Chapter 8: Saddlemaking

I know, I know, I stole the chapter title from Christopher P. I couldn't think of one, sorry! Yes, I know there are probably a few inaccuracies, but I wanted to write a certain part in this chapter. Sorry this segment took so long... May the wind sing to your souls!

Miranda woke before dawn well rested. As she looked across the camp at the two sleeping men, she giggled, asking Seraphina, Men have a harder time waking up with a lot on their minds, don't they? The dragon grinned. Saphira stirred and looked at Miranda. Good morning, Miranda.

Good morning Saphira. Did you sleep well?

Aye. The dragon closed her eyes in silent contemplation of her thoughts. Brom stirred, sitting up groggily. "Good morning, Brom!" The man looked at her grumpily. "You apparently slept well."

Miranda grinned. "I always do," she giggled. Brom rolled his eyes. Then an odd look came across his face. He glanced at Eragon, who was still asleep. "I know it probably sounds ridiculous, but that song you played last night-"

"Yes. I wanted to talk with you this morning. If I know Eragon, he'll probably wake in thirty minutes or so. More exactly, I wanted to give something to you." Brom looked at her quizzically. Reaching under her blankets, Miranda pulled out a blue sword in its sheath with a sapphire in the pommel. "I believe you'll recognize this?" Miranda extended the sword. Brom reached out to take it with trembling hands. "Where," he whispered, "did you get my sword?" Miranda smiled quietly. "My family, like I said, salvaged many of the Rider's blades. I hope this brings you pleasure."

"Yes. It does. But Eragon has more right to it than I, now."

"I understand, but are you sure?" At Brom's exasperated glare, she sighed. "If you wish, I could send Zar'roc away and you could give Wyrda to Eragon. But that's your choice." Brom hesitated. "You don't have to, Brom."

"He shouldn't have to carry one of the Forsworn's bloody swords. Do it." Miranda nodded, wincing as he mentioned the Thirteen Servants. Going to where Zar'roc lay by Eragon's side, she picked up the sword on silent feet. She picked up the sword, went outside the camp, quietly spoke with the wind, and Zar'roc was gone. When she returned, Brom looked at her gratefully and almost reluctantly placed Wyrda where Morzan's blade had formerly rested. Eragon stirred, and Brom quickly sat on his own bedroll. Miranda began preparing breakfast. "Morning," she called when the Rider opposite her sat up. "Morn- what happened to Zar'roc?!" Miranda eyed him carefully. "I thought to honor the old traditions and sent a... message to my family, asking for a blue one. This blade is called Wyrda, the word for fate in the Ancient Language." Brom glanced at her as she mentioned the old toungue, as though warning her.

"Thank you," Eragon murmured.

Miranda nodded as the stew began to boil. When she'd finished eating-she ate faster than the men- she dug in her pack once more, this time producing a flute. Eragon raised his eyebrows. How many instruments does she have? Miranda laughed at his comical expression. "Only the two you've seen," she chuckled, as if reading his mind. She began to play a lively tune as Eragon and Brom finished their meals. After breakfast, Eragon rolled out the four ox hides. "What are you going to do with those?" Brom queried. "Make saddles for Saphira and Seraphina," Eragon informed him. Brom came over casually. "Hmm. Well, the dragons used to have two kinds of saddles. One was thick and molded, like a horse's, but those take time and tools to make, neither of which we have. The other was nothing more than an extra layer between dragon and Rider. That we can make."

The rest of that day was spent making preparations for the journey ahead. While Miranda and Brom made the saddles, Eragon organized their supplies and fixed his pack. When the final adjustments were made, Miranda checked on the stew she'd prepared earlier; it was just boiling. "Figures it wouldn't be ready," she grumbled. Eragon couldn't resist. "Oh, I thought men were the ones with appetites," he teased. Miranda rolled her eyes. Fifteen minutes later, she dished out the stew. To Eragon's surprise, she took out neither her panpipes nor her flute, but began softly singing to herself in a strange, yet beautiful language. The notes of her song were mournful at times, joyful at others, but most of the time serene. "What was that?" he gasped when she had finished. Miranda said nothing, but a flicker of silver passed through her eyes. Eragon shuddered, knowing it had something to do with her strange power.

When Brom had finished eating, he tossed a stick in the crude likeness of a sword to Eragon. Miranda watched in interest. "What's it for?" Eragon inquired. "You need to learn the use of a sword," Brom explained briefly, then, "Defend yourself!" Miranda watched, fighting giggles, as Brom beat Eragon repeatedly. When they were done, Seraphina and Saphira began to make a sound like stones grating against each other in their throats. You're laughing, aren't you? Miranda inquired.

Come, now, you know me well enough to know that for sure, Seraphina replied. Changing the topic, Miranda said, You know, Seraphina is starting to be a bit of a mouthful to say-

You picked it.

-so I'm going to start calling you Sera.

Little one! Seraphina protested. They were unable to continue, though, as Eragon tossed Miranda the stick. "Your turn," he growled. Looks like somebody got a few million bruises. Miranda watched Brom steadily, picking up the makeshift sword and circling the fire. "Hope you were watching Eragon," Brom grunted. I didn't need to, Miranda thought. Brom lunged at her, but the girl easily sidestepped. Shocked, Brom began a complicated series of movements, all of which Miranda blocked or dodged. "My turn," she muttered. Her attacks were swift and precise, and Brom had difficulty blocking the elegant swipes of her branch. He simply dropped his stick after five minutes. Miranda flicked her stick up to his throat. "Dead," she stated simply. Confused, though, she looked him in the eye. "You're a better swordsman than that; I can tell. What's wrong?"

"Miranda," Eragon whispered. "It's your eyes."

Muahaha, I'm being Evil Author and giving you a cliffhanger. Don't worry; I'll complete soon!