Guess who found her inspiration for this again? Hopefully this chapter will provide some more background of the family clusterfuck Eragon has stumbled into and some foreshadowing about things coming up REAL soon ; )
Flying out with the pride of the East at his back, Caedmon had every intention of charging straight into the vipers' nest and making his grandmother's court bend over backwards in their attempts to host a crown prince born of their blood but not bearing their name. If the Righ turned a deaf ear to their rumblings, then it was Caedmon's duty as heir to assure this grievous insult did not flare up into civil war.
They had been making great time. There had been a southerly wind to carry them fast, made all the faster by the deft workings of his casters. They would have made Iron Castle by late afternoon.
Then the messenger, bearing the rich green and iron gray colors of his Lady, intercepted them. The Knoths were not on Womb Isle at all. In her wisdom his grandmother had graciously moved court to Honey Isle in preparation of his visit, so that both of her grandsons might stand upon common ground in their birthplace. Caedmon, his spirit still not fully settled so recently after arachtide, could not wholly hide his snarl.
Honey Isle, among the southernmost of the major Isles, had long been under the domain of the Knoths. Few other islands supported the vibrant foliage needed for beehives to thrive and produce an unmatched amount of liquid gold.
Summer Castle, however, had been built as a crown possession. Upon this haven elders had warmed their bones and delicate children had sprung up strong. Caedmon and Amleth had both been born there. Together they had lived out their early years, so that the future Lord of the South and Lord of the Isles would grow up brothers in blood and bond.
Up until their mot- the traitor had destroyed it all.
Once the sight of Summer Castle on the horizon engulfed him in sorrow and frustration. Tonight it made him billow smoke like his gods damned grandfather.
More than ever Caedmon longed for Myrna at his side to quell his rage and blunt his temper. Instead, beneath Beline Standa's wary eye, he buried it all the deeper.
You are not a beast, he chanted to himself. You are not a beast. You are not going to bellow at them for their stupidity. You are not a... His stomach rumbled. Oh, gods fucking damn it! I'm tired and starving, you hoary old bitch! Gods forbid we meet on middle ground!
It was after dark when they reached their destination, the moon the slimmest of crescents overhead.
In the north, where the seas where cold and bleak, the castles were all stone fortresses against the things that bore down on a moonless night. Crown Castle was the design taken to its most extreme, a holdfast of solid rock meant to guard a Righ's vulnerable form whilst their spirit did battle amongst the stars.
Yet so far south the Serpents rarely struck. No matter how fertile the land or plentiful the people, the prize they craved most of all was far to the north, and the islands to the north and east closer to the world's fringes. Summer Castle was in truth a palace, graceful towers and pale gray walls open to sea breezes and ocean views.
Of course no one flew up to meet their crown prince. No one certainly allowed Caedmon to slink off to his quarters to make himself presentable.
All three Knoths ambushed him at the threshold. Caedmon met them head high, the picture of a prince despite heaving sides from the long flight and the stink of hard travel. Golden braziers bathed the hall in a golden glow. Fragrant dishes and sweet mead hung heady in the air.
Lady Soraid met his gaze with a genial curve to her lips. Elegant gold chains, studded in precious stones, draped artfully from her horns and slender neck. She wore them with the ease of one who could dress themselves in a treasure trove no matter their form. Just briefly she dipped her head in acknowledgement of his royal status. "Welcome, Prince Caedmon. You've been mostly eagerly expected."
Years of practice kept Caedmon from tensing when she extended her perfumed wings for the slightest of embraces. He dipped down to touch the tip of his snout to hers. Tactfully he pulled away before he could blast her with his terrible breath. "Good evening, grandmother. Unfortunately I'm later than I would've liked."
"How can the guest of honor be late to his own feast?" Soraid countered lightly. "You honor us with your presence. How could we receive you in a lord's humble hall with a true royal residence so close by?"
Caedmon's smile froze in place as near a snarl when he next turned to Soraid's direct heir. Upon reaching full maturity rare was the duine-arach that could look him in the eye. Rarer still were those that could look down at him. Naturally the Righ was one. Loic Knoth remained another. If Soraid was dark as iron ore than Loic shone like polished steel. His eyes cut as deep.
For a moment the two males eyed each other as the scales of power wavered between them. Caedmon was crown prince and Loic a prince consort without a princess. One was the Righ's heir and other heir to a lordship now undoubtedly stronger in the earthly realm. One was son and the other sire.
In the end it came down to the host. Lady Soraid Knoth was but an honored guest in these halls. So was Caedmon. Summer Castle was his father's seat, part of a consolation prize for all his disgraced former mate had put him through. He clenched his teeth and ducked his head in that tiny little bow their family favored so much.
"Father," he said.
"Caedmon," Loic returned. Steely eyes swept over him. "You're looking well." Not like a blundering beast, was left unsaid.
He ignored the barbed comment to fixate on the last Knoth. It was his luck Amleth's own arachtide had broken and his little brother looked fully himself. His scales were so a pale silver they were oft likened to Amalia's. "Hello, brother. I hope we haven't kept you from the festivities."
Amleth smiled thinly. "On the contrary, I am sure the feast aged like a fine wine; the dishes have simmered, and the singers time to warm their voices."
"And they'll sound all the sweeter once you've had time to recover yourself," Lady Soraid interjected.
Caedmon took his leave. Summer Castle's finest chambers were those his parents had likely conceived him in and where his father did gods knew what now. The rooms of his boyhood might have seemed insult in comparison, a prince living beneath a shamed prince consort, but he took comfort in the familiar furniture and faded tapestries.
He could have called Summer Castle's simpering servants or his own companions to attend him, but it rankled his pride. There was no damn time for soaking in a steaming bath to relieve leaden wings and aching shoulders. One quick scrub and shave later, he returned to his chambers to dress. By then his clothing had been delivered and arranged out on his bed.
His finest clothes of course blatantly proclaimed his allegiance. His tunic was fine red wool with intricate embroidery of cloth-of-silver, his boots red velvet. Around his shoulders he draped a heavy cloak of darker crimson to compensate for a lack of wings in this form. He pinned it in place with a heavy silver broach, a shimmering moonstone set at its center. He buckled a blade of the finest heart-steel to his belt. His crown was even more precious; star-steel, so precious only one of his station could wear it as ornamentation outside the raw necessity of battle.
Not that Caedmon was even capable of shifting in such heavy finery without shredding it to pieces. It was the show of it all the south delighted in.
Brede and Ciar awaited outside his door, smoothly falling in step a pace behind him. They had exchanged scales for breastplates of heart-steel. After all, the Long Night had passed and they dined in the halls of those both vassal and family. What use did his protectors have need for smoothly shifting into dragon-shape?
Though the main course had not yet been served the oaken dining table was laden with flutes of golden mead and starters long picked over by his family and their guests. Of course they were not alone. The lords and ladies of a dozen clans feasted with them. All were of course in human form in their richest finery. Even Summer Castle's grand hall could not accommodate over a dozen dragons.
The only dragon in the hall was not a guest at all, but one of the Manran clan. Her scales like polished amethysts, she hummed in time to two kinswomen. He dimly recognized them from a feast Uncle Berach had hosted in Home Castle last year. Their song was soft and sweet, praising the bounties of high summer and the Earth-Mother at her most generous. Most of the lords listened with half-lidded eyes, bathed in visions of hot summer sun and some pleasant breeze off from the north. Caedmon kept his mind closed off from it.
At his arrival the hall fell silent as the Manran bards retreated into the background. Mailin Maolchonaire, fili of Lady Soraid, instead rose from the table in robes of rich green.
"Hail, Prince Caedmon the Suntouched, shield of his people, blood of moon and iron!"
The lords and ladies took up his call, hall echoing with their thunderous harmony. Caedmon returned it with a silent nod, settling into the seat of honor.
Mailin opened heart and mind to sing as only a fili could. At last Caedmon lowered his own defenses to let the tale claim him. On a distant shore he knelt alongside Volsung of the knotty hill when he pledged allegiance to the Allfather and sailed alongside them, away from the wars in the west to their Isles of the east. The years flowed by like water, Volsung of the knotty hill holding the south steady against an endless flood of refugees and all that followed. Centuries flowed by like water. Siggeir of the Knoth, once suitor to Queen Lorelei, was her pillar in the south with the Lord Moon back in the sky and their daughter but a girl. He and Sigmund his heir were the first to lay their swords at Queen Amalia's feet. When Amalia demanded a Pact of Steel and Fang to bound two disparate races together for the mutual survival of their races against an endless night, Sigmund of the Knoth bowed where his sire did not, and so birthed their clan anew in the Banrigh's graces.
While every other head in the head swayed with the fili's song, lost in a past centuries dead, Caedmon could not be taken by the same thrall. With the hall preoccupied, he instead dug into courses to stave his starving belly. He cynically noted every instance of Knoth and Ruadhluan bound, no royal victory allowed without a strong south to bolster them.
He knew he and Amleth were a pact themselves made flesh just as everyone in the hall knew his... the Rider was not.
Mailin potentially had centuries left of boot-licking before straying into controversial recent history. With his hunger sated Caedmon's thin patience frayed further. Soraid was not blind to his tensing.
She calmly caught Mailin's eye. Without letting the order disturb his song he gracefully wove the ballad to a close.
One by one the audience rose from their stupors. Their sighs and pleased smiles were all the confirmation a fili of Mailin's standing needed of a song well-sung in heart and mind. A few languidly appraised the feast. The canny turned to their hostess.
Lady Soraid smiled serenely. "A fine conclusion to the evening, Mailin, that did the proud blood of my grandsons justice. How blessed are we that the blood of Triath Luan's heirs has been bolstered by earth and iron, to burn all the stronger in the nights to come."
Tension rippled through the hall as the lords and ladies took their leave, sparing only the bare minimum to hail their hostess and the royal guest of honor. Caedmon bore it with the stoicism drilled into him since boyhood.
To avoid gouging claws into the fine oak chair or distorting fine silverware, he kept his hands carefully folded on the table.
When the last of the crowd had gone Amleth's fine posture slackened with a sigh. He reached out for a bowl of grapes, the sweetest fruits of the south, and froze beneath their grandmother's warning blink. "Forgive me, grandmother. My appetite is still adjusting."
In human shape the great hall was cavernous. The dais on which they dined was his grandmother's throne in the shape of her birth. "We're all family, grandmother. Surely we can retire to somewhere more comfortable and free of... distractions?"
Loic opened his mouth to reply. His mother smoothly cut over him. "Dear Caedmon, I wish I could have been the grandmother you deserved, but certain pacts have made us born of different clans. No matter how much I wish we could lay our stations aside, we both know very well why I requested you here to my hall."
Caedmon scoffed. "Aye. You... requested me here."
Soraid could order around her son and Amleth to her heart's content unless one actually managed the balls to challenge her for the lordship. She could never, ever call him home like an errant child. For all the whispers of the Righ's infirmity that originated from her halls, she would never dare defy his claim on their oldest grandson.
"For a matter unfortunately political, for all it involves our family," Loic sighed.
"Must we continue to dance around the bastard Rider?" Amleth cut in.
"No," Caedmon said flatly. "It's out of my hands as well."
"You hold your grandfather's ear like no other," Soraid said gently. "Give yourself credit as a loyal and capable heir who wants only what is best for his people."
"The Righ brooks no sedition," he replied pointedly. "More importantly, even he does not have the final say on the Rider."
Following his lead, the Knoths glanced upward, the Lord Moon was but a sliver of crescent. Even the Righ could only make an adoption of a one-soul informally, until the the final judgement had been rendered. In two weeks, their problem could very well solve itself.
"He already has a wild female bonded to him," Amleth drawled. "What is to say he can't slither his way past the Lord Moon too?"
"The Righ's sentimentality jeopardizes the rights of your children so long as he lives!" Loic snarled. "Take a stand, before that bastard truly counts as kin!"
Caedmon's claws sunk into the table as he stood. Splinters flew when he ripped them out.
"Forgive me," he ground out. "The flight was wearying and I'm afraid I must retire for the night."
"Of course, dear grandson," Soraid murmured gently as she speared Loic with one dark eye. "May you have pleasant rest."
Caedmon slept like the dead.
Eragon woke up sweltering. He tried his best worming out of Saphira's wing, but she had tucked it too firmly. She grumbled sleepily as he pulled his way free.
Little one, it's far too fucking late for this.
Sorry, he murmured blearily back. Just hot.
The cool stone floor was a balm to his bare feet. Sweeter still was the cool night wind. Stepping fully out onto the balcony, he smiled as some of the heat dissipated into the salty air. Wiping the sweat from his head, he considered the moon, little more than a crescent.
Don't sleep out there, she grumbled. You'd catch a chill.
Eragon returned to bed, but not without first dumping his head into the basin in the washroom. The icy water shocked, but it at least washed the sweat from his hair and made him miss the heat of dragonfire. As an afterthought he rinsed his mouth out too. Whatever was in that goblet left an aftertaste that came back at the oddest hours.
Sighing in contentment, he settled back at Saphira's side, leaning against her wing rather than beneath it. The last thing his body needed was getting caught in the oven again.
He drifted peacefully off without noticing the she-dragon's eye slide open. Humans were such cool little creatures. Even a temperature slightly above normal put them in mortal peril. Beneath her own inner fire she did not know his pain beyond a discomfort now dissipated. The lingering flush to his skin might be leftover from a dunk in cold water, or...
Saphira inhaled deeply. She smelled no telltale trace of sickness.
Resting her head on her paws, she concentrated on his deep breathing, and tried to drift off too.
She could not explain the shiver down her spine, but felt it all the same.
The Knoths are less a clan now then they are as powerful as their king, if not more so, as they have invested and gathered strength while the royal domains have been bled white by the Serpents over the last few decades or so. The power-hungry matriarch is Soraid, her bitter son Loic Beline's jilted husband, and younger grandson Amleth, the wise-ass who might get it all if Caedmon dies without heirs of his own. The Loic-Beline marriage was a master stroke on Soraid's and a concession by the Righ that should have united his throne with the strongest power in the Islands, ensuring what should have been an alliance that lasted centuries.
Until Beline screwed up big. And then along came Eragon :D
This story has a fair amount of favs and follows. I appreciate every reader guys, because an excited audience makes me more excited to continue. Even taking a minute to review to let me know what parts you appreciated or some thoughts on the story, or even just that you liked it, means the world to a writer.