From White to Black

by Opifex the Singer

Prequel to Skade and Black Dragon. This one tells Galbatorix's backstory. I changed it to make it a little less Star Wars. Enjoy.

19. The Icelands

Chapter Nineteen

The Icelands

For the next few days the pair of them stayed in hiding in the Spine, not knowing what else to do. Galbatorix had to live off berries and mushrooms, supplementing them with whatever small game he could find. He hardly dared to light a fire, lest it be seen by someone, and for the same reason Laela kept to the ground. The trouble was that she was too conspicuous for safety. White dragons were very rare in the wild, and aside from Nöst she was the only dragon of her colour to have a rider. If she was seen flying over the Spine, someone was bound to see her, and it would bring the riders down on their heads.

But even in spite of these precautions their life in the Spine was still extremely fraught. There were wild dragons about, and they did not take kindly to having outsiders on their land. They couldn't go further into the mountains lest they intrude on the territory of one of the larger dragons that lived there, and even on the edge, where only the weaker ones had territories, they were in constant danger. A wild dragon never backs away from a fight and rarely chooses to talk first, and time and time again they had to fight for their lives.

Both of them became thin and scarred. Laela's scales lost their shine and Galbatorix's clothes became ragged. Their faces began to take on a wild, desperate, hollow-eyed look as again and again they were driven away and forced to find some new place to hide. Galbatorix became weak and listless from exposure and lack of food, and then developed a persistent, hacking cough that shook his thin form all over. Laela did her best to keep him warm and help him find food, but still it wasn't enough. The cough became worse. She would lie awake at night listening to it with despair, and in the end she was forced to see that he simply would not survive this life. And so, after nearly a month in the Spine, she woke him up one morning and said; 'We're leaving. Now.'

Galbatorix stirred and sat up, picking bits of loose leaf-litter out of his hair. He coughed several times and pulled his cloak around him, shivering in the cold autumn winds. 'Where are we going?' he asked.

'North,' said Laela.

'You mean-?'

'It's the only way I can think of to go. We can… well, it's got to be better than here. And who knows – maybe we'll find your father's people after all.'

In Ilirea, Vrael was doing his best to hide his fear. But he couldn't hide it from himself. The half-breed's escape was nothing less than a disaster for the elders, and he knew it. At first no-one was sure how Galbatorix had managed to do it, given the oath he'd taken, but after careful questioning of Brom and the other young riders who had been there Vrael had seen the truth of it. His fall from the tower had been a suicide attempt, not an escape, and it was only pure luck that had brought his dragon in time to save him. And Vrael had not made her swear an oath.

Again and again he cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he not restrained the cursed creature? The half-breed's claim that she knew nothing of his true evil had convinced Vrael that she could be trusted, but now she had proven herself to be as treacherous as her rider.

From thereon in, there was only one thing to do: catch them. But it was proving far more difficult than Vrael had anticipated. He had sent out messages to every town and village in the land. The rider Arren Cardockson, also known as Galbatorix Taranisäii, nineteen years old and bonded to a white dragon called Laela, was now a traitor and criminal. Any loyal subject of the riders was commanded to be on the lookout, and if anyone spotted either him or his dragon they were to inform the local official at once. Helping the fugitives in any way – either directly, by giving them food or shelter, or indirectly, by failing to report having seen them – would be considered an act of treason. But information would be rewarded, and anyone who managed to capture either one of them would be granted a lordship.

Still, at first Vrael had considered that a mere formality. After all, the half-breed had sworn loyalty to him, so a command made in the ancient language for him to come back should be all that was needed.

But it wasn't. Vrael cast the spell that would project his words into the half-breed's mind, only to find that it wouldn't work. It was as if the boy had simply vanished from the face of the earth. His mind was… invisible. No matter what Vrael tried, he could not find him.

Nor could any of the other riders he sent do the same.

And then, to his rage, he discovered something else. He remembered that he knew Galbatorix's true name – a name that would control him no matter where he was. Or, at least, he thought he knew. But when he attempted to use it, nothing happened. That was when he realised the truth. The half-breed boy that he had trained was indeed a dark elf. He had lied about his true name, and doubtless lied about many other things as well.

In truth the riders, including Vrael, knew very little about dark elves. Their determination to destroy their race utterly – along with its culture – had succeeded so well that even the riders themselves knew virtually nothing about the people they had crushed. Every book written about them had been banned and burned, and Vrael had not taken the time to give any of them more than a cursory glance before they were disposed of.

All he had to go on were old stories and heresy, but that was what he thought back on now, as he tried to understand the nature of the traitor and what vile things he could have inherited from his cursed father.

The dark elves were oathbreakers; he knew that much. When he had fought them he had personally seen them somehow break oaths that had been made in the ancient language. Somehow, by the use of some dark magic, they could break the law of magic that was supposed to be unbreakable: they could tell lies in the ancient language. And, it seemed, they were powerful in the mind. Terrifyingly so.

Again and again Vrael tried to scry the half-breed, searching for him in the clear surfaces of water and mirrors, but no matter how hard he tried it simply would not work. All the visions showed him was darkness – either death or invisibility. Perhaps the half-breed was dead. The fall from the tower could well have killed him. But if that was true, then why had his dragon still been able to fly? The pain of feeling him die would have affected her far too deeply for her to be able to escape. Unless the half-breed had somehow cut himself off from her at the moment of death…

But Vrael couldn't make himself believe that were true. No. The half-breed was alive somewhere, and for as long as he was alive, he was dangerous.

And there was still the matter of the girl.

Flell was in the House of Healing, down at the base of one of the towers. Vrael had spoken to her several times. She was nearing her time. Within a month or so, the half-breed's child would be born.

Flell said very little now. She cried almost constantly. Sometimes she would tear at herself, sobbing brokenly all the while, as if she were trying to destroy herself.

Vrael's heart ached for her. She did not deserve this fate, did not deserve what the half-breed had done to her. He had listened with mounting horror as she had described the treatment she had received at Galbatorix's hands, scarcely able to believe that even he would be capable of such behaviour. Flell claimed that he had come to her in her bedchamber, night after night, and brutally forced his attentions on her, threatening to kill her if she told anyone else.

'And when I told him I was pregnant, he laughed,' she whispered, her eyes wandering vacantly around the room. 'He said… said he wouldn't be the last of his race any more, thanks to me. Said the child would be his and he'd teach it all he knew, and…' she choked back a sob, and said no more.

Vrael had commanded the healers to administer an abortifacient, but it had not worked. The child remained alive inside its mother, growing steadily all the while.

At last, one night, three weeks after Galbatorix's disappearance, word was brought to Vrael that Flell had gone into labour.

He listened coldly. 'Send for me when the child has been born. Tell no-one else.'

The night drew on, but Vrael did not sleep. He paced in his room, his head bowed, like a great maned cat in the gloom.

In his head, he thought he could hear faint whisperings. A race reborn, Vrael. Is that not a joyous thing, a joyous thing?

Vrael shuddered. 'No,' he said aloud. 'No. Some things should stay dead.'

He grasped the hilt of his sword, which he had taken to wearing everywhere these days. The feel of the cool gold under his fingers made him feel a little better. But he could not escape from the fear gnawing at his stomach. When he glanced up, his mind drew pictures in the room, painting the half-breed's face in every shadow. No matter where he turned, he could still see it, laughing coldly at him.

You should have listened, fool, it said, in that passionate, commanding voice he knew so well. Should have listened to them. You gave me my powers, Vrael. You taught me all I know. You made a half-breed into a rider.

Vrael breathed in a deep, shuddering breath, as guilt closed over him like a great cold hand. 'My gods,' he whispered. 'What have I done?'

He had failed. He was a fool, a blind, arrogant fool. He had created the monster that had ravaged Flell and betrayed them all. His fault. How could he have missed it? How could he have missed it, when it was right there in front of him? He had seen the last of the dark elves with his own eyes – how could he have failed to see them in his face? Those glittering eyes, that pale, angular face and lithe frame… he had seen a dark elf standing before him in the flesh, yet he had not seen him for what he was until it was too late.

As the sun rose, turning the sky a delicate shade of pink and casting light over Ilirea's dark stones, there was a knock on Vrael's door.

'Enter.'

The door opened. The visitor bowed low. 'My Lord,' he said. 'The child has been born.'

Vrael went cold. This was it.

He wrapped himself in a warm cloak and left his room, walking down the stairs and toward the House of Healing with slow, heavy footsteps.

Flell was in the chamber where she had given birth, lying on a simple pallet with a blanket over her. She looked pale and drained, and was fast asleep. A number of elvish healers were attending to her, but stopped and bowed when Vrael entered.

'Show it to me.'

One of the healers wordlessly placed the child in his arms.

Vrael cradled it awkwardly. It was a girl, her head adorned with a wisp of black hair. She looked perfectly normal at first, but, with a sinking heart, Vrael saw that she was not.

The child's ears were pointed. And when she opened her eyes and looked up at him, he saw that they were not milky blue like those of a normal child, but black and glittering. Her father's eyes, already disconcertingly alert.

'My Lord, what shall we do with her?' one of the healers asked hesitantly.

Vrael said nothing. He stared at those fathomless eyes with an awful coldness at his heart. To his shock, he found himself fighting back tears.

The healer cast a glance at the sleeping Flell. 'She cannot be allowed to keep it,' he said in a low voice. 'The child is a dark elf, anyone can see that. For a rider to be seen bearing one… it would shame us all.'

'I can take it away,' a second healer offered. 'Find a foster home somewhere…'

Vrael looked up at last. 'No,' he said harshly. 'I will take the child.'

'Very well, my Lord,' said the healer. He looked at Flell. 'But what shall I tell her?'

'Tell her the child was stillborn,' said Vrael. 'Do not mention any of this to her.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

Vrael wrapped the child in a blanket and left, his head bowed, carrying his shameful burden against his thin chest.

As he climbed back up the tower toward his own room many people saw him. The Lord of the riders, carrying a bundle in his arms, his normally calm demeanour full of sadness, his head low with shame. No-one dared to stop him, and he ignored all those who spoke to him.

He reached his room and locked himself in, muttering a word which lit the candles. Then he laid the child down on the bed and sat down on a chair, staring silently at her. She lay quite still, making no sound, just watching him with those black diamond eyes.

Vrael could not look at her. He buried his face in his hands, his white hair falling down over his fingers, while fear and rage waged war inside him.

What do I do? What can I do?

But he knew what he had to do.

He raised his head and looked at the child again. 'You should have a name,' he said huskily. 'No-one may live without a name.'

The child's tiny hands grasped at the air, the fingers curling, each one perfectly formed.

'Lialana,' said Vrael. 'Your name is Lialana. Lialana… Taranisäii.'

His mouth twisted bitterly when he said the word 'Taranisäii', and he stood up, looking down at the child. 'Your father,' he whispered to her. 'He did this to you, little one. You will never know him, but if you must blame anyone for your fate, blame him.'

The child crooned softly, reaching toward him for comfort.

'I am sorry,' Vrael breathed. 'But the dark elves must not return. I am sorry, little one. Lialana. Please. Forgive me.'

The candles flickered softly, and Vrael felt his heart slowly freeze inside him, draining all emotion out of his body.

He picked up a cushion. 'I am sorry,' he whispered again, and pressed it over the child's face.

Afterwards, when the deed was done, the Lord of the riders turned away, the cushion falling from his grasp. His legs collapsed and he slumped onto the floor, unable to get up, unable to look back at what was on the bed.

He began to cry.

The mountains of the Icelands were below them now. They were huge and craggy, bigger by far than the mountains of the Beors or the Spine, their peaks white with ice and snow. The land here was high country, covered with dark pine forests and rocky outcrops. There were no signs of civilisation beyond the occasional tiny urgal settlement – this was one of the few places where the horned, hulking beast-men could still live without fear of attack. The riders had long since driven them out of the warmer lands to the South, and now the last urgal tribes lived in the North, eking out a living as best they could.

It was inhospitable country; that was plain enough. The further North they got, the colder the air became. Before long they were flying over vast snowfields and frozen lakes, where herds of white deer and elk roamed. At night, when they made camp, Galbatorix built a large fire and cast a spell over it to keep it burning through the night to keep away wolves and the cold.

It was hard to imagine anything other than animals and urgals living out here – certainly, it was nothing like the warm elvish forests of Du Weldenvarden. But here, at least, they were safe. Riders did not come this far – there were no people out here to rule over, and no land worth owning.

To his surprise, Galbatorix found himself feeling at home there in a way he had never done in any of the other places he had spent his life in so far. The landscape, harsh though it was, made sense to him. The snow, the sharp smell of pine needles, the white deer and the icy winds… it all felt somehow right to him. It seemed to suit Laela as well. Here her white scales made her perfectly camouflaged instead of horribly conspicuous, and her slim frame and short wings were perfect for moving among the pine forests they sheltered in every night.

As their journey continued, they began to feel much safer and even began to enjoy themselves. Their old life was over, and, with it, all the hard work and responsibility. Now they were out on their own, and the journey started to feel like more than just an escape into hiding – it started to feel like something of an adventure, too.

The only part of it that remained a worry was the continued scarcity of food. Galbatorix found edible fern roots and various lichens and funguses buried under the snow, and several times they found trees which still had a few nuts, but more than once he had to go a day with nothing but melted snow to drink. Still, it was enough to hold onto, and at least they could afford to stop and rest for a time when the going got too hard.

And still the icelands stretched on out ahead of them like a never-ending sea. After a while the urgal villages ran out, and they were utterly alone. They were glad of that. Riders were not welcome on urgal territory, and whenever they were close to it they ran the risk of being attacked.

And then, one day, they came across a deep valley of pine trees that lay between two mountains. It was much larger than any valley they had seen so far, and sheltered from the wind, so Laela came down to land in a clear spot in the centre. Galbatorix dismounted and had a look around. Here he was standing on a damp mat of pine-needles instead of snow, and the air was a little warmer. Ferns grew around the trees, which were tall, ancient pines with the occasional oak or birch among them. A steam wove its way among them and through the valley to a silver pool edged with ice.

The valley was full of shadows and whispers. Nothing, not so much as a distant birdsong, could disturb the silence. Even the rush and gurgle of the stream seemed muted.

'This is a good spot,' said Galbatorix, his voice sounding strangely thin and small, as if the silence had swallowed it up. 'We can stay here for a while.'

Laela sniffed the air. 'I smell wolves. And something else. Very faint. I'm not sure what it is.'

Galbatorix sat down on a rock. 'Well, just as long as it's not something that's going to attack us, I'm fine with it.'

A movement caught his eye. He drew his sword with lightning speed and went into a fighting stance. With his free hand, he pointed at what appeared to be a shadow by a tree. 'All right,' he said sharply. 'I can see you there. Come out. Now.'

There was a silence. Wind sighed among the trees. And then the shadow moved. It came forward into the weak sunlight, and the moment the light touched it, it was revealed to be a man.

The man was very tall, and thin. He had a lithe, elegant build that was not immediately apparent due to the fact that he was clad in a long, heavy black robe. He wore a pair of large fur-lined boots that made his feet look much bigger, but his head and hands were bare. He had a fine head of long black hair, and his chin was adorned by a pointed black beard. His face was pale and angular and the hands that poked through the wide sleeves of the robe were long-fingered and elegant. And his eyes were black and glittering.

'Who are you?' said Galbatorix.

The man regarded him silently. His gaze was keen and intelligent, but it was impossible to tell if he was hostile or merely curious. Finally he said; 'Paham byd tydi yma?'

The words were in a strange, lilting language that Galbatorix did not recognise at all.

'I don't understand,' he said.

'Hon tirio byd eiddom,' said the man. He didn't look like he was about to attack, but he moved a little closer to look at Galbatorix, folding his hands in front of him as if to demonstrate that he did not have a weapon. He glanced at Laela, who regarded him cautiously.

Galbatorix tried the ancient language. 'I mean you no harm,' he said, lowering White Violence.

The man pulled up short, blinking in surprise. And then Galbatorix's heart leapt as he saw something he had missed before. The man's ears were pointed.

Then the man spoke in the ancient language, which he spoke well, albeit with an odd harsh accent. 'Be you rider?' he said.

Galbatorix held up his hand, showing the gedwëy ignaesia. 'I am a rider and a friend,' he said.

It was the wrong thing to say. There was a blur of motion, and before Galbatorix knew what was happening the man was on him, teeth bared, pressing the blade of a strange sickle-shaped weapon into his neck.

Galbatorix acted fast. He moved sideways, bringing White Violence up in a powerful blow. He hit the man hard in the chest, and he fell backward without a sound. Laela started forward, snarling, and Galbatorix moved to stand in her shadow.

The black-robed man's harsh breathing broke the silence. He had landed in a crouch on the ground like some giant forest cat, poised to spring. Galbatorix had hit him only with the sword-hilt, and he stood ready to fight again, his neck stinging where the man's weapon had cut him.

'I do not wish to fight,' he said loudly, in the ancient language. 'I come in peace.'

The man pulled himself upright, his weapon still clasped in his hand. It was an odd sickle-shaped thing, unlike anything Galbatorix had seen before, but still quite sharp. Its owner showed no sign of being either angry or frightened. 'You have killed yourself by coming here, silver-hand,' he said coldly. 'Your kind is not welcome on our land.'

Galbatorix paused. 'Are you…' he could not stop himself from asking. 'Are you a dark elf?' he said in a rush.

The man bared his teeth again, like a wolf. 'This land is dark elvish land,' he said. 'Your kind drove us away from our homes, but we have made this ours.'

Galbatorix stood there in indecision for a moment. Then he put White Violence back into its sheath. 'I came looking for you,' he said carefully. 'I am… a friend.'

The dark elf made a contemptuous half-laughing sound through his nose. 'You are a fool, human. To come this far, alone and unarmoured, and to enter our valley without first checking for danger. Are you the best the riders can train now?'

That stung Galbatorix. 'The riders are not my people,' he said. 'I am an outcast. I came here not to fight, but to escape.'

The dark elf paused at that. 'Why would a rider flee?' he asked, lowering his weapon.

'The riders betrayed me,' said Galbatorix. 'They called me traitor and wanted to kill me. So I came here to escape from them.'

The elf's eyes narrowed. 'Who are you? What is thy name?'

'I am… Galbatorix Taranisäii of Teirm, son of Ingë Taranisäii of the Ancient House of Taranis and Skandar Traeganni of the dark elves.' It was the first time he had introduced himself with his real name and parents, and he felt an odd twinge of pride and nervousness as he did so.

The elf stared at him in silence for several seconds. Then, without warning, he turned and melted away into the trees, disappearing into the shadows as if he'd never been there at all.

Galbatorix and Laela stared at the spot where he had stood.

'My gods,' Galbatorix said eventually. 'We did it. I can't believe it. We found them.'

'And then lost them again,' said Laela. 'Why did he run off like that? I doubt it's because we're so frightening.'

Galbatorix glanced down at his clothes. They were very ragged and worn by now. 'No, probably not.'

He looked up as strange sounds echoed among the trees. Whoops and whistles, like some kind of strange bird, and then, cutting across them, the unmistakeable howl of a wolf.

Galbatorix shivered and coughed a few times. The illness hadn't quite left him yet.

'We should light a fire if we're going to stay here,' said Laela.

Galbatorix was about to reply, and then…

…and then, quite suddenly and in complete silence, they appeared. They slid out of the shadows, their feet making absolutely no sound, as if they were shadows come to life. In mere moments the clearing was full of them – men and women, every single one clad in a black robe.

Galbatorix turned, looking around at them all in astonishment.

It was like looking into a dozen mirrors. No. It was like looking at his family. And that, he realised, was what they were.

Dark elves. They had black hair and glittering black eyes, and were tall, pale and angular, long-limbed and elegant. Their ears were pointed, but they were not like those of the Southern elves. They were longer and wider, more curved. Many of them had elaborate blue spiral tattoos adorning their cheeks and foreheads, and their ears were studded with silver rings and studs.

'Oh my gods,' said Laela. 'They're… they're you!'

The dark elves said nothing. They stood and watched the newcomers closely, showing no sign of any emotion – either fear, anger or pleasure. But there was a certain excitement in the air, along with tension. Galbatorix found himself fearing them, but he was fascinated by them as well.

There was a stirring among the crowd, and one of the elves came forward to meet him. This was a woman, and clearly very old. Her black hair was streaked with silver, and unlike the others she wore a silver gown. But she moved with the grace and power of youth, and her heavy, fur-lined boots made no sound on the ground. She strode toward Galbatorix until they were very close before she halted.

And then, to his utter astonishment, she knelt before him, bowing her head so that her silvered hair fell down over her face.

Galbatorix stared at her, not knowing what to say.

The old elf looked up at him, her finely-wrinkled face full of wonder. 'The half-breed,' she breathed, speaking the ancient language. 'The half-breed has come.'

'Don't call me that,' said Galbatorix, unable to stop himself.

The elf stood. 'But I say it as a blessing, not a curse,' she said. 'You are our last hope. You are the one we have awaited for so long.'

Galbatorix blinked. 'I don't understand. I'm just-,'

'Tell me your name,' said the elf.

'I'm… Arren. Arren Cardockson, of Teirm.'

'No,' the elf said forcefully, almost angrily. 'Tell me your true name, half-breed.'

'I am… Galbatorix Taranisäii, son of Ingë Taranisäii and Skandar Traeganni.'

'Ahhhh…' the elf closed her eyes for a moment, almost blissfully. 'Yes,' she said. 'I know it for true now. You have told me your name now, Sire, so let me tell you mine. I am Arthryn Traeganni. I am your grandmother.'

Galbatorix gaped at her. His grandmother… but there was something else she had said that bothered him. '"Sire"?' he said. 'Why do you call me that? I'm no King.'

'But you will be some day,' said Arthryn. '"Galbatorix"… "Great King". That is what your name means in our tongue.'

'But I don't want to be a King,' said Galbatorix.

'You have no choice, Sire,' said Arthryn. 'It is your fate. Listen to me. Long ago, when our people – your people – were slaughtered by the Southern elves and their puppets, the riders, it seemed that the world was coming to an end. Those who survived the massacre fled North, and I was one of them. I am a seer. Through me, the gods foretell the yet to come when they see fit. But I did not foresee our destruction, and I was ashamed. I did not want to live. I had seen my son killed, my grandson carried away in chains, my family put to the sword, my home turned to ashes by dragon-fire, our shrines desecrated. It seemed clear to me that my life was over. I had nothing left to live for, and I lay down in the snow to let death take me. But I did not die. That night, I had a dream, clearer than any I had ever had before. In this dream I saw the coming of a King, and when I awoke the prophecy was in my mind. I found my people again and we made a new home in this place, and since then we have waited for that prophecy to be fulfilled. With your coming, we can know that our waiting was not in vain.'

'But me? I'm not a King, or a prince, and anyway, Alagaësia is ruled by the riders, not by Kings. And I'm just, well… a traitor, and a half-breed.'

'Do not let them make you ashamed,' Arthryn said sharply. 'No. To be a half-breed is no shame. It is your gift.' She closed her eyes and recited; 'When blood of man and blood of elf do mingle on a darkened day, then shall we know the coming of a King, and all our enemies fall.'

Galbatorix glanced around at the dark elves. They were not all alike, as the Southern elves were. Each one was individual. Many of the men wore the same pointed beards as the first one had, and the women had silver decorations strung in their hair. They were all looking at him, and their formerly expressionless faces were full of awe and respect.

'But this isn't right,' he protested. 'That prophecy could be about anyone. I'm sure I'm not the only half-breed in the world…'

'No,' Arthryn admitted. 'But you are the only one who is dark elf. And you are the only one who is a rider. Only a rider may do what you will do.'

'Do what?'

Arthryn's hands curled into fists. 'Destroy those cursed riders and throw down their cities, and avenge their victims. Bring justice.'

The dark elves let out a collective, savage shout at this, a sound full of blood-lust. Galbatorix's eyes widened. 'No,' he said. 'No, Arthryn. I am sorry, but no. I'm no killer, and I have no wish to be a King.'

Arthryn stared at him through her bottomless eyes. 'Then why have you come to us?'

'Because I had nowhere else to go,' said Galbatorix. 'The riders drove me away because I was a half-breed. I have no home and no people to call my own, so I looked for the dark elves. Because… I hoped that I would find a home with you.'

'And a home you shall have,' said Arthryn, turning away abruptly. 'For as long as you wish for it. We will treat you as our honoured guest, and we will teach you our language and our ways – for they are your ways as well. But come… speak with us, let us know you better. Come with me.'

She walked away silently. Galbatorix glanced at Laela, and followed her away through the trees. The other dark elves followed. They stalked among the pines, still moving in that silent, graceful way that made him feel embarrassingly loud and clumsy.

Arthryn led the way to a spot at the base of one of the two mountains, where there was a large hollow ringed by trees. At the centre of it a fire was burning… but it was clearly not a normal fire. Its flames were black and gave off no smoke, but they were so hot that they warmed the entire clearing.

Sitting by it were five more dark elves – three men and two women. They stood up when Arthryn appeared, and Galbatorix was led straight to them. Arthryn presented him to the five elves, saying; 'He is come, the half-breed is come, my Lords and Ladies.' To Galbatorix she said; 'Sire, these are the last of the dark elvish nobles. Lord Skirnar Trynydd, Lady Lynidd Ywnyth, Lord Faenwyth Wychwyn and Lord Kraeth Naenydd. And this,' she added, turning to an elvish woman who wore a thin silver circlet on her brow, 'Is our ruler, Queen Saethryn Traeganni. My niece.'

The Queen was a head shorter than Galbatorix, but had a commanding presence. She looked at him with undisguised curiosity.

Galbatorix bowed to her. 'It is an honour to meet you, Queen Saethryn.'

Saethryn smiled. 'The honour is mine, Sire.'

Galbatorix was unable to hide his unhappiness over this, but he said; 'My Lady, will you grant me permission to stay in your realm?'

Saethryn laughed. 'My realm? This place is hardly a realm, even for a Queen as ragged as I am. But you need no permission from me, Sire.' She paused. 'I see you dislike being addressed as a King.'

'I am not a King, my Lady.'

'But you are, Sire,' said Saethryn. 'And not in the future, but in the present. It is in your blood. The Traegannis were always the royal house of the dark elves, but I am not a direct descendant. I was crowned after the true royal line was destroyed… or so we believed. You are the son of Skandar Traeganni, the last heir to the dark elvish throne, and so the Kingship of our people is yours by rights.'

Galbatorix took a moment to collect himself. 'If you will forgive me for doing so, my Lady, I would like to decline to take the throne. It is yours.'

Saethryn glanced at Arthryn. 'This King is humble, Arthryn.'

'He does not want to accept his destiny,' said Arthryn.

Saethryn nodded. 'I like that. Any man who accepts such a thing as if it were his due is unworthy to govern his people.' To Galbatorix she said; 'Understand this, Sire – when we first came to this place, I did not want to become Queen. I fought against it. But in the end I came to see that I had no choice in the matter. For a ruler, duty comes before else. Duty to your people and your country. A King is no master, but the greatest of all servants. You must understand that, if you are to govern wisely.'

Galbatorix hesitated. He didn't like the idea of arguing with a Queen, but he couldn't help it. 'My Lady… you're mistaken. I will never be a King. It's impossible. The riders rule Alagaësia, and I have no interest in trying to usurp them. It would be suicidal, and besides… why should I want to be King? I don't have the will, the means or the skill.'

Saethryn shook her head. 'I won't lie to you, Sire; I cannot see how it will happen any more than you can. But I trust Arthryn's foresights. They have never been wrong in the past. But whether you be King or not, you are still one of us, and you are more than welcome here. All our knowledge and secrets are available to you. Ask any of us to do something for you, and it shall be done. But tell me… what is your name? Forgive me; I did not think to ask.'

'I am Galbatorix Taranisäii,' said Galbatorix.

Saethryn closed her eyes. 'Ah. Taranisäii. That is a name I know very well. But to us you are Galbatorix Traeganni. Take either name as you will; both are ancient and noble, both worthy of you. And there is another one here who has been overlooked.' She looked past Galbatorix toward Laela, who had watched the entire exchange from a distance. The white dragon's eyes widened in surprise, but she came forward, moving as delicately as she could. She lowered her snout toward Saethryn, who touched it with her long fingers.

A silence followed. Not an uncomfortable one. Galbatorix, looking on, could sense an unspoken communication passing between Saethryn and Laela. It went on for some time, and then Saethryn bowed her head to Laela, saying; 'You too are welcome here, Laela. We dark elves do not usually associate with dragons, but we honour your kind. All that we ask is that you do not hunt in land too close to this valley. We cannot risk discovery.'

Laela dipped her head and growled softly to signify her agreement. In the privacy of his head, Galbatorix heard her say; 'She spoke to me! Just like you do! I can't believe it!'

'Now,' said Saethryn, addressing Galbatorix again; 'If you would become one of us, then go with Arthryn. She will show you what you must do. Later we will meet here again, and talk. There are many things I want to ask you about, and no doubt you have questions for me.'

'Yes, my Lady,' said Galbatorix.

He bowed to Saethryn and the other nobles, and followed Arthryn out of the clearing. The old seer led him out of the clearing in a different direction than the one they had entered by. They walked through the trees to the bank of the steam, and followed it toward the opposite mountain. Here, Galbatorix saw the homes of the dark elves. They had built simple shelters out of pine branches woven together and covered with mats of dry needles. Snow had mounded around them and been deliberately piled onto them, turning some of those in more open areas into what appeared to be snow-hills with entrances. Small, black fires burnt in little fireplaces outside these shelters, and he could see wooden frames set up here and there among the trees, some bearing rows of drying meat or fish, others draped in newly-dyed black cloth left to dry by the fire.

And the dark elves were everywhere, warming themselves by their campfires, sharpening the strange sickle-shaped weapons they used, fletching arrows or fishing in the stream. A pair of dark elvish men looked up from skinning and butchering a stag and silently watched him pass. There were a few children about, too; big-eyed and curious. They did not laugh or chatter like human children, but some followed Galbatorix for a while along the stream, apparently fascinated by him. They were just as powerfully interested in Laela, and were bold enough to walk along under her wings and touch her scales, albeit cautiously. She liked that, and snapped playfully at them, snickering when they ran away in fright.

Galbatorix took it all in with wonder. He had been right when he had said that dark elves were not like the Southern elves. They were the same in some ways, but so different. Although their way of life looked rough and much harder, it did not mean that they were not elegant or beautiful in their own way; they were. Bone discs hung from some of the trees, carved with intricate patterns of spirals and crescent moons. Many of the elves he saw were tattooed; their cheeks, foreheads and necks were patterned with dark blue whorls and spiral designs. It made them look fierce, and a little alien, but after a while he decided that there was a certain beauty about them as well.

After a while the shelters ran out, and the forest became thicker and darker. There Laela had to stop.

'I am sorry, draig,' said Arthryn. 'You must wait here.'

Laela sat back on her haunches. 'Go, then,' she said aloud. 'I'll wait.'

Arthryn bowed, and walked on. Galbatorix glanced apologetically at Laela before he followed her.

It was much quieter here. The stream made a whispering sound over the stones, and the tree-trunks looked darker. By now night had nearly fallen, and the light had gone dim and grey. It was barely enough to see by, but Arthryn didn't seem to have any problems navigating. Perhaps dark elves had better night vision than humans. Galbatorix stayed close to her for fear of losing his way. There was just enough light for him to see that patterns had been carved into the trees along the bank of the stream. He ran his fingers over one as he passed, and saw that it was a crescent moon. There was another one on the next tree, and on the next, and as he walked on he realised they were slowly changing, moving through the different phases of the moon. Waxing and waning, from crescent to half, to full, and then back to crescent once more.

By the time they reached the final phase, the stream and their path also ended. There was another clearing here, this one much smaller. The stream ran into a large pool, which swirled gently, its surface shimmering silver.

Arthryn halted there. 'This is the sacred pool,' she said. 'Here we come to say our devotions to the gods.'

'You have gods?' said Galbatorix, slightly surprised.

The old seer smiled a little. 'Indeed. Unlike our Southern kin we recognise the need for hope in an uncertain world. We venerate the moon. In this pool the moonlight is reflected every night, and that is when we conduct our rituals. I am the High Priestess and it is my role to speak and teach on religious matters. That is why I was not made Queen instead of Saethryn. The moon and its phases have many important meanings in our way of life. The full moon is the time to perform great deeds of magic, the crescent moon is a time to fight, the new moon a time to contemplate. It so happens that tonight will mark the most powerful phase of all – the perfect time to make you one of our tribe.'

Galbatorix glanced up. It was nearly night, and the stars were beginning to come out, but the moon would not rise for some time. 'What do I do until then?' he asked.

'Until the moon rises we will sit by the pool and I will tell you of the moon and its powers, and of other things as well. Understanding must come before all else.' Arthryn moved to a clear spot by the side of the pool, and sat down cross-legged, motioning to Galbatorix to do the same. He obeyed, saying nothing and waiting for Arthryn to begin, which she did a few moments of silence.

'There are many powers in this ancient land of ours,' she intoned, not taking her eyes away from him all the while. Like all her people she had a very direct stare. 'Different races choose to venerate different things. The dwarves venerate stone. The urgals venerate combat. Humans…' she smiled slightly. 'Well, they have many gods. Of all the races, humans are the fastest to change. The Southern elves look down on them because they are short-lived and seem primitive, but humans are in fact the most hardy of all races. It is they, and not elves, who have overrun this land. They did not rely on magic to become as great as they have; instead it was their intelligence, their curiosity, their willingness to change that brought them to where they are. We recognise this, and that is why we do not look down on you for being half-human. The Southern elves believe that to mingle elvish and human blood is an abomination, for it mixes human weakness with elvish strength and taints it. But it is because they do not recognise the true strength that humans possess. We believe that by interbreeding, by creating half-blooded people such as yourself, we do nothing but good to both races. In you are strengths from both races. You are silent and graceful like a dark elf. You can use magic as we do, you have our mental powers and our hardiness. But your other qualities, your human qualities, these are strengths as well, strengths that the dark elves do not possess. You are passionate and willing to learn, you allow yourself to change as the world changes around you. You do not cling to old beliefs simply because they are old. You have those things which humans have and which the dark elves envy, and in this way you are better than us. But we can teach you the things you had no means to learn before. You have lived as a human all your life, and you know human ways. But only we can teach you our ways and our strengths. From us you can learn how to control and use the talents and abilities you were born with but do not yet fully understand. We can teach you how to run like a deer, fight like a wolf, see like an eagle. We can show you how to meld your mind with the forces around you and use them to your own ends, we can teach you dark elvish magic – magic which can do things that the ancient language neither understands nor creates. We can show you how to move silently, to be one with the shadows and to creep up on your enemies like a whisper on the breeze. When it is done you will be like us, yet not like us. You will have our powers, but you will not be bound to use them in any way other than what you see fit. This is our gift to you, the moon's gift.'

Galbatorix listened closely, his heart pounding. 'How long will it take?' he asked.

Arthryn shrugged. 'As long as it needs to. Now tell me… the moon will rise soon, and my acolytes are gathering. They will be here in a few moments. Is there anything you want to know? I will answer any question you ask as best I can.'

Galbatorix thought carefully about it. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but he wanted to choose the one that was the most pressing. Eventually he said; 'Queen Saethryn said she knew the name of Taranisäii. How?'

Arthryn smiled. 'Ah. Yes… we know that name, and we know the name of Taranis as well. It will take some time to explain, but I will do my best. Long ago, when the Southern elves and the dragons fought, we dark elves were still living in our old lands, which our ancestors had owned. We knew that there was a power that existed in dragons which could, in the right circumstances, bind a dragon hatchling to a human or an elf. We do not know how this power came to be; many believe it was simply an accident. But however it was, we knew what it meant. If an elf or a human was bonded to a dragon, they would become many times more powerful than the rest of his kind. It would create a symbiosis that would bring peace between dragons and the other races, and thus peace in Alagaësia. But the wild dragons are fierce and proud, and very dangerous if they are not bonded. They will attack anyone who violates their territory. We knew this very well, because our people once lived in the Spine. The Southern elves were our enemies and had frequently fought with us in the past, and we knew that if it was they who made peace with the dragons and thus gained control of the riders when they began to be created, it would make them all-powerful and thus spell our doom – along with the doom of all other races that had rivalled them in the past. We were desperate to find some way of creating a dark elvish rider, one who would lead our people and help us forge an alliance with the dragons. At first it seemed we would win, for the dragons were not at war with us. In time we were successful in obtaining a dragon egg – it had been abandoned by its mother, and one of our people found it. That egg was brought back to our settlement and handled by every one of us, but it would not hatch. It seemed all hope was lost. But then, one day, something happened that changed everything. A human came hunting in the Spine and he happened upon our village. He was just a simple village boy, but we welcomed him and gave him food and shelter, because he was lost and had not eaten in some time. He was shown the egg… and that night a miracle took place. The dragon hatched and bonded herself to that boy, and the first rider was created.'

'But the first rider was an elf!' Galbatorix protested. 'His name was-,'

'Eragon,' said Arthryn. 'Yes. But he was the second rider, not the first. The Southern elves lied when they claimed he was the first. But they believed he was the first true rider because he was one of their own. What Southern elf could accept that the first rider was no elf but a mere human? Ach. Their arrogance disgusts me. But however it was, the dark elves taught the new rider everything they knew – how to fight, how to lead, how to wield magic… all the arts of a rider. They were prepared to make him their King, human though he was. Can you guess what the boy's name was?'

'Taranis,' Galbatorix breathed.

Arthryn nodded. 'Taranis, the first rider. The great sword that he wielded was made for him by us. Taranis was to have been the one who led us to glory and to victory over the light elves. But he was the hope we lost. He would not stay with us. Once his dragon, Silarae, was grown, he abandoned us and returned to his own kind. We had been mistaken in him; he allowed his newfound power to corrupt him, and for the rest of his life he used it to win power for himself. Then the Southern elves found a rider of their own. When he killed Taranis, he killed all possibility that the riders would be a separate power in the land. They forged an alliance with the dragons and the riders were born – riders trained and controlled by the Southern elves. And from that time onward, the Southern elves began to take control. Through the riders they laid waste to all other races, even humans. The humans were kept because they, too, could become riders, and they bred much more quickly and prolifically than elves – there were so many of them. All loyal subjects for the riders, and fresh blood to add to their ranks and so increase their power. Taranis failed us all by his betrayal, but at the same time he gave us our last hope – you. He founded the line that you descended from, and so he fulfilled his promise from beyond the grave. You see, when he was with the dark elves he was promised to a dark elvish maiden who we hoped would bear him half-breed children. By mingling his blood with ours, we could strengthen ourselves. But though Taranis abandoned both us and his bride, his promise has been kept – his blood has been mixed with ours, and not with any dark elvish blood, but with that of the royal line. You are the rider that Taranis should have been, and it is you who will lay waste to the Southern elves and their riders. Prophecy or no, you are precious to us.'

Her words were soft, almost hypnotic, and Galbatorix could hardly believe what she told him. It turned his world upside-down. He had felt ashamed of his inheritance for so long, but now he was being told this it suddenly wasn't so clear-cut any more.

'What did you see?' he asked her. 'In the dream you had… what did you see?'

'I saw you,' said Arthryn. 'As clearly as I see you now in front of me. The eyes of a dark elf, the ears of a human, bearing a white sword and wearing a silver crown. You were older, much older, scarred and hardened, and lonely, so lonely. I saw you alone in darkness, fighting a hundred shadowy foes. I saw you lead great armies in battle and lay waste to your enemies. I did not see a boy, as I see now. I saw a mighty general, a leader of men. I saw a great King, greater than any that have gone before. But beware, Sire, beware. Pain, loss, betrayal… these things lie ahead of you and you cannot escape from them. I saw you standing alone, your sword in your hand and shock on your face, and there was a knife embedded in your heart. I saw you die a hundred deaths, only to rise again like the moon at night. This road you must travel will be a hard one, harder than any man or elf could comprehend. But your greatness will lie in your ability to continue to walk it, on and on, no matter what sorrows drag you down, on beyond all mortal time or understanding and into legend and glory.' As she spoke these last words, Arthryn slowly rose to her feet, while behind her the moon appeared, drifting inevitably up and over the treetops. It was huge, hanging overhead like a mighty, looming presence. And it was not full, as he had expected, but a half-moon, shaped like a dragon's eye.

Galbatorix rose as well, feeling a strange heaviness inside him. He could see Arthryn's fathomless black eyes, glowing silver as the moonlight reflected off them, and in them he saw a terrible power. He knew that he was looking into the eyes, not just of his grandmother, but of fate itself. His fate.

'It is time,' Arthryn whispered. 'My acolytes are gathered. Look into the pool, Sire.'

Galbatorix obeyed. He saw the moon on the surface of the water, rippling and shimmering.

'The moon is the eye of the gods,' said Arthryn. 'Through it they watch us, and we must look back without flinching.'

Galbatorix looked up, and started slightly. Six dark elves were standing around Arthryn in a circle, their heads bowed. He had not heard them arrive. Just as before, they had simply… appeared. Every single one of them had a different phase of the moon tattooed onto their forehead.

'Take off your clothes,' Arthryn commanded.

Galbatorix obeyed, stripping off his torn tunic and trousers and setting aside his boots. Clad in only his underclothes, he stood and shivered in the icy air.

Arthryn, looking at him, suddenly wore a strange, satisfied expression. 'Ah,' she sighed, looking at his shoulder. 'I see it now.' Around her, the acolytes murmured softly.

It took Galbatorix a moment to realise what they were looking at. He touched the tattoo on his shoulder. 'What is it, Arthryn?'

'You have the mark of the King,' said Arthryn.

'It's just a tattoo.'

'It is the dark elvish symbol for a King,' said Arthryn.

'It's Taranis' sign.'

'Indeed. And we are the ones who gave it to him. Now, Galbatorix Traeganni, it is time for you to shed your old self and take up a new way. Look into the eye of the moon once more, and submerge yourself in it. Wash away your past and be renewed.'

Galbatorix looked at the water again, and realised what she meant by this. He could see ice around the edge of the pond, and cringed. 'But the water must be-,'

'You can bear it,' said Arthryn. 'You are a dark elf. Go, now.'

Galbatorix gritted his teeth and plunged into the pool.

It was agony. The water was icy cold, nearly frozen. It hit him like a hundred knives stabbing into his flesh, needling at him. His extremities went numb in seconds, and he could no longer feel his fingers at all. He let out a little cry of pain, turning automatically to climb out again.

'No,' Arthryn commanded. 'You must submerge yourself. Embrace the cold. Embrace yourself.'

Galbatorix couldn't bear it. But he forced himself to. This was a test, and one he would not let himself fail. He turned away from the bank, and dived into the depths of the pool, letting the water close over his head and take him for its own.

It was much deeper than he had thought. He made some attempt to stay up, but his limbs seized up and he sank toward the bottom.

Now the cold had him. His head ached savagely, red lights flashed in front of his eyes, every inch of skin felt as if it were freezing and cracking apart. He couldn't move his arms and legs any more, and as the pool claimed him he knew that it was killing him.

But then, in the very same instant that he realised that, something happened. It was as if a door inside him had opened, and something came rushing through. A powerful, uncontrollable feeling flooded through him, filling every inch of him with its power. It was something he had felt before, but only in its smallest measure, and now he felt its full strength for the first time. It was a will, a drive, an instinct to do only one thing – survive. And that feeling was hot and vital, and it took hold of him and made him feel as if he had just woken up.

Before it, the numbing grip of the water suddenly became irrelevant, even feeble. He could not let it stop him. Not for anything.

With a burst of energy he thrust toward the surface, forcing his arms to work as hard as they could. His head broke through the surface and he began to swim steadily back toward the shore. His feet touched the bottom and he walked out, soaking wet and trembling, but with his head held high. He had made it.

Arthryn and her acolytes were waiting for him. The old seer handed him a black robe, and he put it on immediately, his fingers weak and clumsy. It was warm and thick, and he wrapped himself in it with a feeling of immense relief. An acolyte wordlessly handed him a silver cup, and he drank deeply from it without stopping to find out what was inside it.

It was a strong, sweet spiced wine, and it warmed him from end to end. He emptied the cup and gave it to Arthryn, who took it and said; 'Well done, Sire. Do not tell anyone what you experienced in the pool, not even your dragon. It is between you and the gods.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'I understand.'

Arthryn laid a hand on his forehead. 'You are one of us now, Galbatorix Traeganni of the dark elves. May the moon watch over you, may you be blessed by the gods and the great magic that binds us all, and may your future be happy and prosperous.' Reverting to her native language, she said; 'Yn bendith ar warthaf dy, aym byth.'