Next part! And the one after this is in three parts (currently, there may be more) and as such uber, uber long. So there may be a while to wait for it.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Chris Paolini's.
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Duet: In Which the Varden Show Some of Their Hand, and Katrina Does Something Stupid
The peace of great mountains be for you,
The sleep and the eyesight of the eagles,
Sheet mist shadows and the long look across.
Carl Sandburg—For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)
--
You are walking through the mountains, mist shrouding you from sight. The rock under your feet is solid, if cold, and your shoes are thin. You are at peace, wandering as you will, but there is an underlying sense of urgency tugging at you.
You remember--
You wake.
--
When Roran and Nasuada got to the infirmary, draped over each other in the haze of those who have just woken up, Katrina was surrounded by her family, in all their rowdy glory.
She was laughing, and they waited in the doorway, half-sleeping on each other's shoulders.
Elain said something, warm and comforting as always, and Katrina's eyes met Nasuada's, then flicked to Roran. They grinned in unison, smothering matching yawns.
Katrina waved. Roran waved back, and Nasuada's smile was a conversation in itself.
Roran said, "Just wanted to make sure you weren't dead!" And blew her a kiss. Katrina giggled, and fell back against the pillows.
Nasuada said, "We'll come back later, all right? When you're less exhausted."
Elain said, "We'll find you when she's not completely smashed, don't worry!" Her smile was bright, though slightly sour when turned on Roran.
He swallowed.
Sensing his distress, Nasuada said, "Thank you, ma'am, we'd appreciate that." And fled, Roran in tow.
Katrina bit her lip, and returned to her brother Albriech's tales of the time his friend Nolvafrell accidentally broke one of the spare katanas and triggered a green-wash.
--
Tornac woke up, and was momentarily disoriented—the pillow under his head was too soft; the blankets too fine—and then Murtagh said, "You woke up. Finally."
Everything came flooding back. He opened his eyes slowly, a sliver at a time, and saw his best friend sitting at the end of the bed he'd been dumped in. It was a very nice bed, he thought, absently, rubbing his eyes.
His overtunic and boots sat on the table next to the bed, neatly folded, and he thanked the goddess that he always did that. It would not have been a good thing to wake up without an overtunic, not in this weather.
Murtagh was watching him, quiet intensity burning in dark eyes. Tornac caught his gaze, and smiled, sitting up. "Is the sun up yet?"
Murtagh said, "Not yet—I'm used to waking up ridiculously early; dragonets are difficult like that. I think Eragon may spend today half-asleep."
Tornac smothered a grin. "Are you going to get off me long enough for me to get dressed?"
Murtagh wrinkled his nose endearingly. "...Do I have to?"
Tornac rolled his eyes. "You look about five, you know. And if we're going to get anything done, then yes."
"Oh, all right. I want you to see dawn here, anyway. It's amazing." Murtagh grinned, and stood. "I'd get Eragon, but I thought it'd be kinder to let him sleep—just-hatched dragonets are...demanding, to say the least."
Tornac got out of bed, and swore. "Goddess, Murtagh, it's cold."
"What'd you expect? We're getting air off the river, you know. And it's winter." Murtagh was looking far too amused for his own good.
Tornac glared at him and pulled the overtunic over his head, teeth chattering.
Murtagh rolled his eyes and whispered some words that Tornac couldn't hear—and then he was warm.
He said, "Thank you," and pulled on his boots.
His friend half-smiled, and pushed some hair out of his eyes. "We should go now—the sun'll be rising soon, and the view from the North Tower is the best of them."
Tornac said, "That's far, isn't it?"
"You bet."
--
Orik, dwarf-ambassador to the Varden, and adopted son of their King Hrothgar, champed down on his pipe, and inhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn't choke.
Jeod said, "Orik, we're not trying to make this difficult. You know Farthen Dur isn't safe—you need to get Hrothgar to evacuate to the City. You're the only one he'll listen to, and you know it."
Ajihad was gripping his sword tightly, and didn't say anything.
Orik took another deep breath, and stroked his beard.
Jeod gritted his teeth and pulled himself together—right now he didn't represent himself, he represented the Varden, and he'd better behave like it-- "Orik," he said, "I regret to have to say this—we can't keep sending you help from the City; it's draining us. We don't have the magic to teleport, and cloak the teleports, and goddess-prevent there was an attack on the Mountain—we wouldn't be able to help you."
He looked away, feeling guilty—he'd betrayed their best allies, he knew, and it was going to cost him. Ajihad caught his gaze, making him look up.
You did the right thing, those dark, calm eyes said.
I wish I could believe that, he hoped he conveyed.
--
Morzan woke up to warmth and safety, a feeling to which he was not entirely accustomed, and arms around him, something he hadn't felt for a long time. Galbatorix kissed his forehead.
Morzan said, irritably, "I'm not two years old," moved up, and kissed him properly.
Galbatorix leaned into it—Morzan was pretty sure he'd have been offended if he hadn't—but when they broke for air he was actually talking, something Morzan had been trying to eliminate his capacity for.
"Not that I'm not enjoying this," Galbatorix said, sucking in a deep breath, "but we'll miss sunrise if we don't move now. And you...may want to brush your teeth."
Morzan glared.
--
Trianna opened her eyes, and reached an absent hand down to stroke her daughter's silk-fine hair. Callie snapped awake.
"Mother!" the girl said, "You woke up!"
Trianna sighed, and lay back as the healers she'd helped to train swarmed around her.
Iason blinked at her accusingly. "If I'd known you were going to save the day all on your own I wouldn't have wasted half a day looking for Arya and Faolin!"
She rolled her eyes.
--
Eragon was woken by a heavy, moving weight on his chest. He cracked one eye open, and saw—his dragonet. Jumping up and down on his chest.
He said, "Oh, come on. I've only been up all night feeding you—all right, you woke me up once an hour. Which in my book? Counts as all night."
The dragonet looked at him accusingly, bright blue eyes mournful.
He sighed. "Well, are you hungry?"
No answering pang in his stomach.
"Not hungry, then. And that corner of this room—which, by the way, will be unusable after this—shows that you don't need to use the necessary..."
She chirped and flapped her fragile wings, sitting back on her haunches and observing him in all his barely-awake glory. Something inside him twinged.
"You want to...go outside?" he asked, tentative.
She chirped approvingly.
"Well, then. Hop on my shoulder, blue-lady—evidently I am but a slave to your whim."
She nipped at his finger reprovingly, but curled her tail around his neck and dug her claws into his shoulder.
He sighed, and got up.
--
Arya grimaced, and swallowed the foul-tasting tea down, hoping the taste wouldn't linger.
Faolin watched her worriedly, hovering. "Headache subsiding?" he asked.
She bit her lip, and nodded. "We should--"
"Once I'm sure you're all right."
She hit him on the arm, lightly. "Stop that. Being controlling, I mean. You don't wear it well."
"I just—you know I worry."
She quirked an eyebrow. "Angela's alive, dearheart. That trumps...pretty much everything."
He sighed. "I know—but, Arya..."
"I'll be fine," she said, smiling. A hundred dragons jumped up and down in her head. She hoped the tea would work soon.
--
Tornac shivered as he and Murtagh made their way up through the myriad of staircases leading to the roof of the North Tower. The heat-spell, evidently, was no match for dawn above the river.
Murtagh looked at him, worriedly. "Are you sick? Because it's really not that cold."
Tornac glared. "Well, you're a cold-weather boy, aren't you? I grew up in the desert. Where we didn't get stupid things like snow. Goddess, it's freezing."
Murtagh sighed, and tried the spell again.
Tornac made a happy noise. "That's better," he said, "Thank you."
"My pleasure," Murtagh said cheerfully. "Look—we're almost at the top."
Tornac sucked in a breath. "Oh, goddess," he whispered reverentially. The sun was rising, and the sky was on fire.
--
Thorn dragon-yawned, watching his breath steam in the cold morning air. He looked around the copse of thick trees, and wondered where they were.
He stretched out his wings; next to him, Ruadhri was doing the same. He said, Good morning. Do you, by any chance, know where we are?
She reared back and set a tree on fire. Thorn basked in the heat. Good morning, little one. And I have absolutely no idea where we are. Isn't it wonderful?
Thorn thought, At least I'll die warm.
She nudged him with her nose. Cheer up, little one. Shiarra is ascending.
He looked up and out, and saw—the sun rising, painting the sky gold and red and pink, the colours of the sun-dragon dancing in ribbons over Alagaesia, Morzan's dragon silhouetted by it all.
She was beautiful, he thought, and remembered.
Oh. Shit.
--
Nasuada touched her fingers to the earth, sending little tendrils of her essence down into the soil. Roran's hands on her shoulders kept her safe, held her tight, prevented her from falling into the green.
The sun dappled their backs, soft heat warming them. The gardens—built, maintained and shielded by magic—were for earth-elemental mages, even those whose magic was as minor as Nasuada's; earth and plants helped to ground them. Not to mention that the flowers were always very nice.
Nasuada felt through the damp, warm darkness—reached out her roots and settled, absorbing and resting, finding her peace for the first time in too long.
Roran watched her, and thought her beautiful.
--
"Hey!" Eragon exclaimed, as his dragon (his dragon! He still couldn't get over that) bit his finger. Again.
She looked into his eyes, her own sparkling and bright.
He sighed. "All right, all right, I'll move faster—will you stop biting me now?"
She chirped. He took that as a yes, and walked briskly up the stairs, wishing desperately that he knew enough of the Ancient Language to warm himself up.
"Where exactly are we going?" He asked the dragon on his shoulder, wryly.
She made a disgruntled noise, and steered him just slightly right.
He said, "All right, you know what we're doing, I won't ask any question—happy now?"
The claws digging into his shoulder told him that yes, she was happy with it, and his sarcasm was not appreciated. He sighed, and kept walking.
--
Galbatorix whispered the words, and they were on the tower-roof. Perhaps not the most efficient use of magic, but if one had power, would it not be criminal to not use it? This precise philosophy was what had gotten Galbatorix in trouble with the Rider-Council, in long-ago Vroengard, but he'd won, so he wasn't going to worry about it.
Morzan rolled his eyes. "Show-off."
Galbatorix grinned. "Would you have me any other way?"
"Yes?" Morzan opened his mouth to continue, and let it hang open. "Oh—I'd forgotten sunrises..."
Galbatorix laughed, deep and bass, and let his eyes trail over Morzan's frame, golden in the dawn.
--
Odele wandered through the rabbit-warren-hallways of Garden-Quarter (there must have been twenty "quarters" comprising the City, but tradition was all they had left), touching various hanging flowers as she went. She stopped at a particularly bright purple blossom, dangling from its mother-plant, suspended from the ceiling.
She plucked it gently, and tucked it behind her ear, where it sat perfectly accentuating her long blonde hair. She admired herself in the marble wall, laughing at her own vanity, and walked on, smiling.
Finally she reached her destination—the glass door leading to the Peace-Garden—and knocked once before walking through it.
Nasuada was sitting, tailor-fashion, in the middle of the cabbage-patch, hands on either side of her buried in the earth. Roran was lounging next to her, hands brushing her waist. He looked up at Odele's knock, and said, quietly, "What are you doing here?"
She dropped into the bench beside them, loose and lithe and graceful. "What do you think I'm doing here? The rest of us would like to know what happened to Katrina, and no one's telling us, Ror'." Her voice was low, lilting—and urgent.
He said, "She's in the infirmary, can't you wait until she's better to gossip?"
"That's not fair," she pouted. "You and I both know--"
"Yeah," he sighed. "Something—came. Possessed her, maybe. I don't know much—just what we saw. Can you just--"
"Thank you," she told him, sincere for once. "I'll leave you to it, then. --If you see Katrina, give her my luck?"
"Of course," he nodded. "Go away now?"
She stuck out her tongue, and flounced away.
--
Arya felt the tingling in her mind, dropped her tea, and swore. Next to her, Faolin was swearing too. She fell into the magic, when it tapped her, biting her lip and irritated but willing all the same.
When they were done, she opened her eyes tiredly, took Faolin's hand, and swore.
Next to her, Faolin was doing the same.
She ripped the bedcover irritatedly, fixed it, and sighed. Faolin scrubbed the heel of his right hand over his eyes. "Well," he said, "we have a problem."
She said, "Well, yes."
--
Tornac lowered himself onto the floor of the tower, hands imprinting themselves on the roof-tile as he stared out at the sun rising. Murtagh, beside him, was grinning smugly.
The castle at Uru'baen was spread out below them, towers and turrets like a city in the air.
He jumped when the black dragon in the tower to the south roared and flew into the bright sunrise, a blot on the banners of red and gold streaming across the sky.
Murtagh put a settling hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed—and then tensed, because Murtagh was not supposed to make him feel good.
...right?
--
Arya stood in front of Jeod, hair tied back messily, clothes thrown on in a hurry. Faolin, beside her, was just as disarrayed.
Jeod said, from the safety of behind his (very strong) desk, "I assume she's called you home?"
Arya nodded. "I'm so sorry, Jeod—but there's been an incursion and they need us."
He sighed. "And what about when we need you? Katrina's in the infirmary with someone in her head whom I thought was dead but who I am now convinced is merely mentally unbalanced, and an Empire incursion gets you scurrying home."
Arya looked at him. Faolin ran a hand through his hair. Again.
Jeod said, "Yeah, I know. I didn't mean that, just...venting. You know how it is."
Arya nodded. "We are sorry, you know. You have Katrina under control?"
Faolin added, "For now, at least?"
Jeod said, "We'll manage. Go save the elves, yeah?"
They bowed in unison, and inwardly he smiled.
--
When Eragon got to the rooftop, it was paved in gold-pink-orange and unearthly beautiful. On his shoulder, his dragon stopped chirping.
He reached up a hand, ran his fingers down the curve of her wind in silent reverence. He took a deep sharp breath at the sight of two figures shining gold, one leaned into the other, arms wound tight together.
He half-grinned, softly, at Morzan and Galbatorix. Some days he just didn't understand Murtagh's disapproval—they fit, perfectly.
His dragon curved her cheek into his palm, making a quiet snuffling noise. He smiled again, thinking of the picture they must make—boy and dragon, silhouetted at the beginning of the world.
He flicked his eyes away from his father to the other tower, where one man sat on the edge of the roof, dangling his legs. Another, body-language spelling out protection, rested his hand on the first's shoulder—Eragon laughed inwardly at the irony.
They fit, too—Tornac burnished golden, Murtagh half-shadowed behind him. He wondered, is this what my family is? Shadows behind those we love? And sighed, staring into the morning.
--
Katrina slipped through the crack between the door and the doorframe, angling her body just so, so she didn't make noise. There were some downsides to living in a city full of highly-trained warriors who pulled out weapons at the slightest disruption.
She checked her arsenal—long hunting knife and throwing-stars in her belt, daggers in her boots and at her wrists, shortbow and quiver in her pack, along with food, clothes, blankets, and money. She was ready for this.
Whatever this was.
In her mind, Angela was silent, except for the all-too-common whispers that sounded too much like screaming.
She took a deep, quiet breath, and stepped forward, to the bed in the center of the room she'd just snuck into. It had white sheets, she thought absently, dappled by the moonlight and shot into chiaroscuro.
Roran, whose bed it was, was sleeping soundly. Nasuada, whose bed it wasn't, was sleeping soundly too, dark hair fanned across Roran and the pillow. Katrina swallowed, as soundless as she could be, and leaned forward, tapping Nasuada's shoulder three times.
The other girl opened her eyes slowly, and murmured, "Kat?"
She thought, It's me. Nasuada, I have to go—I just wanted you to know that I love you both and that it's not your fault that I'm gone and...goddess bless. I--
She didn't say anything, melted back into the shadows she'd learned so well.
Nasuada muttered, irritated, but curled into Roran and went back to sleep.
Katrina closed her eyes, briefly, and whispered, so quiet no one would hear, "I'll miss you. I love you. Goddess bless." She took a shivering breath, and slipped the moss-green necklace over her head, leaving it on the table besides them. "Goodbye."
Nasuada murmured, and Roran soothed her, even in his sleep. The corner of Katrina's mouth quirked up, even through the thick sadness in her heart.
She left the way she'd come.
--
Arya ran a nervous hand through her hair, hoping nothing had gotten stuck.
Faolin said, "Calm down; she won't hurt you, you know." The trees of Du Weldenvarden shivered as a cool breeze ran through them, and a bird whistled, oddly jarring.
"I do, but--"
"Your mother is far more likely to hurt me than you."
She laughed nervously.
Vanir melted out of the forest, beautiful and deadly as ever. "Lady Arya; Lord Faolin?" He bowed, elegant.
They bowed back. Arya said, "She's expecting us?"
A wry smile crept over Vanir's features. "Very impatiently, I might add."
--
"I'm ready," Katrina said quietly, and felt the magic gather around her. She pushed the little-used door open, and slipped out into the night, and the mountains, and uncertainty.
--