Eragon woke up late, mostly because Erna Suther and her maids invited themselves inside. Saphira growled, protectively placing herself between them. Erna only crossed her arms and stared firmly back. Beneath the firm gaze that must have quailed a dozen surly children into submission, the she-dragon hissed and sulked aside.

"Don't mind Saphira," Eragon rasped through a sore, aching throat. "She's never seen me sick before."

Durza nearly killed you! I certainly remember that!

That was the work of a Shade, Eragon told her privately. This is the work of an ordinary ailment.

Erna tutted, lifting a palm to his burning forehead. "A fever," she noted. "It will break on its own. We will handle the symptoms best we can. Perhaps with a tea to start with." Lillias dipped her head and bowed out.

"Should we inform Airmid?" another girl inquired quietly.

"No," Erna answered. "No need to bother the druid with something so... routine." Her honey gaze flicked to Eragon. "Airmid is... a healer, my prince. You know that word, yes?"

"Aye. Let's not bother her with something so trivial." The last thing Eragon needed was being poked and prodded at by a weredragon healer. It was an indignity he had escaped thus far. He rolled his stiff shoulders as he considered a necessary evil. "However, I could use another look the clothes already tailored for me."

Erna knowingly appraised the cuffs tight around his wrists, the hemline of a snug tunic barely touching his breeches. "Of course, my prince." She paused, before delicately stating, "Perhaps I should wait before taking new measurements. You might be only on the cusp of a growth spurt."

Eragon considered this. He was only sixteen. Roran and Uncle Garrow certainly showed how much growing might be left in him. Even Murtagh was proof a short stature had not been inherited from their gods damned father. Then he considered that the shortest of his serving girls looked him in the eye, and the tallest was above six feet. Oisin was at least six and a half.

"Humans do not grow so fast as daonna-arach," he pointed out ruefully. "I might gain only an inch at most."

Erna was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps you underestimate the strength of your blood, my prince," she murmured quietly.

"Perhaps," he allowed. Or perhaps I have nothing better to do than grow and grow madder penned up in this room.

Saphira hummed in agreement. A gilded cell was still a cell. Eragon had given up hope of a rescue ages ago. Even if the scrying enchantments had been stripped from him and Saphira, the weredragons had escaped discovery for untold millennia. Who knew what sort of magics they had to hide them away from the wider world.

Eragon reluctantly conceded to wearing one of the silver tunics unaltered for his size. It still draped over his wrists and its broad shoulders pooled loosely at his collar, but not to the degree it had near a month before.

Breakfast was a simple affair. Saphira wolfed down only some simple roast sheep. A dragon's stomach could not handle the rich foods men and weredragons alike bolted down on a daily basis. They had learned the hard way for her those were luxuries sparely cherished. Eragon picked at his own mash and sausages halfheartedly.

Funny, his stomach had seemed a bottomless pit. Now at the smell of food it roiled like the sea. He settled for sipping a tea that at least soothed his throat. The flavor was not bitter, but had the same spice weredragons seemed to favor in all their drinks.

Not that Oisin was content to let a simple sickness waste their lesson. Rider and dragon alike groaned at the sight of him.

"Do I have the permission to dismiss you for the day?" Eragon asked flatly.

Their tutor sighed. "Unfortunately not, my prince. My will is the Righ's."

I'm quite well, Master Oisin, Saphira offered in a reverent tone last used for Glaedr and Oromis. Eragon and I share a soul. Let me learn for the both of us today, so that I might pass on the knowledge in a manner easier for his aching head.

Oisin snorted a laugh. "Spare me the bullshit, child. Your prince and I have little need for it right now."

I'll always have time for your bullshit, Eragon sing-songed privately. He quirked at a grin at the she-dragon's indignant snort. Her brief annoyance was the first time in days she hadn't fussed over him like a mother hen. Aloud, he ventured, "This because we'll have tomorrow off anyway, aye?"

"Indeed, my prince," Oisin said, gold eyes blinking wide. "Tomorrow night is the Harvest Moon."

Eragon nodded, pleased at his deduction. Of course a people that dreaded the new moon reveled in the full moon. "Everyone is celebrating the harvest then?"

"All night long." Oisin's lips quirked in a wry smile. His pupils blinked, stunned at such levity from him. "Of course, most of us work the morning before. How blessed you are, my prince, for you and Saphira to be spared the whole day before one of the best nights of the year."

Saphira snorted. Aye, we shall drink ourselves silly in here.

The weredragon's expression shuttered somewhat, returning to careful neutrality. "The Harvest Moon is a holy night. The Righ wills you both to enjoy it as free souls, with the understanding such grace lasts only the Lord Moon's full light."

What a wonderful time to come down with a fever. "Is our lesson about the calendar then?"

"No, my prince." Oisin folded his hands carefully. "This will be our last lesson... until after the full moon. And you are unwell. These first weeks have been trying to get you and Saphir as close to fluency as I can. Now is your chance to ask me what you wish. Within reason. I am but the fili, something like a... po-et." The last was in the tongue of man, slowly sounded out. "I cannot presume to speak for those above me."

Eragon mulled it over. He was still curious about the story that ended unresolved, how a whole race had been borne from a single daughter of the Moon. But more practical matters and his own pounding headache made him bluntly ask, "Saphira and I are sorely missed back home. No one will ever find us, will they?"

"Far worse than those like you have sought our Isles," Oisin replied grimly. "Our Will is too strong. Sea and sky strike down our mortal foes. You know full well what we guard here."

Neither dared out their doubts on the weredragon religion. Oisin proudly ignored the guilty gap in Saphira's open thought process.

For half-dragons, all I seem to see are your human halves, Saphira said at last.

Oisin's gaze flickered down. "We are in close quarters, child, and most of those in here on a daily basis mere servants. It is not their place to show such strength to you or crowd your presence so."

Eragon bristled. "Being human doesn't make me a cripple, Oisin. I know what I am and what I'm not. Don't hide your true face on my account."

Something lurked behind amber eyes, before they narrowed. "This is my first face. I was humanborn."

Eragon's heart skipped. "How so?" he croaked.

"Humanborn or dragonborn," Oisin stated flatly. "A duine-arach can only be born one or the other. That does not make their second face any less true than their first. We are born duine-arach and die duine-arach."

They averted their gaze in guilty silence. All the more reason I'd like to see your other face, Saphira murmured at last.

The duine-arach sighed. "If you wish."

They pressed to the edge of the bed to grant him respectful distance, but even by dragon proportions their chambers were grand. Oisin effortlessly flowed from gaunt scholar into a dragon with a head and neck sleek as a greyhound's. His scales were dusty brown, marred by scars to show even poets of these Isles held their own. Eragon's breath hitched at the effortlessness of such a transformation.

"This is why Prince Caedmon was with us on the Long Night," he blurted out. "He couldn't transform, could he?"

"Prince Caedmon could not, my prince," Oisin agreed, the Word as natural in his dragon's maw as it was his man's. "He was at the end of his arachtide."

Eragon frowned at two words he had never heard strung together before. "His... dragon-time?"

"Yes," sighed the duine-arach. "Our greatest strength is at times our weakness. We have two souls and they are not always in harmony. Sometimes the fire burns too bright to be banked. At other the water near smothers it entirely."

Saphira snorted, eyes wide in horror. Is that what you consider sick?

Oisin shrugged. "It is simply how the daonna-arach are. Our hearts are ever in flux, for such is the way of life. As the tide flows one way so too must it ebb. Most of the time, our harmony is in our disharmony. Until the pendulum swings too far and we must for it to swing round again."

Eragon blinked. "How often is that?"

"Oh, only half a moon's turn, give or take a few hours. Then you get around six moons of peace until the other half takes its due." Oisin cocked his head thoughtfully, and added, "Of course, there are exceptions. Adolescence can be a rough decade or so. Expecting and nursing mothers are to be revered as all such givers of new life should. And never, ever provoked."

Saphira hummed in sympathy. By dragon standards she was already mature, well over a year old. When are daonna-arach fully grown?

Oisin considered this. "The dragon half takes longer to catch up to the human. Both have reached full size by thirty or so, if one does not count the odd inch one might pick up over the decades."

All the more reason to be grateful Eragon was three quarters human. More so, if one counted his grandmother's human half. He was only sixteen! He couldn't even imagine living near twice as long to finally escape adolescence.

"What happens on the Harvest Moon?" he asked instead, if only to change the subject.

"Drinking, dancing, revelry, everything and more one would expect of a Bright Night." Oisin growled, paw flicking away from himself as if to ward off evil. "This is the last full moon before the equinox, when the Sky-Father loses balance over the day. It's one last chance to celebrate summer and all its fruits, lest one should never come again."

Gods damned weredragons and their superstitions, Saphira muttered privately. Like I'd need such an excuse to drink myself dizzy one night a month.

Eragon fought hard to keep his face straight, so much so he nearly maced Oisin's tail twitch thoughtfully. "Perhaps there is a lesson I can teach you today," he mused slowly. "I can open my heart and mind, to show how to sing as a duine-arach should. I am the royal fili, after all. I cannot disservice my prince and his bonded by not showing them what their people are capable of."

"Aye," Eragon agreed. "Please do."

Eragon settled against Saphira's paws, his soul transported away from the aches of his body as Oisin carried them both to lofty heights. He sang the crisp air of the Harvest Moon, and the summer warmth of its bonfires, their sparks floating free to dance among the stars. He sang of the giddy rush of alcohol that pushed dragons to daring new heights and then made even the best of them stumbling idiots. He sang a feast of the earth's fruits, and made Eragon's mouth water longingly for dishes he had never tasted, smell a smoky headiness that made his soul drift for endless hours.

When Oisin subsided, and Eragon eased back into himself, the sun was low on the horizon. He grumpily wiped at the sweat clinging to his brow, for his tunic was already soaked through. Saphira rumbled in concern.

"I'm fine, Saphira," Eragon croaked, rasping against his sore throat. He downed the pitcher of water Oisin pushed his way, before their lunch had been delivered and left uneaten in their hours away. This is why one doesn't sit between dragons with a fever.

In moments, Oisin stood in his man shape, dipping his head in a bow. "I shall leave you to rest before Erna Suther comes in to attend to you. Rest well, my prince. You shall need it for tomorrow."

Eragon saw him off, before dragging himself into the bath. He submerged himself in steaming water. Aunt Marian had bundled him up when he sick to burn the fever out. Perhaps the same held true here. Saphira hovered over him. Eragon didn't have the heart to grumble he wasn't about to drown in a bathtub.

Beneath the Righ's silver fires even the strongest heart-steel should have melted. But the goblet was forged of star-steel, a gift of the heavens. It only blazed like a star in his flames, its runes shining white-hot.

Silver eyes bore into her soul. "It is done?"

Airmid bowed her head. "Aye, my Righ. The last night is up to him."

The Righ rumbled, turning to lick the bright red gash across his paw, to Will the wound shut himself. By morning there were not even be a scar left. This was not a mark to be borne with honor.

Airmid waited a few moments for the dangerous glow of the goblet to subside. She picked it up with scales and Will wreathing her hands, so the fire did not burn her too. She swallowed thickly as she sprinkled manbane to its contents, enough to poison a man or rouse even the most dormant dragon from its torpor.

Worse than the human poison was the goblet's contents; the Righ's literal claiming of his flesh and blood. His salty blood made earth and water, the heat of his flame fire and air. All four elements to claim a bastard great-grandchild no other could ever want.

The Righ did not Will the boy dead. He could have simply let those latent inner fires burn him from the inside out. It was his Will for Erna to do her damnedest to see the boy through his Lighting.

Let it not be said Airmid hadn't tried. Gormlaith, her mentor, was a century dead. Hers was the goblet, and hers the ritual that could see even a human changeling through the ritual.

Oisin Laoghaire stood as proof of that.

In the belly of Crown Castle, in quarters no noble ever dared if they could help it, a grizzled old guard took in the last contributions of a betting pool tasteless at best and outright treason at worst. Not that Agnar gave two fucks.

He bared his yellow fangs in a leer. "Well, captain? Have you finally come to make your bet?"

Brede slapped down her payment. "Five gold on the prince surviving. And... ten silver on blue." Beline and her mother had been such shades, once upon a time. Eragon had their eyes. Even Saphira was already blue, gods dammit. What other color could he possibly turn out to be?

Agnar whistled. "Quite a payout if he makes it."

She bared her teeth right back in a smile. "Of course he'll make it. He's not only a Ruadhluan, but my cousin to boot."

"What say you, Ciar?"

Ciar, the bastard, refused to change his original bet. Ten silver on the Lord Moon delivering a harsher judgement.

The kitchens fell into stunned silence as Oisin Laoghaire chose that next moment to stalk through. Brede's nose wrinkled at the sour stench of wine. Then every daonna-arach in the room fixated hungrily on him. No one knew Eragon like he did. His prediction might make or break every last bet made here tonight, and those yet to throw down their chance.

"Well, good fili?" Agnar called. "What song do you have for us?"

"No song. Not yet." Oisin's eyes blazed defiance as he set down his share. Even Brede, from a strong clan herself, gaped at the gold lay down. Even for a royal favorite that must have been well over a year's worth of income. "Only twenty gold on his survival."

"Mighty optimistic of you, Laoghaire."

Oisin shrugged. "I made it, didn't I? If not a lowly boy without a spark in his veins, why not a son whose blood sings of his heritage?"

Agnar frowned as he counted out the rest. "There's more than that here."

"Aye," Oisin drawled. "Or did you think neither set of parents taught me how to count?" More than one daonna-arach flinched. Usually the surviving changelings were not so... blatant in their origins. Brede held back her whistle at the balls the man grew when deep in his cups.

"We're betting on more than that, aren't we?"

"Oh, aye." The grizzled gatekeeper of the betting pool squinted in appraisal. "You'll be betting brown then, for the mud in the boy's blood? Considering... personal experience and all."

It was the favorite choice by far, above even 'flesh colored.' Because most daonna-arach had little imagination in their prejudice, save when the juicy odds of a dark horse proved too tempting to resist.

"What's the long shot?"

Agnar told him.

"Everything on that, then. The pure color."

Brede's jaw dropped. Ciar clamped down hard on his tongue, face swelling red as he near exploded on his laughter.

"W-W-Why?" a disbelieving spectator choked out at last.

Oisin smirked. "Because I want to roll in your gold, that's why. And because the little bastard will be everything and more that pisses you off, and that's the one color you'd all find more sacrilegious than white."

...My cover this story may not be the most accurate ; )

Every duine-arach has that special time of the year twice over - roughly two weeks stranded in dragon form, and then in human. The exceptions are adolescents and expecting and nursing mothers, because surging hormones are a bitch, folks.