Chapter Twenty Eight – Rebirth of the Varden

Harry had never thought of himself as a master negotiator. It had therefore given him great pause when Kingsley told him to go to Japan and prove that Voldemort had been defeated. He had argued at the time that, as the one to defeat Voldemort, he should stay behind and try to maintain order among the hordes of Death Eaters running rampant after their master's downfall. When Kingsley had explained how he would be a prime target and that his absence might cause them to falter, he relented and departed for the far east, resigned to his fate.

He had been unable to see the intricacies of the interim Minister's plan, which was profoundly disappointing, to say the least. The man knew that his presence would inspire more Death Eaters to panic, riot and paint an overly-large target on his back. They heralded him as the second coming of Merlin, or some such nonsense, and promptly wanted rid of him.

Today, in the depths of Du Weldenvarden, shadowy forest in the northernmost part of Alagaësia, he saw the work of a master planner for the umpteenth time since his departure of the Wizarding World. Brom was discussing their passage through the forest with a band of elves, who were determined that they proceed no further without direct confirmation from Ellesméra itself. He soon grew bored watching the group exchange heated points and shrugged at Murtagh, who raised his eyebrows with a glum expression on his face.

"These people live forever, yet they have the tact of a castrated aurochs," he said.

Harry stifled a laugh as he studied the faces around him. Elvenfolk typically bore regal expressions, with slanted eyes dominating their high cheekbones. They carried themselves with grace, wearing fine cloth and almost sparkling in the moonlight. This was a small outpost on the road to Ellesméra, yet it held the most elves he had seen in one place. Partially to keep his cover and to keep to his duties, he had refused himself entry to Ílea Fëon when the tours were taking place. It had been damnably difficult, but necessary. Now he couldn't wait to reach Ellesméra and explore.

It was difficult to tell if the elves were male or female, for all sported graceful inhibitions and long, flowing hair. Their skin was flawless, pale as the crescent moon above, and their eyes seemed to sparkle through the darkness. He felt as though this was the stuff of fairytales, despite having seen other fantastic creatures before now. The dwarves were an example, though they couldn't match the beauty these people seemed to radiate from every fibre of their being.

Despite his observations, he was wary. Many would be enthralled by the prospect of such beings, but Harry was more cautious than anything. He was used to flaws, be they in those around him or himself. Being flawed was natural. To come face to face with a race that appeared to have none – at least physically – was more disturbing than anything.

"Maybe you're being a little harsh," he said to Murtagh. "After all, we are trying to gain access to their home and have several thousand people in tow."

"Maybe," Murtagh said, "but if they won't trust Brom and Arya, who will they trust?"

Harry took that point with good grace. His eyes found the elven princess, who stood arguing with the guards at Brom's side. While initially they had been delighted to see her, indeed, even singing and dancing with joy, they became quite worried when she mentioned their urgent need to relocate so many people.

"This is insane," Harry said to Murtagh. "We're Riders and we can't even tell them."

"I don't blame them," Aru said, joining them. "And Saphira doesn't either."

"Don't speak for me, hatchling," the elder dragon scolded.

"You're very on-edge," Harry noted.

"I miss Eragon," she admitted, before retreating from the contact. Harry watched her fly overhead with a pang of sympathy. That was the other sticking point. The elves were demanding to know who the Riders were before allowing them entry, something which Brom was vehemently refusing.

"Harry! We need you up here," Brom shouted back.

Harry nodded in affirmation and rode over to their side, Godric beneath him. He stopped the horse beside Brom's and waited. The elves stared at him. With a jolt, he remembered his manners and made the appropriate greetings in the Ancient Language.

"A magician, this one?" asked one of the elves, a man, it transpired. He had silvery flowing hair and suspicious eyes. "And yet, one so young... what position could he hold, I wonder?"

"Wonder all you wish," Brom said, before Harry could reply. "I have the utmost faith in Harry's abilities and will personally vouch for his leadership credentials."

Harry exchanged a sideways glance with Arya, as she looked at him with worry. He made a questioning expression with his eyes, but she looked away without reply.

"Enough," the elf said, raising a hand. "This bickering is pointless and will get you nowhere. You have our terms, so kindly consider them before answering."

"Terms?" Harry asked.

Brom cleared his throat to indicate Harry wouldn't like the answer. He braced himself for the worst. "They... request..."

Meaning 'demand'.

"...that we submit all of our magicians to a mind-reading before being allowed to continue, so that they can determine the identity of the Riders."

Harry's anger flared. "Riders, plural?" he asked.

Brom gave him a look of sympathy. "I had to tell them something of value, so now they know there are two among us."

Harry didn't miss his tricky speech and grinned inwardly. He hadn't told them about the third egg quite yet. Well, he was more than happy to play along. He didn't trust these people, rather like the dwarves after first arriving in Tronjheim, so they would get nothing he didn't volunteer. That meant he would be adapting Murtagh's ethos, which was certainly the right choice under any circumstances.

"Very well," Harry said to Brom, nodding in acceptance. "What are our other options?"

"Must there be another option?" the lead elf asked. "Surely you can understand our delicate position in this matter. We hardly think it appropriate for Dragon Riders to walk into our fair city without warning. All of us have known the horrors of Galbatorix."

"I don't accept that reading the mind of each of my magicians is necessary," Harry said firmly.

"Your magicians?" the elf asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm the leader of Du Vrangr Gata, which is why I'm here to help negotiate," he said.

"I... see," the elf said slowly, intertwining his fingers absent-mindedly. He looked at the treetops, as though deep in thought, before turning back to them with a nod. "I have just received word that you are allowed to proceed, although your trek is not completed yet. It will take you several days to reach the city, even with our help."

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise, but gave a courteous bow nonetheless. Brom mirrored his reaction, while Arya pursed her lips and appeared pensive. Casting her another glance, Harry returned to his position in the column alongside Murtagh.

"Is it just me, or did that come out of nowhere?" Harry asked. He received an agreeing tone from the other three he was linked with.

"Keep your eye on him," Aru advised.

"You're funny."

"I do my best."

"Where did Jörmundur get to?" Harry asked aloud with a frown, noting the man's absence.

"Something about an emergency meeting with Orik," Murtagh replied. "The dwarves are more unnerved by this place than they thought beforehand."

"They had better get used to it," Harry scoffed, "especially if Hrothgar delivers on his promise to move the dwarven nation."

"I've been thinking about that," Murtagh said nervously, as Brom gave the order for the convoy to continue moving. They both took off at a leisurely trot through the opening in the trees before them. The horses seemed reinvigorated by this place somehow. "How will he manage the task? At this rate he's going to arrive too late. I think he should have left when we did."

"Oh, I agree," Harry nodded, "but we'll just have to trust him to do the right thing. If we lose this war and he doesn't take part, the next place Galbatorix will march is the Beor Mountains."

Harry saw the elves give him peculiar glances as he passed and felt his nerves flare up a touch. Aru was with Angela, as per usual, along with Thorn and Solembum. No one would know he was shackled to Harry without reading his mind, which was why he had refuted the demand. Murtagh would never consent either; although he might escape by saying he wasn't a magician. He had only started to be trained in secret by Brom.

Nonetheless, Harry kept his mental barriers readied for any potential assault as they rode, but he didn't really expect any to come. Surely the elves wouldn't risk a diplomatic incident with their only real allies in the world, especially not when the current situation was as hectic as it was. If they offended the Riders... well, it was their lives on the line as well as those of humankind. And even if they were immortal, elves could certainly be killed. Arya had told him as much in a sorrowful tone.

Twisting awkwardly as he tried to feel more comfortable, Harry became increasingly aware of the mental network this forest seemed to have erected. It was as though the trees were one, hearts and minds burning together, until only a single entity remained, casting its imposing shadow over all who dared set foot beneath its vast canopy. There was an enormous amount of energy to be had from trees like this, and that caused him to start thinking. Energy couldn't be created or destroyed – it could only change its form.

Physics 101, taught by Hermione Granger, Harry thought. But what am I getting at?

Then he realised.

"Oh. Crap."

Eragon was sweating. His movements were erratic and his footing was unsure, and it was starting to get to him. He continued to scrape along, quite literally, as branches and leaves tore at his arms and face until he was lined with a series of sharp cuts. He didn't think he had ever sworn quite as much as in the past hour and a half.

"Damn! We must. Be. Nearly. Through!" Roran exclaimed, as he broke an enormous relay of branches in half, allowing Horst and the others to move unimpeded. This was their way. The two were still scouting ahead, always in eyeshot, part of their job being to clear a path.

"I think I've got it!" Eragon shouted back, as he forced his way through a thick web of stumps. Mercifully, the path opened, and he could even see a touch of daylight up above. He arched his back and sighed with contention, but that was quickly replaced with shock as something came bounding towards him. With a start, he turned, finding that several of the remaining goats were charging through the undergrowth, heading straight for him. He dived out of the way as they continued to run, full pelt, swearing as he did so.

"Quick! Don't let them get away!" Horst shouted, appearing beside him, panting.

Eragon groaned and reluctantly reached for his power.

"Letta!"

The animals halted mid-run, frantically braying and desperately trying to move their scrabbling legs. In annoyance, Eragon hoisted them about a foot in the air, but the only result was for the livestock to go absolutely ballistic. They began to cry aloud in fear and confusion, until his head was pounding. His patience was short.

"Quimby!" he roared, "get the hell up here and tie them together!"

The man came running up with several lengths of rope. Gulping as he saw the magician's power at play, he slowly began to tie their legs together, until Eragon began to stomp his foot in frustration and he redoubled his pace. After a few minutes, each of them were unable to move, and several of the men carried them back to the formation over their backs.

"What just happened?" Eragon demanded, whirling around with a face like thunder.

Morn, the innkeeper, raising his hands. "Hey, don't blame me! I have no idea!"

"The sodding tree fell!" Delwin, the lead farmer, exclaimed. "The noise startled them and they ran off! It's to be expected!"

"Keep them closer next time!" Eragon ordered. "I don't want to be gored in the back because you can't keep your flock intact!"

Delwin spluttered, but knew the Rider was much stronger than he was and settled for storming off.

"Eragon..."

"What?!" Eragon demanded, before realising it was his cousin. He sighed and folded his arms. "I'm sorry. You would only understand if you were a Rider, Roran."

"Your bond with Saphira?"

Eragon nodded. "It gets worse every day. I hope we can end this feckless trek soon. Come, let's keep going. Maybe moving will keep me occupied..."

Roran acknowledged his will to move with a pat on the shoulder and a nod. His cousin had no more to say on the matter and promptly pushed forward, leaving him to signal the townspeople before following.

Suddenly, his eye was caught by a mysterious shimmering, a tendril of golden light that seemed to emanate from nearby. Roran turned with a frown, but that was quickly replaced by a look of pure shock.

"Eragon, look!"

Eragon followed his cousin's gaze, and what he saw almost made him sag with relief. There they stood, a pair of tall and proper clandestine figures, bathed in the light that they seemed to emanate from their very being.

"Rider Eragon, you will come with us."

Eragon nodded. It had taken them bloody long enough!

"So, you're telling me you'll be able to draw back your own power from non-organic forms of energy, like fire?" Brom asked with severe scepticism.

"Exactly," Harry said, "but it's much more than just that. Science dictates that when a force is spent, the energy used is dispersed in a number of ways. For example, if I cast a spell to summon fire, the energy will feed the flames. But rather than simply disappear or be returned back to me, it'll dissipate in the forms of light, heat and even sound energy – the crackling of the flames, that is.

"It's actually very wasteful, because energy that could be used to serve the purpose of the spell is stolen away and the magic's full potential is negated. But that problem is virtually unsolvable because you can't change the laws of fire. However, what we can do, I hope, is call the energy back to us that's wasted, and have it ready to be used again."

"Hmm," Brom said with interest. "It sounds very peculiar to me. I can't recall ever hearing of this in elven history texts, or in my own training. But there seems to be a huge drawback. In order to gather the energy back, won't we have to cast another spell and spend more energy for our troubles?"

"I'm hoping it'll be a passive effect if all goes well," Harry said, spreading his arms, "but I really don't know."

"You don't?"

"Of course not. You just said you've never heard of this before. How would I know the finer details on a whim?"

"Okay, I'll grant you that," the old storyteller said. "But, suppose this works... what advantage do you think it would give us?"

"Ah," Harry smiled, raising a forefinger. "Therein lays the best part. If I'm right, only don't quote me on this, there might be a chance we can not only call back part of our energy, but also draw power directly from other elements like the wind, which is obviously ubiquitous throughout the world. At worst, this would allow us to preserve a small portion of energy in casting spells. But at best... you're talking a near-limitless source of power, just waiting to be used. If there was enough, the king himself could be under threat."

Brom's eyes widened. He was thoroughly impressed with this ploy. Happily, he poured two goblets of wine and gave one to Harry, who smiled and drank deeply. They were in the command tent, as one might expect, the canopy strewn beneath the massive trunks of Elvish trees. The night was dark and peaceful, but tomorrow would be an exciting day, as they were expected to reach Ellesméra late in the afternoon.

For now, Murtagh was conducting the simple exercises Brom had forced Eragon to go through in an effort to become acquainted with magic. Meanwhile, the rest of the warriors were resting, including the likes of high-ranking officers like Jörmundur. It appeared the forest gave a feeling of security, as many of those present slept better than they had done for many a moon, with the two current magicians seemingly the only ones still awake.

"A substantial advantage, then," Brom remarked. "If nothing else it could deter countless other foes. But wait until you meet your tutor before attempting to accomplish this, Harry. He once told me it was impossible to draw energy from the non-biological world because there is no life force present to support the foundation of the Ancient power."

"He probably has a point," Harry admitted. "I had some difficulty when I first tried earlier. I could feel the energy in the air around me, but I couldn't shape it. Power taken from wildlife is already moulded as it's needed to preserve life, correct?"

Brom nodded.

"Well, that's the difference. The energy in the wind and other elements is wild and untamed. It has no form and bears a will of its own. If there was some type of conduit..."

"Could you even contain so much power?" Brom asked. "I've taught you that the human body has a limit. Obviously we grow overtime, but surpassing those limitations so absent-mindedly would be prohibitively... dangerous."

"Meaning the sheer force could overwhelm and kill the caster," Harry said, "I know. It's not a risk I'm taking lightly."

"It doesn't have to be you," the old man pointed out.

"I have an advantage no other magician does."

"Dual magical cores?"

Harry sighed and looked around for a seat. When he found it, he plopped himself down and crossed his arms. His foot was jittering nervously.

"I'm not even sure you can call it that. Ack, this has been driving me mad for months now! Theoretically, anyone can become a magician at birth. It's the process of genes developing. But wizards control their power using a wand. For that reason it can be assumed Latin spells draw on the wand's core."

Brom caught his expression. "...but?"

Harry grimaced and summoned the wine bottle with a snap of his fingers, before pouring himself a second. "But you can see for yourself. Wandless magic is possible too. The only explanation I have is that the wand is a conduit itself, which harnesses magical ability intoned in the witch or wizard's body. Not the core. That also explains why so many find it so difficult to cast without a wand. It regulates our power, allows us to control it, literally, with the flick of a wrist."

"I don't see your confusion," Brom admitted. "It seems to me your assumption is correct. You have dual magical cores inside your body and the wand was only a regulator. What's the problem?"

"The problem is my energy output, if that makes sense. On the one hand, I won't be easily exhausted by casting Latin spells. But on the other, it will happen overtime. I can't work out the formula, if there is one. Why does the Ancient Language require direct energy output on a much greater level than Latin magic? How much can I cast in comparison to the other? It's maddening!"

"Peace," Brom said, raising a hand gently. "At the very least, you'll finally be able to rest and then experiment once we reach Ellesméra."

Harry nodded in resignation. "That's true. I do have a theory, however."

"Oh? Do tell," Brom said with interest. Harry's intelligence continued to impress him. This could be considered groundbreaking.

Harry took a drink to clear his throat. "It's simple, really. Sort of. Problem is I can't prove it. It's obvious that witches and wizards are born with a magical core, if this theory is correct. Whether that means we could all learn the Ancient Language or that I'm merely an exception, I don't know. Like I said, genes and all that."

Brom nodded, not entirely knowing what he meant by 'genes'. He would get the full story later.

Harry continued, "what I'm guessing is that a Latin core has its size and capacity set at birth. Yes, wizards inherently grow more powerful with learning, but that could just be the magic within us reaching its full potential. I think there's a limit, a barrier that can't be surpassed, which is unchangeable from the moment we're born.

"But here's the trick. If my hunch is correct, this core provides us with the strength for casting spells and is drained in lieu of sapping our own energy, as the Ancient Language would. If I don't drain that core, it won't exhaust me," he said, spreading his arms. "Simple."

"But you have been exhausted from prolonged casting," Brom pointed out.

"Yes, and while I don't doubt it's possible to die from the effect, I'm assuming that doesn't happen until after my core is drained. In other words, once the pre-existing core is temporarily depleted, my spells start to draw energy directly from my body. It just takes a while to get to that stage."

"Ah, I see... interesting. Very interesting," Brom mused, stroking his beard. "Simply put, your core is drained, not your active reserves of energy."

Harry scoffed. "Know what the worst part is? This is probably something I would have been taught in a heartbeat if I'd continued with my education. There's probably a simple explanation that I'm overlooking, so it's as if I'm starting the research from scratch."

"Be that as it may," Brom said, stretching, "I think you might be on the right track. Just keep up the good work. You're the only source of knowledge about this power that we have."

"No need to remind me of that," Harry said quietly, looking at his feet. Brom didn't notice or hear him.

"Any word from Eragon?"

"Not since they made contact three days ago," Harry said, looking back and finding his voice again. "He said the elves were going to hurry him along and then escort the townspeople at a more relaxed pace. They have young children and elderly folk."

"I remember," Brom said, frowning thoughtfully as he thought of those days, hiding among the regular people of Carvahall. There were no great troubles then, save the ones in his mind. There was only peace and quiet, but for the occasional ruckus. Then Harry had come along, together with Saphira's egg, and... well, here they were. The rest was history.

"Brom," Harry began, "what... can you tell me about what we're walking into?"

Brom raised his eyebrows and looked back. He started pacing the room, hands behind his back. Surprisingly, Harry found himself on his feet too, arms folded as he studied the old man. Brom had borne a troubled expression for days now, one which seemed to worsen as they neared their destination. Harry didn't know what secrets he was hiding, but was aware they would probably come tumbling out in the days and weeks to come. He needed to be ready.

"I won't lie to you, Harry, it's a political maelstrom. The elves knew about the remaining dragon eggs, so when they hear that all three were hatched to humankind they'll be most displeased."

"Why? Are they so fickle? Don't they realise we're all in this together?" Harry growled.

"Of course they do, but elves are proud creatures, stubborn like dwarves and more headstrong than men. The idea of placing their hopes for the future entirely on our shoulders is anathema to their race, and many will act accordingly. Expect some frostiness and even borderline hostility."

"Great. Can we break the cycle?"

"Probably not."

Harry shrugged, completely unsurprised. "Then we'll just have to kill the king quickly and prove we're worthy."

"Worthy," Brom snorted. "That would place you on a pedestal above even Vrael. For now, you should focus on showcasing your talents, but avoid using your own magic as a precaution."

Harry nodded, "I understand that."

"Of course you do," Brom said quietly. "I've come to expect great things from you, Eragon and Murtagh. And now it's time for you to deliver, lest we all be destroyed."

Harry knew they had delivered time and time again already, yet... it wasn't enough. With a touch of foreboding, he wondered if his work would ever be truly over. He thought so after defeating Voldemort, but look how that had turned out. Now he was back in charge of a group of magicians, struggling against a much superior foe in a sustained war effort, unlike that of home. There it was run and hide, whereas here it was rebel openly. So he had both authority and power, not for the first time. And that was doubled with his becoming a Rider.

Perhaps he was truly doomed to live an immortal lifetime of violence and war.

He didn't have time to mull things over, however. The Supersensory Charm gave him first warning, followed by a non-verbal warning issued by one of his magicians.

"Harry, there are elves here. And they're headed straight for you."

Ellesméra, home of elven-kind in Alagaësia, had stood for millennia. The city was deep within the heart of the fabled woods of Du Weldenvarden, and bore many protective wards and enchantments, making the exact location nigh impossible to plot on any map or tome. In fact, so old was the city that scarcely any remaining elves remembered its original conception, with the notable exceptions of Oromis Thrándurin, Rhunön the Smith and Gilderien the Wise.

The elves sang to the trees and surrounding vegetation in order to grow the flora to their own liking. This caused no natural damage, actually nurturing the plants in the long run, and was how the fair folk built their own homes. Everywhere one looked, reasonably-sized alcoves and door-like shapes were embroidered within the canopies of great oaks and the bark of huge ash trees. But the inhabitants had gone further than that, using their magic to craft splendid shapes into the trunks at will. The end result was a series of towering trees fit with doors, windows and decorative patterns of virtually all imaginative shapes.

Sturdy bridges that naturally sprouted from the sides of these homes connected the elves to one another, giving off an impression of one massive, inter-connected hive of activity. Nowhere was secluded, allowing the elves to partake in their custom of daily socialising at will, although those who wished privacy for reflection or medication were, of course, granted it without a second thought.

The size of the trees was no mere coincidence. The nearer one got to the wooden city, the larger they became, an overtime effect of elven magic that few ever lived to see. Du Weldenvarden was famed for its thick atmosphere, with so little light existing that the meekest rainfall would send the entire forest into pits of near unfathomable shadow. As such, this became more pronounced the farther one delved into its lurking depths, meaning that the black of night around Ellesméra was truly suffocating, although to those with elven vision it bore no harm. But even so, the elves had taken it upon themselves to construct towering bowers of lanterns disguised as galls. With the inclusion of decorative moss and lichen snaking around the various buildings, not to mention webbed plaits of wood assuming the role of rooftops, the effect was complete. The surrounding area was masked by a sparkling hue, as the elves had attached shining gems the colour of emeralds into the framework of their graceful city, allowing it to blend perfectly with the surrounding forest.

It was impossible to tell the difference between nature and nurture, which was what Garmkyn loved about the home of the elves. Rather than construct their own buildings of stone and metal, they had accepted the world for its naturalness and instead chosen to become one with that nature.

Garmkyn sat on the Crags of Tel'naeír, the rocky bluffs above Ellesméra, sipping a cup of steaming nettle tea. He was used to the blissfulness of the city, to such an extent that he had almost forgotten a lifetime of pain and misery. Perhaps it was for the best. When he had first come here, many moons ago, he was lost and pained, guided by dreams and a voice in his head. Now he was one of the occupants of the amazing city, and found its splendour unmatched by anything he had ever seen. He was happy at long last.

He looked up as Oromis reappeared from his simple home with two wooden platters of fruit. There were more than a dozen kinds, giving plenty of choice. Even after all this time he missed the taste of meat, but he had to admit this was a far more luxurious and simple lifestyle. And the diet was certainly healthier than what he was accustomed to. The people of Ellesméra were visibly dismayed when he wandered into their city, a day off starvation. He had survived the arduous trek through the forest due to his peculiar talent – even among the elves, it transpired – and by sucking the moisture from holes in the tree trunks. He couldn't use magic to create his own food, unfortunately, but it certainly helped with preparation.

"Thank you," he said with a smile, as the elder handed him the food.

Oromis nodded pleasantly and gracefully sat in the chair beside him, reaching for his own cup of hot beverage. They made small talk around the meal, discussing the upcoming Blood-Oath Celebration, what it would entail, and how recent events might affect the centennial ceremony. From there the discussion naturally turned to darker matters, which Oromis was rather reluctant to discuss. It was a beautiful evening, after all. He didn't like to mire such views with talk of evil.

And indeed, the view was awe-inspiring. The forest was visible until it met the horizon, resulting in a sea of ethereal swaying amongst the wind. The city itself was notably beautiful from this height, but perhaps the single most impressive part was the emptiness. The air felt calm and fresh, as though it were unbothered by the mires of the world beneath it, and Garmkyn was only too happy to indulge in such a pleasant atmosphere.

Though now it was tainted by talk of war.

"What does Surda's fall mean for the elves here?" he asked in genial tones, after a sip of tea. It was sweet, but not sickeningly so.

"Hmm," Oromis brooded, gazing calmly into the distance. "For the moment, very little. But I fear for any in Galbatorix's path. If his reach were ever to extend here, the time of the elves would come and go in but a heartbeat."

Garmkyn was silent for but a moment. "You sound... speculative."

Oromis raised an eyebrow with a lopsided smile of wit forming on his face. "And so I am, my friend. It does not do well to be a pessimist, yet that is the most likely outcome. I speculate because I seek other answers, though my mind is unable to find any."

More silence, framed by gentle eating and drinking. Garmkyn was particularly fond of the strawberries and orange slices. "Perhaps the best is yet to come."

"Ah, now you sound like one of us," Oromis said with a smile. "We always look to the future, as you know. But you should remember, Garmkyn, we have little of the past to inspire our thoughts of what is yet to come. The 'best' refers to a belief that only one man will be killed in the inevitable war. But that thought has come and been undone. Thousands lay slain, many by his own hand."

"And half of our allies have been sundered," Garmkyn said quietly, the smile slipping from his face. "I see why you're so worried."

"I'm in something of a good mood today, actually," Oromis said knowingly.

"Oh?" came the reply, with a raised eyebrow. "And what miracle has brought this change upon us?"

"Your wit is shallow, bearded one," Oromis said, though with good humour. "It so happens that our fortunes may yet change for the better once the day is up. The queen is expecting guests, very special guests indeed."

"The Riders have finally arrived?" Garmkyn asked, to which Oromis nodded happily.

"Our work will soon be cut out for us. Taking on one pupil can be strenuous. Thanks to a warning sent by Brom only days ago, I can expect no fewer than three. So I will need all the help I can get."

"And that's where I come in?"

"Indeed," Oromis said, taking a deep breath. "In fact, I daresay you'll find a particular interest in these Riders and what they have to teach you."

"Hmm," he said, an amused breath. "I get it now. You want me to teach them because I can-"

He was interrupted by a guttural roar, as the gigantic Glaedr rose from the abyss to soar above their heads. His golden frame cast a shadow upon the entire crag, and the beating of his wings fanned the blades of grass like a mighty wind. He landed behind the pair with a mighty thump, taking care not to put weight on his damaged limb.

"Good evening," he said, voice resounding in their heads with a deep boom. It had taken weeks for him to trust Garmkyn, but now he extended the courtesy of communication freely to his Rider's newest friend.

"Good evening," they replied together.

Glaedr shifted suddenly, seeming to claw at the ground beneath him. Finally he settled in a certain position and rested his head on the soft dirt, humped like a golden mountain. He had just returned from hunting, and thought a quick nap was in order.

"Don't get too comfortable," Oromis warned him. "We have to leave in half an hour to greet our new students."

"I thought the plan was for them to recuperate first?" Garmkyn asked.

Oromis shook his head. "Unfortunately not. That is no longer possible. Our time will be extremely limited, even more so than I feared. They must begin immediately. It's a good thing Brom will be here to aid us as well. Three teachers are better than two."

"Ahem."

"Four," Oromis said, rolling his eyes. That was a habit he had picked up since Garmkyn's arrival, courtesy of his wry humour. "In any case, don't slack off from what I've taught you, Garmkyn. Now more than ever, it is needed."

"Please stop calling me that," Garmkyn practically begged. "It's fine for those stoic bastards in the city, but you call me by my real name. Please."

"I did, until you started calling me 'Old One'," Oromis smiled.

"When have I ever called you that?"

"Rhunön is a good friend, as you know."

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted her."

Oromis stiffened then, as the queen contacted him in his mind. He gave a small nod and quickly arose. "I believe our time of leisure is up, my friends. Up, both of you. And let us take the first step on a new path towards peace."

Glaedr grumbled, but opened his eyes and reluctantly got to his feet. He waited for both of them to mount, before taking off and soaring towards the city. Garmkyn loved flying. Dragonback truly beat every other method of travel he had ever known, as you could easily get lost in the sky's wonder and never wish to land again. It took but a few minutes to traverse the four mile distance to the city, which was ever present in eyesight. Once there, Glaedr descended and stood stationary atop the knoll on which the queen's delegation was gathered.

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Shur'tugal," Islanzadí said in Ancient. "I have not even had time to meet these younglings myself, and they are certainly weary. Cannot we at least feast their arrival before you begin training them?"

"It's simply not possible," Oromis said with a shake of his head. "Your grace, you have the authority to overrule me, but I beg you to see reason. Our time is so short that I fear I can even teach the Riders barely half of what they will need to know before the king attacks."

"So be it," the queen sighed. "I only wish you had told me of their existence before this day past."

"I told you nothing you should not have known through scrying the land, as is your duty," Oromis said with a sad smile. "If you had done that you would also have known of Arya's safety."

"I am... diminished," she whispered, to herself more than anything. Oromis rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The group waited for the best part of half an hour then, until finally, hope was sewn in the ancient Rider's eyes. At first her – for Glaedr knew the dragon to be female on sight – scales gave the impression of the sky collapsing, but then he realised she was sapphire-hued, a beautiful colour for any being, especially a dragon. Alongside the youngling walked her Rider. He was a young man, maybe still eighteen, with curls of brown hair and a face only beginning to take on the appearance of the elves. His mouth dropped in awe at the sight before him, and his gaze flickered from his own dragon to that of Oromis'.

"Eragon Shadeslayer, your majesty," announced Narí, the silver-haired guide who had escorted the young Rider for several days now. They had moved at breakneck speed, fuelled by the power of magic and hidden shortcuts within the trees known only to elven-kind.

Cautiously, Eragon made the appropriate greetings to both Oromis and the queen, though his eyes never left the golden dragon before him. He didn't even bother to refute the title. Oromis announced himself, and Eragon immediately bowed respectfully, until the elf used a hand to gently lift his head.

"Do not trouble yourself, as you are weary and in need of rest," Oromis smiled. "I am sorry we cannot properly celebrate your arrival, but there are several platters of food and water on the table nearby. We will wait for your friends, for they are not far behind, and then make our way."

He didn't say to where, but Eragon understood Oromis meant 'to begin their training'. He was surprised Harry and the others were so close behind, but then again, did the elves even believe in coincidences? Saphira was only with him because she had flown ahead of the group after detecting his presence and failing to overcome an urge to see him. She had gained some time on the others, and Brom would probably be furious. But she didn't care. She was only happy to be with the partner of her heart again.

They walked off to where Oromis had pointed, finding fruit, bread and vegetables in plentiful amounts, though no meat. Not one to complain, he began eating small amounts, careful not to act like a savage. Saphira was offered the chance to hunt nearby, but decided to stay and wait for the others. Eragon's heart pounded against his chest relentlessly.

Another Rider! He couldn't believe it! Just wait until Harry and Murtagh got there!

There was so much to see, in fact. Murtagh's dragon, the captured prisoner, his cousin again when the townspeople reached the city with their elven guard in a few days' time... he stood there with bated breath, and dared to dream. Hoped to hope.

And they waited.

Garmkyn was fidgeting awkwardly, until Oromis looked at him questioningly. "Apologies, I need to use the privy. Back in a minute." He sidled off to the designated area nearby, out of sight.

"Looks like that one is on-edge," Eragon remarked.

Saphira grunted in amusement. "He isn't an elf, for sure. But that's another question that we must wait to have answered."

"Hmm... I wonder who he is, then," Eragon mused, frowning thoughtfully. "Ah! Looks like he's missed the party, anyway!"

Harry was tired. He was sleep-deprived, and he was hungry. So when he first saw the city in the trees he could have sworn his mind was making out shapes in the forest that were not really there, at least until Brom had told him otherwise. The elves had chosen a very inconvenient time to whisk away the two of them, along with Murtagh and both dragons. They had provided a large contingent force of guides and warriors to protect the convoy from then onwards, and Jörmundur offered to take charge of the proceedings for the time being. Trianna had been upset at his leaving, but hadn't complained. She knew it was necessary and would take command of Du Vrangr Gata in his absence.

So, when he took all that in mind, it was fairly reasonable that he was exhausted. Several days of relentless travel would do that to a person. Now, when he saw the golden dragon standing at the edge of the cliff, easily five times larger than Saphira, he honestly thought he was hallucinating. He used magic to perk himself up again, and was shocked when the illusion didn't vanish. In fact, he was so dismayed, he didn't notice when they had stopped walking and had to be forcibly nudged by Brom before remembering the respectful elven greeting.

"Harry, Murtagh!"

Harry looked around at the sound of Eragon's voice after rising his head, finding both he and Saphira standing at the side of the cliff, previously unnoticed. Breaking formalities, he grinned and waved. Murtagh tried to stumble a greeting through a massive yawn, but it was indecipherable. The dragons broke character entirely and ran over to play with their elder, causing Saphira to bat her paw at them in mock-annoyance.

"Alright, mate? Have a pleasant journey?" Harry shouted.

"Oh, hells," Brom growled, yanking his arm down and elbowing Murtagh in the stomach. "Try to remember where you are."

Oromis was smiling, however. "Brom. It's good to see you again."

"Master," the old man replied, twisting his fist over his sternum.

"Not anymore," Oromis said, waving a hand. "Call me by my name and I shall do the same. And please, allow the three a moment to eat their fill. Help yourselves to whatever is there," he said directly to Murtagh and Harry, both of whom nodded somewhat awkwardly, before stumbling over.

Harry halted after a second, however. "Oh, before that, I have a status update due from Trianna."

"For pity's sake, let it lie for an hour," Brom said.

"No, I'd rather do it now," Harry said with a shake of his head.

"Any chance to hear from your better half," Brom muttered, while Oromis listened with interest.

The queen had been silent since the Riders had appeared, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing. Three Riders and their dragons, though two were tiny in their own right. But she blanched visibly when Harry called out the word 'creature' and a small, impish being dressed in rags appeared with a visible pop, bowing deep towards the young, raven-haired man.

"Master calls Kreacher?" Kreacher asked in his deep voice.

Glaedr gave a warning growl to the unusual creature, but Kreacher merely regarded him with a bored stare before being drawn back by Harry's reply.

"Yes, and I'm glad to see you're feeling better. What has Trianna got for me?"

"Mistress Trianna reports steady progress and no unusual activities. And on a personal level she demands your presence immediately when she reaches the city."

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked with alarm.

"No, master, she wishes "to tear the clothes off of you for leaving her" and to "give you a reason to never leave again."

Harry gulped, fully aware that he was in the presence of royalty. However, Oromis was chuckling, so he took that as a good sign. The queen appeared utterly transfixed by the house elf, and simply stared at it, unabashed. But Brom had heard enough.

"Okay, send that bloody thing away already. We have work to do."

Harry sighed. Kreacher was getting better with people, but that would cause an inevitable setback. "Kreacher, tell Trianna I received her report and that we've arrived safely. I'll see her in a few days, if all goes well."

"Kreacher will tell her, master. Kreacher will say master, the bastard and the old codger have all arrived safely."

"What did it say?" Brom demanded, but Kreacher disapparated with a click and Harry had to choke himself to stop his laugh. "I'm getting sick of that thing," Brom growled.

"His name is Kreacher, old man. Try to remember that, because he's a friend of mine."

Oromis raised his eyebrows in amusement at the bantering back and forth. It seemed... natural.

"He might be a friend of yours, but he wouldn't give me the time of day," Brom muttered angrily.

"Kreacher has heard the old fossil and regrets he cannot give him the time of day," the house elf said, reappearing suddenly. "However, Kreacher can give him the direction of the Sun and tell him to work it out himself if he wishes. Master Harry, Mistress Trianna bade me tell you that the ones known as Jara and Glind are attempting to harass her into giving up her position."

Oromis was truly mystified. He didn't say a word, but watched with huge interest. This was incredible, and he had never seen anything like it before. Even in all his years as a Rider, with innumerable books studied and virtually every crevice of the world explored, he hadn't seen anything like this 'Kreacher' before. Just what was it? It certainly seemed intelligent.

Harry heaved a sigh. "Tell her not to kill them, but that my threat will always stand."

"Yes, m-"

"YOU!"

Harry spun at the voice, and saw a bearded and finely garbed man walk out from the underbrush, his glare fixated directly on... Kreacher? To his shock, Kreacher responded, equally as furious.

"YOU!"

"What in the name of holy hell?" Harry asked aloud, confused in the extreme. He squinted to get a better look at the man, as his glasses were covered with condensation. Then he recognised the face. He recognised it. And his heart stopped.

Garmkyn flicked his view to the man beside Oromis, and his eyes became saucers. He had grown a beard, his hair was long and unkempt, and he had filled out noticeably, but it was definitely him. Those eyes...

He could only manage the smallest of voices.

"...pup?"

And Harry responded.

"SIRIUS!"

A:N - 50 points to anyone who figures out where the name Garmkyn comes from. And 1,000,000 points to the wise man or woman who can guess what the hell is going on. A hint: Daggermouth. That is all.

More music:

Harry's Theme - Sin and Restitution (Future World Music)

Eragon's Theme - A Hero Will Rise (Most Epic Music Ever)

Murtagh's Theme - Sublimation (Most Emotional Music Ever)

Arucane Hatches - Breathe (Two Steps From Hell)