"Mirofr?"
The elf turned. There, sitting on the hard-packed floor, blowing on a spoonful of burning-hot gruel, Jarsha was sitting. For once, the two of them were alone, breakfasting before resuming their lessons. It was the following day; the previous afternoon, Surda's younger folk had preferred to associate with the new arrivals rather than listen to the next instalment of Romena's tale. (Jarsha was relieved, actually. He knew that he had way too many chapters as it was and would probably end up reusing a plot line at one point or another.)
"What is it, Jarsha?" Mirofr queried as Jarsha brought the porridge to his mouth. The wizened mentor, supping from a bowl of mushroom soup, was watching the young Rider intensely. "What do you want to ask me?"
"It's just…" The teenager's eyes darkened, clearly grappling with his inner demons, Mirofr sensed. "Why were you and Keltra so mad at the Tosaën yesterday? I mean," he went on more quickly, not knowing exactly how to react, "true, he's kind of well…you know…an idiot, but I don't think he was mistreating Ferondal. At least, she didn't seem to be angry or hurt or anything."
"That's what you think," Mirofr replied serenely, lifting his soupspoon to his mouth. For placing it in the wooden bowl, he continued as calmly as he could. "However – and I can tell you – the way he was treating Ferondal and the way he acted puts all Shur'tugalar, and not to mention the training he's endured, to shame."
"Er," stumbled Jarsha. He was confused; after a second's thought, he decided that persisting Mirofr was the way to go. "Go on, Mirofr. Tell my why. Why? What was he doing that was so bad? And what about Ferondal?"
"You're not very shy when you're searching for answers, are you?" Mirofr shot back sharply.
Jarsha hung his head, but Mirofr could see that he was still more curious than was good for him. "I still want to know. I mean, I know I shouldn't, but no one' stopped my curiosity yet. "
"All right. I'll tell you," Mirofr acquiesced finally, setting the bowl on the floor. Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes. "As you know, in the Riders' glory days – especially after Eragon and Saphira came to the forest of the elves, Du Weldenvarden – dragons were revered and honoured. They were beings of great courage, strength and wisdom. Habitually, those in the ranks of the brave and noble Shur'tugalar usually fit the title – intelligent, brave, peacemaking folk. Of course, that's excluding the late King Galbatorix and the Wyrdfell – the Foresworn, the thirteen Riders who ventured to the other side; among them was Morzan, the father of Riders Murtagh and Eragon and Galbatorix's closet ally. Likewise, for the most part, Riders were not so cocky with their dragons, the elves, or their elders. Tosaën has trained in Ellesméra – Keltra was there for a great part of it – and to see the elves' efforts wasted on one who could show potential was a great letdown." He sighed, lying his grizzled head on his palms. "It is sad… When he first met us, Keltra and I, he did not act as an Argetlam should – he did not greet us with the proper politeness terms required by all elves and Shur'tugalar. May the stars watch over him – but they only reason they should do that is because he's a Rider. 'Tis only this and nothing more."
"I don't think he's that bad," Jarsha observed. "Aye, he was cocky and the like, but that's just the way he is. He can learn, after all, and they say Eragon let his confidence get to his head as well."
"No." Mirofr shook his head. "No. Tosaën is more than a teenage desperado. He is more than a mere idiot. He has abused and mistreated his dragon. He is a disgrace to the elves."
And with that, he got up and strode away without looking back.
"I always thought he was different, was all," grumbled Jarsha.
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Jarsha stuck some elves into Romena's tale. In one scene, describing a talk between an elf and a Rider, he found himself portraying the elf somewhat cruel and manipulative. He didn't know what to make of that, but, he supposed, it stemmed from his anger with if Mirofr.
Nonetheless, the children seemed satisfied – o or, at least, they cheered raucously when he finished recounting the umpteenth instalment. Feeling quite pleased with himself, the juvenile delinquent – pardon me, youthful storyteller – descended from his perch, a grin wrapping his features into a beaming picture of health and happiness.
"You were hard on the elves," remarked Nanette as she drifted over to him once the crowd had dispersed somewhat. "It wasn't very fair to them, was it?"
"I know…. But, y'know, Nan – remember the other day, when Keltra and Mirofr were angry with Tosaën?"
She nodded. "How could I forget?"
"Well, it wasn't very fair to him. I think a lot of the elves are like that, is all." He heaved a sigh. "It's just... Well, you know, Nanette; it's just my opinion. I'm not mad at them – it's the way they are."
Nanette cocked her head to the side. She surprised Jarsha by agreeing with him. "Aye, you're probably right…. After all," she finished with a smile, "why should the elves have all the glory? Galbatorix was supposed to be EVIL, and he was human. Tosaën isn't that bad, after all."
"Oi! Pea-brains!" came a sudden shout.
The children looked up. There, predictably enough, Milda was coming, soaring toward them on Iganì, riding that this swagger of one with twice her arrogance. Beside them flew Slakk, perched atop Arget's durable leather saddle; Arget's mouth was open, as were Slakk's eyes.
"Hey," cheered Milda as the violet dragon alit on a hill not far from them. Arget landed a few seconds later, dropping down to clawed toes. "How are you? Us, we're great. We've just been flying Iganì – they're more than just awesome, especially when just four people – fine, two – dominate the skies."
"We're doing pretty well, too," Jarsha smiled. And
"Same here," said Slakk, hopping nimbly from Arget's foot. The silver dragon nodded and began humming, mentally projecting his thoughts to the others' minds. Slakk, apparently, was tired of being used as a mouthpiece – that was how the dragon had communicated with anyone aside from his Rider before their arrival in Surda.
'Tis quite a pleasant experience, I'll have you know. And what of it? If what the elves say is true (though I, in all honesty, don't think it is), then Tosaën deserves what he has. After all, he is but a human; he can be taught the honor of being a Rider in the many years he has
"Which is?" asked a keen Nanette. Behind them, the crowds of younger children were clamoring excitedly toward the two dragons, expressions of pure delight on their faces. Resplendent among them ran Merrick and Alden, running as fast as their short legs could carry them.She looked around furtively, then added, "And, speaking of which, why have I only met two elves in my life? I'm a Rider, after all; it seems like I should have more trained by now, right?"
"it's only been a few weeks, and, besides, we're going to set off for Du Weldenvarden soon," replied Milda. Instead, she was standing beside Iganì, tenderly murmuring sweet nothings to her as she lavished over her bonded dragon. "Then you'll meet some."
Well, Kyba is an elf…. She too changed her name,Iganì added, also deciding to project her thoughts. Her original one used to be much longer and complicated, but she preferred to cut it down and strip it of most embellishments. At any rate, she's not supposed to be normal, if the rumors carry even a grain of truth.
Nanette looked around, a worried look in her eyes. Clapping one dark hand to her face, she muttered under her breath, "Where's Crimson Flame? I haven't seen him since earlier today."
"Over there." Jarsha gestured to the small dragon.
Nanette sighed in relief and quickly scurried over. Sure enough, Crimson Flame was sitting there, scales twinkling. Beside him, licking his paws quite calmly, was Solembum the werecat. Nanette jogged over to her dragon, who hummed happily at her touch.
"Good to know you're here," she breathed. Crimson Flame merely yawned, revealing pointed teeth, though she could detect a slight purr in it.
Have you forgotten me? Solembum's mental voice, when it came, was impassive as always. In which case, I daresay it took long enough for you to remember me. After all, you have been blessed with my wonderful presence.
"Yes, the we are getting quite bored of it now," came a familiar voice.
Emerging from the shadows was – duh! – Angela. The herbalist's face was wreathed in a grin as she approached them, her enormous hair bouncing in the breeze. "Indeed, though, it is true that I always enjoy your company."
Nanette sat quietly down beside Crimson Flame, one hand on his scaled back. Solembum yowled, walking majestically away from them. His form blurred as though seen through a muddy mirror, his features dissolving into another shape entirely. Angela wordlessly reached into her shoulder-pack and threw him a hand-woven bundle. Instants later, no one was standing before them other than a short, pointed-teethed, black-haired boy, albeit with some odd clothes.
"Like them?" Angela asked eagerly when Crimson Flame seemed somewhat confused and definitely annoyed. "I made them myself."
Solembum yowled again, and not without reason. He was wearing considerably horrendous clothes – 'horrendous' being but the word that rolled through his mind. In reality, though, they were simply awful – mere shreds of leather and other fabrics basted together with a line of stitches that had been sewed haphazardly and in overabundance. They also weren't very fashionable – a pair of too-short breaches and a loose shirt that flowed down past his waist.
Angela! Solembum bared his teeth. What were you thinking, dressing me like this? And, if you plan on doing this anymore, perish the thought right now!
She took a step back, looking hurt, then decisively rehopped the distance. Cracking her knuckles, she managed out a none-too-unreasonable "What?"
"Those clothes… Er, those clothes aren't very nice on Solembum," Nanette replied, cringing.
Solembum gave a strangely inhuman, discontented growl and lethally stalked forward, but the herbalist merely waved one balled fist before his face.
Her fingers, clenched tight together, were unrecognizable under five clawed metal segments that had been inserted into her knuckles. They were sharply spiked, like the scales on a dragon's back, and twice as pointed.
"What are those?" Nanette asked, ushering Crimson Flame backwards. The dragon quickly regained his calm and curious look, reposing his head on extended front legs. "What are those, milady?" Nanette went on, stroking his scales. "Where did you get them?"
"First of all – don't call me that." Angela chuckled as she patted Solembum's messy black locks with your free hand; the werecat, standing by her side, was still in human form. Nevertheless, he looked considerably annoyed, as if he needed much more than to solve a matter as simple as better clothes. "Just Angela will do." Amazingly enough, she seemed to have regained a cheerful enough semblance, though, admittedly, she was still cracking the knuckles of her fist. "Secondly, the dwarves have small spikes, 'fists of steel' – 'Ascudgamln' – which they can have drilled into his knuckles. I decided to reinvert the idea; when I gave him my idea, they readily agreed and forged them for me. Basically, they're claws inserted into the knuckles of someone's hand and can be taken out at will." Looking down, she fondly stroked the pointed segments. "I call them my claws of pain."
Nanette blinked. Snapping her attention to Solembum, she asked, "What's bothering you?"
Aside from these infernal clothes I'm being forced to wear? Solembum was speaking fiercely, yet there was a knowing glint in his eye as he crossed his arms. Oh, nothing really. As a matter of fact, I've survived much worse torture than this.
"Don't say those things." Angela punched the boy on the shoulder; Solembum buckled under the pain. "It's not very nice to the kind mistress who made you those clothes, you know."
Nanette, wanting to be a peacemaker, wandered back to Crimson Flame. Running a hand down his scales without turning around to look them in the face is, she asked, blatantly ignoring the witch's previous comment, "Milady? Why can I hear Solembum's thoughts? Why does he let me communicate with him?"
"All Riders can." Frowning, Angela motioned to Solembum to follow as she strolled over to the young Rider. "I was surprised when Eragon was able to, but I think all Riders can."
I can talk with anyone I want to. I just don't. While he may not have always been as calm and dignified in human form than he was in his werecat's, Solembum sure was now. Smoothly and royally, he strolled over to Nanette. He contemplated her through keen eyes, playing with his hair as a cat would with a mouse with a clawlike hand. True, I can sense different things with you than with Eragon – thought before action, for one.
Nanette beamed without turning round, though it was pretty obvious from the flesh creeping onto her neck.
You know, though, I would do this with any Rider. Eragon was the first I met – Tosaën was the second.
Nanette avoided his eyes. The compliment had overwhelmed her, rendering her incapable to do more than nod.
Yes, I can see that you are an intelligent Rider.
Just then, something considerably odd happened. Crimson Flame, who had been watching them inquisitively, angled his head to look Solembum deep in the eyes. Long the two stood there, eyes locked – deep and red, wise and Sunbeam, curious and clever.
Crimson Flame's guy's was rather admiring, come to think of it.
Why, thank you. Solembum smiled casually. Remember, Rider and dragonling, you two must maintain strong connections with each other. It helps you become better people, you see.
"I– I don't know what to say," Nanette blurted out. "How much are we supposed to bond, and how?"
Reluctant to understand, I see. Solembum's figure blurred once more; he quickly morphed, leaving a pile of ugly abandoned clothes on the grass. With a stately gait, he began to walk away. Ah well. Someday you'll understand.
Seconds passed. "Erm," said Nanette, "does he always do that?"
"What, leave the conversation a cliffhanger and then majestically walk off?" Angela laughed. "All the time."