes.
Entry 102:
The single hardest determination in my studies is to quantify time itself. If my theory proves true, then how can anything act on that which has no form? Instead, I must focus on what I can measure.
How does one measure something? By seeing. And what is sight? Or more accurately, how does one see?
Light.
Trying to measure that which is used to measure everything else is difficult, but in doing so I've discovered something impossible; In my experiment, my attempt was to narrow a beam of sunlight inside a darkened room so that I could try to examine only a small fraction of the light. I placed an aperture on my window and allowed the sunlight to cast upon two narrow, closely placed openings. This light then cast a shadow upon the wall behind it.
I expected to see two beams of light, but my eyes beheld a series of light and dark areas, as though the light had somehow interfered with itself. The only conclusion I can ascertain is that the light somehow behaved like a wave, rippling and crashing against itself, yet appears to the eye as nothing more than a single beam.
For now, the implications of what this could mean are lost to me.
Entry 119:
In my pursuit of discovering the secrets of time, I have drifted far from my research on time itself, but this was not a wasted venture. I've studied what I could of that which holds our moon in the sky, and now my experiments have turned to light.
My previous experiment showed me that light can act similarly to a wave, such as one would find on the ocean or any body of water, but subsequent experiments have shown that light behaves as previously thought; light is but a mote, made up of smaller constituents. These two realities would normally be in conflict with each other, but it is my belief that they are not.
I may have moved away from my original question, but the intricacies of the world are not so easily divulged.
Understanding Tenga's thoughts was difficult, especially given that many times the hermit went off on tangents that to Eragon seemed irrelevant to the dealings of time. Even so, the strange magician's experiments and conclusions where interesting, though he needed to place the journal down several times in order allow his mind to rest.
Entry 193:
The discoveries I have made over the past years have shown that light itself has no weight, only energy. If this is true, then is it possible that light is not influenced by gravities hold? Is such a thing even possible? Is time similarly made of smaller constituent parts?
No, that would be improbable.
Why would light not be beheld to the same pull that all else is? Even using gramarye, I've yet to see light bend and race towards the ground, yet how would I know if it did? We are both stuck in the same 'well' as it were, and to test my theories I would need to not be under its purview.
Instead, the more likely conclusion is that light is influenced by gravity, which leads me back to believing that even time must constrain to its pull.
What then, affects gravity?
Closing his eyes, Eragon leaned his head back against Saphira's warm scales. Tenga seemed singularly focused on the effects of gravity, though Eragon could not see the connection it held with time. What was he missing? Why was the hermit convinced that gravity affected everything so strongly?
Then again, I've seen myself the effects gravity has, Eragon thought, remembering the strange spell he had used against Murtagh in their fight in the Burning Plains. From what little he understood of the words, the spell influenced the intensity of gravity under the affected area, though he did not know how. When he had memorized the spell from one of Tenga's Compendiums long ago, the only thing the hermit had told him was to be weary of how large an area he cast it over.
He needed to know more.
Entry 208:
All things, besides light, seem to have an intrinsic weight to them. Once, long ago, one of my colleagues claimed that everything was made of smaller constituent parts he called motes, and that each mote had what he called mass. This mass, he claimed, was independent of the motes weight, and was equivalent to the amount of energy it contained.
His belief was that mass and energy are interchangeable, but neither could be created nor destroyed.
We called him mad.
He was right.
Entry 226:
If all things in this world contain mass, then would not the land we live upon as well? How great must this land be, and how massive it is, that we stand upon its surface and see only a straight horizon, when the Grey Folk have long since known that the world was round.
A mass so vast that it pulls in all that are near it, forcing them closer to its heart.
Would time not be held to the same? How could it do anything else but yield to such enormity?
His reading continued long after the sun had finally risen fully, and he finally paused when the words began to blur on the page before him. Closing the journal, Eragon placed it on his lap and leaned his head in his hands, massaging his temples in order to help clear the headache that began to form.
The familiar thud that filled the air made him glance skyward. Fírnen winged his way down towards them, angling his wings and landing heavily on his hindlegs first. The green dragon blinked at him in greeting before craning his head towards the saddle that rested upon his back. The slight form that was on his back quickly undid the straps securing her in place before leaping down onto the soft ground, her movements more graceful than even Eragon could manage.
Arya turned and rested her head against Fírnen's snout, the two of them locked into the pose for minutes as they conversed silently. The sight warmed Eragon's heart and drew up a smile on his face.
Saphira stirred behind him, and he could feel her mind beginning to rise out of the light slumber she had fallen into earlier.
Arya pulled away, turning to amble over to him with quiet steps. Her hair was windswept even held tightly up on her head, locks of her raven hair spilling past the leather cord that held them. As she approached she gave him a bright smile, her mood likely elevated from her recent flight.
"Good flight?" he asked, gesturing for her to join him resting against Saphira's side.
Arya glanced over towards Saphira's head, and when his gaze followed her he could see that his partner-of-mind had finally awoken. Neither of them spoke, nor did their minds touch, though Eragon had the feeling the two of them were having their own silent conversation. Eventually Saphira let out a soft hum, and Arya gave her a sharp nod before settling down beside him.
Fírnen, meanwhile, launched himself into the lake, his entire form swallowed by the water and creating a light showering of rain over them. His head poked up from under the surface as he swam, twisting and turning in the waters and making them churn.
"Yes," Arya finally answered, her smile returning. Her shoulder pressed into his own, and she peered down at his lap. "How goes your reading?"
Eragon grunted, tapping the leatherbound journal. "Slow. The words are dense and hard to follow, and I find myself having to stop and return often enough that my eyes are beginning to sting."
He could see how much she longed to read the hermits work, but the oath he had given Tenga prevented him from sharing the books with any besides Angela. He knew that she had once been his apprentice, though he did not know whether the two of them still spoke after all this time.
"The scroll I can understand," Arya said, referring to Tenga's Compendium on Grey Folk magic. "But why do you pour over this journal of time? My people have long since studied time, and have found no reasonable way in which one could temper the cadence of the world."
"Do you remember the spell I used against Murtagh?" Eragon asked. When she nodded, Eragon continued, "According to this journal, the same way I was able to partially control gravity is the same way in which you can control time."
Arya blinked. "That's preposterous."
He merely offered her a smile and a half-hearted shrug. "He may be strange, but Tenga's spells have yet to fail me."
Eragon could see that she did not believe him, not about Tenga's claimed knowledge, though surprisingly she did not argue with him as he had seen her do in the past. From what Glenwing had told him before, Arya often fell into theological debates with priests and their like, so he knew her convictions were stronger than most. Instead, she shifted her gaze towards Fírnen in the lake. "Have you heard from him?"
He knew she was asking over the request he had made of Tenga. The old hermit had promised to find a way in which to help him reverse the transformation Thorn had undergone and expel the spirits from his body. Shaking his head, Eragon softly answered, "No."
"Perhaps he has not yet come up with a solution," Arya stated. She brushed away a strand of her hair that had fallen on her face, but the stubborn locks continued to escape the crook of her pointed ear.
"Perhaps," Eragon echoed.
When the same lock of hair continued to annoy her, Arya shifted away from and undid the band holding her hair, letting the raven tresses fall down around her face. When Arya made to grasp them, Eragon pressed lightly on her back. She turned and lifted a curious brow at him, though she let him maneuver her forward slightly. Sliding in behind her with his legs cradling her between them, Eragon grabbed hold of the soft curls and began to smooth them down her back.
Her hair was long and fell nearly to her slender waist, though they were tangled after being ravaged by the intense winds from her flight. He spent his time undoing the knots gently, his fingers gliding through them with great care.
Sensing that he did not wish to speak on the topic any further, Arya shifted the conversation to more lighter things. The two of them spoke quietly, their talk flitting from one discussion to another, all the while he continued his ministrations on her hair. Only when he was satisfied did he pull all her locks together and began a simple weave, braiding her hair in the fashion he had seen his mother do centuries ago.
Arya had leaned forward by then, fiddling with the band of leather as they talked. Every so often he caught her gaze as his fingers moved swiftly, though whether she was able to feel what he was doing she did not say. When he was done, Eragon held the braid in one hand and reach forward, snatching the band of leather from her and tying off the ends of her hair.
Satisfied with his work, he draped the braid over her shoulder. Arya had been speaking of her time among the humans some decades earlier but paused at the slight weight, her head twisting to peer at his work. She took hold of her braid and examined it intensely for some time, her small fingers probing at the knots.
"Do you approve?" Eragon asked teasingly.
She gave him a soft glare that was softened by her smile. "Yes." Letting the braid fall down her back, Arya twisted around in front of him until she was facing him. She had to swing her legs over his own in order to fully turn around, her emerald eyes dancing when their gazes met. "Where did you learn such a thing?"
Eragon shrugged. "I used to watch my mother braid her hair when I was younger. The memory stook with me, I guess."
Arya regarded him for some time, her expression softening the longer she peered at him. Her gaze flicked down towards his lips, and neither of them could resist the pull between them. Their lips collided, and any worry that had burrowed into his heart was washed away by the smell of freshly crushed pine needles and the soft lapping of the waves of the lake.
So, did you guys hear that the Inheritance Cycle was picked up by Disney+? Apparently, if you didn't already know, CP himself will be part of the making. Not really sure in what role, but hopefully it will be enough that it won't turn out like 'that which shall not be named.'
Lol.
Anyways, thanks so much for reading, and I hope you all liked this! Hopefully the ending doesn't seem too packed with Tenga's notes, but it should all make sense. Eventually. Trying to describe physics in a way that makes sense given the level of society in the series is difficult, and I don't claim to be a physicist, so I hope that nothing is outwardly wrong.
Some of you commented on Glenwing's teasing. I will come out and straight up say that he doesn't have a crush or anything on Eragon. He's simply feeling a bit left out, as both his friends are spending more time together then with him. Jealousy, after all, doesn't always need to have romantic inclinations.
Until next time!
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
Skörungr – leader, 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.
