Chapter Sixteen
Ghosts and Visions
When Galbatorix left, Skade didn't know whether she wanted to follow him or not. Caught in indecision, she sat where she was and watched him go, her mind a blank. The sheer enormity of what he had told her was simply too much for her to take in, and instead of thinking of it she preoccupied herself with what he had said before he left.
'What did he mean?' she said aloud. She glanced around at Lifrasir. The blue dragon's eyes were open and fixed on her. 'What did he mean?' Skade asked her. '"I don't think I shall live much longer"…?'
'He was talking about his heart,' Lifrasir replied in a low voice.
'His… heart?' said Skade, still confused.
'Despair can kill an immortal,' said Lifrasir. 'If he decides he has nothing left to live for, he may stop living.'
Skade's eyes widened. 'No…' she breathed. But she made no move to go after him.
'But do you care whether he does?' Lifrasir asked. 'After what he told you?'
'I… don't know,' said Skade.
'Decide,' said Lifrasir. 'Help him live, or let him die. It's your choice, Skade. Can you forgive him for what he did? If you cannot, there is no other who will. Alagaësia will not mourn the passing of a monster. You must decide whether there is worth in him.' The blue dragon's voice had become soft, almost hypnotic.
'Lifrasir?' said Skade. 'Why are you talking like that?'
'Every man has a monster inside him,' said Lifrasir. 'But few men are monsters. He opened his heart to you; did you see worth there?'
'I did,' said Skade.
'Then tell him so,' said Lifrasir.
The mist suddenly rose from the ground once more, thick and swirling, blotting out the sun. A chill wind blew. Skade blinked and rubbed her face.
Lifrasir was still asleep. Skade watched her for a time, uncertain. She remembered the dark blue dragon speaking to her… or did she? It had felt like a dream.
She looked around at the mist. It had come back very suddenly. It was muffling both light and sound, dampening her campfire so that it burned weakly and with little heat. There was something very strange going on.
Galbatorix walked through the trees until he came across a river flowing down toward the sea, and he sat down on its banks, under a strange rough-barked tree a little like a fir but with long, grey-green needles that dipped down toward the water like the branches of a weeping willow.
The waters of the river were clear as glass, flowing over a bed of round stones in near-silence. He sat and watched it for a long time, thinking. He had finally revealed his worst secret. Now Skade knew the whole truth about his past. He did not believe that she would forgive him for it. She had accepted his destruction of the riders calmly enough, having hated them as much as he did, but this… no creature, human, elf, dwarf or dragon, could possibly overlook a crime as hideous as his had been. Not only dark sorcery, not only the vile killing of helpless prisoners, but something that had been intended to do nothing more than interfere with the natural order of things. Ordinary immortality was something that occurred as a normal part of the world, but what he had tried to do for himself went beyond that. It wasn't just unnatural; it was nothing less than a kind of self-mutilation. If he had cut his own fingers off, it still would not have been anywhere as deep or as irreversible as what he had done. He had always been a half-breed, an unnatural mix of two races, but the spell, even partly-completed as it had been, had changed him into something more unnatural still.
All this being as it was, how could Skade still love him? She too would shun him now; he had lost the last person who truly accepted him. When he had thought she was dead it had been unimaginably painful, but this was worse. To know she was alive, but to know, too, that she would be beyond his reach forever. Not taken from him by force, but having turned her back on him by choice. But it was what he deserved. He had never been worthy of her. This was his punishment, and it was just.
Galbatorix gritted his teeth in sudden pain, pressing his hand into his chest. He could feel his heart start to hurt. It ached and burned like unshed tears, making his hands tremble slightly. He knew what it meant. His heart was starting to die. Now that he had confessed, now that the source of his guilt was out in the open, now that he had begun to truly believe that he had nothing left to live for, he was beginning to suffer that thing which could kill even an immortal as old as he was – despair.
He knew that it could happen. He had seen it kill many of the Forsworn, either directly or indirectly. The elves, notorious for their overly passionate way of responding to things, had many stories of members of their race who had died from heartbreak – once he had believed they were just fanciful myths, but now he knew better. Knew it was true. An immortal life could only be sustained if it had some powerful aim or purpose, something to sustain it. After Laela's death his purpose had been revenge – not the most pure of purposes, but it had been enough. During his long and lonely reign, he had been kept going by his sense of duty and also by his love for Skade and his belief that she would come back to him one day. But now he had lost the Empire, and if he had lost Skade too, what did he have left?
He wanted desperately to go to Skade, to run back to where she was and beg her to forgive him. But he wouldn't let himself do what he longed to do. He stayed where he was, dry-eyed, staring at the mist drifting up from the surface of the river without seeing it. Memories were what he saw, and what he heard. He remembered the voices of the riders as they died, calling him a monster, a traitor, cursing him. He remembered Eragon, as well. You're evil, the young rider had said. Evil. And for all his ignorance and stupidity, the Brat had been right. And so many had suffered and died because of what he had done.
Galbatorix, his heart withering inside his chest, watched the mist through dull eyes. What did it matter if he died, anyway? What did it matter…?
The mist was very thick all of a sudden. That was odd, considering there had been bright daylight only a short time ago. He almost thought he could see shapes forming in it. He blinked, his forehead creasing in a frown. That was when he saw the faint points of light appearing in the midst of the whiteness.
There was a great mountain some way inland from the cliffs at whose base the forest of silver trees grew. The mountain had been called the Geyma Fell or Guarding Mountain by the people who used to live in that country, but now that it was Ravana's country and the people were gone it had no name. Now the mountain was Ravana's castle. The monstrously huge dragon curled up on the mountain's peak, making it look as if it were much taller from a distance. From here he had an unrivalled view of the sea and the shore, but he wasn't seeing anything right now because he was asleep. The old dragon was curled in on himself like a cat, his tail wrapped around his claws and his wings lying loosely over his flanks like leathery blankets. His great eyes were closed, his face strangely vulnerable in repose, and the air vibrated with his deep, growling breaths. No dragon had ever been as old, as huge or as terrible as he, and no dragon ever would be. He was Ravana, alone. And, right now, he was dreaming.
Mist surrounded Ravana in his dream; all white and swirling, so thick that it obscured all else. He wandered through it, looking for something familiar, but all he found was the mist. And, he realised, that was all there was. No sky, no land, no sea. Even the surface below him was composed of mist, somehow hardening itself into ice where his claws touched it but changing back the instant he lifted them away. He walked on, afraid to take to the air, full of the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched.
Ravana did not like to be uncertain. He roared loudly, challenging the unseen presence to show itself. The mist took in his roar, silencing it almost as soon as it left his jaws, and as he walked on he began to see others there in the mist. They appeared only briefly, standing to either side of him and turning to watch him as he passed, vanishing when he tried to look directly at them. But he recognised them. There was Skade, her shape flickering back and forth from elf to dragon, the dark mark on the side of her neck standing out like lightning and her eyes pleading with him. There was the dark, bearded human who had stolen her from him, his gaze steady and powerful. There were the hatchlings; one human and five dragons, standing together in a group. They were unafraid of him. They trusted him to protect them. And there were all the other members of his family, some living and some dead. Skirnir, his scales shining. Lifrasir, the colour of the ocean in a storm. Balisong and Katana, side-by-side. Vidar, looking like a smaller, younger reflection of his mighty grandfather. Shruikan and Kullervo, who he had never seen, their forms shrouded. Hrafn, Myrkyr, Skömm, Valdyr and Dreyri, still bearing the wounds that their own mother had inflicted upon them. And Vervada, the monster with the dead black eyes, who hissed venomously at him.
And there, waiting for him beyond all these, was one last dragon, watching him through radiant silver eyes. Wake up, Vándr-krellr, she whispered.
Ravana's eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw was mist. White, blank mist, drifting around him exactly as in the dream. For a moment he nearly panicked, starting upright on his perch and baring his teeth in readiness to fight. But then he realised that it was just mist. It could do him no harm. He peered around and saw that the stuff had blanketed every part of his country for as far as he could see. It even covered the beach. In all the long centuries he had spent there, he had never seen anything like this. Mist was common enough on cold mornings, but it had never been this dense or reached this high. There was very little Ravana was afraid of, but this made him uneasy. He stared at the blank whiteness, willing it to disperse. He had significant control over the weather, but he could not control this. The mist stayed defiantly where it was, and no wind came to blow it away.
Ravana growled irritably. And that was when he saw something strange. Somewhere in the mist not far away from where he crouched, there was a faint point of light like a star. At first he thought it was a glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the water in the air, but it slowly grew brighter and brighter as he watched it, and he realised that it was moving toward him. He stood up, his claws digging into the stone, and kept his eyes on the light as it drifted yet closer, moving with deceptive speed.
At last it was in front of him, and as he looked at it he saw a shape form around it. Slight and indistinct at first, perhaps just an illusion brought on by the moving mist, but then clearer and clearer, and he saw it. Her. She stood there on empty air, poised and elegant, watching him. A great, ghostly dragon. She was white and transparent as the mist, her outline shifting along with it, and the bright star of light shone inside her where her heart was. Her eyes were silver and full of deep sadness, and Ravana knew them. Knew her.
'Silarae,' he whispered.
Ravana, the ghost replied, its shape wavering for a moment and then reforming itself.
'How can it be you?' said Ravana. 'You're…'
Dead, said the ghost. Yes. But even the dead may come back, when their need is great enough. Love bound me to you, even in death. And it has brought me back to find you. Ravana…
'Silarae,' said Ravana. Before her, his great muscles were heavy and useless, his magic meaningless. He was not the Night Dragon now, lord of this land. He was not the ancient and terrible destroyer, the dreaded black dragon of so many legends. He was only Ravana now. Only a young dragon, lost in the world. He was Ravana, small and lonely and aching with love. Love for his Silarae, lost and gone for so many years. 'I miss you, Silarae,' he said, his ferocity stripped away from him.
And I miss you, Ravana, my love, Silarae replied. But listen to me. I have come for a purpose.
'Don't go,' said Ravana, suddenly afraid. 'Please. Stay with me.'
I have been with you all along, said Silarae. And I always shall be. Look, Ravana.
She pointed a transparent talon at the mist close to them, and a window opened in it. Through it he saw a vision. It was of a human – a human he knew. The one who wore black; the one with the penetrating stare. The one Skade had left him to be with. The human was sitting by a river, his head in his hands, and Ravana could see tears on his face.
'The human is alive?' he growled.
Yes, said Silarae. He is here in your country. He came to find Skade.
Ravana's tail lashed, the spikes tearing chunks out of the mountaintop. 'He will die for this,' he vowed. 'No human will take my daughter from me.'
No, said Silarae. Listen to me, Ravana. Skade and the human love each other, just as we did. Do not do as Eragon did to us and tear them apart. It would break Skade's heart. You already forced her to stay away from him for a hundred years, but she forgave you for it because she loves you. You are her father. But you cannot stop her from loving another as much.
'Skade needs my protection,' Ravana whispered, his eyes wide and frightened. 'I must keep her safe. I don't want to lose her.'
You will lose her if you take the one she loves from her, Silarae replied. She will hate you for it forever. She is not a hatchling, Ravana. Your jealousy has made you forget what truly matters here.
'I don't want to be alone,' said Ravana. 'I am… afraid to be alone.'
Our son is in danger, said Silarae. The window in the mist went dark, and then showed them a vision of a dragon. This one was flame orange, golden eyed and battle-scarred like his father. There were chains binding his legs and wings, pinning him to the ground, and he struggled in vain to break free of them, his jaws opening to let forth a howl of anguish and rage.
'Kullervo,' said Ravana. 'My son…'
Our son, said Silarae. Our son who you left behind in Alagaësia. And our daughter.
The window darkened once more, and they saw a female dragon. She was the bright blue of a summer sky, and on her back was a rider. The blue dragon flew through a storm, her silver eyes narrowed. Silver. Just like her mother's. Ravana watched helplessly as she hurled herself at a second dragon, a red one. They fought ferociously, but the blue dragon lost. She was torn to pieces before her father's eyes, and fell from the sky, her rider clinging to the saddle in agony.
Saphira, our daughter, said Silarae. Dead for a hundred years. And our son, Shruikan.
Now the window showed a vision of Shruikan, hovering in the air at Orthíad. Galbatorix was seated on his back, and man and dragon faced a circle of enemies alone. Ravana saw the cruel-faced boy on the blue dragon as he loosed three fatal arrows, first at the rider and then at Shruikan. He saw the son he had never known fall into darkness, Galbatorix falling beside him, his wide-open eyes two dark pits of loss.
Shruikan, our son, said Silarae. The only one who mourned for him was a human. The same human who nearly died in order to find our daughter again and keep her safe.
'Shruikan…' said Ravana, watching the little window go dark and then fade. 'Saphira. Kullervo. All lost…'
Not all, said Silarae. She held her head and wings high, and her voice suddenly became harsh. Your time of hiding is over, Night Dragon, Vándr-krellr, dark storm-dragon. I loved you in life, more than life itself. But you failed to save me, and you have failed to save Shruikan and Saphira, and you deceived Skade and kept her here like a prisoner. You are brave and powerful, but you have still failed.
'What can I do?' Ravana asked. 'Silarae…'
Redeem yourself, said Silarae. Save our son. Save Kullervo. You must do this, Vándr-krellr.
'I will,' said Ravana. 'I swear it, Silarae. I will do it. I will save Kullervo.'
Do not fail me, said Silarae.
Far below Ravana's mountain, Galbatorix too was watching the mist. It was condensing on the needles of the strange tree, forming silver droplets like glass decorations. Where it touched the water, it made odd ethereal shapes that changed from one moment to the next. Galbatorix had a strange feeling from watching it – a feeling that he had seen something like this before. But he wasn't sure where until he remembered that day in Farthen Dûr – the day when Eragon had opened the Vault of Souls. Galbatorix hadn't seen the opening itself, but he had seen some of the ghosts that had emerged from it, and they had been white and transparent like mist and had swirled and merged and reformed just like the shapes over the water. Each of them had had a white star of light inside them.
Galbatorix…
He froze. The sound had been faint, barely audible, but he had heard his name.
'Hello?' he called, feeling foolish. 'Is someone there?'
Galbatorix, the voice came again. This time it was much clearer.
'Who's there?'
Look out over the water, said the voice.
Galbatorix looked. What he saw took his breath away. It was light. A star of white light, drifting toward him over the surface of the river. And as it came, a shape formed around it. The shape of a dragon hatchling. Only small, its wings and head a little oversized. Its eyes were large and bright, fixed on his face. And he knew that dragon.
'Laela,' he gasped.
The vision halted within arm's length of him, and sat on its haunches on the surface of the river, wrapping its tail and wings around it in a way he remembered very well. Hello, Galbatorix, it said.
'Laela, how can it be you?' said Galbatorix. 'How can you be here? Am I dreaming?'
We've come back, Laela's voice echoed softly. Just for a short time. See us?
He looked up, and saw other shapes forming behind her. Some were human, some elvish, some dragons, each one with a light for a heart. He knew them, too. Oromis. Vrael. Lachesis. Carina. Menulis. Nöst. Glaedr. Einás. Brom. Every rider that he had killed or had killed was there, and their dragons were with them. The Forsworn were there too. They stood there in a great silent group, their eyes fixed accusingly on him.
We have returned, Fárbjóđr, great betrayer, Vrael's shade whispered.
We are your victims, monster, said Oromis.
Our blood is on your hands, said Menulis.
I died in agony, said Carina. Died in the grip of your dark magic. The last thing I heard was your voice. The last thing I saw was your face.
You crippled me, said Oromis.
You crippled us both, said Glaedr.
Your fault, the ghosts hissed. Traitor. Monster. Betrayer. Destroyer. Your fault, silver tongued bringer of death, unnatural half-breed.
'I'm sorry!' Galbatorix cried, 'I wanted to – it was all… I didn't want it to happen. I never stopped regretting it.'
You tricked me, said Morzan. Tricked all of us. Said you would bring justice, but you brought us death!
The ghosts surrounded him, all shouting their accusations, and there was nowhere for Galbatorix to run to. Only Laela stayed by him. The ghost of the hatchling stood by his side, defiantly facing them, and when she touched him she suddenly started to grow until she was an adult. Towering over him like a guardian, she growled fiercely at the ghosts of the riders. You killed me, she countered. You murdered me. You made Galbatorix feel my death in his heart, and you drove him mad. It was you who brought about your own destruction. I will not let you touch him.
Murderer, the ghosts accused.
Leave him alone! Laela shouted.
'No,' said Galbatorix.
Laela looked at him, her expression confused. Don't listen to them, Galbatorix, she said.
But Galbatorix came forward, away from her protection, and faced the ghosts alone. 'No, Laela,' he said again. 'No, they're right. I killed them. It was my fault. My true name is Fárbjóđr – destroyer. No-one forced me to do what I did. And no matter how hard I tried to make Alagaësia better, I never could. It wasn't for me to do that.'
At that, the ghosts of the riders suddenly fell silent.
Laela's spirit came and stood by Galbatorix's side. What is it you truly want, Galbatorix?
'I want to be whole again,' said Galbatorix. 'I want peace. I've lived too long and suffered too much. I want to be forgiven. I want to be with Skade. I want you, Laela. Without you, I can never be whole again.'
You can have these things, said Laela. If you do what must be done. Oh, Galbatorix… our time together was the only time we were complete. We should not have been parted the way we were. But I can't make you whole again. Only you can do that.
'How?' said Galbatorix. 'What should I do? I feel so lost, Laela. I've been lost ever since you died.'
Laela said nothing. Galbatorix turned to the ghosts of the riders, which had stood and watched him in silence. 'What should I do?' he asked them.
You must redeem yourself, they replied immediately. Undo your crime, Fárbjóđr.
'But how?'
Bring us back, said the riders. That is your task, and no other's. Save Alagaësia.
And if you can do that, said Laela. You too will be healed.
'I'll do what I can,' said Galbatorix. 'I'll do my best.'
That is all you need to do, the riders whispered, and then they faded away into the mist.
Goodbye, Galbatorix, said Laela, her form starting to break up.
'Don't leave me!' Galbatorix cried, reaching toward her. 'Laela!'
I will be with you, the dragon's voice breathed. Always, Galbatorix. Our time will come again.
The spirit vanished, leaving only a point of light behind. That hovered in the mist for a time, and then it leapt toward him and vanished into his body. For a moment he could see it glowing through his robe, and then it was gone, and he felt a surge of wondrous energy fill him. He turned convulsively toward the river, controlled by something other than himself. His right hand raised itself, the palm pointing toward the surface of the water, and his own voice began to speak. It formed words of power, words in both the language of the grey folk and the dark elves, and other languages too, languages he didn't know he knew. He felt them channel this new energy, and a great beam of white light shot from his palm and hit the water. It formed a ball of bright light below the surface, and for a few seconds the river itself glowed like the full moon. Then the light went out, and he was standing there all alone in the cold mist, feeling strangely drained.