Chapter Twenty-Two
Dead and Gone
The two riders circled overhead, looking down on the crumpled body of the white dragon. It was hard to see from this height, but they could see the dark form of the half-breed lying by her head where he had fallen.
The gold dragon's rider, an elf, glanced at his companion. 'We should check,' he said mentally. 'Just to be sure.'
The other rider nodded her agreement, and descended. The red dragon landed neatly by the white dragon's body and his rider dismounted. She was quickly joined by her companion.
'You check the boy,' the elf said. 'I'll see to the dragon.'
The red dragon's rider picked her way through the snow toward the half-breed. He was lying quite still, his eyes closed, spreadeagled where he had fallen. She had seen him convulse as he felt his dragon die, and now she looked down at him, unable to hide her sadness. He was lucky to be dead. Surviving the death of your dragon was such a cruel fate that death was preferable, and many riders who lived through it killed themselves.
She nudged the half-breed's limp hand with her boot. Then shook her head and turned away. 'He's dead,' she said.
'So is the dragon,' said the elf, who had finished examining its remains. He shook his head grimly. 'A sad ending for the poor creature. She deserved better than to be brought to this end by the half-breed's evil.'
The female rider nodded. 'Let's go, Lanethial. This place stinks of darkness.'
As she began to walk away, she did not see what happened next. She did not see Galbatorix's hand twitch. The fingers curled, and then his hand moved, groping desperately at the snow until it found what it was looking for. It found White Violence's hilt, and took hold of it.
Galbatorix's eyes blinked open, and he hurled himself forward with a wild scream, straight at the other rider. He caught her from behind, taking her by surprise, and thrust White Violence straight into her back, so hard that it emerged on the other side. She fell, staring in bewilderment.
The elf did not see her fall. But he saw the red dragon scream and collapse, thrashing and howling in agony until he crumpled onto the snow, dead. The elf watched in horror, not understanding what was happening, and by then it was already too late. Next moment he found himself being attacked by a screaming, wild-eyed beast that came straight at him, so fast, so recklessly, that he had no time to react, no time to summon his magic. He managed to draw his sword while his dragon ran to his defence, but it was all over in seconds. Lanethial grappled vainly with his opponent, but the white-bladed sword found his leg, cutting through the tendon. He fell, and Galbatorix stabbed him to death.
The gold dragon began to convulse as she died, but even this she was not allowed to do. Galbatorix ran at her and struck her with his sword, hacking through her neck with three powerful blows. She fell, blood gushing from her wound, and Galbatorix turned, his wide eyes seeking out Laela. He stumbled toward her, dropping his sword by her head, and reached out with his mind, searching for hers.
It wasn't there. Her presence in his mind was simply gone, and no matter how hard he tried he could not find it again.
He sat back, his eyes those of a lost child. 'Laela,' he said.
The only reply was the howling of the wind.
He picked up White Violence, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. The silvery-white blade was stained red with blood. And, in the hilt, the diamond of Helgrind had turned from white to black.
Galbatorix let the weapon drop from his fingers, and slumped onto Laela's neck, sobbing as his heart broke.
Some days later, a white ice eagle circled over the snowfield, searching for prey. It was the only witness to the dark shape that walked over the Icelands, staggering and falling but always rising again and walking on.
It was a boy, a human boy, but very slightly odd. His hair was long and curly, jet black like his eyes. His face was pale and angular, his build tall, thin and sinewy, although this was not immediately apparent because he wore a long, heavy black robe. Although he seemed strong enough, it was immediately obvious from the way he moved that all was not well with him.
He walked erratically, staggering vaguely this way and that, sometimes looking as if he were about to collapse but somehow finding the strength to go on.
And for weeks, that was all he did. He let the ice and the cold take him into itself, lying down in the snow to sleep every night and eating whatever he found. Grass roots, dirt, rotting carrion… he ate it no matter what it was, his face blank and his eyes wandering vaguely, never settling on anything for long.
He did not remember who he was. He didn't know where he had come from. And he didn't care.
At night, when the moon rose, he would look up at it with a hint of recognition in his eyes, even peace. The sight of it soothed him, as if he knew that it was watching over him in some way.
But all he really knew was one thing, and that was something inside him, an inner voice that pulled him on and on through the ice and snow, always heading Southwards. He was going home. He had to get there. He did not question why. The inner voice was enough to drive him on, and he obeyed it.
As he got further South the land became a little warmer. There were deer here, and white hares. He hunted them down, stalking them over the snow like a great cat and bringing them down with magic, then eating them raw, tearing at the flesh like a wolf and staining his face and hands with hot blood.
He rested sometimes, sitting in the snow and hugging his knees, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. Just one word, over and over again. Laela. He did not know what it meant, but he said it again and again. He wandered into urgal country without realising it, but the urgals did not find him. He could hide himself in the shadows and stay there, not moving at all, unseen and unheard, watching the hulking brutes walk by. Once he fainted not far from an urgal longhouse, but when two of them happened upon him they prodded him one or twice before deciding he was dead and leaving him there to wake up and move on.
And then, at long last, a day came when he woke up and looked at his hands and knew they were his. It was as if a veil had been ripped away from his eyes, and he touched himself, feeling his hair, his clothes, his face. That was when he remembered he was human.
'Where have I been?' he asked himself aloud. The words sounded strange in his mouth. He hadn't spoken for so long that he had almost forgotten what it was like.
He tried to remember how he had come to be where he was, but all he could recall was a vague and endless vision of snow and cold winds. His clothes were in rags, his hair matted, and his chin was covered by a rough beard. And he was thin, so thin, and weak.
There was a long, white-bladed sword on his back. He recognised that. Yes, that was his. And when he searched inside his robe he found a thin silver circlet set with a blue stone. It was a crown. But he couldn't say which King had worn it.
He tried to remember where he was supposed to be going. All he knew was that he should head South. Because home was that way, and he had to get there to be safe. His mother was waiting for him there, and his father. They could help him.
The passage of a few more days found him wandering along a road which had led him out of the Icelands, through a passage in the Spine and back into inhabited land. A farmer, driving a wagon of vegetables, saw the ragged figure by the side of the road. He draw level with it and called out; 'Here, you – are you all right?'
The figure stopped and turned, looking at him, then staggered toward the wagon and took hold of the sideboard, his fingers digging into the wood like claws. The farmer recoiled when he saw his face; pale and sunken as a corpse's, the eyes burning with insanity. 'Get away from me!' he yelled, and hit the apparition in the face with the handle of his whip.
The man – the creature – staggered backward with a cry of pain, blood trickling from a wound in his forehead. But then he lifted his right hand to touch the wound and mumbled a couple of strange-sounding words. White light glimmered around the cut, which healed without a sound.
The farmer gaped at him. 'How did you do that?'
The stranger did not reply. But as his hand fell away from his face, the farmer could see the silvery mark on his palm. 'Oh my gods,' he breathed. 'You're a-,'
'Help me,' the stranger rasped, stumbling after the wagon and holding out his hands in supplication. 'Please, help me.'
The farmer tugged on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt at once. 'Of course I'll help you,' he said. 'I'm so sorry, my Lord, I didn't – here, climb up.'
The ragged man was stronger than he looked. He climbed up and sat down beside the farmer, who saw the filth that clung to him, his torn clothes and matted hair, the crusted beard and sunken eyes. But there was a magnificent white-bladed sword slung on his back, and on his finger there was a gold seal ring bearing the emblem of the riders. He said nothing, but huddled on the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees.
The farm urged his horses on. 'How did you end up like this, my Lord?' he asked, unable to hide his horror. 'Who did this to do? Where's your dragon?'
The ragged creature, who, the farmer now realised, was barely more than a boy, shuddered. 'I don't know,' he whispered. 'I don't know.'
'But who are you?' the farmer persisted. 'What's your name?'
'I have no name.'
The words were said in a strange, flat voice which frightened the farmer. 'Well,' he said, trying to sound respectful. 'Where should I take you?'
The boy's hands twisted, the fingers hooking themselves into the rags he wore and making the cloth disintegrate. 'Home,' he said, again and again. 'Take me home. Take me to Teirm. To my home. She's waiting for me there, she's waiting, I have to go to her…'
'All right, my Lord,' the farmer nodded. 'I'll take you there as quick as I can.'
They travelled on in silence. The boy stayed still, only the slight movement of his back indicating that he was asleep and not dead. The farmer could see that he was half-dead from exhaustion and starvation, and the possibility that he might die frightened him. If the riders found out that he had let one of their own die…
He nudged him awake. 'Here,' he said, offering him a bundle of food. 'Eat.'
The boy ate like a wild animal, tearing at the bread and dried meat with his teeth. The farmer looked away, embarrassed, but made no comment.
Food seemed to revive the boy somewhat. He looked at his surroundings with a slightly more alert expression, then looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers and watching them move. 'I wonder what happened to my gloves?' he said aloud, in a bizarrely calm tone of mild curiosity. 'I think I must have eaten them.'
The farmer glanced at him. 'Do you feel better now, my Lord?'
'Yes, thankyou,' said the boy, taking him by surprise. 'I can't remember the last time I ate real food. Where are we going?'
'To Teirm,' said the farmer. 'You asked me to take you there.'
The boy nodded. 'Yes, that's right. I remember now. She's waiting for me there.'
'Do you know who you are now?' the farmer asked.
The boy shook his head vaguely. 'She can tell me. When I find her, she'll tell me.'
'Who will?'
The boy went rigid and began to tremble. 'No,' he mumbled. 'No, don't. Can't. I – help me!' The words suddenly rose into a scream, and he began to thrash and convulse, his hands jammed into his chest as if he were trying to reach his own heart. The farmer grabbed hold of him, trying to calm him down, his heart pounding.
After a time the boy stilled. When the farmer tried to wake him up, he suddenly lurched forward over the board at the front of the wagon and was violently sick. Then he slumped back in his seat, his breathing fast and shallow.
The farmer brought the wagon to a halt and frantically touched the boy's face. 'Oh gods no, don't die on me, please…'
The boy stirred and looked up at him. 'I know who I am,' he whispered. 'I know.'
Deeply relieved, the farmer picked up the flask of water that sat beside him and thrust it into the boy's hands. 'Here, drink,' he said, unscrewing the cap for him.
The boy drank, water overflowing from his mouth and soaking into his beard. It seemed to calm him down a little, but his eyes continued to wander madly to and fro. 'I'm a King,' he said. 'That's who I am. I'm the King of the elves. King of the outcasts, King of ash and snow. The great King.'
The farmer blinked. 'Are you all right, my Lord?'
The boy laughed at that; a dead, humourless, crazed laugh. 'Oh, never better,' he said, his voice returning to something resembling normality. 'Never better.'
He slept again after that
For the next week or so the farmer took him toward Teirm, not knowing what else to do. Several times he suggested simply giving him over to the care of some local official in one of the towns or villages they passed through, but for some reason the boy was violently against the idea. He reacted with terror at the mere suggestion of it, and would huddle pathetically where he sat, as if expecting to be attacked, pleading with him not to do that. 'Only take me home,' he said, again and again. 'I want to go home.'
So that was what the farmer did. He stayed away from populated areas, only going into them alone to buy food before returning to whatever camping spot he had selected. He took care of the boy as best he could; though he couldn't afford to buy new clothes for him he took the ragged robe he wore and washed and darned it as well as he could. He made sure the boy stayed close to the fire at night, and gently encouraged him to eat as much as he could.
He got very little sense out of the boy; sometimes he was relatively coherent, but he remained scared and bewildered, either unwilling or unable to give his name or say where he had come from or what had happened to him to reduce him to the state he was in. Sometimes he would have a panic attack and try to flee or injure himself, but he was too weak to really be a danger to himself, and gave in easily enough. But that wasn't to say that he was completely helpless. He knew how to use magic, and did so; lighting a strange black fire for them every time they camped, one which did not need fuel and which gave off no smoke. Once when the farmer injured himself on a nail jutting from the wagon, the boy gently reached over and healed him with a few words. He was attuned to danger, and three times they narrowly avoided a potentially dangerous encounter with bandits or wolves only because of his warnings and quick thinking.
Then, when they were a day away from Teirm, he disappeared during the night, vanishing into the countryside as if he had never been.
The boy with no name slipped into the city in the dead of night, unseen by anyone. He could move in shadows. The night was his friend.
He felt much stronger now, thanks to the better food he'd had on the journey, but he was by no means strong enough to fight or use his magic for anything bigger than healing a cut or lighting a fire. But he didn't think of that. He couldn't seem to think about anything much any more. Whenever he tried to remember who he was or how he had come to be where he was, the memory slipped away from him. He was calmer now, though, and more focused. He could speak again, and read, and he knew how to use magic. But it was only the most rudimentary sort of functioning. All he knew was that he had to get home. The thought filled him, subsuming all other thoughts and feelings, an inner force that dragged him on, made him eat, made him wake, made him walk. When he got home, everything would be all right. She was waiting for him there. His parents were waiting, and his friends. They were all there, just waiting for him to come to them. They would help him, he knew it in his heart of hearts.
As he walked through the darkened streets, his boots making no sound on the cobbles, he found a powerful feeling of familiarity moving through him. He knew this place, knew it very well. This was his place. Home was here somewhere.
On a street corner, in the faint light coming from a nearby window, he found a wooden board with pieces of paper nailed to it. They were notices, put there for people to read. He remembered that.
But what had caught his eye about it was right in the centre. It was a large poster, its edges damp and ragged. On it was a drawing of a boy with curly hair and cold eyes. He was handsome in a sharp, slightly alien kind of way, and finely dressed. Beside him was a drawing of a long sword with a diamond set into the hilt and a spiral pattern engraved on the blade. And beside that was a sketch of a dragon with a long, narrow face and slender build, like a swan.
For some reason the poster felt important. He read it, tracing the words with his finger and squinting in the gloom. Reading was still a little tricky, and the letters kept going in and out of focus.
WANTED: ARREN CARDOCKSON OF TEIRM
Also known as Galbatorix Taranisäii, guilty of high treason and the breaking of oaths sworn to the Rider Elders. This fugitive is highly dangerous and is in the company of a white female dragon known as Laela. He bears a white-bladed sword with a silver hilt and set with a large diamond. Any sighting or information will earn the one who reports it a reward of fifty gold coins. You are advised against any attempt to approach him, as he will most likely attack to kill if cornered. You are also hereby commanded not to make any attempt to kill him; such an action would be considered murder and punished accordingly.
The boy read this several times, and then turned away, wondering why he had noticed it in the first place.
His pace quickened. He was close to home now.
Turning a corner, he entered a street that felt like home. He knew every house on it. It was the next one along…
He stopped dead. The inner voice that had led him to the spot suddenly died, and all the certainty he had left collapsed in on itself, leaving him with nothing but a strange cold bewilderment.
He stepped forward slowly, and stopped again when his boot scraped against a blackened beam. Then, dropping to his knees, he began to sift through the ashes, pulling aside bits of charred wood and coughing when delicate white flakes swirled upward into his face.
There was nothing there. No house. No people waiting for him. Nothing but a heap of rubble, burnt beyond recognition.
The boy knelt there in the middle of the devastation, feeling nothing at all. He heard a strange rasping and shuddering sound, and wondered where it was coming from. It took him a few minutes to realise that he was sobbing. His hands seemed to know what they wanted to do. They thrust themselves into the ashes, scooping out a deep hole. Then they reached into his robe and brought out four objects – a necklace with a stone pendant, a silver seal ring, a silver circlet and a small wooden comb carved with dragon designs. Working silently with tears running down his face, he buried them as deeply as he could and then turned and staggered away.
But now he had nowhere to go, and no inner voice to pull him on. His walk became erratic, and he wove his way along the streets as though drunk, not noticing when he banged into walls and fences. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. But in spite of that he kept on going, wandering here and there. Several times he stopped and sat down somewhere, but he couldn't rest. He got up again each time and walked on, all thought of hiding forgotten.
Dawn came and people began to appear in the streets to begin the day. They were shocked to see the appalling vision that had appeared in their midst. A pale, filthy remnant of a human being who wandered past, mumbling to himself, looking not at them but through them, apparently oblivious to everything in his path. He got several kicks and abusive shouts, along with sympathy and questions, but he showed no reaction to any of them. People watched him go with mingled contempt and curiosity. Not one of them ever considered the fact that pathetic creature could possibly be one of them, let alone the former governor of the city.
At last, around midday, the boy wandered into an alleyway behind a tavern and finally came to a stop. He stood still for a few seconds, then collapsed.
He lay there, unnoticed, for hours. At last a couple of men walking by saw him and came to investigate. When they found he was unconscious, they started to rifle through his pockets for valuables. One of them saw the sword on his back, and grinned disbelievingly. 'Ye gods, Eldred, look at that! Damn if this isn't my lucky day!'
'What d'you mean, your lucky day?' said Eldred.
'Ah, screw you,' said his friend, taking hold of the sword's hilt and starting to pull it out of its sheath. The instant he saw the blade he swore and let go of it as if he'd been burned, scrambling away from the ragged boy with a loud oath.
Eldred saw the sword. 'Oh my gods in heaven,' he breathed. 'It's-!' he grabbed the boy's limp right hand, pulling it up and turning it over to look at the palm. Sure enough, there was a faded silver circle standing out against the pale skin.
The other man craned over to look at it. 'Oh gods, no. That's a rider's mark, Eldred. It's gotta be.'
Eldred let go of the boy's hand. 'But here? A rider, here? And lookin' like this?'
'You know who this is, Eldred. It's him. It's the traitor they're looking for.'
Eldred looked at his companion, and a slow grin spread over his face. 'Lan, this is our lucky day.'
Lan glanced around nervously, then took hold of the boy's shoulder. 'C'mon, let's get him out of here, quick as we can. We don't want anyone else seein'.'
Eldred helped him, and together the two men lifted the unconscious boy and carried him between them up through the streets as fast as they could, toward the castle. The guards let them in as soon as they saw what they had with them, and in moments word had spread through the castle and the governor came running.
Lan and Eldred bowed respectfully to her when she entered the small guard-chamber they had brought their find into. 'We found him, milady,' said Eldred.
The governor said nothing, but went straight to the boy's side. She faltered slightly when she saw his face, then looked up at the two men. 'Where did you find him?'
'In the alley behind the Sign of the Naked Rat.'
'He was like this when you found him?'
'That's right, milady,' said Lan. 'Honest. We figured out who he was when we saw the sword an' the mark on his hand, so we brought him here straight away.'
The governor nodded curtly. 'Well done.' To a guard by the door she said, 'Aliero, give these men a hundred gold coins apiece and send them on their way.'
'Yes, milady. You two, come with me.'
Lan and Eldred left, with many respectful remarks. Once they were gone, the governor turned her attention to the boy lying on the table. She touched his neck, checking for a pulse. There was one, albeit a faint one, and she began to check expertly for injuries. There was a badly-healed burn mark on his shoulder, but other than a few cuts and bruises he was uninjured. But his skin was thin and his bones jutted painfully through it, and she could tell that he had nearly starved to death.
She looked down at the hollow, barely recognisable face of what Galbatorix had become. 'Oh gods… what did they do to you?'
At the sound of her voice, Galbatorix's hand moved suddenly, taking hold of hers and gripping it weakly. His eyes opened and looked up at her, and she saw the insanity burning behind them. 'How are you?' she said softly.
Galbatorix looked at her, his expression oddly blank. But faint recognition showed in his face, and his cold grip on her hand tightened slightly. 'I know you,' he mumbled. 'Do I?'
The governor clasped his hand in hers. 'It's me,' she said. 'It's Carina. Do you recognise me?'
His head lolled sideways slightly. 'Do you know me?' he said.
'I know you,' said Carina. 'You're Galbatorix.'
'Galbatorix…' he repeated the name, almost in a whisper, and then his face twisted with pain. His hand began to tremble in hers, and then, at last, she saw a shadow of the brash young student she had once known show through in his face. 'Oh gods,' he moaned, his eyes focusing on her with a new alertness. 'Galbatorix, oh gods, help me, Carina, please gods, help me-,'
Carina could not help herself. She embraced him tightly, feeling how frighteningly thin and fragile he was in her arms. 'Oh gods, Galbatorix, how did this happen? Where have you been?'
He clung to her pathetically. 'Help me, Carina,' he said again. 'Please, help me. I'm lost. I don't know where… can't… I can't find her, Carina.'
Carina let go of him. 'I can't,' she said softly. 'I'm sorry, Galbatorix, but there's nothing I can do for you. The elders want you back in Ilirea. They had the whole country looking for you. Where did you go? What happened to you?'
He grinned manically at her. 'I was a King,' he said. 'You should've – shouldn't – should've s-seen me, Carina, I was a King, I had a crown and everything and they called me Sire, and…' the grin faded suddenly, and he lurched forward, grabbing hold of her tunic. 'Where is she?' he said, his hands shaking, his voice full of desperate entreaty. 'Do you know where she is?'
Carina tried to gently make him let go of her, but he wouldn't. 'I don't understand,' she said. 'Who are you looking for?'
Galbatorix let go of her and tried to stand up, but crumpled to the floor. Carina lifted him up again, and he hung limply in her grip, mumbling and shaking. 'Where is she?' he said, again and again. 'Where? Where? Will she come and find me? I need her, Carina, please, tell her where I am, tell her to come find me…'
Carina gestured to the guards to help her. 'There's nothing I can do for you,' she said again, hating herself for saying it. 'You can't stay here, Galbatorix. You have to go home.'
The guards carried him out of the room, and he suddenly began to struggle, trying to break free, reaching toward Carina. 'HELP ME!'
Carina couldn't bear to look. She turned away. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered, shuddering as tears wet her face. 'I'm so sorry.'
The next few days passed in a blur. His sword was taken from him, and Carina cast a spell over him that put a block in his mind to stop him using magic. He was well-fed and given healing potions to build up his strength, and Carina spoke to him several times, asking him to tell her where he'd been and what had happened to him. She got very little sense out of him, though, and in the end she kept away.
Later he was put in chains and led out to a large wagon that had a kind of cage built over it. There was a bench inside, and he was shackled to it with a number of other prisoners before the cage door was locked and the wagon moved off.
Galbatorix sat between two other ragged and desperate figures, his head bowed. Other prisoners struggled and yelled abuse at their guards, but he ignored them. He sat very still, his shoulders hunched, sometimes muttering to himself. From time to time he raised his head and looked around, his wild eyes roving here and there as if in search of something, but whatever it was he didn't find it, and he soon lowered his head once more. One or two of his fellow prisoners tried to talk to him, but quickly lost interest when they saw his face.
When food was brought to them he ate ferociously, even striking other prisoners in order to steal what they had. When a guard tried to intervene he threw himself at the bars in a frightening display of violence and rage, teeth bared and snarling like a wolf, heedless of any blows that landed on him. The others in the cage came to fear him; even in his weakened state he was freakishly strong. The guards finally took to drugging his food, and that kept him quiet most of the time. But more than once he appealed to those around him, fixing them with a powerful stare and asking them if they knew where "she" was. He asked again and again, only apparently half-aware of the answers he got, and that was more or less all he ever said to anyone.
Ilirea came in sight, and the prisoners watched it get closer with apprehensive expressions. The boy with the matted black hair showed no reaction at all.
The wagon entered the city and drew to a stop at the base of the tallest tower, and a guard opened the cage door and pointed at the prisoners. 'Get moving, you lot, no screwin' around. Go on, move!'
The shackles were undone and the prisoners slowly filed out of the cage, still manacled together at the wrists. They were received by a new group of guards, who silently led them away into the tower's eerily white interior. At the top of a flight of stairs that led down into the dungeons, two guards singled out the black-haired boy, taking him between them and holding him still. The other prisoners were taken to the dungeons, and the guards led the boy away and upstairs into the tower. He went with them meekly enough, dragging his chains and stumbling on the stairs. But the guards helped him, sometimes half-carrying him when he faltered, up and into a huge cavernous room halfway up the tower.
That was where the elders were waiting. They stood there with their dragons, in a semicircle as always, watching as the boy was brought before them. His guards took him to the centre of the circle, and there Vrael was waiting, his pale eyes fixed on the boy. The guards bowed to him, and one said; 'Here he is, Lord Vrael. Shall we go?'
Vrael nodded curtly. 'Go and wait outside the door. We will call for you when we need you.'
The guards departed, leaving the boy standing there alone.
Vrael looked at him, taking in the sight of him with no expression on his face save disgust. 'Kneel, you piece of filth.'
The boy looked up and tried to walk toward him, but his chains weighed him down and he fell forward.
When he hit the ground, it was as if a window had opened in his mind. A horrible pain ripped into his chest, and he cried out faintly, his mind a confused mass of sounds and images.
'Well?' said Vrael. 'Have you anything to say for yourself?'
That was when he remembered everything. It all came back at once, filling his mind like icy water. He remembered who he was, and everything that had happened, all in that one moment. He looked up and saw Vrael's cold, contemptuous face looking down on him.
'Murderer.'
The word was faint, but it echoed through the chamber.
Vrael blinked. 'Arren Cardockson of Teirm,' he said. 'You have been found guilty of high treason and the breaking of oaths. Have you anything to say to us?'
Galbatorix slowly stood up, facing his former master and lifting his head to look him in the eye. 'Murderer,' he said again.
Vrael ignored him. 'Where have you been?' he demanded in a more normal voice. 'Your idiocy cost the lives of your two friends, and your dragon as well. Why didn't you come back to us? We were looking for you for months.'
Galbatorix said nothing.
'Very well then,' said Vrael. 'If you have nothing to say, then I will pass sentence on you now. Arren Cardockson of Teirm-,'
'Murderer!' this time Galbatorix shouted the word, starting accusingly toward Vrael, his hand rising to point at him. 'You murderer! You killed her! You killed Laela!'
'Arren Cardockson of Teirm,' Vrael began again.
Galbatorix ripped the seal ring from his finger and hurled it onto the floor. 'Arren Cardockson is dead,' he said. 'I am Galbatorix Taranisäii. Last son of the House of Taranis, last of the dark elves, and I will have my revenge if it takes me a hundred years.'
'The boy is insane,' said elder Oromis. He called for the guards, and they came as fast as they could, restraining Galbatorix as he fought to get at Vrael.
'Take him away,' Vrael commanded. 'Take him to the dungeons and whip him. Tomorrow he will die the traitor's death, according to the law.'
'NO!' Galbatorix screamed as the guards hauled him away. 'No! Murderer! All of you, murderers! You killed Laela! You killed her! Murderers!'
But no-one heard him. The door slammed shut and the elders were gone, and the guards took him away back down the stairs, toward the dungeons where eternal night awaited him.