The sun in the sky had not yet risen.
Silvarí woke with a startling yawn, trying to recapture the dream she had throughout the long hours of the night. A green Dragon and a women with striking black hair is all the remained of her memory. Not that I have any memory, she reminded herself.
Just when she had crept out of her new bed, a heavy pounding erupted from the door and in walked Ismira and Mirelth.
"What are you doing? We don't have enough time for you to seep in hours of unneeded rest! Up!" screamed Ismira and pushed her through her bright yellow tent and into another. Mirelth grasped Ismira's hand and she dragged him along. She gazed at him for a few seconds, and noted that something had changed about him, but Silvarí could not figure what it was.
He was similarly exhausted from their countless amount of sword duels yesterday and was not dressed for battle -like Silvarí was. Silvarí had not had the chance to dive into his mind and soak up all of his feelings about their training, as she wished she could. He was mysterious beyond normal measures, especially with their duels. He was slower and weaker than her but his technique was all it took to amaze any master swordsmen.
The sun was not even up when the entered Ismira's tent. The royal purple cloth tent was Ismira's, borrowed from the many stores of supplies that resided in a heavily loaded room somewhere in the depths of Carvahall Castle. Inside lie a similar cot, table, and chairs to Silvarí and Mirelth's, but as it was yesterday, filled with armor of all sorts. Silvarí had her elven made armor and Mire had his own pair. Where he had gotten it, she did not know. Ismira had pairs of golden gowns stitched with the same color as Silvarí's tent. Ismira yanked her over to a big bucket of water and closed the thin white curtain behind them. Silvarí did not have one of these in her tent.
"Strip," she demanded and began to collect various soaps and soothing bath potions, or so Silvarí read on the label in the ancient glyphs. In truth, she did not trust anything that Ismira insisted on pouring in her bat water. She stopped abruptly and eyed Silvarí with a hint of aggravation. "I said for you to undress."
"What about my privacy? Leave and I'll do it myself." Silvarí retorted. Ismira laughed.
"You have no privacy in training, Silvarí. Now bathe and continue your lesson or stink and continue your lesson. Your choice." As she left the tent, se heard similar playful fighting between Mire and Ismira.
"And scrub your face! You look like a hermit!"
"It's called manly face hair. Only real warriors get it."
Silvarí undressed and got into the steaming water. When she had settled down in the water, her ears strained to here pounding on the ground from feet that were moving. It seemed they were racing around the tent. She afterward sunk into the warm water that clouded her nose with a sweet aroma; she had reluctantly poured the lavender-smelling soap into the wooden tub.
After Ismira had wrestled a bath out Mire, Silvarí quietly sat in her armor, drying her hair on a scratchy rug, Mire whistled a lively tune that was often interrupted with small yelps from when he would cut his face with the razor Ismira got him.
Ismira whispered a spell and Silvarí's hair felt dry as it was before she had taken her bath.
"What was that spell?" she questioned Ismira, and she smirked. A lone witch taught it to me, along with many of the words in the Ancient Language."
Silvarí's eyebrow rose a bit in question. Then, she asked," What is the Ancient Language?"
Ismira's bodice straightened with pride," The Ancient Language is the language invented by the Grey Folk, and spoken by the elves." Ismira picked up the greaves on Silvarí's armor, the ones with the glyphs on them. "Do you see these glyphs? These are the glyphs of the Ancient language. If read correctly, they sound out a word in the Ancient Language. Do you remember the word of magic I placed on you when you when in the dungeon fighting with Mirelth?"
"Thrysta," Silvarí remember. She winced and expected to fly halfway across the room, like she did last time when Ismira did it to her, but nothing happened. She sighed with relief.
"No. It would've been better if something had happened, Silvarí. You see, the correct term of magic is a manipulation-"
"-of energy. I have heard of that before, somewhere." Silvarí answered.
Ismira smiled smugly, "You do not remember many of the Ancient Language in time you will. It is a shame though, that one of their own kind is not aware of their own heritage."
"I do not look like an elf. Be reasonable. My armor may gleam with their culture of metalmaking, but other than-"
"Ah!" Mire screeched so suddenly that Ismira jumped up and grabbed a long, woolen rag. Mire ran out of the curtain before se got there, however. He had naught but a pair of trousers on but what really attracted attention was a large blotch of red over his mouth. His big knuckled fists attempted to wipe away the blood. Ismira set the cloth to his cheek.
"Look what harm did you do with just a small blade," she whispered.
Silvarí's feet seemed to jump up with excitement. She vanished from her seat on the rug and swiftly appeared in front of Mire. She tugged on Ismira's hand with mad strength and the rag fell from Mire's face.
Her mind was blurred for a moment, but then was clouded with a set of similar words she had heard so many times before. Energy built up from within her chest, and she focused that power on the bloody gash.
"Waise Heil" she spoke. The skin around the cut began to knit together and within a span of a few seconds, it vanished. The flowing of the red fluid stopped. Ismira finished wiping up the access blood. Weariness flowed through Silvarí as if she had just finished a duel with Mire. She stumbled and ran into Mire with her clumsiness and overpowering fatigue. He caught her with his thick arms and Ismira held her forearm.
"Thanks. I can see shaving is not a talent of mine." Mirelth spoke softly. Silvarí nodded and tried to straighten herself, but mire refused. "Not yet, wait until we give you some energy." Silvarí looked up to face a guy she and fought with and yet barely knew. His long brown hair obscured his blue eyes. For the first time, she noticed he had a small braid in his hair, like a horse would. He had freckles she did not notice earlier and his husky form seemed to be extended. One thing, however, startled Silvarí. He was exactly the same height as Silvarí, she noticed, yet she was bent over several inches, or feet, because of her fall. She wiggled out of his arms with the new strength Ismira fed to her. She straightened and stood over a head taller than him.
"Weren't you…weren't you….? Oh my-" Silvarí screeched a similar screech as when he was cut. He was, well….
"A Dwarf. Yeah, I reached my Dwarven manhood a few hours ago." He said simply. Silvarí remembered the story he told about his parents, but she would never figure he was-
"A dwarf?" He smirked.
"Stop interrupting my thoughts!" she said simply and tried to block out his tendril that was attempting to break into her mind.
Ismira stopped feeding her energy when she had blocked her mind out. "Good. You've remembered how to do that well enough. And yes, now that you mention, he is shorter. Does this happen to every dwarf?"
Mire shook his head. "My mother explained since I was a half-breed, parts of my life would be spent in both cultures. I'm not completely a dwarf, otherwise, I'd be even shorter."
"And your beard would touch the floor and drag behind you," Ismira smirked.
Mirelth shrugged and moved toward his armor. "It matters not. I am not pleased with my father, or mother, or what atrocity I am, but I will have to get over the change. I feel stronger, and older now. And, as I have yet to master the proper shaving ability, I will try to grow a beard. I can be like your father, Ismira." He grabbed his greaves and bracers and tugged them on. Next, he took his leather shirt and slipped it over his head. His chainmail jerkin followed, along with his leather hat and metal helm. He adorned his belt and his sword and his shield.
"Good, it still fits." He murmured and grabbed his wineskin and cloth pack. Today, he also brought along a bow and several halberds: spears that had not just a point, but also a rugged blade on the side like one from an axe. His handsome but changed face frowned. "Where's my wineskin? I was on my belt just a minute ago!" Then, his eyes fell to the two girls.
Silvarí's swift armor was tons lighter than his. It also had a beautiful light to it that brought out a beauty of the elves. She eyed Ismira and winked so fast, it was as if she had twitched. Her muscled hand dug into armor by her chest and dug free a hard leather hide filled to the bust with liquid. "Mirelth, Dwarves are not known to hold their beer well enough without it affecting others."
Mire's eyes were now the ones that were twitching," We'll see, bird bones."
"Bird Bones! What a pathetic comeback!" Ismira shot at him, slowly making her way over to the tent's entrance. Silvarí did likewise.
Go! Go! Silvarí shouted to her with her mind. Faster than she thought that magician could, Ismira sprang out of the tent, Silvarí by her side. Mire ran behind them, bellowing a hearty laugh. He was catching up fast.
Silvarí drew her slim blade, and tossed the wineskin to Ismira. "Run!" Silvarí screamed at her, but she just smirked again. This time it was a smirk that was devious, and somehow Silvarí knew she would not get that wineskin back.
"Put the blades away," she shouted to Mirelth and Silvarí. "We all fight a wizard duel."
Yesterday, even though it was hard to recall from her almost empty store of memories, they had mind battled. From the cell bars fight, to the practice field learning the blade and bow, which Silvarí agreed she was formidable with each. She liked the feel of a bow in her hands, and she agreed with Mirelth that her sword was naturally swung as an extension of her arm. Ismira had taught her bit on hammer and knife, and how to throw a javelin. What she also had found out was that while she had a great aim and good enough experience with the blade, her greatest feat yet was mind battling. She seemed to actually use her mind to bend others to her will, which was, after all, a manipulative activity that left her feeling a bit guilty, however, she still showed each opponent no mercy.
Like fighting yesterday with Mire, she first probed his mind with hers and hit a solid wall of iron. After checking for cracks or crevasses that he had possibly failed to patch up, which after a few seconds she realized there were none, she began to think rabid thoughts that would distract him. Many included scenes that involved blood, which she found was a certain weakness of his. She also, to her deep displeasure, forced many seductive thoughts that would prove fatal to a man. Finally, distracting Mire enough to find a pinprick in his shell, she quickly slipped through and willed her mind to press against his. She overtook him, and forced him to go against his own mind and to destroy his own barriers so Silvarí could entirely overpower his mind with hers. She proved successful even when faced with Ismira.
One thing, and possibly the worst, was that she knew of almost no spells. They did discuss gramarye, as magic is properly called, and different rules on wizard duels. They refrained from converse when it came to the Ancient Language, a name Silvarí had just learned of. Ismira said she would teach her all of the language she could in the short amount of time they had, but they had yet to start. Only today, when the newly Dwarven boy Mirelth had cut his chin, Silvarí used magic for the first time, or the first time since she remembered. And even that small feat panged almost all of her strength, which Ismira said was very dangerous to do, as too much energy could kill you.
"Let's hope it comes naturally like my cut," Mirelth winked. Silvarí did not know he could use magic.
A triangle of the warriors formed. Ismira smirked confidently, her golden robes hugging against her waist and her curly bronze hair curling around her face. Mire stood with a tall stance, regardless of his new height. His armor gleamed proudly on his chest, and his blue cape billowed around him. Last stood Silvarí, biting her lip and she stood with her tall and lean figure. Midnight blue hair was taken by the wind, her armor hung on her form with the most ease, and even she had lost almost all recollection of her former life, she felt grateful to be among fellow comrades that were also propelled with the mysterious challenge of Carvahall. The wineskin was floating amid them, too far from anyone, even an elf that could jump to extraordinary heights, to reach.
At the same time and momentum, all three of their minds met. Force pushed on their mental walls so hard Silvarí was given an instant headache. Then, when she felt her walls slip and a mind enter hers, she concentrated on a poem she had read on a wall somewhere in the castle.
Two bucks bucked,
And the doe lie in green, green grass
One victor was to win her,
Her affection and faith,
Two bucks bucked,
And one tumbled onto the green, green grass, defeated,
Forever alone, but accompanied only by hope itself.
It had to be a poem everyone in his or her lives understood, "The victor may have won, but hope will always reside within defeated soul…"
Over and over, her mind replenished its focus with that very poem, until the walls no longer needed defending. Her tendrils reached out until she felt the presence of Ismira's mind, it quickly drawing upon strength to cast magic in the Ancient Language.
The force erupted from her, and flew to Silvarí and Mirelth. Before she knew it, Silvarí whispered a counterspell that deflected the spell's damage. Mirelth did likewise. Strength now drew upon Mirelth, and then Silvarí found the instinct to deflecting spells helped her gain more confidence. She did not become too arrogant though, and she reminded herself to repeat the poem over and over to keep her concentration steady.
Over and over, Mirelth and Ismira cast spells from the Ancient Language, yet all three of them escaped unscathed throughout the span of ten minutes. All three were tired, and Silvarí had not even uttered a simple word. In truth, she had only done it a couple of times as of now, and really was just relying on strictly instinct. Somehow, she knew that wouldn't keep her in the race for long. So, making sure her walls were stable and that she was paying attention in the battle that was almost residing only over Mirelth and Ismira, she began to think of a word. Thrysta, she remembered from when Ismira had thrust her over a span of ten or so feet in the dungeon. But what does Thrysta actually mean? When thought of and when summoning the proper amount of energy and focus, and finally spoken, it would thrust an enemy however much distance you had energy for. So if she was correct…
Both Mire and Ismira were distracted in a constant mind and magic battle that exhausted them so much, they had completely forgotten Silvarí was in the fight. "I should just release them and walk away… they'd never notice…" she thought, but she pushed the thought away and concentrated only on the Ancient Language and the power it would release and how much energy it would cost her. She only had the small amount Ismira had given her that morning.
When the energy seeped into her mind, and controlled her conscience with the feeling that she had used with only her pure instincts, she cast Thrysta and released the stored energy. Overwhelming amounts of energy cast the two of the warriors from their battle and into far hills of grass some thirty feet away. Silvarí gasped and dropped to the grass. The last thing she remembered was a wineskin hatefully getting thrown at her face…
That night, the group returned to Carvahall, weary from their training. When Silvarí woke up, she found she had won with her cunningness, but that they were so angry at her at the time that they sat down on the ground and had lunch and wine without her. She retorted with a similar point grasping that she had a nap, and that that was the best present she could've received at that moment. Despite their tiring wizard duels, they practice with the blade, and learned some of the Ancient Language. Silvarí also found out that Mirelth was also new to magic, and that the magic her and Ismira were dealing with simple spells that required little energy. Mirelth also said, without Ismira within depth of their conversation, that Ismira was taught magic by a group of witches, sorcerers, and magicians, and if she wanted to kill them with her strength of magic, she could have. That did not warm Silvari's heart.
"Mirelth," she asked as they interred the town for a feast of some kind, "I had a dream. A green Dragon and a dark haired elf were in it. They… were angry at each other, and then, over some reflecting, being one again. Do Dragons and Riders really fight? And… do these being actually exist?"
Mire tilted his head with surprise, "I forget of your little knowledge of our history, Silvarí. The only green Dragon alive is Fírnen, and his Rider, Queen Arya of the Elves. And, as far as I've heard from folk around here, Dragons and Riders do not agree on everything. Many time disagreements would break them apart, but no matter how horrible it may seem, they are bonded, and without each other, are as good as useless."
"You said that your friend, Venian, was a Rider? Is that true?" Silvarí asked, and immediately regretted with the look she got. For a Dwarf, his eyes spoke his real opinions like they did before. Sorrow and grief clouded them, and Silvarí found a much similar result in the confines of his mind. They continued to walk on the old stone road until they noticed many lights among the city. Everyone in Carvahall, or so it seemed, was outside at the feast enjoying music and food and entertainment. They city seemed so full of delight that Silvarí could picture herself growing up here, and not waking up with her memory gone forever.
"Welcome to the Black End Celebration!" a cheery minstrel greeted them, and continued to describe when Silvarí asked.
"Every year on this very day, minstrels and bards from all over Alagaesia visit Carvahall, home of Eragon Shadeslayer, to celebrate and tell tales of the hero himself. Many journey here to listen to the story of the one Rider who defeated Galbatorix and who returned honor to the Dragons! They tell of the mighty and noble Dragon, Saphira, and of her many feats. She is the Mother of the race of the Dragons! And also of brave and beautiful Rider Arya, Queen of the Elves, as you know her, who vanished that terrible Black Dragon of Galbatorix's. -Of course her stunning Emerald Dragon, Fírnen. And then, of Eragon's secret family member and traitor to the Varden, the powerful and malevolent Murtagh and his Ruby Dragon, Thorn! Come, see and listen-"
A figure pushed the cheery man with the bright purple tights out of the way and grabbed Ismira's hand. "We've been looking for you," Roran said, and released a small grin at his daughter. "Don't believe a word those drunk maggot-ridden fools say. They weren't there when any of that happened." Roran immediately examined Silvarí and Mirelth.
"Training is well?" he questioned, and beckoned to their armor and blades. Silvarí nodded with respect, curious if Roran would somehow reveal the real story of Eragon Shadeslayer. Mirelth looked similar.
"We will have a spot uptown by the outer castle wall." Roran grabbed Ismira's hand, and like a train, she grabbed Mire's, and Mire grabbed Silvarí's. They skipped and danced to the hearty music, with the exception of Roran. Silvarí, in truth, loved any kind of melody.
Many were drunk with celebration and beer. To have the wonderful feeling of forgetting all the problems that heaved on her shoulders, Silvarí wanted to join them and never come back. She wanted to be mad and free of her problems. She wanted to feel a burning passion, so hot that it scalded all of her worries. For a moment, her dancing fell still and her mouth grew silent. She wanted to be normal, and most importantly, remember who she was.
When they finally made their way to the outer castle wall, which was finally free of the drunken men and music, Silvarí reminded herself that she had to train for this problem in Carvahall. More so, she needed to find who she really was. Without education of magic, proper training, and other essentials, she could not hope to achieve that. It was time to stand up and face her problems head on.
Roran pulled Ismira to the side and they soon were engaged in a serious conversation. Lines of concentration wrinkled Roran's face. His eyes were angry. Katrina seemed to appear next to him within a few seconds, much to Silvarí's confusion. She did not look well at all. Dark, deep circles surrounded her eyes and a different hollowness was visible in her cheeks. He skin was pale had many red splotches in certain places. What was most surprising was her abnormally large stomach.
Mire gasped, "She has a child. And, she is sick! No wonder Roran's sick with worry. She's caught the curse. Oh, this is terrible!" A line of curses soon followed and Mire began to make his way over to Roran and his daughter.
"Wait! What is this curse? Mirelth!" She soon ran after him.
"I know my challenges Dad! Just let me try!"
"I'm not giving up either. I just want you safe! I protected you from Galbatorix when you weren't even born, and now I must protect you again," Roran fought. His face then stopped its constant strain.
"One more day, Ismira. One more day until you will have to wait. Tomorrow the cart will come and with luck a Rider will be chosen. They and the elf are all that can save us. I'm getting a militia ready for defense against the soldiers. Blast Eragon for leaving me alone with this!"
"Sir, as Second in Command, shall I help rally the troops?" Mire questioned.
Roran shook his head and replied with a rough tone," You need to watch over Ismira and the new Rider. The elf will help too." He beckoned to Silvarí. After he commented on Mirelth's new form and went stand over by Katrina. He held her hand and kissed her soft lips lightly. That's when the ear-piercing screaming came.
Far out from where she stood, Silvarí could hear the loud rang throughout the entire camp.
"He's dead! He's dead! Oh! Somebody help me! Oh, oh!" a woman screamed. Silvarí, Roran, Katrina, Mirelth, and Ismira's eyes met. Within a second, they all started toward the commotion, Roran begging Katrina to stay. She refused and hugged onto his arm as they followed Silvarí through the camp. Silvarí's heart raced. They passed the partygoers who were starting to tell a tale and pretended as if the noise hadn't even been heard. The closer they got to the house, the louder the screaming and crying got.
The house was little and brown, and had two stories along with and outdoor forge. It was one of the nicer houses in Carvahall, but not the nicest. Roran and his wife pushed their way through throngs of weeping women and worry-struck men. Katrina looked shocked as scared but kept calm all the same. Many people were inside the sitting room, but through a couple of doors and into a small bedroom was a man about mid aged that lay still in a soft bed. His skin was pale as Katrina's, but his red splotches were far more noticeable and his face had broken out in terrible scars.
The smith Horst and his wife wept at the bed. The widow, Silvarí guessed, stood by four small teary-eyed children. She had been the one screaming. Scrape marks adorned her face where her fingernails had raked and her sob was louder and more emotional than anyone's. She began to pound on the hard floor, sobbing uncontrollably. A elderly woman in a brown dress strolled in carrying a amulet and some sort of plant. She placed them on the man and said something Silvarí could not hear.
"Horst!" Roran yelled. His head turned to reveal a red face.
"Baldor…. The gods took him only a minute ago." Tears raced down his face. "The disease lasted only a day on him. It kills by suffocating. This must be stopped. Roran, we need help again." He hugged a woman next to him, and she hugged a girl a little older than Ismira around the waist. Both tried to calm the widow down, but without prevail.
"This is terrible! Horst- I-I" Ismira choked and went to Baldor's side. She touched his pale face, and a tear trickled down her cheek. Mirelth went over to comfort her. Roran stood sorrowful. Silvarí knew he wanted to say something, but he was paralyzed. Katrina went to comfort the widow along with Horst's wife.
Roran's eyes bore into Silvarí's for it seemed minutes. She now knew what she had to do, and fast.
She drew her blade, and aimed it at Roran's heavy chest. Everyone flinched but him. "Tell me of this infection, so I must get rid of it before it takes another life. This, I cannot stand any longer." She demanded. It had been a long day, and to end it as such, when everyone should be celebrating, was cruel to Horst's family. Cruel to Carvahall. Silvarí finally felt pledged to help these villagers. It was her duty.
"Come, elf. Horst, I must speak with her. It's time… again. I mourn your loss… we… we shall speak soon."
Roran's eyes met Katrina's, and she nodded. Silvarí lowered her blade and sheathed it. Sorrow filled her, unlike just minutes before, and she followed Roran out of the house. Everyone fell silent until Roran Stronghammer and Silvarí left.