Chapter Sixteen

The Ancient House of Taranis

The journey to Teirm passed uneventfully. Laela came down to land up on the dragon roost built into the castle and Galbatorix dismounted gratefully. People had seen them coming, and came up to meet their new governor. Everything was prepared for him; the governor's quarters had been cleaned and refurnished for his use and dozens of servants and officials were waiting upon his command. He had a bedchamber, a study, an audience chamber and a stable with a thoroughbred horse specifically for his use. Within hours he had settled into his new home, and his new duties began.

There was letter from Vrael on the desk in the study. He opened it with a dagger. Inside was a piece of folded parchment and a large silver seal ring bearing the emblem of the riders. He read the letter.

Arren Cardockson,

Allow me to congratulate you on your new position. You will be governor of Teirm until your services are required elsewhere. Rely on your own judgement and learning in your decisions. You are hereby given complete control over the city and will be trusted to rule over it without interference and without the need to refer to the elders. However, below is a brief list of specific orders that we have for you.

Instruct the city's guards to be on the lookout for the fugitive traitor Einás Egg-Guardian of Ellesméra, who is guilty of sheltering a dangerous wild dragon. Said dragon is guilty of having attacked Queen Islanzadí. She is silver in colour and goes by the name of Skade, daughter of the Night Dragon. Should either of these two be spotted near Teirm, you are required to make every effort to capture them. Should you do so, send them immediately and unharmed to Ilirea where they will be put on trial.

A female Shade has been sighted in the countryside not far from Teirm. White haired and silver eyed, said to go by the name of Rangda. Listen carefully for any word of her and inform the elders immediately of any information you receive.

There have been reports of smugglers operating in Teirm; we would like to urge you to make an effort to stamp them out. The criminals are believed to be trading in stolen goods and illegal whiteleaf. Should you apprehend any of them, we expect you to mete out severe punishment upon them.

The letter went on to list a few more instructions, mostly detailing various matters that he would have to deal with within the city and a few other fugitives he was expected to keep an eye out for. He read the first instruction several times with a feeling of disbelief. Einás Egg-Guardian, a traitor? Surely not. He remembered the ancient elf's kindly face and soft voice, and decided that he couldn't think of anyone less likely to turn traitor.

He also remembered the silver dragon he had seen escape from Ellesméra, and wished he hadn't refused to go after it. He'd got a pang of malicious pleasure from seeing the shocked look on the elf's face, but when Vrael found out he would be highly unimpressed.

Still, what did it matter? He doubted that Einás would be any danger to anyone, dragon or no. And he couldn't help but feel sympathetic toward anyone who was being persecuted by the elves, no matter what they'd done. He decided that, if he did happen to be the one who caught them, he would talk to Einás and find out just what had happened before he gave her to Vrael.

In the meantime, he had more important things to attend to.

The morning after his arrival, his duties began. He spent the morning talking to the city's officials, who briefed him on everything that was going on in Teirm, from trade to building and law and order. He listened carefully and asked questions, determined not to miss anything important. It was all deeply uninteresting, but he didn't allow his mind to wander. He wanted to prove that he could do this, not just to Vrael and the other elders but also to himself. Now was the time when he could begin using his power. His training was over. Now he was the one who would pass judgement on commoners, and he was the one who had power over how they lived their lives. If his mother and father were still alive, it would be him they would be brought before, not Menulis. If he had been in power then, he could have stopped it.

Sadly, though, the chance to make the running of the city more just refused to leap out at him. Instead he found himself dealing with only one thing: paperwork.

He sat in his office with ink and a quill for hours on end, while an endless string of forms and letters were brought in for him to read, sign and seal. Trade agreements, property deals, a search warrant for the home of a suspected smuggler, an order to close the local granary and send in a group of rat-catchers… the list went on and on.

Galbatorix could hardly believe it. Here he was, a dragon-rider with full command of powerful magical forces, the alliance of a dragon and one of the finest swords in the land in his belt, and he was stuck in a chilly stone office battling paperwork.

He began to feel more and more impatient. What sort of a joke was this? A year of training and he was going to spend the rest of his life doing this?

When lunchtime finally gave him an excuse to get away, he took the opportunity offered to him and quietly disappeared into the city. The paperwork could wait, and for now there was something he very much wanted to do.

The great house that had once belonged to the House of Taranis was close to the castle, and he headed straight for it. This time, unlike the day when he had gone wandering in Dras-Leona, he was wearing a fine set of clothes and had his sword with him. It meant that he was instantly recognised by people he passed, who gaped at him and bowed low if he looked at them. Before long he was wishing he had gone out incognito, especially when people started to harass him with questions.

'My Lord! My Lord, may I ask your advice?'

'Argetlam, would you favour me with a-,'

He ignored them all and hurried on, hoping they would give up and go away, but then he was waylaid by an elderly woman who cornered him against a wall and thrust a small bundle at him, saying; 'Bless him, Argetlam. Please.'

Galbatorix peered bemusedly at the bundle. It was a baby, fast asleep. Then he looked at the woman. 'What?'

She had the decency to look embarrassed. 'I was hoping that you would speak a blessing over this child, Argetlam. He has been left without a father, and he will need strength.'

Galbatorix was completely bemused. He'd had plenty of people nag him for favours so far, but nothing this bizarre. But the woman was looking at him expectantly, and he decided to play along. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.' He licked his thumb and pressed it into the child's forehead, then spoke in the ancient language, making it up as he went along. 'Good luck, whoever you are. Take my advice and stay out of politics. You'll be better off trying to live a little more sensibly.'

He removed his thumb and raised his eyebrows at the woman. 'Will that do?'

'Thankyou, Argetlam!' said the woman. 'Thankyou so much! I'll-,'

'It was my pleasure,' Galbatorix muttered, and went on his way, caught between irritation and amusement.

He finally reached the ancestral home of the Taranisäiis, which was a grand, red-brick building whose walls were decorated with red-leafed ivy. Over the door was a stone carving of the family's coat of arms, and the steps leading up to it were flanked by a pair of dragon statues. The windows, however, were boarded up.

He went to the front door anyway and knocked. No answer. It was locked. He looked around for inspiration, and a man passing in the street, seeing him, stopped and said; 'You won't get in there, sir. It's all been abandoned. No-one's lived there in years.'

'I want a look inside,' said Galbatorix. 'Do you know how I can do that?'

'Well, there's the caretaker who lives just next door,' said the man. 'He's got the keys. I'd go and have a word with him if I was you.'

'Thankyou,' said Galbatorix.

The caretaker's house was very small, especially in comparison with the mansion it was nestled beside. Galbatorix knocked on the door. It was answered by a middle-aged man with a slight squint, who opened the door and said; ''Ere, what d'you want? I was in the middle of a – oh! Good gods. I'm sorry, my Lord. Didn't have any idea someone like you would be comin' to my door. What can I do for you?'

'I'm interested in having a look around inside the Taranisäii house,' said Galbatorix. 'I was told you could let me in. Would that be a problem?'

'Oh, not at all,' said the man. 'Just give me a moment.' He disappeared inside and returned a short while later, bearing a large ring of keys.

Galbatorix stood aside while the caretaker locked the door of his home, and then followed him back to the door of the mansion. The caretaker unlocked it, saying; 'May I ask why you're interested, my Lord?'

Galbatorix shrugged. 'I grew up in Teirm and saw this house a dozen times. I always wondered what it was like inside.'

The caretaker chuckled. 'Well then, your wish is granted. D'you mind if I ask you your name?'

'I'm Galbatorix,' said Galbatorix. 'And you?'

'Sandor, if it pleases you, my Lord Galbatorix. Now, let's go in.'

Sandor opened the door, and a gust of stale air blew out. Galbatorix entered the darkened house, and found himself standing in a grand entrance hall with an arched roof. Sandor joined him. He unhooked a lantern from the wall and lit it, holding it up so that Galbatorix could see properly. The walls were dusty, but he could see that the wood panelling was finely-carved and expensive, and that the fittings were brass. It must have been a magnificent sight once.

'Ah, this was a grand old house once,' Sandor sighed. 'Such a shame it's fallen into this state.'

'Who owns it now?' Galbatorix enquired.

'Well, after Lord and Lady Taranisäii died it got passed onto a cousin of theirs. But he wasn't about to leave his home over in Surda, so he left it to me to keep an eye on. Wasn't much I could do to keep it in good repair, mind. I expect it'll be sold off soon enough. Now, shall I show you around?'

Galbatorix nodded.

'Well, follow me then,' said Sandor.

For the next hour or so he followed the old man around the house, taking it all in. He was shown the banqueting hall, the kitchens, the bedrooms, the servant's quarters and the dank stone room where the slaves had lived.

'Of course this'n didn't get used much,' Sandor explained. 'The Taranisäiis didn't keep much in the way of slaves. Not until young Ingë went and bought herself that cursed elf, anyway.'

'What elf?' Galbatorix asked quickly.

'Ah, I ain't in no mood to talk about that if'n it pleases you, my Lord,' said Sandor. 'But it was that damned slave what brought House Taranis down if'n you can believe that.'

'Oh, I believe you,' Galbatorix said grimly.

As the tour continued, he began to feel slightly disappointed. There was nothing about the house that felt special. It was just a dead, empty old thing with no trace left in it of the people that had once lived there. He couldn't imagine his mother ever having been in this place. It didn't fit with his mental picture of her at all. But, of course, he had almost no idea of what she had been like.

In the end Sandor turned to him and said; 'Well, that's about it, my Lord, unless you'd like to see the crypt.'

Galbatorix paused. 'The crypt?'

'It's under the house,' said Sandor. 'That's where all the Taranisäiis were laid to rest.'

'Show them to me,' Galbatorix commanded.

Sandor nodded. 'Just as you say, my Lord.'

He led the way back down the stairs and into a small stone chamber in which there was nothing but a trapdoor in the middle of the floor. He opened that with some effort, and held the lantern out over the dark space that lay beneath it. 'Down there,' he said. 'We'll have to be careful on the stairs. Here, let me go ahead.'

He stepped down into the darkness, and Galbatorix followed. It was extremely cold in the space beneath the trapdoor. It led, as Sandor had said, to a narrow stone staircase. Galbatorix descended it carefully, following the bobbing light of the caretaker's lantern. They reached the bottom of the stairs, and after a minute or so there was a triumphant mutter from Sandor and a torch spluttered into life. It illuminated a long, low cave cut into the stone, its design stark and simple. The walls were white limestone and sparkled slightly in the torchlight, and set into them at intervals were iron sconces which held more torches. Sandor set about lighting them, and once he had done Galbatorix saw the tombs of his ancestors.

They were placed along the walls, the men on the right hand side and the women on the left. Each tomb was a large stone box, about waist-high, its top decorated with a life-sized carving of its occupant in an attitude of repose, carved eyes staring at the ceiling.

'Here you are,' said Sandor. 'The Taranisäiis. Every one of them. Starting at the end there with old Taranis himself. I'll wait here by the stairs and let you have a look.'

Galbatorix walked along the row of tombs, examining each one, starting with the right-hand side. The statues of the ancient Lords of the House of Taranis were depicted wearing mail and armour, and each one held a shield and a sword in his stone hands. It was unmistakeable from looking at their faces that they were all related. Fathers and sons, uncles, grandfathers, brothers… they had strong jaws and wide foreheads, and their features were clever, a little foxlike, but proud. None of them looked much like him but, he saw, several of them had curly hair.

Right at the end, as Sandor had said, was Taranis himself. Taranis' tomb was very old indeed. The statue on it was worn, the details crumbled away in places, and the name on the side was written in some old script that Galbatorix could neither read nor recognise.

'That was brought here a few centuries ago,' Sandor called from near the exit. 'It used to be in the city where Ilirea is now, but after the Taranisäiis settled here they had it brought in.'

Galbatorix examined the statue of his ancient forebear. Taranis' worn features were handsome in a cold kind of way, but there was a certain ruthlessness about his eyes and the set of his jaw. Galbatorix, looking at that still stone face, wondered what Taranis had been like. Had he really looked like this, or had this been carved long after his death? There was no way of knowing. But, he noticed, the carved sword in Taranis' hand did indeed have a triple spiral design on the blade. He unconsciously touched his own shoulder, where the tattoo prickled slightly. The emblem of the House of Taranis. Once Taranis', and now his.

He turned away to look at the tombs on the left-hand wall. There were as many Lady Taranisäiis as there were Lords, of course. Unlike the men they held books and flowers, but to his surprise he saw that one or two of them were armoured as if for some final battle. Apparently even the women of his family could be warriors. That made him feel a little proud, for some reason.

The last one he came across was his mother's.

Ingë Taranisäii's tomb was closest to the stairs, and the torchlight flickered over the carved face of the last Lady Taranisäii.

Galbatorix stared and stared at it for a long time, as for the first time he beheld his mother's face.

Ingë Taranisäii was young. She had delicate, intelligent features with large eyes, and a mane of curly hair flowed over her shoulders and the stone lid of her tomb. She was clad in a stone gown and wore a stone amulet which depicted the triple-spiral of her house, and in her hands she held… an egg.

'What's this?' said Galbatorix, touching it. 'An egg? Why an egg?'

He was talking half to himself, but Sandor overheard him. 'Ah, there's a bit of a story behind that,' he said.

'It looks like a dragon's egg,' said Galbatorix.

'Said to be, aye,' said Sandor. 'It was a family heirloom. Still is, I suppose. Passed down from Taranis himself. I saw it with my own eyes. A big black stone, polished like marble. Some said it was a real egg an' not just a carving, but it'd been kept for over a thousand years and never hatched. Nobody was quite sure where it'd come from, but it was precious. Lady Ingë had a fascination for it. She kept it in her room and was always picking it up and cradling it like it was a baby. Maybe she thought it'd hatch. She always wanted to be a rider, you know. Wanted to go and be tested, but her parents wouldn't hear of it. Ah, she was a wild one.'

Galbatorix touched the carved egg, a strange sweet sadness tingling in his throat. He was more like his mother than he had realised. She too had wanted to be a rider… 'Where is the egg now?' he enquired.

'It's with the family treasures, in the vault,' said Sandor.

'The vault?'

'It's under us,' said Sandor, tapping his boot on the floor.

Galbatorix looked down. Sure enough, there was a stone slab under their feet, with a visible joint all around it. It stood between his mother's tomb and that of his grandfather, and when he thumped his heel on it it made a hollow sound. 'May I have a look?' he asked.

Sandor paused. 'I don't see why not. But I'll have to go and get a lever to get the slab out with. Wait here a few minutes, and…'

Galbatorix stepped off the slab and raised his hand. 'Reisa.'

There was a faint grinding sound, and the slab slowly lifted out of its hole in the floor. Galbatorix kept control of it and gently laid it down out of the way.

Sandor gaped at him. 'Well, I never. That was magic, was it?'

Galbatorix nodded. 'Shall we have a look inside?'

Without waiting for an answer, he took a torch from the wall and entered.

The vault was surprisingly small. There was nothing in there but a few wooden chests on the floor. He knelt and opened them, one by one. They were full of gold and silver; coins, ingots, bars and jewellery. All the wealth of the House of Taranis.

He had no interest in taking it, even though he considered it his rightful inheritance. Money meant very little to him now, and even if he was interested he had access to the treasury in the castle, which was no doubt overflowing with valuable items.

Disappointed, he opened the last chest and found that this one was different. Instead of treasure, this one held an assortment of strange but very old-looking objects. An ancient goblet with a triple-spiral. A rusted dagger which bore the same design. The broken shard of a sword-blade. A necklace with a stone amulet on it – the same one, he realised with a little start, that his mother had worn. There was a matching ring, and a yellowing roll of parchment, but nestled in the middle of all that was something that took his breath away.

An egg. A huge, perfectly-formed egg. Its shell was strangely lustreless, its colour jet-black with a tracery of white veins. He put the torch aside and picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. But it felt exactly the same in his hands as Laela's egg had done so long ago.

He tapped it carefully, and was rewarded with a hollow ping. When he put his ear to it, he thought he could hear a faint sound coming from inside. But it only lasted a second, and afterwards he wasn't sure if he'd really heard it. He wondered if it was a real dragon's egg. But it couldn't possibly be. Still, it was a very beautiful and impressive replica of one if it wasn't real. If it was real, then it had to be a dead egg.

He put it down and then picked up the other items – the ring, the amulet, the dagger and the cup. He was curious to see what was written on the parchment, but it was so old that it started to crumble as soon as he tried to unroll it, so he hastily put it down again.

Sandor was waiting outside. 'Are you done in there yet, my Lord?' he called. 'Only it's getting late.'

Galbatorix slipped the amulet and the ring into his pocket. 'I'm done,' he replied, and closed the chest.

When he re-emerged Sandor said; 'Well, you've seen everything now. Hope you enjoyed it.'

'Yes, thankyou, Sandor,' said Galbatorix.

He put the slab back into place with another spell, and Sandor put out the torches and then hustled him away back upstairs and out of the house.

When they reached the open air again, Galbatorix got a little shock when he saw that night was falling. He'd been in the house all afternoon.

Once Sandor had locked the door again, Galbatorix handed him some gold coins. 'Here. That's for your trouble. Thankyou very much for your help, Sandor.'

Sandor's hand closed around the money. 'Pleased to be of service, my Lord! Any time you need me, don't hesitate to ask.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'I'll be sure to keep that in mind.'

He'd half-expected to be faced with a dozen frantic people demanding to know where he'd suddenly disappeared to when he got back to the castle, but that didn't happen. Everything had continued to run smoothly in his absence, and his new underlings accepted his return without comment, merely informing him of anything that had happened that he had missed. He was a little surprised, even slightly disappointed. Did he really matter so little in the scheme of things?

But after thinking it over, he realised what it really meant. He was the governor, and a rider. No-one was going to pry into his affairs; they would simply work around him and accept whatever he did without question, because that was their job. If he decided to vanish for an afternoon, then so be it. Nobody here was his equal, except for Laela – no-one was keeping tabs on him, no-one was judging him. He was completely free. And if he wanted to neglect or abuse his duties, he could do that too. He doubted even Vrael would care, assuming he found out about it in the first place. It was a thrilling thought.

After the evening meal, which he ate up on the dragon roost with Laela, he went to the castle library. There were several volumes of legal records in there, and, just as he'd done in Ilirea, he searched through them until he found a page detailing the fate of his parents. His hopes of learning anything new from it were dashed: it turned out that the record was identical to the one he'd read in Ilirea – clearly copies of every record were made and sent there to be preserved.

Galbatorix tore the page out and threw it into the fire.

He sat there and watched it burn, turning the ancient seal ring in his fingers and watching the light play over the triple-spiral design until long after the scrap of paper had turned to ash and crumbled away, as if it had never been. He wasn't sure why he had stolen the ring and the amulet. They wouldn't be of any use to him, so why? Some vague and ridiculous notion of claiming his inheritance?

Laela was listening. 'You have no inheritance,' she said gently. 'You know that.'

Galbatorix sighed. 'I know, Laela, I know. Bastards don't have inheritances.'

She didn't miss the bitterness in his voice. 'Don't you have enough already? Forget about it, Galbatorix. If you've got any sense then you'll take my advice. Put it aside. Stop trying to find your parents. That's what you're trying to do, you know. They're dead, and there's nothing you can do to bring them back. Move on and worry about your own life. It's what they would have wanted.' She spoke kindly, but firmly, and he could see the sense in it.

But something about it still stuck in his throat. 'They were my parents,' he said. 'How could I forget that?'

'And what about your foster parents?' said Laela. 'Cardock and Freyja. They were the ones who raised you, and even if they aren't your true parents they still love you. Have you forgotten about them?'

'No. Of course I haven't.' But as he spoke, he slipped the ring onto his own finger.

'There's someone else you've forgotten, you know,' said Laela.

He didn't understand. He sat there feeling vaguely irritable for a few seconds, and then it came rushing back and his eyes widened. 'Flell! Oh godsdammit…'

He stood up and ran out of the room while Laela laughed at him in his head.

In his office, he cleared a space on the desk and selected a blank piece of parchment. As he was opening a bottle of ink, it occurred to him that he'd never really written a letter before. But it was the only way to reach Flell.

'What should I say to her?' he asked Laela.

He felt his phantom wings rise and fall as Laela shrugged. 'Tell her what you're feeling. Be honest.'

But he didn't even know how to start it. He made three attempts, but each time it felt either too formal or too flowery and he threw the aborted letter away. What could he possibly say? He had to reassure her somehow, tell her that he still loved her and that he didn't want anything bad to happen to her. But he'd never been terribly good at talking about his feelings.

In the end he simply wrote:

Flell,

How are you? I've been working hard, trying to keep the city running. It's very boring and most of the time all I seem to do is talk to people and sign bits of paper. Not exactly what I was expecting. Maybe I should ask Vrael to give me another assignment. Something military might be a little more exiting. Poor Laela has nothing to do except sleep or fly around the countryside and I haven't had a chance to use my new sword at all. I decided to call it White Violence.

What have you been doing? Is your training going well? How long do you think it'll be before you're finished? I can't wait to see you at the next Blood-Oath celebration, when you get your own sword.

About what happened the last time we met… I truly am very sorry that I didn't tell you the truth sooner. Ever since I found out I was a half-breed, it's been a torment for me. Sometimes I feel trapped by what I am, because there's nothing I can do about it and everyone who has ever found out about it has hated me for it. Flell, if you did the same, I couldn't bear it. Please, find it in yourself to accept me for what I am. Does my blood make me any less of a person? I'm still human, and I still love you.

I miss you and I want to see you again.

Yours, Galbatorix Taranisäii

PS: I'm enclosing a small keepsake for you to remember me by.

He read over it carefully several times. It felt hopelessly inadequate, and he wasn't sure if signing it with his real name was a good idea. But his secret was out in the open now, and there wasn't much point in trying to edge around it by pretending to be Arren Cardockson. It already made him feel like an impostor whenever someone called him that. And although he loved Flell, if they were going to stay together then she would have to accept him for what he truly was, along with his real name. And no-one else would see the letter…

He sighed and picked up a paperknife. It wasn't very sharp, but he used it to cut off a lock of his hair. He bound the little black curl together with a loose thread from his tunic, folded it up with the letter and sealed the whole thing shut with a blob of wax. For a wild moment he considered stamping the seal of House Taranis into it, but common sense prevailed and he used the official rider's seal ring instead. He scribbled Flell's name onto the outside, and added the letter to the heap of outgoing mail bound for Ilirea. It would reach her in a few days.

Over the next five months, he continued to govern the city as best he could. He attended meetings, gave orders, organised, directed, presided over the law courts… did a leader's work.

He quickly got a reputation for being an intelligent and efficient ruler, with a quick mind and a dedication to his work. There were no more semi-secret excursions into the city. He stayed in the castle and worked from dawn until dusk, burying the restless youth beneath a mountain of duties and responsibilities. It wasn't long before those around him stopped seeing him as an arrogant young lord who they were obliged to obey simply because he was a rider and begin seeing him as… well, as the city governor, one who worked tirelessly and kept things in order, who was always approachable and would listen to complaints and suggestions without showing any sign of boredom or impatience. His only real eccentricity was his insistence on having all his meals brought up to the dragon roost so he could spend time with his dragon. On the rare occasions when he had nothing to do, he would spend time flying over the surrounding countryside with his dragon, keeping an eye on the people he was responsible for.

But he did other things that were thought of as a little odd. For one thing, when someone politely told him that he was in need of a new pair of boots, he immediately sent out an order for some leather and tools and proceeded to make them himself. Several officials, coming into the audience chamber or his office to speak with him, found him in there with an awl or a leather-knife, cutting and shaping the pieces of thick hide, and later stitching them together with an oversized needle. He didn't use magic and refused all help, claiming that the work helped him to think. When he was finished, those around him were surprised to see that the completed boots were stout and well-made, and fitted him perfectly. When someone remarked upon it, all he said was; 'No-one starts out as a rider. I learnt another trade first.'

It was hardly the sort of behaviour anyone would expect from one of the riders, who were looked upon almost as demi-gods, but it helped to make people feel slightly less intimidated by him, which was just as well, given that his unreadability and general aura of darkness and mystery tended to unnerve people who didn't know him well.

Another odd thing he did involved the law. He placed a lot of emphasis on legal matters and preferred to pass important judgements in person. Whenever that happened he would insist on talking to the accused himself, and he would hear them speak with an intent look that suggested he was really listening. Unlike any of the other riders who had taken command in the city, he acted as if he truly cared about what criminals had to say and didn't dismiss anything they said as lies. And he acted on it, too, sometimes earning him respect and sometimes making people angry. On more than one occasion he gave people pardons or light sentences if they did something to convince him they deserved mercy. For example, when a man accused of selling smuggled goods tearfully claimed that he had only done so because his family desperately needed the money, instead of having him branded Galbatorix confiscated the goods and sent him home with a warning that if he repeated the offence he would be severely punished. Another occasion was more shocking. A slave was brought in on a charge of having attempted to break the laws binding his kind – namely, he had made an advance on his mistress.

The response to that would normally have been straightforward. In fact the slave's fate was considered sealed to the point that the official in charge came very close to simply having him put to death without a trial. But Galbatorix found out about it and insisted on giving the slave a fair trial. And, ignoring the calls for him to send the man to the chopping block, he ordered everyone out of the room and spoke to him alone. Afterwards he proceeded to shock everyone by setting the slave free and having him sent back to his home country, but not before giving him a sum of money to help him purchase a new home.

Afterwards, apparently oblivious to the outcry from the slave traders, he gave a command for the buying and selling of slaves to be abolished, and ordered every slave set free immediately. And in spite of the outrage this was met with, it was what happened. No-one dared to resist. Not when the command had been given by a rider. When some officials and minor nobles went to Galbatorix and demanded to know if he had asked permission from Ilirea, he coldly told them that he was lord of Teirm now and that as far as he was concerned they would do what he told them to and nothing else – unless they wanted to be charged with treason. They had to be content with that. The former slave traders were given compensation and then granted state support until they could find new professions for themselves, and the city was abuzz over it for days.

It was a major triumph for Galbatorix. And, he noted, along with the anger there was a great deal of approval as well. Plenty of people disliked the slave trade, and now he had put a stop to it they had begun calling him a liberator and a hero. This new rider was different. He didn't shut himself away; he cared about the people he had power over, and he didn't act like an elf. He was not arrogant or aloof, he was not afraid to laugh or admit a mistake, he turned a blind eye to the various underground religions that flourished in the city, and his ears weren't pointed. And if someone came to the castle with a complaint or a request of some sort, as often as not he would let them in and talk to them.

And all the while, as Galbatorix threw himself into his work, he was waiting for a letter from Flell, waiting for her to contact him and let him know that she was all right.

But it never came.

One day, five months after his arrival in Teirm, he woke up feeling slightly excited. Today was a special day.

While he combed his hair, he reached out for Laela. 'Good morning, Laela.'

He felt her drowsiness, and then she answered. 'Good morning. Why so cheerful?'

Galbatorix smiled to himself. 'Do you know what today is, Laela?'

'No, what?'

'Today is my nineteenth birthday.'

'Oh!' said Laela, sharing a feeling of pleased surprise. 'I suppose you'll have a feast, then?'

'No. Nobody else knows. I couldn't really see the point in mentioning it. No-one in the castle will care. They'll just pretend to care.'

'Well, are you at least going to take the day off?'

Galbatorix put the comb aside and picked up a brush. 'Certainly not. Far too much to do.'

'On your birthday?'

'It's no different than any other day, really. Anyway, I'm due in court. And there's those treasury reports to write; I've got to have them finished by tomorrow…'

Laela chuckled. 'You've changed. Whatever happened to the boy who couldn't be bothered to make anything to show the elves?'

'That was different. That was just elvish nonsense. This matters.'

'That's something the old Galbatorix wouldn't have said,' said Laela. 'You've turned into a leader.'

'You mean I've turned into everyone's errand boy. What are you going to do today?'

'Not much. Fly along the coast for a while. You know, I keep wondering what's on the other side of the sea. I'd like to try and fly over it some day, see what's there.'

Galbatorix picked out a new tunic to wear. 'So would I.' He sighed. 'That's the downside of being a rider. You've got the power, but there's no chance to have any fun with it. Well, have fun. I'll see you tonight.'

'Are you sure you can't come with me?'

'I'm sorry, Laela.'

'Well, all right.' She was silent for a time, and he thought she'd gone, but then he heard her voice again. 'Oh… Galbatorix?'

'Yes?'

'Happy birthday.'

Then she was gone. Suddenly feeling lonely, Galbatorix finished dressing and left the room. After breakfast he indulged himself by spending an hour in the practise yard, practising swordplay. It was a good way to relax, and he didn't want to risk getting out of shape, even if he had to spend the next couple of years staying put in Teirm.

Afterwards, it was time to go to work. He checked the letters that had come from Ilirea, but none of them were from Flell. With a heavy heart, he started work on the treasury report. After lunch it was time to go to court and pass judgement on a number of criminals who had been caught selling Whiteleaf, which was an illegal drug. He fined three of them and sentenced two others to fifty lashes apiece, then returned to the castle for a meeting with some officials.

That afternoon, as he was in his office putting the finishing touches on the treasury report, he was interrupted by a servant who knocked on the door. Galbatorix told him to enter. The servant stood politely in front of the desk and said; 'My Lord. I'm sorry for the interruption.'

Galbatorix put his pen back into its holder. 'Go on.'

'Well, there's a couple of people downstairs asking to see you,' said the servant. 'They're claiming to be your parents.'

Galbatorix paused over that. He hadn't seen his foster parents since the day he had first left for Ellesméra, a long time ago. He sighed and picked up his pen again. 'Give them my apologies and tell them I'm too busy to see them right now.'

'Yes, my Lord.' The servant departed.