"No, you just claimed to be a honey cake," Mellary corrected, trying to keep her grin off of her face and failing miserably. Eragon scowled at the parchment. "There's a subtle difference in inflection between describing yourself as strong and claiming to be a pastry."
Mellary leaned back in her chair, relaxed. The sound of rustling papers and the feel of the quill between her fingers had chased away her anxiety. She was in her element, completely at ease in familiar territory.
"Inflection is a large part of speaking the ancient language effectively, stressing a certain syllable or adding an accent can alter the meaning of a word or phrase, as you just demonstrated," She continued.
"You speak the ancient language well?" Eragon asked, studying the paper in front of him. The writing adorning it was shaky, ink splotches almost blotting out some words entirely.
"Fluently," Mellary said, in a brisk tone that relayed she was stating a fact, not bragging. Her writing was neat and precise in a flowing way. "Inflection is also important in spell casting. It can be the difference between preforming the spell flawlessly and having it blow off your eyebrows."
"Has that ever happened to you?"
"Once," Mellary said with a grimace. In the far corner of her mind, she heard Embrald's laugh.
She had spent the past few hours switching between writing and flying with her dragon, though the times she spent soaring became longer and more frequent as the hours wore on. Now she felt Embrald plummet, a strong downdraft catching him up and attempting to hurl him into the ground. Embrald folded his expansive wings and dove with the wind. As the treetops reared up he flared his wings and curved up out of the dive in a tight spiral. The downdraft sheered off his scales, unable to find purchase. He burst free and flared his wings wide, slowing.
A raised voice snapped her back to the hut, her heart drumming out an exhilarated rhythm against her ribs.
Oromis had just learned of Eragon's blessing of the child. Mellary had heard the story once before, discussed in murmured voices by midwives who hadn't known that she was in earshot. It was interesting to listen to now.
"There must be ways to remove the blessing, to negate a spell," Eragon suggested hesitantly.
"There are, but it's entirely possible that the spell cannot be removed," Mellary murmured, deep in thought. She reached out, tapping into her magic as she murmured a word so quietly that neither Oromis nor Eragon picked it up. The fire jumped from the candle wick to her hand, hovering on her palm. She looked up to find both Oromis's and Eragon's eyes on her. She shrugged one shoulder.
"I'm not doubting your magical capabilities, although the situation would certainly justify it," Eragon turned red. "But you invited wyrda to come in a play when you blessed her, since it seems to cling to everything you do. Even a team of highly talented elven mages could not turn back Fate once she's laid her claim on someone. Not to mention that Saphira added her touch. You'd almost certainly kill yourself if you tried, and no one except you would be able to touch the spell." She walked the fire over the backs of her fingers like she would a coin.
"You know of this?" Oromis asked.
Mellary shook her head. "I have read of many strange spells, performed a few of them myself, but nothing like this. I suspect it is the dragon magic. It's wild and unpredictable." The fire pirouetted in her palm.
"Even dragon magic must follow rules," Oromis said, leaning forward. It wasn't a contradiction, but a statement of curiosity.
"Magic is fluid," Mellary argued back. The fire reared like a snake, coiling around her hand. It wove itself between her fingers, elongating. "It reacts to what is happening around it. Perhaps Eragon and Saphira's strange spell is a result of their unusual situation."
"If it was as you are suggesting, it would be uncontrollable."
"'Fluid' does not mean chaotic," Mellary disagreed, shaking her head.
"We will assume that magic behaves by the rules that have been laid down for thousands of years." Oromis's voice rang with finality and authority. Mellary frowned, and the flame shrank until it was a mere flicker, clinging to the tip of her finger like a drop of water. "Also, while you are under my tutelage, you will perform no magic unless instructed." Mellary's frown deepened into a scowl. She meet Oromis's dark eyes, which held her steel gaze without giving.
She looked away first, repressing the urge to swear under her breath. Mellary reached out and touched her finger to the wick. The flame jumped from her back to its wax cage, and she let the magic fade. The flame nipped at her finger when she was too slow to withdraw it.
The rest of the afternoon passed in tense silence, Eragon drowning in his guilt and Mellary quietly fuming. It had been a long, long time since someone had question her magical knowledge.
He didn't question you, just put you in your place, Her green dragon chimed in helpfully. You were being argumentative, and he called you out on it.
I don't need an analysis of the situation, Mellary snapped back. Embrald chuckled and rolled over in the air.
We're almost done. Just don't speak for the next few minutes, and we can leave with everyones noses still on their faces.
I don't bite noses off, I rip organs out of bodies, Mellary grumbled, but she turned her full attention to the prose in front of her.
She heard the roar of wind that signaled the dragon's return, and would have been the first one out the door if Oromis hadn't stopped her. Mellary opened her mouth to object, then saw the scrolls in his hands. She accepted them eagerly, glancing through his selections.
"A Study on the Nature of Magic and the Ancient Language," She read off of one. "The Changing Power." She looked up, gratitude stirring in her. These were the caliber of learning that she had been denied before.
"Read them carefully," Oromis instructed. "Will you require a dictionary?"
"I do not believe so," Mellary said, shifting her grip. Oromis ushered her outside. There he handed them tiny, walnut-sized spheres and explained how they worked. Mellary was filled with the sudden desire to take it apart.
Oromis turned to Saphira, rattling off a question. The sapphire dragon looked affronted, Eragon confused as Glaedr's voice rang through his skull as well as hers.
What are the rules three to spotting downdrafts, and the rules five for escaping them?
Memories of flight echoing through her skull, Mellary answered the questions silently. She stumbled on some of the answers, having paid only partial attention to the lesson.
"What is the theme of the Isthial Kalvetí?" Oromis asked Embrald.
The stillness of the winter night, Embrald replied. Mellary had been so entranced by the poem that she had shared snippets with him.
Mellary waited out the admonishment, then climbed up onto Embrald's back eagerly, easily balancing the scrolls in her arms.
Embrald leapt, his wings catching the air on either side and sweeping it behind them.
First day, no casualties. I would call that a success, He quipped.
They banked, settling into an easy flight. Mellary forced herself to wait patiently, though she could feel the thrum on knowledge under her hands like a heartbeat. As soon as Embrald landed she leapt off his back, carrying the scrolls over to the empty desk. She settled down in the chair, unrolling the first. Her eyes began to greedily skim the page.
There's food outside, Embrald pointed out after a few minutes.
Mhm, Mellary said distractedly.
Hot breath rolled over her shoulder, making the edge of the parchment flutter. Distracted, Mellary glanced over her shoulder and into a shining emerald eye. It blinked at her then angled past, to see what she was so interested in.
"Can you read?" Mellary asked curiously. "I know you have access to my mind and I can, but does it…"She paused, searching for the right word.
Translate? Embrald supplied. No. I know what you have read, but I cannot myself read. On what topic is this scroll?
The fluidity of magic, Mellary responded, running a revering finger across the first line of calligraphy. I'll read it to you, if you would like, She suggested.
Embrald nodded. Mellary cleared her mental throat and began to read aloud, the quiet of the chamber filling with unspoken words passing between Rider and dragon.
She didn't get far before Embrald interrupted her.
Arya is at Eragon's door. She wants to give us a tour of the city.
Mellary blinked at him, waiting for her mind shrug off the written words and focus on the spoken ones.
Tell her we're busy, She said absently, dismissing the invitation. The descriptions of strange magics was fascinating to say the least, and she had no intention of putting it down.
Be sociable.
I'll be sociable when I'm not busy.
You were worried that some would notice you know more about the city that you were supposed to, Embrald pointed out. This is a good excuse to 'learn Ellesméra'.
Mellary sighed in defeat, fastidiously marking their place on the scroll. She straightened, checking her braids to make sure they still laid flat over her ears.
She looked at Embrald and sighed again, plaintively.
Yes, you have to.
Very well, She said, hanging her sheathed swords on her belt. Embrald's eyes had a disapproving look that she ignored, smoothing her tunic until the creases were hidden.
Mellary swung up onto Embrald's back and he lunged out into the gathering dusk. They drifted down, settling on the ground just as the trio emerged from the base of Eragon's suite. Arya noted the swords strapped to her waist and nodded once, an acceptance of the fact that she was not going to be the one to talk Mellary out of them.
They started off down the street, the dragons trailing behind. Arya pointed out sights here and there. Mellary's breath caught in her throat when they took a turn down a street she knew very well. She smothered the reaction quickly, but Embrald's concern echoed down their bond. Mellary gave a mental shake of her head, indicating that she didn't want to discuss it.
They passed through a woven root tunnel into a little grove hollowed out from a single tree that arched towards the sky. The air gained a hot, metallic edge that caressed the back of her throat. Mellary swallowed hard, her gaze sliding over to the forge and the elf that stood in front of it.
The cherry light skipped over the wrinkles that livened her face, leaving lines of shadow. Time had marked her as it hadn't any other elf.
Her apparent age did nothing to mar her speed. Inhumanly fast, she pulled a chain link from the fire and threaded it into place with a graceful flick of her wrist. The hammer cracked down with a definitive ring, fixing the tiny link into place.
One down, a thousand more to go. The piece was a third done at best; she would be working on it for the next several days, if she didn't take any breaks. Mellary knew from experience that she probably wouldn't.
You know this elf? Embrald asked, picking up on her stay thought.
She was one of the very few that I would consider a friend, when I lived here, Mellary replied, as Arya greeted the elf politely.
How few? Embrald asked uncertainly.
Mellary didn't answer, her attention intent on Rhunön as the elf turned to them.
"I have brought you the newest Riders, Eragon Shadeslayer and Mellary," Arya said, sidestepping so both were in view, their dragons peeking over their shoulders with interest.
"I heard you were dead," The smith said to Arya, not even sparing them a glance. Mellary's stomach clenched, and she smothered her growing anxiety. Rhunön was one of three beings that had been familiar enough with her that they might recognize her on sight. Arya had already proven that she wouldn't; the other Mellary hoped never to see again in her long life.
Arya smiled, unguarded for once. "When did you last leave you house?"
"You should know," Rhunön snapped. "It was that Midsummer's Feast you forced me to attend."
She never leaves her forge. Arya and I use to have to drag her out, Mellary informed Embrald absently.
Figuratively or literally?
Depended on the day.
"That was three years ago," Arya pointed out, cementing her point.
Rhunön snorted, stirring the embers and causing the light to ripple in that way embers did. "I find company trying," She sniffed. Mellary muffled a sarcastic snort. "A gaggle of meaningless chatter that… why are we speaking in this foul language? I suppose you want me to forge a sword for him?" She jerked her chin an Eragon. Mellary ignored the slight. Eragon was taller and bulkier that she was, and had ventured farther out of the shadows. Although, knowing Rhunön, it was quite possible it was intentional.
"Eragon already has a sword," Arya said, holding out the blade. In the dim red light, it looked as if Zar'rocs sheath was the color of old, dried blood.
A light came to Rhunön's eyes. The loss of her creations had pained her. In her own way, she had mourned for them as a mother would for a child. Now, despite the blood and misery caused by the red sword, she took it with awe and a look of what Mellary would almost describe as happiness.
With an ease that came from centuries of swordcraft, she drew the blade. Light rippled through the supple metal as she explored her creation, relearning it. Blindingly fast she struck, and the two halves of her tongs went spinning off into opposite directions.
"Zar'roc, I remember thee," She breathed. "As perfect as the day you were finished." Her gaze wandered, her face seeming to lose years as she traveled back. "My entire life I spent hammering these swords out of ore. The he came and destroyed them. Centuries of effort obliterated in an instant. So far as I knew, only four examples of my art still existed."
"Six," Arya corrected, as her hand twitched in Mellary's direction. Knowing it was inevitable, she sighed silently, grasped the hilts, and drew the swords across her body. The steel flashed brightly in the light as Mellary spun the blades around to lay along her forearms, pommels towards the smith like an offering.
Rhunön looked at the twinned swords, then at her. Her bright eyes, an icy blue far sharper than any of her swords, cut through Mellary. Her gaze slid across her face and down, coming to rest on the gleaming metal. Cradling Zar'roc like she was never going to give it up, the legend stretched out one hand and lifted the sword from Mellary's right hand.
She looked it over carefully, sighted down the blade, brushed her fingers against the metal, tested the razor edge. Finally she looked back at Mellary. "Artis and Eres. How did you come across these, girl?"
"I bought them at a marketplace," Mellary replied innocently, mixing in a little confusion. "They are yours?"
Rhunön was silent for so long, Mellary wasn't sure she was going to answer. "They survived the destruction, tucked away in a corner. Artis and Eres always had more in them than I intended. They were made for no Rider, so I allowed someone to take them."
Your blades are flawed? Embrald asked, his tone implying a frown.
Not exactly. From what she has told me, which was not much, I believe more magic went into the forging than she intended. The blades can have a….. disquieting feel. Also, even a hundred years ago few enjoyed using twinned blades.
"May I continue to use them? I have become accustomed to wielding them, and they are truly marvelous," She said carefully.
Rhunön handed Artis back to her, appearing to dismiss her. Her attention was back on Zar'roc.
Mellary sheathed the swords, fingers lingering on the hilts. A familiar presence touched her shields as Eragon knocked politely. She opened a thin line without lowering them.
Artis and Eres? He asked uncertainly.
'Strength' and 'endurance', She replied.
This Rhunön seems more interested in Zar'roc, Embrald commented.
I often had the feeling that she was not completely satisfied with these two, where as her other swords were perfect in her eyes.
You're not bitter about this, are you?
If Artis and Eres were any different, I would not have them, Mellary said simply.
Rhunön relinquished Zar'roc slowly, longing in her eyes. As if to distract herself from the sword, she looked past Eragon to the dragons.
"Well met, Skulblaka," She said, and Mellary felt the dragons reply. The smith walked right up to Saphira and authoritatively rapped a knuckle against a scale, studying the liquid ripple. "Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider's sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this blue, even the green, would have made gorgeous blades…" She trailed off, overwhelming sadness tanging the air around her. Rhunön walked back to her forge, looking as if her mind had wandered away.
Mellary though that her waving around a green sword would inspire amusement more than fear. But saying those words, even silently, would detract from the moment in an unacceptable way. She studied the smith's slumped shoulders as the elf stared at the cleaved tongs.
"I have never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don't you just use magic and save yourself the trouble?"
She sighed. Eragon had picked exactly the wrong thing to say to any elven craftsmen. Even more unfortunate, he said it to the one elf in Ellesméra that would not hesitate to bite his nose off for it. She braced herself for the outburst, weathering it with the ease of long practice.
"Now begone! I am weary of this talk," She snapped, dismissing them and turning back to her task. Arya said something softly what Mellary missed, and turned to leave. Eragon cast the smith final look, then followed. Saphira slid through the tunnel after him, her scales rasping dryly against the walls.
Mellary hesitated, letting them move on ahead. Embrald looked at her, his eyes glowing slightly in the dusk. She made a soothing motion, then walked back towards the forge.
Rhunön ignored her completely as Mellary moved around, collecting the two halves of the tongs. She pressed them together. The cut was clean and perfect, without ragged edges of free-hanging splinters of metal. Mellary tapped into her magic, letting the phrase roll off of her tongue. The two halves melded together seamlessly, the cut undone. She gently settled them into place and plucked a polishing cloth from a bowl full of them. Drawing Eres, she began to buff the cloth across the narrow blade.
"You came back," Rhunön said three links later, as Mellary was inspecting the shine on her sword. Her words, spoken in the ancient language, cut through the night.
"I came back," Mellary replied in the same tongue, sliding Eres back into its sheath. She wasn't surprised that the smith had recognized her.
"Couldn't leave off bothering me?" She growled, her nimble hands never pausing in their work. Mellary shrugged. With Rhunön, fewer words were better.
"I'm not making you a sword either," The smith growled.
"Did I ask for one?" Mellary shot back, drawing Artis and running the cloth down its length. "These two have saved my life more times that I care to think about. Why would I cast them aside? Just because they don't match his scales?"
Rhunön didn't reply, and the silence settled back in. When Mellary sheathed her second sword, the elf jerked her chin at a shield lying in the corner.
"If you're not going to leave me alone, make yourself useful." With a small smile, Mellary settled onto the hard packed dirt, the shield in question on her lap. Embrald curled up in the courtyard, his great head coming to rest just inside the circle of firelight.
"Found yourself a dragon egg?"
"I think he found me," Mellary replied. And, just to fill the silence, she told Rhunön about her discovery of the egg.
The elf shook her head when she finished. "Stupid girl," She muttered. Embrald snorted quietly.
"Perhaps," Mellary allowed. "But I'd do it again."
Something in her voice made Rhunön glance at her sideways.
"You changed, girl," She said.
"Changed?" Mellary repeated, startled. The smith shot her an annoyed look.
"If you're going to repeat everything I say, you can just leave," She snapped. "Get out. I've had enough company." She waved the tongs in the direction of the door, the glowing piece of metal clenched in its teeth leaving a bright streak.
Mellary knew Rhunön well enough to know when she actually wanted people out. This was one of those times. Mellary placed the polished shield to one side, bowed, and walked out.
Embrald followed her as they went back up the street. Lanterns dotted the road now, casting circles of gentle light amid the dusk. Most of the craftsmen had packed up for the day with the waning of the sun, and not the trail was deserted.
She's…. Embrald trailed off, not sure how to describe the smith.
Abrasive? Mellary suggested. Jaded? World weary? Eccentric? Extremely talented?
Yes. How did you know her?
Her forge was my refuge for a while, when I was adjusting to living here. Most elves would prefer not to tangle with her, and she didn't seem to mind my presence. She taught me how to put an edge on a blade and have it last for years.
Your swords are her creations?
Mellary nodded. They were never given to a Rider, and had lain unused in her shop. One day I picked them up and… it just felt right. She said no one had wanted them before, so I could take them if I didn't break anything. I may have been swinging them around at the time, which could have influenced her decision.
They walked back to the tree, Embrald flying them up. Mellary slid off of his back and stood for a moment, looking out at the stars.
"Do you think I've changed?" Mellary asked suddenly, concerned. The words rang through the air, though she didn't know why she had spoken them aloud.
You went from an aimless wanderer to a Rider. How could you not? Embrald asked quietly, not feeling the uneasy ripples his words caused.
She unrolled the scroll and went back to her reading, trying to bury her sudden discomfort.