This chapter I needed to really wrestle with. But, now that we get some certain bits of exposition out of the way...
Eragon's privileges as gre... guest did not extend to the right of refusing visitors. Far too soon after Brede's departure Saphira snarled at the entrance of another weredragon. Her response was an unimpressed sniff.
Not about to hide behind Saphira's wing like a boy behind his mother's skirts Eragon mustered up what dignity he had left and faced the newcomer. Without access to healing magic his hands were battered from where he had futilely punched against the furniture and stone walls though he had least picked the splinters out.
The honey-brown she-dragon surveyed the few dents Eragon had dealt to the wardrobe and the tapestry he'd torn down. Her warm brown gaze flicked down to his bloodied knuckles. Then she fixed him with the sternest look of motherly disapproval Eragon had personally witnessed since Aunt Marian.
The dragon became a moderately plump woman with the same honey hair. Despite her no nonsense brown dress and severely braided hair she carried herself like a commander. Perhaps she was one after all for a small army of serving girls scurried into the chambers when she barked an order. Their seemingly small frames belied their true strength for the massive platters they carried looked like they could have crushed someone if dropped. Eragon was not pleased to notice many were his height if not slightly taller. Why did these people run so tall?
One by one the serving girls placed their platters upon the floor, briefly baring their necks to him before their attention slid elsewhere. A dark-haired girl transformed into a coal-gray dragon to delicately rehang the tapestry upon its stand. Some huddled over the dents in the wardrobe, running their hands over the wood while the air shimmered with power. When they withdrew their hands only a small discoloration left in the wood hinted at past damage. Another hustled out and returned with a steaming basin of water.
The plump woman hefted the basin into her own grip and fearlessly approached a Rider who stood by his dragon's side. Saphira rumbled a soft warning. The woman returned it with a curt look well used to quailing those twice Saphira's size.
She set the basin down and dipped a rag into it. Eragon presented his hands without complaint. It's not like she or her servants were responsible for anything in his predicament except making sure they didn't starve.
"Erna Suther," was all the introduction given before she wrapped the steaming rag around his hands and held them firm. Sweat beaded his neck from the heat pressed against his bare skin. Eragon clenched his teeth. When he felt broiled alive, Erna removed the rag to reveal only slightly pinkened skin where he had torn it open in his futile rage against the furniture.
"Thank you," he said, hoping his tone conveyed earnest gratitude that transcended the language barrier.
Erna scrutinized him, gaze unreadable. Then she dipped her head, bent down to grab the basin, and turned pointedly to the door. The serving girls hastened after her like ducklings.
Saphira sniffed at the long line of platters, all hewn from study oak, left behind. She passed stews, an entire roasted sheep, and a dozen other dishes to sniff at the last bowl, where red berries floated upon white liquid.
Little one, this is the only one without meat.
Eragon's mouth watered as he beheld their bounty, a feast so formidable he doubted Saphira at her most ravenous could ever down it all. He had sustained himself on salted fish for what seemed an eternity, and that last meal had been a lifetime ago. Then he remembered exactly how he was related to the one who had surely provided him with such temptation.
Not about to let the gods damned Righ win this battle, Eragon purposefully picked around the meat. They were supplemented by vegetables; carrots, turnips, onions, leeks, the same hearty ingredients the villagers in Carvahall used he could still appreciate without guilt. The porridges and flatbreads were still steeped in decadent flavor that had steeped into them. He picked at salty curds sprinkled over birds that were definitely not chicken. The slimy green leaves floating in a broth resembled seaweed. A curious bite revealed it was.
One bite of a smoked sheep was so hot Eragon spat it out immediately. It was not how it had been cooked, but the bits of spicy herb that glazed it. The burning sensation remained long after he downed cold porridge to rid himself of it. Saphira took an experimental lick and devoured the lamb whole.
He snorted. "Figures only a fire-breather can appreciate it."
Saphira patiently let him pick his offerings from each dish before she devoured the rest without remorse. She rumbled in contentment. Sheep are a bit gamey in their own right but if I'd known what cooking could accomplish I'd have ordered you to do it for me months ago.
Eragon's lip quirked as he inspected the last bowl. The contents smelled faintly of sour milk but the consistency was too thick. "Without the grain and green things to make the real meat stretch further, I'm sure."
She cocked her head at him. Did you not see their teeth?
He arched a wry brow. "How could I not notice the fangs?"
Not the front teeth, stone-head. Even plain humans like you have canines for tearing into meat, however small and pathetic they might be. Your back ones are for grinding plants. Saphira opened her mouth to reveal sharp, glistening teeth set even in the back. Their molars are the same, even in dragon form.
Her Rider let the conversation die by taking an experimental sip of the white... dairy product. Slightly sour, but with a sweetness that lingered on his tongue. Eragon raised the bowl to his lips and consumed it all down to the last raspberry on top. Despite the toll they had taken on their dinner, some plates were more than half-full, for the cooks had apparently overestimated the hunger of one simple human.
Hunger sated, Eragon's gaze drifted to the bed. For now his rage had exhausted itself. He wished only for a sleep undisturbed by dreams.
Once more he settled down and Saphira coiled herself around him. He curled against her side, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing almost in time to the faint hush of the sea on the rocks below. It did not take long for them to drift away into oblivion.
Eragon and Saphira both grumbled when Erna Suther and her girls returned far too damn early the next morning to clear away their plates and deliver a hearty breakfast. Not only did they bring food, but armfuls of clothes that were stowed away in his wardrobe. Erna expectantly held out a rich red tunic embroidered in silver out to him.
"No thank you," he said pointedly. He recognized the Righ's colors and was determined to not willingly wear them.
Erna's stare vowed she was ready to strip and change him like a stubborn child. Cheeks burning he shed his itchy woolen tunic for the one in her hands. He was surprised at how smooth it was against his skin. Not coarse wool, but finely woven linen. Despite the fineness of the fabric it was soft from frequent use. Eragon was satisfied that it couldn't have been the Righ's. It was too small for his current frame and far too young to ever have been won by one so old and bitter.
Eragon was displeased at how loose the tunic gathered at his shoulders and how close it trailed to his knees. Every damn weredragon had a stature that resonated with a dragon's power. Erna held up a thread to measure for alterations. Then she bowed and ushered her servants out.
Once they were gone Eragon ripped off the damn tunic and wolfed down his breakfast shirtless.
He wondered over to properly inspect their washroom, divided from the rest of their quarters by a stone wall. The dragon-sized pool carved into the floor dominated the room. Shallow steps allowed easy access for a smaller bather. Two sets of iron knobs, made for two very different hands, were set into the wall. Their runes faintly glowed. Turning the left knob loosed a cold stream of water into the pool while the right was boiling hot.
Eragon relished the chance to immerse himself and be fully rid the prison's stink. No sooner did he step out of the tub did Saphira claim it for herself. With a happy rumble she cranked the hot water and submerged herself up to her nostrils. Steam billowed from the bath.
Leaving the she-dragon to her own devices Eragon dressed in a blue tunic and trousers.
In the morning light he saw their archway did not look out to open ocean. On the horizon sat a large green island. Squinting, he could just make out the shapes of distant dragons. Inhaling the salt air and suddenly no able to stand the sight of freedom so far away, he instead wrenched his gaze away to inspect the bookshelves.
His eye fell upon the most well-worn book on the shelf. Its leather bind was cracked and embossed letters faded. He did not realize how large the book is until he lifted it from its place, a size more easily handled by dragon paws. Eragon opened to a random page. The letters were large and simple in their grace. He did not recognize a one, but some looked vaguely familiar to those of the human script he first learned to read. There was a strange gloss to the black ink that made the letters shimmer when they caught the light. He brushed a hand against the words and...
...stood in a dark field. Torches burned in the hands of servants on either side of men in fine armor and richly made robes. One by one they knelt to lay their swords at the feet of their queen. Her unbound hair shimmered silver and her eyes blazed like stars. Her men looked not up at her when they pledged their allegiance, but with fearful reverence of the full moon just above her head...
Eragon drew back his hand as if burned. The air, once crisp and smelling of smoke from the torches, was suddenly bereft without them. The daylight was almost blinding. Saphira stood over him in alarm.
Are you alright, little one?
"Aye." He gingerly returned the book to its proper place. "I was just dragged into a memory."
Saphira inspected the shelf and chose a different book. Lacking a weredragon's thumb, she was not as dexterous, but the book's size was easy for her to handle. She placed a page on its pages. Her eyes became distant and glassy. Then she snorted and shook her head.
Ancestral memories printed on pages. Only dragon-men could devise such madness.
Servants entered to clean away their breakfast. Saphira watched them warily. Eragon shelved her book, feeling as if he had disturbed another's property.
The servants were not alone. In the threshold stood a tall, gaunt man whose tunic trailed to his knees. His brown hair was sheared short and his stance rigid. Dark gold eyes blazed in a face whose frown lines and scrunched forehead were wearing into wrinkles. Beneath his gaze the maids grabbed their platters and scurried out. He greeted them with a perfunctory bowed head and show of the neck but did not ask their permission before entering.
"I am Oisin Laoghaire," he answered in a thick brogue. "The Righ wills me to teach you the tongue of the daonna-arach."
At the mention of the Righ Eragon wanted to refuse out of principal. Then he remembered their circumstances. They had nothing but books in an alien alphabet and servants that did not share a word in common with them. The language barrier exasperated him. Privately he and Saphira agreed to not put up a fuss.
"So be it," he said curtly.
"Lower your shields," Oisin ordered.
Eragon did so warily, tensed to lash out the moment the weredragon overstepped his bounds. Yet Oisin sent only words over their connection, contexts and pronunciations and sibilant tones.
Tha mise Saphira. The thought was musical over their bond. Out of curiosity, she opened her mouth, trying to shape her tongue into how Oisin managed speech in dragon form. She managed only a strangled growl.
"You will never truly speak," Oisin said bluntly. "You lack the fine control of a true duine-arach." His gaze fell expectantly on Eragon. "Now you."
Tha mise Eragon. I am Eragon. One couldn't get simpler than that.
Eragon opened his mouth. His tongue tripped over the first two syllables. No matter how many times he copied Oisin or the scholar drilled the movements directly into his mind, he failed to sound anything close to a true weredragon's pronunciation.
Oisin recoiled in revulsion at the mere thought of 'weredragon' seeping across their connection. "Duine-arach!" he snarled.
"Dune-yeah arrak," Eragon obliged. He scowled up at Oisin, for the man was tall and skinny as a sapling. "It's no use. I'm no more one of your kind than Saphira is. This is the closest I'll ever sound."
"The lowly blood muddying your speech is no excuse." Oisin's eyes flashed. "Practice. Rise above it. All will come in time."
For a moment he seemed sympathetic. Then he proceeded to ruthlessly drill simple phrase after simple phrase into their heads. When he took his leave hours later, they were too busy rubbing their throbbing heads to wish him good fucking riddance. Eragon's skull felt ready to split at the seams.
"Are you hungry, my prince?" Erna ventured from the threshold. "We bring food."
Eragon was about to ask when she'd learned his language before dimly realizing he understood hers. "No, thank you," he slurred.
She and her serving girls stared blankly at him until he pointedly shook his head, cursing his gods damned tongue all the while.
"Faithless, feckless, mud-fucking whore!"
Niall rolled his eyes. On the opposite side of the gods damned island and he could still make out his father's rant word for word as if still at the castle. They could probably hear his raging roars across the channel, all the way on Crown Isle.
Not that his father's fury would ever amount to anything productive. Berach Ruadhluan could never raise a claw against his own brother. Even if that brother had just acknowledged the mud-blooded changeling bastard of an outcast as kin.
"Maybe the Righ finally went senile," Donagh mused as he picked his teeth with a claw. "It's like he's just asking for everyone to turn to the Knoths."
Eachann snorted as he licked the last remnants of blood from his lips. "Don't be stupid. The Righ's crazy, alright, but crazy like a fox. Every clan-lord with a brain knows Prince Caedmon is the future of the Isles anyway. It's not like the Righ is doing much more damage to his reputation by bringing the Rider into the public eye. He can at least drag the Knoths down with him.
"You're a fucking idiot," Arne snarled. "Caedmon and Amleth Loth are twins! It screws them both over!"
Doran's gaze purposefully went to Niall. "But not the only Ruadhluan born this generation... so far."
"Caedmon and Myrna still have decades to bear heirs, and they're the Righ's direct descendants," Donagh retorted to his twin.
Niall snapped the cow skull between his teeth. Those daonna-arach loyal to the royal clan still had high hopes of more direct members. Myrna was still a few years shy of fifty. Niall's own surprise birth not that long ago had proven Berach and his mate still fertile.
Niall was his mother's miracle and his father's pride. Not even his four oldest and truest friends knew he was the last best hope for the Ruadhluans. His mother had whispered the bitter truth into his ear only the year prior, when she had finally deemed him old enough to bear the burden.
"It doesn't matter how distant a cousin the mud man is to me," he growled at last. "His very existence is a threat to our own."
"Until the Lord Moon judges," Doran murmured, his words an echo of the Righ's declaration. "It's a problem that solves itself."
That night was nearly a month away. Niall dreaded the trial before it. His cousin Caedmon had just begun his arachtide. There was a high chance the Righ, the crown prince, and steward would all be sealed away with a bastard on the night they were needed most. His clan needed a true victory to rally behind other than simply yet another Long Night weathered. A true heir had to shine bright before the false one proved himself unworthy of the fire that burned in the heart of every duine-arach.
"I must prove myself an adult in truth," he told his companions. "I need a triumph. One not even the fucking prince consort can sniff at."
Donagh and Doran exchanged a look. Arne bared his teeth at the prospect. Only Eachann dared voice what they all thought. "Niall, we're all still barely more than half-grown. No one's actually expecting a triumph out of any of us for another decade."
"Which is why it has to be this Long Night," Niall stated. He swallowed his pride and shrank to his most vulnerable, until his friends towered over him. He held out an open palm. "I must not only prove myself worthy to my clan. As the heir's heir, I must prove my clan is still worthy to shield our people against the dark. I can't do it without all four of you."
Arne was the first to shift to his level. "My prince, who am I to turn the offer of a glorious first triumph at your side?"
Donagh and Doran transformed together. "And you know that we'd follow you to the ends of the world."
Eachann was the last. Niall bore into his soul, searching for doubt, and found nothing but unwavering conviction. "I fight by your side. Until the bitter end."
"Father Sky to witness, and Mother Earth to bind," Niall said resolutely. "We slay the largest fucking abomination we can on our next Long Night or die trying."
"So we swear," they vowed as one, in heart and mind and soul.
Beneath the sun's blazing eye they bit into their hands and pressed their naked palms together. Their blood mingled with each other's and dripped to the dirt below.
And so the (living) Ruadhluan clan is fully revealed: Ardanach, the Righ, the angry old thundercloud of dubious sanity. Caedmon, his grandson, the crown prince who is trying to keep shit from falling apart before he can even take the throne. Caedmon's mate, Myrna, who does her best to hold Caedmon together. Ardanach's younger brother, Berach, who does his damnedest to uphold royal authority as the king's steward. Imke, Berach's mate, whose greatest battle is replenishing a sorely depleted clan. Their son, Niall, Eragon's angry little foil. And, now, Eragon... on a trial basis.
Loic, Beline's legitimate consort, and Amleth, Beline's second son, are not counted among the Ruadhluan.
Next chapter: One night a month the Lord must sleep. His children are left in darkness. They fear to never see another dawn.