Chapter Eight

Poisoned Memories

Deep in the mountains of the Spine, in a secret stone canyon far from any human or elvish civilisation, the flame-orange dragon called Kullervo perched in the entrance of the cave that was his home, and sunned himself in the early morning light. Kullervo was a hundred years old, big, heavy and battle-scarred, one of his horns shortened where it had been broken some time in the past, his look and stance full of confidence. He had led the wild dragons for most of his life, ever since he had defeated the female Thornessa and taken her place while he was only a youngster. An exceptional achievement but, then, he was an exceptional dragon. While still in his egg, he had been kept by werecats for thousands of years, passed down through their civilisation like a treasured heirloom. They had hoped that he would eventually hatch for one of their own, and so create the first werecat rider, but he had remained dormant in his egg, the only signs of life a faint heartbeat and the occasional stirrings of a half-formed mind. Shortly before the fall of the riders, he had been stolen by Rangda, a Shade who needed the alliance of a dragon and who was, like all Shades, prepared to do anything to get what she wanted. The werecats, unable to fight the Shade, had appealed to Einás, a wise old elf, and her friend Skade – Kullervo's sister. After they had fought Rangda and taken him from her, he had hatched for Einás and bonded with her. And for a time he was happy. Einás had been kind to him, and he had thought he understood her. But then she betrayed Skade to the riders to save her own skin, and afterwards insisted that she had had no choice. Kullervo had believed her, of course. But it had been a bad time to be a rider and dragon living outside the law. After they had spent some time in hiding, plotting a way to free Skade from her captors, they had been found. By another fugitive, one more dangerous than any other. Galbatorix, the young rider who had lost his dragon and turned against the elders who had once commanded him. Galbatorix, believing that Einás was responsible for Skade's fate, had killed her and afterwards tried to persuade Kullervo to take the place of his lost dragon.

But Kullervo, half-crazed by Einás' death, had fled. He grew up among the wild dragons, and eventually became their leader, and after Galbatorix had begun his war with the riders he led the other dragons against him, hating him for killing Einás. But Galbatorix was too powerful even for the race of dragons. He balked at killing them all, and instead he resorted to cunning, stealing one of Kullervo's eggs and threatening to destroy it if Kullervo did not make peace with him. A truce was made. Galbatorix took an oath that he would keep the egg safe, and Kullervo decided that he and his fellow wild dragons would go into hiding and emerge once the war was over… provided that no harm came to the egg.

That was what Kullervo did, calling upon the ancient magic inherited from his father, he had gone into a magical hibernation along with the rest of his kind. A hundred years on they had been awoken, and now there was an uneasy peace between the lord of dragons and the lord of men. It didn't mean, of course, that Kullervo was willing to do anything to help the Empire which Galbatorix had built during his absence. Like all wild dragons he only cared for his family, his friends and himself. Alagaësian politics held no interest for him.

Now Kullervo stood and enjoyed the sunlight, while behind him his mate dozed in their cave. The cave was the one where Ravana's parents had once lived, and Kullervo had claimed it as his birthright. This was where he had raised many of his own offspring, with the help of his lifelong mate. Thornessa.

Kullervo, watching the skies, blinked. He could see another dragon coming, and he tensed and growled. If the intruder was going to enter his territory, he could expect a fight. In the cave, Thornessa stirred. Without raising her head, she said; 'What is it, Kullervo?'

'Someone coming,' Kullervo answered.

Thornessa stood up and yawned. 'If it's a challenger, I'll fight him for you,' she said.

'We'll see,' said Kullervo.

Thornessa, who was a rich brown in colour with dark yellow wings like autumn leaves, came to Kullervo's side and nuzzled him in the nape of his neck. He rubbed his cheek against hers, and resumed his watching.

The other dragon, which was bright red, flew closer and revealed that he had a rider on his back.

'Thorn,' said Kullervo. 'It's Thorn. And Murtagh,' he added, less warmly.

The two dragons waited, and Thorn came to land between them. Murtagh jumped down from his back, and the two of them bowed to Kullervo.

'Good morning, human,' said Kullervo, his gold eyes glinting. 'And to you, Thorn.' He and Thornessa touched their son affectionately, and he raised his head and crooned like a youngster, in spite of his size and strength.

'Now then,' said Kullervo, turning to Murtagh. 'What do you want? I assume you're carrying a message from your… new master?'

'Yes, lord,' said Murtagh. Kullervo, watching him, became aware that the human's face was full of fear.

'Father,' said Thorn. 'Father, we're… there's…' he trailed off, his wings and tail twitching from some internal struggle.

'What is it?' said Kullervo, concerned.

'Father, we didn't want to do it,' said Thorn. 'We didn't want to… betray the King. He was our master.'

'I don't blame you for what Murtagh made you do,' said Kullervo. 'Humans are untrustworthy creatures.'

'No!' said Thorn. 'It's not his fault, Father.'

'We didn't want to do it,' Murtagh agreed, his voice full of suffering. 'We need your help, lord.'

'I don't understand,' said Kullervo. 'If you didn't want to do it, then why did you do it?'

'It's her,' Murtagh whispered. 'Saphira's daughter. The dragon with the veins and the face like a skull… she's in our heads. She won't let us leave. She's controlling us.'

'She made us betray them,' said Thorn. 'I wanted to protect my master, but she wouldn't let me. I had to stay there and watch… watch Eragon kill them both.'

'Skirnir's daughter?' said Kullervo. 'The cursed one?'

'Yes,' said Murtagh. 'She never leaves Eragon. We think she's controlling him and the others too. No-one can stop her. She's making all of this happen. We don't know why, but… if someone doesn't do something, we don't know what might happen.'

'It's no good, Murtagh,' said Thorn. 'My father can't help us, no-one can. She can control anyone.'

'Calm down,' said Kullervo. 'So… the cursed dragon is behind all of this. If you say so, then I believe you, Thorn. I will not let her hurt you. I will fight her for you. Now tell me… do you know why she's doing this? What's in it for her?'

'Nothing,' said Thorn, shaking his head. 'Or nothing we can guess at. She doesn't… we've never seen her eat or sleep, and she doesn't seem to be interested in finding a mate. All she does is follow Eragon and Saphira wherever they go, and when she's there it makes them cruel. We knew them before she was born, and they were different. They wanted to destroy Galbatorix because they believed he was a tyrant. Now they only seem to want to be tyrants themselves. But Father… there's danger in this for you. We were sent here to tell you to swear allegiance to Eragon, in person. And if you refuse, he means to wipe you all out.'

'I'm not afraid of him, or this cursed dragon,' Kullervo growled. 'Tell me where I can find them, and I will tear them to shreds.'

'They're in Urû'baen,' said Murtagh. 'Or what's left of it. But, lord, you shouldn't-,'

Kullervo stood tall, raising his wings. 'I do what I choose,' he said. 'And no-one else tells me what to do. Especially a human. I will fight for you, Thorn.'

'As will I,' said Thornessa.

'And others will follow us,' said Kullervo. He ignored Thorn and Murtagh's protests, and launched himself from the cave entrance, flying up and onto the top of the cliffs above his home. There he stood, holding his head erect, and roared. The roar echoed over the mountains, and he sent more after it, one after another, each one deep and powerful, and commanding. He was calling upon his people, and both Thorn and Murtagh knew what it meant. The wild dragons were going to go to war.

Arren woke up slowly. The light was dim and flickering, and he could hear voices, rising and falling in a rhythmic chant. His head ached horribly where he had been hit. He groaned and tried to sit up, only to find that he couldn't. He was lying on a stone slab, held down by ropes tied to his wrists and ankles.

He turned his head to look at his surroundings, apprehension stabbing into his chest. He was in a great, dark, cavelike space, lit only by lanterns with dark-blue tinted glass. The roof was high and domed, and full of shadows. It was also full of people. Dozens of people, standing silently in a big group and chanting in low voices. They were all watching him. When he looked in the other direction, he saw three people standing by the slab he was on, wearing dark, hooded robes which hid their faces. The hoods were turned toward him… watching him.

He wanted to say something, to demand to know what was going on and that they let him go, but the words caught in his throat. Then the hooded figure in the middle began to speak. 'Brothers,' he said, addressing the crowd. 'And sisters also.'

The chanting died away.

'These are dark times,' the hooded man went on, speaking loudly but in a way that suggested he was used to being listened to and not interrupted. 'And violent times. Whether we admit it or not, war is upon us. Our protector, King Galbatorix, is slain and our time of peace is over. Soon the usurper, Eragon Shadeslayer, will be all-powerful in Alagaësia. He will destroy all those who oppose him, and then he will bring back the old ways. He will do as the old riders did, and suppress our faith. This cathedral will be turned to rubble, and I and my fellow priests killed. Any who keep the power of the Three Peaks in their hearts will die. Yes… death and destruction await us.'

The crowd murmured unhappily.

'But we must not give up hope,' the hooded man went on. 'The Three Peaks are with us, the holy Trio is our strength and guide. If we are to survive, we must call upon that power. That is why this gathering – which may be the last one ever held in Dras-Leona – is one of invocation.'

The man – the priest – held his hands out over the helpless Arren.

'This man is a cripple,' he said. 'Imperfect, just as we are. Let his suffering reach out to the Three Peaks, and let his death summon their power to save us all. Stand with us and witness the sacrifice… it will be your salvation.'

Arren pulled at the ropes, suddenly terrified. They wouldn't budge. 'Let me go!' he cried.

The three priests ignored him. The one who had spoken reached into his clothes and brought out a small stone bottle. He removed the cork, and the three of them forced Arren to drink the contents, pouring it into his mouth and pinching his nose so that he had no option but to swallow it. It went down easily enough, but almost immediately he began to feel its effects. His entire body went as cold as ice. A roaring sounded in his ears, and his vision went grey and then then vanished altogether, leaving him deaf and blind. If he cried out, if he struggled… he didn't know. He couldn't even feel any pain.

The congregation in the cathedral saw their victim begin to convulse, and they started to chant once more, using words in the ancient language, words of power. They watched his torment, and believed that it would save them.

And Arren fell. Not into space, but into his own mind. And there, darkness lay. At least at first. Beyond it, and beyond the fear, were memories. Thousands and thousands of memories, all waiting for him. Not lost but buried, and now they were his once more.

He remembered a child. Mere hours old, its tiny head adorned by a wisp of black hair, held by a father and mother as they said their last goodbyes. Later, the child heard them die. Heard the jeering of the crowd.

Then there was a boy. Small, solemn, black-haired and pale-faced, his eyes and presence unnerving. The boy lived in a city with parents who were not his own, and from them he learned to speak and to live. He had a gift with words. Silver-tongued, they called him. When he wanted to, it was said, he could talk the sun into coming up at midnight.

Then there was an egg, a white egg, and the egg became a white dragon. The boy and the dragon were together, heart and soul. Laela. That was her name. Laela.

The boy rode the dragon; they flew together over mountains and plains, sharing their lives and their joy.

And then there were arrows. White arrows like bolts of lightning, which came from the sky. They tore into the white dragon and the boy, and the two of them fell from the sky as agony tore him to shreds. Heart and soul alike, both broken, and the white dragon died and turned to dust, leaving the boy with the black hair alone.

He saw the boy wander alone, through darkness and rain, his eyes dead and empty, driven only by hatred and tormented by loss.

But the boy did not die. He survived. There were others who cared for him, all black-haired like himself. They were a family he had never known, and they taught him many things. Things about life, and things about death. But in time they, too, were gone and he was alone once more.

Still he survived, still he lived on. The boy wandered further, and one day he found a new ally. A shadowy figure, one whose hair was crimson and whose eyes were maroon beneath eerie black tattoos. He too taught the boy, sharing magical secrets while he recovered. But it was not this one who truly saved him.

That was when he saw… her. Oh yes. Her. She was an elf. Wild and strange, and tormented just like the boy. But her hair was silver and her eyes rich gold, and to him she was beautiful. To him she was more beautiful than any other woman in the world. She was the light in his darkness. And he saw her and the black-haired boy together, their fingers in each other's hair, smiling into each other's eyes, and sharing a kiss beneath a stand of pine trees.

But the elf and the boy could not stay together. They were parted, each forced to go their separate ways and pursue their own quests. The boy, normally so unemotional, wept to lose her.

Now there was a dragon. This one was male, and black, his wings white. He and the boy were joined just as the boy had once been joined to the dead Laela. Shruikan.

Together the boy and the black dragon flew, sharing their rage. They were joined by others, and with them they saw a white city burn and elves, men, dragons and dwarves die. There was war, and the boy, once a friendless outcast, was a leader, a general, a heroic rebel seeking justice. And justice he had, and most of it was measured in blood.

The war ended, and the black haired boy – a man now, and one who had forged that manhood in war – ascended to the highest power in the land. One age had ended, a new one began. His age. Glory and splendour were his. Or so he believed.

After that, years passed. Endless years. And the boy who had become a man lived out these years in a loneliness and isolation which few could comprehend, slowly becoming tired and jaded as the unending decades of his life moved on, once a gift but now a curse. His friends died, his followers grew to resent him, and what had been glory became despair. But still the man lived on. Alone.

Until one day a dragon came to him. A silver dragon. A silver dragon who had once been an elf. She became again the elf he had loved, and for a time – a brief, shining time – they were together once more and their love was whole. But even that was torn away.

There was another boy. This one was different. He had pale-brown hair and dark-brown eyes, and he carried a sword with a blue blade. He tore the man and the elf apart, his face contorted with hatred for them both.

The black dragon with the white wings carried his black-haired rider over the mountains, the two of them flying together just as Laela and her rider had done. But the boy with the blue-bladed sword was there too, and once more the black-haired man fell. He fell into darkness, and his dragon fell with him, turning to bones and dust and fading away to nothing. As the man fell, agony ate into him and his being – his memory, his name, everything that made him who he was… was scattered to the winds. And this time there was no-one to pull him back. Now he was truly lost.

The black dragon and the white dragon danced before him, tormenting him, their voices singing as one. Gone, gone, gone, gone.

That was all. He remembered nothing more. The only thing that remained was her. The silver elf, standing so far away, holding a silver egg in her arms, her eyes full of tears. Galbatorix, she whispered.

'SKADE!'

The word tore from his throat. His eyes snapped open. Reality came rushing back. He was on the altar in the cathedral, surrounded by the chanting congregation, and every part of him burnt. Not just with pain. Power rushed through his veins. Knowledge and power.

He wrenched his arms upward, and the ropes snapped as if they were nothing more than threads. He kicked them away from his legs and sat up, and the congregation and the three priests backed away in fear as he lurched forward over the edge of the slab and vomited. The poison was expelled from his system, and he jumped down, his lame leg nearly collapsing under him.

'Stop him!' the high priest shouted, too frightened to do anything himself.

Several of the assembled worshippers advanced on him. It was the last thing they ever did. The black-haired man, his eyes mad, raised his right hand. A silver oval glowed on the palm, and black energy burst from it and struck into them, killing them all instantly. The three priests cried out in horror. A mistake. The man whirled around and sent his magic toward them. It didn't just kill them. It crushed their bones. The congregation screamed and fled, and the man went after them, killing them with terrible ease.

None of them made it out of the cathedral alive. The man reached the doors and found them locked and barred. Within two seconds of that discovery, they could never be locked again, or even closed. The man passed through the gaping hole he had made, and into the city.

He had no notion of hiding or caution. He knew exactly where he was going, and nothing that got in his way remained an obstacle for long. Anyone who stood in his path died, and every object was pulverised. He made his bloody, destructive way to the outer wall, and reduced a section of it to rubble without pausing. Some of the guards who survived this loosed arrows at him. They hit him, sticking in his back like the spines of a dragon, but he showed no sign of having felt it at all. He walked on, as if pulled by an inner voice. Straight into the campsite of Eragon's army.

They saw him, of course. There was no way they could have missed him. At first they were frightened of him – this strange man in the bloodstained black robe, somehow still walking when his back was full of arrows. But their fear did not last for long. They challenged him, and when he didn't respond they attacked. He fought back, with the same power he had shown back in the city, and dozens of them died before he finally began to weaken. Stumbling now, slipping in his own blood, he tried to run from the camp, his blank eyes starting to glaze over. He was too slow. They surrounded him, their confidence returning, and systematically began to kill him.

And they would have succeeded if given the chance. But before the killing blow could be made there was a roaring from overhead, and a huge blue dragon swooped down and carried him away.

Lifrasir flew, carrying the limp form in her claws. She was terrified. I'm too late, her mind whispered. Too late, too late!

She flew as far away from Dras-Leona as she could, over the Leona lake, her dark blue scales hiding her in the night sky. She summoned up the storm, and the wind and lightning drove the other dragon and his rider back to the city. No dragon dared fly in a storm, except for her and her family.

Lifrasir didn't stop until she reached the relative safety of the Spine, coming to rest in a valley at the edge of it. There was a cave there, which she had carved into a mountainside with her claws, and inside a much smaller dragon was waiting for her. He was black and had silver wings, and one side of his face was scarred.

'Lifrasir,' he said. 'You found him.'

'Yes,' Lifrasir panted, laying her burden down as gently as she could. The black-robed man lay quite still, the arrows in his back pointing toward the roof, their shafts shining with blood.

The black dragon gasped and hurried to his side, nosing at him. 'Father,' he said. 'Father, it's me, Valdyr. Can you hear me?' There was no response. Valdyr looked up at Lifrasir, wide-eyed. 'He's dead.'

Lifrasir touched the man's head with her snout. 'Father,' she said. 'Father, wake up.'

The man said nothing. But Lifrasir could hear his heart still pattering away in his chest. She reached out with her mind and touched his, then withdrew sharply. 'His mind,' she said, to Valdyr. 'It's… broken. We're too late. He's gone mad.'

'Skade…' a voice rasped.

'Father!' said Lifrasir. 'It's me, Lifrasir!'

Galbatorix – or the wreck that he had become – stirred. His hands twitched. He tried to raise himself, then rolled onto his side and curled up, sobbing. 'Skade,' he said again, his voice broken and barely recognisable. 'Skade. No. Skade…'

Lifrasir lifted him in her claws, holding him to her chest and spreading her wings over him protectively. 'It's all right,' she told him. 'I'm here, Father. I've got you.'

Galbatorix didn't seem to hear. He cried weakly, his sobs barely audible, and all he said was her name, over and over again. Skade.