Chapter Fourteen

Induction

Galbatorix's return to the castle was greeted with a great deal of excitement. Lord Aisling himself came to meet him, all pompous praise and unctuous flattery as usual.

But by this time Galbatorix had had more than enough of this kind of nonsense. He met the old lord's blather with an icy courtesy which quickly put a stop to it, and refused to attend the celebratory feast which was being prepared. He dodged the various nobles who wanted to congratulate him, and went straight to his room. After a plain meal which he ate up on the walls with Laela, he retired for the night, ignoring all protests from his host.

Next morning he rose at dawn and put on a set of his oldest and plainest clothes, along with a pair of fingerless leather gloves, and quietly left the castle for the city.

The streets were already bustling. Stalls and shops were open, and people were everywhere, buying and selling. The streets were thronged, and it was impossible to go anywhere without bumping into someone. Galbatorix strolled along, taking in the sights. Nobody gave him a second glance, although several of them were happy to elbow him out of the way and a drunken woman, hanging half out of a window, shouted some unintelligible obscenity at him.

To his surprise, he found he was enjoying it. Here, in the streets of Dras-Leona, dressed in his patched black tunic and his old trousers with the hole in the knee and the scuffed boots with the stitching coming undone in several places, he could fade into the background. He had left his sword back at the castle and carried nothing but a money pouch and a small dagger in his belt. There were no stares, no more 'my lords'… he was just another face in the crowd. And that meant he was free. Once he'd longed to be respected, but now he was away from the castle he realised just how stifling it had been. This was where real life happened.

He realised he was humming. That was something he hadn't done in some time.

For the next few hours he was happy to wander through the stalls, looking at this and that and fending off people trying to sell him things. When he felt hungry he bought a pasty and a couple of apples, and ate them as he walked along, enjoying the sunshine and the anonymity in equal measures.

At one point, as he stopped to examine a rack of combs, he realised that someone was trying to steal his money-pouch. The thief was quick, but he was quicker, and as the man tried to run away Galbatorix knocked him unconscious with a sharp punch to the jaw. Several people yelled encouragement at him, but he walked off without a word, leaving the pickpocket lying in a crumpled heap.

Realising that the day was drawing on, he asked a couple of people where he could find a tattoo parlour. Having been given some directions, he found one on a street corner, tucked discreetly between a barber shop and a fruit seller. A large sign hung over the door, with the single word TATTOOs inscribed on it. Galbatorix entered.

Inside it was well-lit. A long bench lined one wall, and there was a cracked mirror resting in a corner. A hefty man was sitting at the bench, scowling in pain while the tattooist – who, to his surprise, was a young woman – inscribed a snake design on his shoulderblade. The woman was clad in black and looked very wild – there were tattoos all over her arms, and on her upper chest, above her bosom, which showed through her tunic. Her hair was pale blonde, nearly white, and both her ears were heavily laden with rings and studs.

She heard him enter. 'Be right with you,' she said without turning around. 'Take a seat, why don't you?'

Galbatorix sat at the end of the bench, and watched the tattooist at work. The device she was using looked like a giant metal pen with a kind of box just above the spot where she gripped it. A key protruded from the box, turning slowly, and the whole thing made a loud metallic clicking sound. At the other end, a small, sharp metal point moved rapidly up and down, stabbing right through the man's skin. There was an open pot of ink on the table in front of the bench, and from time to time the tattooist would pause to dip the needle in it and wind it up again with the key.

Once she had finished, she put down the device and handed a square of grubby cloth to her customer. 'Here,' she said. 'Use this to wipe it down. Don't get it wet, don't touch it and don't cover it up or the ink will leach out of it. Understood?'

The man stood up, retrieving his shirt from a hook on the wall. 'How much do I owe?'

'Twenty crowns,' said the woman.

The man muttered irritably over that, but handed over the money and left. Once he had gone, the woman began cleaning the needle. 'Now, what can I do for you?' she asked in a businesslike voice. 'Just looking? I do piercings and tattoos, custom designs are fine, but you pay on the spot. What's it going to be?'

Galbatorix stood up. 'I'd like a tattoo,' he said. 'I've got a design right here…' he fumbled in his pocket.

The tattooist waited patiently and took the piece of paper. She examined the design on it. 'Interesting. What's it from?'

'I made it up,' Galbatorix lied. 'Can you do it?'

'Easily. Where would you like it, how big, and what colour?'

Galbatorix paused. 'On my shoulder. In black.'

'Just plain black?'

'Yes. Not too big. I want it right here.' He touched his left shoulder to indicate the spot.

The tattooist nodded. 'All right. Take your shirt off and sit down. I'll just get the ink.'

Galbatorix stripped off his tunic and hung it on the wall, then sat down. He was feeling a little apprehensive. 'Will it hurt?' he asked.

The tattooist rolled her eyes and took the lid off a jar of black ink. Without saying anything, she dipped the needle and began to wind it up.

'Well? Will it?' Galbatorix persisted.

'I don't glorify that question with an answer any more,' the tattooist said, and set to work.

Galbatorix gritted his teeth. The needle passed in and out of his skin, again and again, inscribing a line of pain over his shoulder, up and around and down again as the tattooist began to draw the first of the three spirals.

It wasn't an excruciating pain. The gashes left by Ilia's talons had been much more painful. This was more… irritating than truly painful. It was a sharp, prickling sensation, a little like a series of insect bites. The only truly unpleasant part about it was that it just kept on going. He sat as still as he could and tried to think about something else.

In his head, Laela said; 'Ow! Eek. Argh. That prickles. What are you doing?'

'Getting my tattoo. Is it bothering you? I can block you out of my mind if you'd prefer.'

'I'm sure I'll be fine,' said Laela.

After about fifteen or twenty minutes, the tattooist finally put aside the needle and said; 'That's it. I'm done. D'you want to have a look at it in the mirror? Don't touch it!'

Galbatorix withdrew his hand. 'Yes please.'

The tattooist went and fetched the mirror, and held it up so he could see. He turned sideways, pulling his hair away from his shoulder to get a clear view of the tattoo.

Three jet-black spirals were inscribed on his shoulder. It was about the size of his palm, and glistened with blood and excess ink.

'Once it's healed, it'll be much clearer,' said the tattooist. 'Here.' She gave him a piece of cloth. 'But be careful. It'll be tender for a week or so, but it shouldn't take long to heal. Don't get it wet, don't cover it up, try not to touch it.'

Galbatorix carefully dabbed at his stinging shoulder. 'Is it all right if I put some ointment on it?'

'Just as long as you don't apply it too thickly. The skin will heal faster if it's dry. That'll be fifteen crowns, by the way.'

Galbatorix stood up and picked up his shirt. He draped it over his arm and counted out the money. As he was handing it over, the tattooist reached out to touch the scars on his chest. 'What happened to you?'

Galbatorix paused. 'Oh, these? I was attacked by a dragon.'

The tattooist made an incredulous snorting sound. 'Pull the other one!'

Galbatorix pulled on his tunic, being careful not to bump the tattoo. 'Believe it,' he said.

'What are you, then, a rider?' said the tattooist, obviously mocking him.

Adrenaline was making him feel a little reckless. He pulled off his glove to reveal the gedwëy ignaesia, and held his hand over the tattoo. 'Waíse heill.'

The tattooist watched as the tattoo healed before her eyes. 'Oh my gods!' she exclaimed. 'You're a bloody rider! I just tattooed a rider.'

Galbatorix grinned. 'Don't tell anyone,' he said, and left the shop, humming a tune.

'I'm Allison,' the tattooist called after him. But he was already gone.

'So, how did your mission go?' Vrael fixed his erstwhile student with a commanding stare. 'Were you successful?'

'I was,' said Galbatorix.

'So I assume you found and killed the creature?' said Vrael.

'Yes, I-,'

Vrael waved him into silence. 'We will speak in the ancient language here, Arren. Only truth may be spoken in my city.'

Galbatorix's heart sank. 'As you wish,' he said, switching languages with ease. He reached into his pocket and brought out the Ra'zac claw. 'A trophy,' he said, hoping it would be enough.

Vrael took it. 'So you killed it?'

Galbatorix hesitated. This was it. If he tried to say something in the ancient language that was untrue, he would be silenced before the lie was out of his mouth. But in a wild instant he decided to try it anyway. 'The creature is dead,' he said.

It was as if time had stopped.

The words had come smoothly and easily. He had said them in the ancient language. He had done it. He had lied using the ancient language.

Vrael was looking at him suspiciously. 'And how did it go? Were you able to defeat it easily?'

'I was,' said Galbatorix, his mind reeling.

'Tell me how. How did you catch it?'

'I… I got word that it was lurking in the forest outside the city walls, looking for prey. I went out there, alone, with my sword hidden. I wandered around alone, pretended to be lost… it followed me in the hopes of killing me, and I caught it by surprise before it pounced. It… the creature didn't stand a chance, Lord Vrael.'

'So you brought back its claw as proof,' said Vrael. 'Why not its head?'

'The head was too big,' said Galbatorix. 'It would have been a nuisance to carry. A claw was easier.' The lies were coming more and more easily. There was nothing. No resistance. No effort. No struggle. He was disobeying one of the deepest laws of magic, and he didn't know how he was doing it.

Vrael seemed to relax in some way. 'Well done. I'm pleased with you. You succeeded in your mission quickly and efficiently, with the minimum of fuss, and you didn't waste time basking in glory, which I am honestly surprised by, given your propensity for showing off. Now, is there anything else to report?'

Galbatorix nodded. 'Before the Ra'zac died, it told me something,' he said.

Vrael tensed slightly. 'Oh?'

'It hoped it could save its own hide by telling me the location of a treasure it had found. After it was dead I decided to have a look, and I found… this.' Galbatorix took the diamond from his pocket, and held it up.

Vrael started slightly. 'Where did… where did you find that?'

'Up on Helgrind,' said Galbatorix. 'There was a cave in the side of one of the three peaks, and it was buried inside.'

Vrael took it from him and examined it, turning it over in his long fingers. 'This is a real diamond,' he said. 'Who would have thought a foul creature such as a Ra'zac would possess it? You are fortunate, Arren. Your conquest won you a rich prize.'

Galbatorix took the diamond back. 'I wanted to send it to Ellesméra and ask them to set it into the hilt of my sword. Would that be possible?'

Vrael nodded. 'A good idea. It would make a splendid decoration for what will be a splendid weapon. But be careful not to lose it. This diamond is worth more than the wealth of three cities. I am going to visit Ellesméra in a few days. If you would like, I will take it with me to ensure it arrives safely.'

'Thankyou, my Lord Vrael. What shall I do until the Blood-Oath celebration?'

'Whatever you will,' said Vrael. 'Wander. Study. Learn. Contemplate. Prepare yourself. On the day of the Blood-Oath celebration you will be bound up in the great magic of the riders, and from that day forth you will be one of us. Forever.'

For some reason that made Galbatorix shiver slightly. 'Master Vrael?'

'Speak.'

'I've been wondering… I mean… is it possible to tell a lie in the ancient language?' the question came out in a rush. He shouldn't have asked it, but he couldn't help himself.

Vrael paused. 'No. It is impossible.'

'But is there some way to do it? Could someone use magic, or…?'

'No,' Vrael said again. 'The ancient language is inviolable. Nobody can tell an untruth with it. Not me, not you. No-one.'

'So there's never been anyone who could do it?' Galbatorix persisted.

'There was a race that is said to have been able to resist the power of the ancient language,' said Vrael. 'But that race is dead.'

'What race?' said Galbatorix. His heart was pounding.

'Dark elves,' said Vrael. 'They were liars and oathbreakers and that brought about their doom. Now, leave me.'

They were in Vrael's study; a simple, book-lined room lit by candles. As the old elf turned away to examine some papers on his desk, he did not see the sly gleam in Galbatorix's black eyes.

Galbatorix spent the next week or so in Ilirea doing what he had to do, which was nothing. He lazed around the city as and when he pleased, eating and drinking, reading books in the library or dozing in the sunshine up on one of the tower balconies. He spent time with Flell and rediscovered the initial lightness and joy that had been in their relationship before. At other times he practised archery and swordplay, and experimented with magic, or went flying with Laela.

It was on one of these flights that he told Laela about what had happened in Vrael's study. 'I can lie in the ancient language,' he said calmly. 'I lied to Vrael. He never suspected a thing.'

Laela was stunned. 'But that's impossible! How did you do it?'

'It was easy. I just looked him in the eye and lied. There was no trick to it; the language just didn't stop me from lying. Look, I'll prove it to you.' He switched to the ancient language and said; 'My mother is the Queen of the Elves.' Just as before, the lie took no effort to tell. 'You see?'

'But how?'said Laela.

'It's in my blood,' Galbatorix said triumphantly. 'The dark elves had the power to lie in the ancient language, and I inherited it. Isn't that amazing? Not even Vrael can do it, but I can.'

Laela was thoughtful. 'You surprise me all the time, Galbatorix Taranisäii.'

He grinned mentally at the addition of 'Taranisäii' to his name. 'I surprise myself too.'

And then, at long last, it was time. The Blood-Oath celebration was on them, and Vrael sought Galbatorix out and told him it was time to set out for Ellesméra. 'Your sword has been forged,' the white-haired elf said. 'Tomorrow we shall leave. Now go and prepare.'

Which Galbatorix did, his heart fluttering with excitement. He packed a bag with clothes, including the ceremonial outfit he had worn to the last Blood-Oath celebration, and spent the rest of that day in a state of great agitation. All he could think of was his sword. Soon it would be in his hands… soon he would be a full rider.

On the following morning he saddled up Laela and was ready to go. Vrael, Flell and several other riders who were in Ilirea at the time were coming as well. Only those who had some very important reason to stay away were going to miss the celebrations.

It wasn't until they were actually in the air that Galbatorix remembered the last Blood-Oath celebration he had attended, and felt an unpleasant weight form in his chest. Would the elves remember him? Would they still be hostile, even after all this time?

He was unable to shake of his worry during the journey, but when he shared it with Laela she was surprisingly offhand about it. 'Forget the damned elves,' the white dragon sneered. 'You're above them; you're a fully-trained rider. They wouldn't dare throw anything at you now. You do realise that once you've been inducted you'll have the power to punish any one of them if you wanted to? Even the Queen will answer to you. Remember that.'

It did a lot to calm him down.

And then, at long last, they were back in Ellesméra. Laela and the other dragons landed in the valley and were greeted by a throng of elves, including the Queen herself. It was very different from the last time he had arrived there; now, instead of entering the valley in a rattling old wagon, he flew in on dragonback. No longer a simple city boy, but a dragon rider before whom even the Queen of the elves bowed.

He dismounted easily, and was joined by Flell. She was clad in a fine blue tunic that matched her eyes, and her soft brown hair fluttered in the wind. She took his hand and smiled, blushing slightly at the sight of the cheering elves. 'Isn't it amazing?' she murmured. 'I feel like a Queen.'

'Don't be stupid, Flell,' said Galbatorix, giving her hand a squeeze. 'You're more than a Queen. You're a rider.'

Flell kissed him on the cheek. 'And you're better than a King.'

Islanzadí came forward to meet Vrael, and the two elves embraced affectionately, as was the elvish way. Islanzadí turned to address his fellow riders, her delicate face flushed from excitement. 'Welcome, welcome!' she exclaimed. 'Welcome, Shur'tugal. Welcome to Ellesméra, welcome to my home. It is a great honour to have you here. Allow me to offer you our hospitality during this happy time. Now, I have been told that one of you here is a new rider who is to be inducted at the ceremony… if he would step forward, I would be most pleased.'

Galbatorix came forward without hesitation. 'I am he, Your Majesty.'

Islanzadí eyed him for a moment, and then bowed low. 'Welcome, my Lord,' she said. 'I am honoured to have you here. Your name?'

'Arren Cardockson,' said Galbatorix. He disliked having to use what he considered to be a false name, but there was no real way of explaining that his true name was Galbatorix. Not when he had first introduced himself as Arren. If he insisted on being called by his true name – if he told them all to call him Galbatorix Taranisäii, which he was itching to do… well, he couldn't do that.

'My Lord Arren,' said Islanzadí. 'Because you are due to be inducted, there are things you must do before the ceremony tonight. If you would come with me, I will first show you to your quarters.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'Show me the way, Your Majesty.'

Which Islanzadí did. Galbatorix walked beside her, followed by Laela. She showed him the way to his new lodgings – these were in a different part of the valley than the small home he had lived in on his last visit to her realm, and far bigger. It had two levels; at the bottom was a huge empty cavelike space intended for Laela, and above that was a series of rooms for him. It was incredibly luxurious, with a bath, mirrors, cupboards and fine furniture, and elegant arched windows in every wall. There was even a balcony, and a bed so large that three people could have slept in it.

'However,' Islanzadí added, with a hint of amusement in her eyes, 'If the bed is not to your liking, we have provided a hammock for you. It is in the wardrobe. Someone informed us that you may appreciate it.'

Galbatorix was touched by that. 'Thankyou very much, Your Majesty,' he said. 'I'm very grateful.'

She bowed slightly. 'I am pleased to please you, Shur'tugal. Now I will give you some time to change your clothes and rest, but I must ask you to come to the Menoa tree within an hour.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'Understood.'

'Then I will leave you now.' Islanzadí made an exit.

While Laela settled into her cave beneath him, Galbatorix yawned and set about preparing himself for the ceremony. He stripped off his travel-stained clothes, bathed and washed his hair, then dressed in his ceremonial outfit. He was far too keyed-up to rest, so once he was satisfied with his appearance he left his lodgings and he and Laela headed straight for the Menoa tree.

There, Islanzadí was waiting. With her were Carina and Vrael. They greeted Galbatorix formally, and Vrael said; 'This is it. Tonight you will be bound up in the ancient magic and presented with your sword, and your training will be complete. Before the ceremony begins, you must prepare yourself. Go from here. Go with Laela. Go wherever you choose, find a place you've never been before. Somewhere secluded. Stop there.'

'And what do I do there, Lord Vrael?'

'Meditate,' Vrael said briefly. 'Lose yourself in your surroundings. Open your mind and contemplate the great mysteries of life. When the moon begins to rise, return to this place. But you must be mentally prepared. After the ceremony, you will have changed forever and there will be no going back. Contemplate that if you contemplate anything.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'I understand.'

He climbed into Laela's saddle, and she flew away over the treetops. 'Where shall we go?' she asked.

'I don't know. Anywhere. Not too far.'

In the end Laela chose to land in an empty, rock-strewn valley in the mountains, by a small stream. There they stopped. Galbatorix seated himself by the stream, cross-legged, and sighed. Contemplation. It was something Vrael had made him do many, many times in the past. Open your mind and take in everything around you, let yourself become one with your surroundings.

He'd always found it very easy to do, and he disliked it. He'd never really been able to see the point of wasting time 'contemplating' and had protested about it in the past, but Vrael had remained unmoved.

Now, though, he had a lot to think about. 'What d'you think Vrael meant when he said the induction would "change" me?'

'I don't know,' said Laela. 'He probably meant it would change you on the inside.'

They were silent for a time.

'So… this is it, then. I'm going to become a full rider. It's been a long time, hasn't it?'

'It certainly has,' said Laela. 'We've changed so much already… seeing this place again was strange. Last time I was hardly more than a hatchling. And, in a way, so were you.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'I came to Ellesméra as a boy. But I've grown up, I think. I'm a man now. More than a man. A rider.' He glanced at the silver circle on his palm, and felt, not for the first time, that calm and powerful sense of certainty. He felt that he was on the cusp of something; standing at a major turning-point in his life. What happened to night would be as momentous in its way as the hatching of Laela. No matter what came out of it, what Vrael had said was true – from tonight, nothing would ever be the same again. His life had changed forever when he had first bonded with Laela. Tonight it would change again.

But he was not afraid. He had Laela, and with her beside him, nothing was too daunting.

They sat together for a long time, not speaking at all, as the sun sank slowly behind the trees in a blaze of orange and gold. Presently, the moon rose.

Galbatorix watched it until it was well over the treetops, and then he sighed and stood up. 'I suppose we should go back, then…'

Laela stirred. 'All right.'

Galbatorix climbed back into the saddle. His heart was pounding. 'This is it…'

'Yes,' said Laela. She squared her shoulders. 'Let's go and face it.'

The white dragon took off.

When the arrived back at the Menoa tree, they found the festivities were already well underway. Laela landed at the edge of the clearing, and settled down there while Galbatorix went in among the revellers, who fell silent as he passed and bowed low. He was offered food and drink, but took nothing but a goblet of wine, which he emptied and put aside. He found Vrael by the trunk of the Menoa tree, and presented himself to his former master without saying a word.

'Ah,' said Vrael. 'Good to see you back. The presentations of the artworks are about to begin. Watch and wait for your turn.'

Galbatorix nodded and sat down among the roots of the tree, not talking to anyone. In time he was joined by Flell, who sat down beside him. 'There you are,' she said. 'Where did you go?'

'Up into the mountains,' Galbatorix said briefly.

'Are you excited?' Flell asked.

Galbatorix nodded.

After that they had no more opportunity to talk. The presentations of the artworks began. Galbatorix sat and watched in silence. Poems, stories, songs, paintings, carvings… he watched them all indifferently. When it was Flell's turn she got up and displayed a book which she had made – it was an ancient text called The Dominance of Fate, which she had carefully copied out and illuminated. The elves were particularly impressed with this creation.

While this was happening, Galbatorix was joined by Laela. She had managed to get to the base of the Menoa tree without knocking anything down, and she settled down by her rider, her silver eyes fixed on the clear spot where Flell was showing off her work.

Then it was Galbatorix's turn. He was called forward, and all eyes turned toward him.

He looked back coldly at the expectant crowd. Without standing up, he said; 'I have nothing.'

'I beg your pardon?' said someone.

'I said I have nothing,' said Galbatorix, raising his voice slightly. 'I have nothing to show you, and neither does Laela.'

There was a muttering. 'Why?' someone asked.

'Because I chose not to bring anything,' said Galbatorix.

An awkward silence followed. Galbatorix sat calmly and ignored the stares he was attracting. Let them stare. He didn't care.

The presentations were resumed without further comment, and Galbatorix continued to watch, his expression openly bored.

Laela rustled her wings. 'That was a slap in the face to them,' she said. 'You just insulted them all. So did I, come to that.'

'Good.'

Laela grinned.

And then, at the height of the ceremony, it was time. Vrael came forward, clad all in white with his sword on his back. There was a long, cloth-wrapped object in his hands. The lord of riders stood there in silence, his head bowed, while, from the crowd, his fellows appeared one by one and formed a circle around him. Carina was there, and Saraswati, and Yansan. The dragons came forward as well, each one moving to stand behind its rider while the ordinary revellers quietly melted away into the background.

Galbatorix stood up. This was it.

Vrael looked up. 'Arren Cardockson of Teirm,' he intoned. 'Come forward into our circle and join with us.'

Galbatorix breathed in deeply. As they stood there like that, their dragons with them and their swords at their backs, the riders looked more formidable than any people he had ever seen before. They were different ages, different genders, different sizes and shapes, but there was something about them that made them all the same. The same pointed ears. The same deep, mysterious eyes. The same aura of ancient and terrible power.

He realised now, almost for the first time, what they were. They were not elves or humans. They were something else. They were above and beyond all others, including himself. Immortal. Far-seeing, quick-minded, all bound up and driven by magic older than time itself, each one made complete by the dragon that was his or her partner. They were the silver-handed ones, the Argetlam, the Shur'tugal, the Dragon Riders, the Lords of Alagaësia, the greatest magicians, warriors and leaders the world had ever known.

And now they stood there, united in their power, beckoning him to come forward and join them.

For what felt like a hundred years he stood there and watched them, all his strength and all his certainty draining away. He felt as if everything he had learned and everything he had done since the day he bonded with Laela had been dragged out of him, leaving him empty and vulnerable… just a bastard boy, alone in the world, caught up in the workings of a power he did not understand.

'I can't do this,' he whispered.

For a fraction of a second he had an overpowering urge to flee, but in the next moment Laela was in his head, her strength and certainty filling him and holding him steady. 'Calm down,' she said. 'Go forward, Galbatorix. They're waiting for you. Go!'

That was when he was sure. He screwed up his courage, and stepped into the circle. Every step felt heavy and slow, as if time had come to a standstill. The stars shone overhead, the trees all about sighed in the nighttime breezes, and he could hear his own heart thudding in his chest.

And then, quite suddenly, it was all over and he was standing there in front of Vrael, his head bowed humbly.

Vrael held out the object he was holding. 'Take it,' he said in a low voice. 'It is yours.'

Galbatorix accepted it. It was much heavier than he'd expected. His fingers felt numb and clumsy, but he pulled away the cloth wrappings and… it was revealed.

A sword. His sword. The sword of a rider.

It was almost exactly as it had appeared in the fairth he had made of it, a lifetime ago as it seemed to him now. The blade was pure white, swirling with faint hints of silver, as if it had been forged out of distilled moonlight. It was sharp and deeply channelled, tapering to an elegant point, and the handle was crafted perfectly to fit his grasp. The hilt was made from silver and had a beautiful simplicity to it. Set into the pommel was the Ra'zac's diamond, now polished and sparkling like a chunk of ice. The sword carried no other ornamentation but one – on the blade, just above the hilt, was an etching of a triple-spiral design – the same design that was tattooed on his shoulder. The emblem of the House of Taranis.

'Your sword,' said Vrael, breaking into his thoughts. 'You must give it a name. Today or tomorrow or the day after that… you must name it. It will be your companion in battle. Wield it with honour and courage all your days, Arren Cardockson. You are one of us now.'

Galbatorix had been taught the words he must say. 'I accept this sword, and the responsibility it represents,' he said. 'I shall be a rider all my days, and live by the code of honour. I shall be one of you.'

Vrael nodded. 'Then let us take Arren Cardockson into our great company,' he said, addressing all his fellow riders as one. 'Let us make him our own. Let the magic be bound about him now.'

The riders moved as one. They held out their hands, palm-first, showing the gleaming silver gedwëy ignaesias like tiny moons in the clearing. Vrael laid his own hand on Galbatorix's forehead, and braced himself. The other riders spoke with one voice, reciting a string of words in the ancient language, and the magic was woven. A beam of light shot from each outstretched palm, each one a different colour. Green, red, blue, yellow, gold… each one matching a dragon's scales. The light hit Vrael, outlining the old elf with its glory. Galbatorix felt Vrael's hand become burning hot on his forehead, and prepared himself for what was to follow.

Seconds later, the magic passed through Vrael and into Galbatorix. Into his forehead and down into his body, filling him up from end to end. He went rigid, his hands gripping the white-bladed sword until the skin broke. He felt no pain at all. All he could feel was the magic. It moved through him, unstoppably, making him burn all over. His skin prickled fiercely, and he gritted his teeth, feeling as if he were going to burst apart and be scattered to the far corners of the world.

At long last Vrael withdrew his hand. The spell was completed. For a few seconds Galbatorix stood there, swaying slightly. He opened his eyes, but everything was grey and hazy. He tried to move, but the world was spinning. The sword dropped out of his hands and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.