Disclaimer: And still, nothing is mine.
A/N: Well, it's been ages, Brisingr is out, and my story is now officially AU. I don't mind; in my head, it always has been. I've got most of it plotted out, so the chances that I'll use something from Brisingr are virtually non-existent, but then again you never know. The mindful reader may find a few references that made it into this chapter, but it is mostly about places in Alagaësia as well as names of spells; so no real spoilers, either.
I still haven't finished Brisingr, as I promised myself I would do the chapter first, so hopefully I'll find the time to finish it over the course of the next week. What I read so far, however, I liked. Two things stood out; the wonderful, wonderful conversation by the camp fire, and Eragon telling Roran what I wrote in my very first chapter: with whom can he be together, now that he is immortal? Reading it in Brisingr was a very nice surprise.
In other news, I'm working now with a Beta, so praise the wonderful Social Bunny for going over the chapters and answering patiently every last of those strange questions regarding the English Language I came up with. Without her, the quality would be noticeably lesser.
Also, the first two chapters have been edited and reposted; mostly for grammar and spelling, but I changed the timeline a bit; so that now, this chapter is set at day six after they left Farther Dûr, instead of day five. I realised as I recalculated the distance that it would take at least two days to leave the Beor Mountains behind, not just one; and so I added it, but it really changes nothing in the chapter itself, other than that everything now happens one day later.
Well, about this chapter. Originally, it contained much more, but it simply would have become too long. I split it after I realised I would end up with over 20k words, so there is now one additional chapter to the story. It keeps getting longer and longer, and that was part of the reason it took so long to get the chapter out, because I had to adjust things.
If there are some people out there who care to know, when I wrote about Helgrind and its walls, I did it with the Eiger North Face in mind. Not so much because the Eiger (in the Swiss Alps) looks like Helgrind (it really doesn't), but because I needed something to base my descriptions on, and the North Face is one damn impressive wall. Almost 6,000 feet from the base to the peak, more or less vertical rock; it makes you feel really small (I was there once).
Finally, I wrote a little Oneshot called Reflections. It is a companion piece to Flawed Perfection; it describes the scene where Eragon made the Fairth of Arya in Eldest and a bit more from her POV. Give it a try, if you like, it contains a (small) spoiler for the next chapter of FP. I'll stop rambling at once, but just a short thank you to everyone who reviewed. I responded to everyone I could; I love to read your comments, even if it is just a short note. Thanks!
3. Helgrind
Ten-year-old Arya sat on a bench in the hut, below an assortment of smithy tools on the wall, swinging her legs back and forth. The only source of light was the flittering glowing red light of a coal fire and the spraying sparks, as the hammer descended onto the anvil and the white-glowing metal, again and again, with an uncanny speed, filling the air with a constant ringing.
Watchful green eyes followed Rhûnon, as she finished another part of the tool, lifted the still glowing flange with her tongs and placed it besides other parts similar in nature. Only then, she covered the coals with a grated lid, and turned towards Arya.
"Don't you ever get tired of sitting here and watching me work?" she snapped.
Arya grinned at her, unperturbed by the brusqueness of the question, swinging her legs a bit stronger.
"Do you ever get tired of forging, Rhûnon?"
The lines on her old face deepened, as she frowned and glared at Arya.
"Hmpf. But surely you have other things to do. Everyone always has other things to do. Flittering here and there, jumping, smiling and speaking in a long-windedness that is only surpassed by their politeness and refinedness."
Arya smiled at her rant, but Rhûnon noticed it.
"That means you as well! Especially you! No elf in the whole of Du Weldenvarden is as annoyingly persistent as you are. Everyone has the good sense to leave me in peace, but not you. What do you want?"
Arya cocked her head.
"You could tell me another story. About the Riders and their swords and the world … outside."
The last word was whispered.
The frown turned into a furious scowl, as Rhûnon sat down heavily.
"Do I look like a common story-teller to you?"
Arya looked at her, sitting on a stool besides the hearth, her face scribed with lines betraying her age, and she suppressed a giggle, but Rhûnon seemed to know exactly what she had been thinking, which earned her another glare.
"Mind your tongue, child."
Arya tried and failed to look serious.
"What business of yours is what happens without the borders of Du Weldenvarden anyway? I know not of another elf who has as much interest in the world as you do. Islanzadí certainly doesn't. Are you not content here?"
"I love the pines!" she said defensively. Then her eyes started to shine.
"But think, Rhûnon! All the rest of Alagaësia, outside! Another world, completely different! There must be so much to see, to discover."
"Bah! It's full of humans, weak and barbaric, ruled by the most barbaric of them all. Everything that may have been impressive is long since gone. He took care of that. What took a millennium to build, he destroyed in mere years."
Arya sat patiently on the bench and listened.
"But before he came. Long before. When we lived all over the country. What was it like then?"
Rhûnon's eyes clouded over.
"Ah. Before he came, and ruined everything. Well, we did live all over Alagaësia, but you knew that. Not all elves were the same – some lived in the Great Plain, preferring the open space over dusky forests; some even lived in the mountains, carrying on commerce with the dwarves, and tried to gleam their secrets … of course, it took quite the crafty elf to do that. Greedy dwarves were guarding their knowledge jealously.
"Others build cities of stone, grand and a marvel to any passer-by, perfect expressions of aesthetic and harmony. I never found much love in living there for a longer period, though. It was a beauty to behold, by all means, but a dead beauty. Stone is not alive. And so, there were elves, who picked the other extreme, who preferred having no steady home at all, but rather choose to live on the move, today here, tomorrow miles away, no two days the with same sight as they slowly moved throughout all of Alagaësia."
Rhûnon looked at Arya, thoughtfully.
"You may have liked that. Yes, yes, I'm sure you would. You are like him in that way, just like him."
"Who is it you speak of?"
Rhûnon scowled at her.
"Your ancestor, of course. Ithindra"
Arya eyes went wide.
"The last Homeborne? He is no myth? You knew him?"
"A myth! Ha, I wish he was here to hear your words," Rhûnon cackled. "He would first drink more than is healthy, afterwards clobber up everyone who named him thus, and finally, when everyone has apologised, proclaim himself a myth for making them! Hahaha!"
She calmed down after a while and looked at Arya sternly.
"Of course I knew him. How old do you think I am?"
She smiled at Arya's mystified face.
"I am quite old, my dear. I'm a Shipborn. Ithindra was a young elf when I was a mere child, back when we sailed and sailed."
Arya hung on to her every word.
"The sea! What is it like?"
"I thought you wanted to hear about Alagaësia? But very well, the sea. It is wild and vast and free … aye, you may find freedom there, like you would in no other place, bare the sky. Then, it's ever-changing; blue and green, calm one moment, terrifying the next; and always unpredictable. Very much like a wild dragon. A beautiful creature, oh yes, but a terrible force and the ruin of all those who dared trying to rise above it, disrespecting it or challenging it.
"But the greatest threat is not that it may devour your body and limbs. No, it enfetters your heart, forever and ever, with chains stronger than my Brightsteel. Once you see it, and it enchants you; twice you see it, and it binds you; thrice you see it, and it keeps you … it never stops calling."
Rhûnon looked dreamily into a time and distance far beyond Arya's scope; her voice faraway, as though reciting an old memory; a tale, a poem.
"I feel thou, even now; now, when it has been many, many years, since I last laid my eyes upon thy blue, whitecapped waves, and listened to thy choir: standing on the Rocks of Bryggja, the roaring surf below and the lamenting seagulls above …"
There was silence, for a while. Only the hearth sprayed forth a few sparks, while Arya tried to ingrain every word deep into her memory, so she would never forget it.
"It sounds so very beautiful," she whispered finally. "I wish I could see it."
Rhûnon looked at her.
"And somehow, I have a feeling you will."
A sudden movement made Arya look up. Someone was standing in opening of the hut, and she knew the form well.
"Mother!"
She quickly tried to hide her guilty expression; however she knew Mother wasn't fooled.
"Arya."
She sounded so … neutral. Arya knew she was in trouble now. She always was when Mother used that tone.
"May I be so bold as to inquire why Master Gwaën explained to me that you failed to return to him after your meal, and I find you in a smithy instead?"
Arya looked to the ground and said nothing. After a brief pause, Queen Islanzadí turned towards Rhûnon. Rhûnon, however, didn't spare her a single glance; she was only looking at Arya. Amusement shone on her face.
"You ran away from your lessons, child?"
Now Arya looked up and pulled a face at her.
"Because it's so boring," she burst out. "Politics, etiquette, manners, names, dates …I much prefer your stories."
"Why now … is that all you learn?"
Arya glowered at the wall next to her.
"Yes, it is! Because everyone says I'm too young to learn fighting and more magic!"
Islanzadí put her hand on Arya's shoulder.
"Come now, Arya. Master Gwaën has generously enough agreed to continue your lessons, we shall not keep him waiting. You will have to work longer, to make up for the time you spent here. And we do not want to trouble Rhûnon further."
She led Arya towards the bay by her arm and only when they had reached the doorway, Rhûnon looked at her Queen. "Islanzadí."
She didn't wait for her to fully turn around, but continued at once. "You have changed since Evandar's death, and not for the better. You fear to lose her, as well? Pay attention so your actions do not become the cause of the very thing you seek to prevent. There are more ways for that than the one that is obvious. You should know."
Queen Islanzadí had frozen at the name, the cherry-red lips pressed together in a straight line. And even though she concealed it at once, she paled at the words which followed; eyes flashing, before her face was mask-like, as though sculptured from perfect white marble, blank and cold.
"A bird will be a bird. Caging it is a cruel thing to do, the reasons notwithstanding. Remember that, Islanzadí."
It took her seconds of a deathly quiet silence, before she found the words to respond, and even then she only answered in the most formal of tones.
"You always spoke your mind, Rhûnon-elda."
But Rhûnon had long since turned her back on her, picking up her hammer, uninterested in whatever she would have to say in return. And so the clanging filled the smithy once more, swallowing Islanzadí's last words of admission whispered to the empty room before her.
"Changed … we all changed."
The next two days were, in Eragon's opinion, the very best of their journey. This was the first time Saphira and he had flown together for a time that long, when it was them and just them, without having to slow down for others to be able to keep up; and he took a liking to it.
It was the epitome of freedom, he found; to be able to go wherever you liked, with nothing to hold you back, the look firmly turned ahead and never behind. With a dragon as their transport, as opposed to horses or even walking, the miles streaked away beneath them. The weather agreed with them, the sun shining brightly as to smile upon them in good fortune.
And once again, it struck Eragon how little it was you truly needed. Something to eat at day, a mat to fall asleep on at night, watching the twinkling stars above; a sword to fight and clothes to wear. Really, he thought one day, there was not much else you needed. Gold, jewels, money … many a man had so much, yet was so unhappy with that.
Then there was Arya. After their argument, he felt closer to her than ever; not only sure in the knowledge that they could argue and reconcile later, but also with another glimpse into what her life was like. Their close proximity added to that; he saw her in different situations and learned how she acted and thought. Ever so slowly, he began to get to know her, really know her, and he smiled in embarrassment when he remembered his thoughts about her, back when he first met her, and even later, in Ellesméra.
They woke up in the mornings together, then spent the day on Saphira's back, and in the evenings shared tales on a fire. Arya never again spoke about herself, except for one time when they had their now daily sparring matches, and he never asked; even though he had many questions about things he'd seen and things she'd said. But she told him other things, tales every elf knew, like the one of Nuada and the sea.
It was a true joy to spar with her, for him, and as far as he could tell, for her as well. And it was one comment that, even if he didn't show it, left him glowing with praise. After a fight ended on a draw, Arya regarded him for a long time before she said the one thing he now treasured deep inside him: "You are a swordsman of a talent I have rarely seen. Hard practice of nearly two decades made me become as good as I am now; you, however, achieved this in less than two years."
So despite the new, additional threat of the spy on the loose hanging over them like an imminent thundercloud, these two days were two of the happiest in his life; and the spy and the battle at the village were oh-so-easily forgotten, the temptation great to push it all to the back of the mind. With the pure joy of flying, not much else mattered; they were three companions together on a journey throughout the picturesque heart of Alagaësia, without a care in the world, no tyrant, no soldiers, no threats: when the grassy plains stretched on and on, seemingly to the rim of the world and beyond; and they flew and flew, chasing the blue horizon.
Often times, even though they could see for miles, not a single body was in sight; and it seemed like they were the only people alive in the world – their own world, a separate, perfect little world, where the war was far, and it was just the three of them, nothing and no one else; and Eragon didn't want it to end. And somewhere deep within, a wish took form, to one day fly and fly and fly...
When the war is over, we will do just that, he decided. We'll fly all over Alagaësia, visiting all the famous places: Vroengard, where the Riders of old lived, Kuasta, where Brom lived, all the miracles of nature, the wild magic in Aroughs and Eoam, yes, we'll even cross the Hadarac Desert to see what is on its other side!
Saphira was infected by these thoughts as well, and so it fell to Arya to discover what would herald the start of the end of their shared happiness, for a very long time to come.
– * –
Eragon! Look ahead!
They were flying north, now nearing the ancient ruin of Edur Ithindra; having turned from a western direction once they'd passed Melian, but avoiding the town itself by a good three leagues, to lessen the risk of being spotted. After their encounter with the Empire at the village of Rak, they had changed tactics: they were flying at an altitude so high that any casual observer on the ground would mistake Saphira for a bird. The air was quite cold and thin in these regions, but both Eragon and Arya were able to cope reasonably well; better than humans would, and of course Saphira didn't have any problems at all.
Yet even so, as they didn't need anything from Melian, they evaded the city, keeping to the country, where the population was sparse and the villages far and few between.
The view from this high up was a true sight to behold. They were able to see the dark red dot that was Melian far behind them, at one end of the fruitful green hills, as well as Belatona on the other end; nearer, in the west, at the southernmost end of the Leona Lake.
For awhile now, first in front of them, later also to their left, the blue expanse of the lake had been visible, glittering in the sun, with specks of white dotted here and there onto the surface; boats with sails shining in the light. The shore on the far side retreated farther and farther from where the Jiet River poured out of the lake, until it vanished out of sight in the slightly hazy day; on the north-western horizon, where the sky touched the water in a line as perfectly straight as if drawn with a giant's ruler.
Beyond it, Eragon knew, lay the first foothills of the southern Spine, and even if it was far to his former home, as the mountains bearing this name stretched almost across the half of Alagaësia, he felt a faint feeling of melancholy, just knowing it was there; the dark impermeable woods he used to hunt in …
But before them, in the direction into which Arya was pointing, something disrupted the light hilly country, as well as the bright, sunny day. A jagged and twisted rock rose straight out of the earth, and directly above its four peaks, a dark, pitch-black bank of clouds began to gather, looming ahead. And it moved as well, in the most peculiar way, towards them, even though they had been flying comfortably with a warm southerly current from behind.
We have to land Eragon! We cannot even hope to fly above those clouds. It looks like they tower at least another two or three miles high!
As if to underline Saphira's statement, the wind, which had been blowing steadily until now, changed without any warning at all and came in a strong gust from the side. She was hard pressed to counterbalance the sudden crosswind. Her wings caught the gale, tossing her around like a child's toy.
Another gust came from the other side like a physical blow, and Saphira started to tailspin.
Saphira!
She completely folded her wings and nose-dived; using her tail like a rudder in an attempt to break out of the uncontrolled spinning. Eragon screamed at her in her mind, clutching the saddle as strong as possible. The world was blurring in front of his eyes, the wind howling in his ears like a mighty raging beast. He felt Arya's hands on his waist, the ochre earth came closer and closer, there was a hard blow, and everything went dark.
– * –
Groggily, Eragon opened his eyes and saw only dark yellow. He tried to clear his head and recall what had happened, straightening himself; and the yellow turned into dark grey to his right. One moment they were high up in the sky, and now – he was still sitting in the saddle … the saddle was still on Saphira's back … and Saphira was still – Saphira was lying on her left side, like a whale stranded by the tide! The grey was in fact the sky above, as he was hanging sideways on Saphira over the sand. In a rush, the memories came flooding back. The wind – the dive – and –
A sudden pain shot through his left leg, but it wasn't his.
Saphira! What happened?
For a terribly long moment, there was only silence. Eragon searched frantically for her in his mind, but her presence was still there. Then she answered.
We crashed.
Her voice held a humorous undertone.
"That isn't funny, Saphira," Eragon snapped out loud. "You broke your leg."
You'll heal it in no time, Little One, she said soothingly. It could have been much worse. How is Arya?
Awkwardly, Eragon turned his head around, to see Arya moving slowly behind him.
"Arya?"
"I am perfectly fine. Tend to Saphira."
He loosened the straps and promptly fell the last few feet down into the sand, headfirst.
"Ooof."
Ignoring the short, clear laugh, which he surely must've had imagined, Eragon shook his head angrily and spit out a few grains of sand. He moved to help Arya, but she was already crouched on the ground, having gotten off of Saphira without any help and with much more dignity than him.
Mending Saphira's broken leg took some time, but luckily, they had already reached the narrow patch of semi desert following Dras-Leona to the south, which Eragon remembered from his escape with Brom; so the chance of anyone passing by and spotting them was very remote.
As Eragon had noticed when he first opened his eyes, the sun was gone; the clouds had reached them, having crossed the distance between Helgrind and them at a breathtaking speed. And it didn't stop here, they moved further onwards, swallowing the bright daylight completely, leaving only dusky twilight behind.
The wind was still whipping across the land, blowing up the sand which pelted them and made the stay unpleasant. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, interspersed with flashes of lightning. Nobody needed to say out loud what they all knew; that was no ordinary weather.
"Can you walk, Saphira?" Eragon asked finally, when he and Arya had finished some bread in silence. With nothing else to do, they had used the forced break, in which Saphira recovered from the crash she had borne the brunt of, to eat something in the lee of her body.
She rose experimentally, a bit unsteady at first, but she was able to put weight on her healed leg.
It'll be alright.
Eragon looked at her concernedly, but she gave him an encouraging nudge with her snout, and together, the three of them started to walk towards the black centre of the cloud, miles ahead.
They evaded the road, and as the sun peaked from behind the clouds for a last time, just above the horizon to their left, dipping into the endless blue of the lake and inflaming sky and water alike in a deep crimson, they left behind the semi desert. To the east of Dras Leona stretched open heathland, and that was where they were heading; in the day's dying light of the bleeding clouds, ominous and foreboding.
The weather got worse, the further they walked. From ahead of them, they heard the wind howling. Lightning flashed now constantly, and soon, it stated to hail. They plodded on, the hailstones crunching under their boots, and for once, the unnatural bad weather worked in their favour, as everyone had hastened themselves to seek shelter, in their houses or simply huts, and they met not a single person on the Grey Heath or Mírnathor, as the elves called it.
The sun had settled completely, leaving behind a pitch black, starless night, as they reached the base of Helgrind, staring at the imposing rock. It was illuminated by flashes of lightning that bathed everything in a sharp, glaring light for the blink of an eye, only to plummet everything into perfect darkness moments later; leaving behind dancing afterimages in the mind once the light faded and the cycle started anew a second later.
Helgrind stretched for more than a mile upwards, raising abruptly out of the plain, to finally lose itself in the thick clouds that loomed overhead. It was simply there, for no visible reason, in midst of flat land all around; as though something had placed it there. The very nature seemed to object its presence; the wind howling and moaning around the mountain and in holes in the peaks. This was the sound they had heard from afar, so mighty were the raging elements.
But in the end it was futile, a senseless rage. The rock was as strong as it had been for millennia, bare and black of colour. But it was more than that, Eragon thought; he could see even in this darkest of nights, and he could see Arya next to him, and Saphira behind him, however, whenever he tried to look more closely at the mountain, it seemed to flee his eyes. It simply was … black. There was no other word for it, and that was all it was.
This stone –
Arya nodded.
Yes. I see it as well.
They had switched back to talking with their minds, so as to not be forced to compete with the wind in volume. He stretched his mind, in an attempt to feel what was inside, the Ra'zac, perhaps, or even Katrina, for he was still not completely certain that she was here – it was just a guess, albeit a reasonable one – but just a few feet in front of him he encountered nothingness. It was a starless hole in the universe, a tear in reality, dark, empty and cold – he was teetering on the edge, falling inside – cold, so cold … falling, deep, deep, deep …
And suddenly there was warmth in midst of endless night, burning brightly, a blazing light – Eragon!
With it came a melody, from all around; wild and of an overwhelming intensity, but at the same time, wonderful and sweet – and he knew, if the fire's flame could have been heard, it would have sounded like this. The nothingness fled it; he moved towards it – it seemed so beautiful, silver and clear – he felt himself being pulled back –
"Eragon!"
He opened his eyes, staring into the flame, a clear, bright – silver? He blinked. No, not silver, it was green. Where did the thought about silver came from? It was a clear green, as clear as – Arya's eyes? Feeling the light touch of hands on both of his cheeks, he noted that his head was resting on something soft, and he suppressed a blush, glad that it was night.
"What –?"
He switched back to speaking through his mind, feeling Arya's consciousness already directly next to his, as the wind ripped the words from his lips as soon as they left them.
What happened?
Before she could answer, however, the shadowy silhouette of Saphira's snout appeared in the darkness over his head, and she snapped out: Don't ever do that again! You were here but not – it felt like half of me was missing. Never leave me like that again!
Eragon could feel her fear; it was a primal, most basic fear, and he knew it well. It was the fear of being separated, of being all alone when there should be two; a fear that left you mad in desperation and panic, clawing at yourself just to get rid of –
He grimaced and tore himself away from his thoughts. They were not his, they were Saphira's. She had pushed it over the bond they shared. And that meant it was but a pale shadow of what she really had felt.
He pushed himself out of Arya's lap as fast as he could, hugging Saphira's warm neck.
I'm so, so, sorry Saphira! I have no idea what happened, but I'm here. I'm here.
He felt her tongue on his cheek, wet and rough, and her voice in his mind still with an underlying tremor, suddenly sounding very small; reminding him that despite how old and wise she always appeared, she still was not six months old, and furthermore, that without and apart from him, she still was very much alone.
What happened was us being separated, completely. One moment you stood here, and the next you were still here but gone – gone …
He sent her reassuring feelings, trying to convey all the love he felt for her, and felt her gratitude in return … I won't leave you, Saphira.
… and you were falling backwards. Arya caught you. Where did you go?
Eragon tried to make sense of it all.
It has to be Helgrind, he said to both of them. I was trying to find Katrina or the Ra'zac inside with my mind, but all there was was – nothingness. What did you do, Arya?
There was the tiniest pause. Nothing of importance. I led you back. And despite her speaking in the Ancient Language, as they had done on their entire journey, he felt that her short answer was not true; but he refrained from asking, still haunted by the sound of a beautiful argentine flame.
Eragon walked over to the rock in front of him, tentatively stuck out his hand to touch the stone, and shuddered. It felt cold, but somehow, not cold beneath his fingertips, but cold inside him. The same coldness he'd felt only moments before. As soon as he realised this, he recoiled as if stung.
What is it?
It was too dark to see any details, so he took a bit of his magic.
"Brisingr hvítr."
A pale, white werelight popped into existence next to him, illuming an area a few feet wide, of yellow dried grass, heath and moss; but wherever the light touched the base of Helgrind, it was as if it simply wasn't there, as if the black rock sucked it away, deep into the mountain.
In Eragon's magical light, Arya was regarding it closely, but doing so without looking at it directly.
It is – different. We should have a look around.
Arya, Eragon and Saphira set off along Helgrind's base, the werelight trailing behind, but to him, one place was like the one before and the one after.
While inspecting a part that was just as black, Arya asked: Do you know something about it, Eragon? My knowledge extends not much further than it being there. Unlike as for you, it never held much interest for me. However, if we are to venture inside of it, we need to know as much as we can.
He shook his head, watching Arya move back and forth and raising her hand. "Naina."
A soft light bathed the rock in a clearer light.
Not much beyond what Saphira and I discovered with Brom – most likely, the entrance to the Ra'zac's hiding place is located near the top, as they fly there on their mounts to reach it.
Nothing about Helgrind itself?
Only a name: The Dark Gates. Brom used it, and I found it in several of Oromis' scrolls. I meant to look further into it, but our hasty departure for Surda prevented that.
I don't know anything useful, either, said Saphira to both of them. Maybe we should wait until the clouds have dissipated. I cannot fly you up there at the moment. The up winds are too heavy. It's too dangerous for me; in fact, it is too dangerous for anyone to stay up there.
Eragon craned his neck, and stared up into the black sky, where the dark clouds were rolling and churning, lightning flashing in-between and down to the rock, running alongside of it and over its sharp ridges.
I'm not sure they will do so in the near future, Saphira, he said. They aren't natural. Do you not think it suspicious that the greatest weakness of the Ra'zac is sunlight, and as soon as we arrive, the thickest clouds I have ever seen remedy exactly that? It was already dark, long before dusk.
And thinking of Katrina, he added: And dangerous or not, we have no choice, because there is no time. All we can do is to prepare ourselves to the best of our abilities for what we know is to come.
Well, then, how do you propose to get up there, if I am not to carry you? It is a vertical wall.
We could use magic to levitate us up, Eragon pondered.
It would be a taxing endeavour, and would leave us open to the thunderstorm, for we would have to solely concentrate on not crashing, objected Arya, now finished with whatever she had done, and her light vanished. We can climb up just as easily, thus save our strength for any fights or prevent us from being struck by lightning. Do you not see the way up?
Frowning, Eragon studied the rock from the corner of his eye as Arya had done. This time, the rock didn't shy away from his look. Where he before his transformation would have seen nothing but bare black, straight stone, there now, just like with Orik's puzzle, suddenly emerged a pattern out of the darkness, a possible way up; cracks to place the feet, nooks to grip with hands, almost too regularly to be just random freaks of nature.
You are right, Arya. It would be quite challenging, of course, and not without risk.
Arya didn't reply. He looked at her and caught her eye, noticing a strange glimmer deep within he knew only too well from himself.
The ghost of a smile stole itself over his face, as she looked back at him, both understanding each other perfectly.
Wait! Eragon, what is that I feel from you? I – wait, wait, wait. No. You can't possibly want to … even you are smarter than … You want to indeed.
Saphira had followed his train of thoughts, leaving her jaw hanging open in a comical expression.
Both of you! It is darkest night, storm, tempest, and you want to climb on a mountain? Didn't you just estimate it to be higher than one mile, Eragon? And Arya, what did you just say about the lightning bolts up there, those you now want to climb through? Did the gale blow what little brain you have out of your skulls?
Don't be such a spoilsport, Saphira, Eragon said cheerily. We can always use magic to shield us against the wind and the lightning.
We have no time to lose, Saphira Bjartskular. Neither for the woman, nor for Eragon. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be discovered. And after the clouds took away the option to fight in sunlight, this night's as good a time as any.
I declare you both officially mad. Don't come calling me when you get stuck. Do you not remember what happened the last time you tried to climb up a rock face, Eragon? Really, what is it with two-legged creatures and the need to climb on mountains, when magic would do perfectly well?
Eragon didn't even blink when she mentioned his attempt in Teirm. Did you never hear the reason to climb on a mountain, Saphira?
Which would be? she asked warily.
Why, because it's there!
He laughed loudly over the wind, and started to prepare their ascent. Everything that was not essential would be left behind. Remembering how he had felt when he had touched the bare stone, Eragon put on the gloves Brom had once bought him. It seemed so long ago … Shaking off the memories, he turned to Arya, who was weaving a final ward around her.
Does it feel strange to you, when you touch it?
She extended her hand, placing the palm on the rock.
It is … cold. But not much more than … usual. I will manage.
He shot her an enquiring look, but took her word for it. Saphira was still shaking her head, as he walked over to the base of the entry chimney. At last, the climbing would begin.
Be careful, Eragon. And you as well, Arya.
He looked at her fondly. I will.
Then, he closed her mind to her; not wanting to risk any distractions, as unintentional as they might have been. He needed to concentrate solely on their ascent, and for once, Saphira couldn't help him.
Eragon led off up it front. The ball of light over his shoulder showed a chimney that was nearly vertical. His legs were spread apart, each foot placed against either side of the walls around him. His hands gripped the rock methodically, pulling him up, then dragging his legs up as well, to get a safe stance, and start again with his hands. Arya followed him in a similar way, and slowly, the ground fell behind.
At the exit of the chimney, a slope began, and both moved together in silence. The wind howling around and tearing at them as well as the constant flashing of lightning had long since become a constant companion; to a point where neither perceived it consciously anymore. All had given way to a deep, focused state of concentration, regular breathing, the strong beats of the heart, arm – legs – arm – legs …
They climbed up the slope for almost an hour; it was not very challenging, with many foot- and handholds, but after a while, both noticed the angle steepening and the difficulties gradually mounting, and then, as the first crack awaited Eragon and Arya, the climbing intensified.
Eragon paused for a moment, leant against the rock face, trying to follow the path they were taking further up ahead, but it vanished in smooth blackness just a few feet above; Helgrind didn't part with the knowledge about the way freely.
Sideways.
Eragon turned his head; looking at Arya, who was leaning against the rock as well, gesturing to her left. Eragon nodded, inadvertently getting a glimpse downwards. He could only just make out the shapeless silhouette of Saphira moving on the ground at the base of the mountain, not much bigger than a tiny bug, a dark spot in a darker night. The darkness prevented him from seeing much further; where Dras-Leona should have been, as well as the lake, was only black night, almost as black as Helgrind. Indeed, it seemed that the darkness was oozing from the stone, bleeding out into the night; it wasn't natural, just like the clouds, and Eragon grew a bit concerned about something that could shroud his sharp elfin eyes.
It was like staring at black cloth. He hadn't felt like this since his times in the Spine. Eragon forcefully tore his gaze away from the blindness and his eyes moved once again up, to the clouds, that had gotten substantially nearer. It would be worse in there.
He followed Arya, who had started move delicately sideways. Suddenly, the edge he had placed his left foot on crumbled, and his foot slipped, hanging freely in the air; almost a thousand feet above the ground. He nearly lost his balance, but clung to his handholds at the last moment. He tightened his grip and tried to find another protrusion.
The lose stones clattered into the deep.
Eragon?
I've got it in hand.
He rested this foot on another patch of rock, and took a few calming breaths, before he moved further across the rock face.
After some time, their progress came to a sudden halt on a pitch directly below the crack. Both were confronted with a vertical wall over eight feet high, which ended on a terrace. Eragon nudged the werelight higher up, but the wall was completely smooth. He stretched, extending his right hand; and was barely able to grip the edge with his fingertips.
Arya's arms were just a nuance shorter than his, but that was enough. He didn't waste any time debating.
I will go first, then I'll pull you up.
He pulled himself up, using his arms, then tried swinging his leg over the edge, while not losing hold with his hands. For a precarious moment, his weight balanced directly on the edge, between empty air behind him and firm rock in front. But he managed to throw his upper body forward, and landed on the terrace.
Lying prone on the surface, he looked down to Arya, extending his arm to pull her up. She was looking up at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met; stretching time in a strange way, while he felt her intense gaze weighing on him, searching, questioning. If she was looking for something, he couldn't tell. But then, Arya slowly raised her arm and took hold of his hand. He felt her fingers, cool to the touch, closing securely around his wrist and did the same; lifting her off the rock she had stood on, and soon she gripped the edge with her other hand and pulled herself up under her own strength.
Shortly after, both were sitting on the terrace, taking a small break. Arya nodded briefly at him and he accepted her thanks silently. The place was overhung by a short wall, so it was sheltered from the wind, and for once allowed them to speak out loud.
"How high?"
"More than a thousand feet."
Both were staring into the black night.
"And it's taken us over an hour." At that rate, more than five hours lay still ahead of them.
– * –
After a few more moments, they both rose; and walked out from under the wall, over to the base of the crack. It was quite obviously the way to go; on either side the rock was smooth and black once more, with no chance at all to climb up there.
Climbing through the crack was the most trying task Eragon and Arya had yet encountered, but he relished the challenge. His hands were locating side pulls, his eyes always searching for the next hold and the next step. This was it, he felt; this was climbing at its greatest, mind and body in a perfect symbiosis, moves executed under complete control, because Helgrind demanded no less. It was a direct fight where his life was in his hands alone, his skill and his strength pitted against the black mountain.
This time Arya led on, she was directly above him, her hands gripping rock just as firmly; and he was sure that she felt the same thing. She led them through the crack and over to easier ground at its end. While moving again in a steep traverse over the rock face, the sight became noticeably worse.
They had reached the cloud base.
The thunder seemed to roll around the mountain, feeling almost like a sizeable entity, some kind of wicked beast. And then, the lightning struck. Eragon felt the loss of energy clearly as it impacted again and again at his ward, realising with a jolt that indeed any attempt to fly through it would have resulted in a fall; not because the lightning was dangerous in itself for them, but because it broke their concentration. It was hard enough here, but he remembered the one time he had lifted himself up to the Stone of Broken Eggs, and how it had commanded his complete and unwavering attention.
All around them was now the thick fog of the cloud, preventing them to see much of anything; they were climbing through it, in an endless ramp, for hours; or so it seemed. There was no guessing how far they had come; after the ramp, there was another wall, and after that another traverse … and still, it seemed like they were following a way up.
The lightning struck with more fury than ever, as though enraged that it could do them no harm, and the sight didn't extend any further than to Arya next to him as they traversed over to the bottom of the next pitch. Around them, the rock grew more and more jagged; Eragon hoped it meant that they were finally reaching the upper half of Helgrind. The route wasn't getting any easier, at least; it was twisting and winding, moving sideways as much as up; and more than once they had to climb back down, because it lead into a dead end previously unseen through the thick fog of the clouds.
And once more a vertical wall towered in front of them, overhanging at the end. Eragon stared at it, whishing it would go away, but knowing it wouldn't; this was the way. Every other route had ended in nothingness. But after hours of climbing in storm and bad weather, he'd begun to feel the strain it put upon him. Even he became eventually tired, when additional energy was constantly sapped away by the spells woven around him for his protection, and now yet another wall … the lightning ran over its sharp edges, little blue flames that danced a beautiful but deathly dance, daring him to watch it instead of his hands, trying to distract him from his path.
It was his turn to lead, but he didn't particularly want to. On the narrow ledge next to him, Arya turned her head, questioningly. Eragon was reluctant to admit his tiredness in front of her, but quashed these feelings immediately. She had put her trust in him, and he was more likely to make a mistake when trying to find the way up than she was.
Can you lead up? he asked her.
Arya nodded slowly, and began to climb. Their ascent had slowed down immensely, because Arya had to search the small holds that were becoming more and more sparse. Eragon awkwardly clawed on them; the holds, although firm, were round, smooth and wet from the clouds, and his hands always threatened to slide off them.
His feet stuck in a crack, he watched the overhanging rock just above his head. His calve muscles were aching, but he pushed on. Arya was hanging from the rock that arched up with her back down, climbing around it; and he started on the difficulty as well. After only one more pull, his legs started shaking uncontrollably from the strain. He lost hold, and swung away from the wall, his body following the gravity that pulled at it; just hanging on the bulge of rock with his hands, which suddenly bore all of his weight.
The pain exploded in his shoulders, and he felt his hold slip away. Desperately, he tried to reinforce it with magic, still swinging back and forth; and it seemed to work, although in a strange way, the rock seemed to greedily suck up the magic he infused it with. Using it like a kind of glue, he was able to move hand over hand along the underside of the rock, until it finally turned vertical once again. Arya's hand was already waiting. Drawing on his last reserves, he threw his arm up and caught her hand, letting himself be pulled up to the plate above, relived and tired.
Arya noted his state at once when he didn't rise from the ground which was luckily low-angled.
Will you be able to continue?
Eragon bit his lip, his cramped legs shaking.
After some rest. Maybe.
But he knew that it was more likely than not that this was the end.
If only I …
What?
I used to always have Faelnirv with me, but…
Eragon's head jerked up.
How could I forget that? Oromis gave me some, right before we left Ellesméra! I put the flask on the belt at one time.
His fingers fumbled at the belt, trying in vain to dislodge the silver flask from it, until Arya came to his help. Thankful, he offered her the first sip, before taking one himself. It was as if an explosion of energy was racing through his body. He gasped at the feel of cold fire inside of him, suddenly feeling rested and sated at the same time; his fatigue vanished and his thoughts perfectly clear.
Suddenly, the final part seemed easy. They climbed through another crack, and then, the rock seemed to bottom out. As Eragon realised what was happening, he couldn't suppress a loud laugh. Perhaps the Faelnirv added to it, but he felt as though there was a fire within him, burning strongly and brightly.
Those had been the exit cracks! They had conquered the route, conquered the mountain, for they were now on its top. Eragon straightened himself, handholds no longer needed, because the surface was flat where he stood. He threw his arms to the invisible night sky over him, in a wordless challenge.
Helgrind hadn't made it easy by any means, yet they had prevailed, overcome every obstacle it threw their way. It was an elating feeling. He felt alive like never before; after all the exertions, here was the reward.
We did it, Arya!
She was standing next to him, with the hint of a smile on her face, saying nothing, just watching; again with that strange glimmer in her eyes.
After a while, she moved.
I thank you for the chance of this experience, Eragon.
And somehow, without really knowing why, he was sure that her voice in his head held more emotions than it had in a long time, in spite or perhaps because of the over-formality. The pale werelight showed a way; together they walked between the bizarre-looking columns, the twisted and jagged peaks that rose from the ground like an execrated, petrified forest. The wind swept across the top and between the stony trees with even more ferocity than over the rock face on their way up, but the magic both had wrought at least prevented them from being carried away; even if it made walking against the storm not any easier.
We should split up. It will halve the time.
Will you be able to find back here, Eragon?
Aye. It is not much different from when I used to hunt in the spine.
She didn't say anything further; instead turned right and vanished between two pillars that formed an archway in the mist. Eragon stood there, lost in thought, eyes watching the arch which just swallowed her, before he shook his head and walked straight on.
The mist was rolling around the peak; unveiling more stone sculptures: horrible grimaces, creatures breed in nightmares, figments that came to life here in the fog when it stretched its long wet fingers after him.
Another waft of mist parted suddenly. Out of nowhere appeared the petrified form of a huge, demonesque beast with three horned heads, directly in front of him; jaws opened wide in silent snarls, stony eyes glaring balefully … Eragon pushed away the thoughts, concentrating on his task. Three columns of obscenely twisted rock, nothing else. And yet …
He quickly walked past it, deeper into the forest of stone. With each step, the forms of stone grew wilder and moved closer together. Eragon had a hard time slipping past them. Arches and branches, roots and wines, twisting, winding, embracing; clawing deeply into the ground, twining strongly around a neighbour, all made of the black stone of Helgrind. It was like a web of stone surrounding him, and then, he stood in a spinney like a cage, with no possible way further onwards.
He dispelled the light and reached for the magic within, shaping it with his will to a completely different form than before when he called it forth.
"Jierda!"
His hands pointed at the stony webbing in front of him, a crooked black grid. Blue light raced across the entwined bars, meeting and separating again at intersections and finally diffusing on the uneven ground.
Eragon stared in shock at the pristine rock. It should have shattered into every direction, forcing him shield himself against the flying splinters of razor sharp stone, and yet it stood there like he was a novice of magic trying to ground the entirety of Helgrind into dust.
A second try changed nothing. The magic used against it seemingly simply ran over the surface of the rock and into the ground. He concentrated even more, and chose more specific words.
"Stenr jierda!"
The black rock stood as strong as ever, but after a second, it started to glow blue from the inside. It almost turned translucent, like a church's stained glass; and for the blink of an eyes, he was able to see though it and into the empty space beyond.
Then it returned to its black, solid initial form; doing nothing but mocking him with a short glimpse into where he wanted to proceed.
Eragon ground his teeth in frustration, while pondering just what Helgrind was. No matter in Alagaësia was resistant to magic. The very thought was preposterous. A bit of magic was in everything – so something that – that deflected magic simply was impossible.
But he pushed these thoughts away; there would be a time to ponder those questions; this, however, was not it. He was sure, Oromis knew about it – Helgrind had been here for millennia, after all. The more urgent question was how to proceed.
He stared at the stones that barred his way, then at his hand. A few muttered words put a shield around his fist, before he lunged back and struck the stone with all his might. The twines shattered under the impact like brittle glass, with a ringing sound.
Eragon grimaced as a throbbing pain raced through his hand, carefully probing with his left hand the various bones, but it seemed like the shield had at least prevented anything from getting broken. He stepped through the opening, hissing as an edge sharp as a knife cut his skin. It wasn't deep, however, and he didn't pay it any more mind.
On the other side, there was a perfectly circular place; a clearing in the middle of the thicket of curved stone. The ground sloped gently downwards; Eragon was standing on the rim of a round hollow. And in the exact middle, looking strangely out of place in midst of all the jet-black stone, was a blue … flower?
Eragon blinked.
No mistake was possible. The chalice shone in a bright blue light in an otherwise dark place, blue as the sky on a warm summer's day, the leaves were green and thick and round, and he could even smell it. It was a single flower with a single blossom, and Eragon tried and failed to remember ever seeing a thing that was this out of place.
He walked down the depression, half expecting it to vanish into thin air with each step, to be nothing more than the mere figment of a mind taxed beyond its limits, but it stayed exactly where it was. Reaching it, Eragon lowered himself onto his knees. He extended his fingers, slowly; touching the stem of the solitary flower, feeling the life flow through it in small capillaries and fibres.
But how was that possible? How could it live here, where there was no other life; and for good reason as well, because Helgrind had seemed to him like the antithesis of any and every life, different and black?
Eragon had no answers to those questions. And somewhere within a strange urge grabbed him, to pick up this unlikely flower and explore its secrets further. It seemed too precious to dwell in these stony wastelands … and yet it seemed equally too precious to simply rip it out.
Eragon … scout …
Eragon frowned. Was that Arya? He could barely understand her. Rising, he asked: Arya?
Yes! Eragon, has your mind-speak forsaken you? I tried to get you to listen for almost a minute now, yet there was naught but silence! I discovered a lead.
My apologies, Arya. I discovered something as well – a small, blue flower –
What? This is hardly the time to speak of flowers, Eragon! Meet me where the arch stands and hurry yourself. I –
Her voice fell silent once again. Frowning, he tried to comprehend what was happening, when a sudden thought struck him and made him groan in embarrassment. If he had problems understanding her, weren't chances it would be the same for her in return? Just what had she heard when he spoke about the flower?
He turned to leave, yet the blue flower was calling to him stronger then ever. With a muttered oath, he knelt back down, reviewing what Oromis had thought him about these kind of spells; spells woven into music: the singing to plants.
His voice filled the hollow, ebbing up and down; his hands tracing the flower, stem, leaf, bloom. After only a few seconds, the melody seemed to follow a constant pulse, like a heartbeat, and the flower started to shine even more, pulsing with the music. And then, suddenly, a single petal started to fall, slowly; and he caught it in his hand gently, somehow feeling that he had just received a true treasure, a rare treasure; something so precious that is was worth more than all the gold in the world.
The song faded away and he rose; securely storing the blue petal in a pocket for whenever he would need it again. And wasn't it still beating?
He pushed the thoughts about the flower to the back of his mind, for now; climbing hurriedly up the incline to the fringe of the forest of stone. Where was the hole he'd created? The light called forth showed hardly more than he was able to see without its aid. Searching, his eyes moved over black and black – there! He stopped, frowning slightly. He could have sworn that the hole in the stone creeps had been larger … but there was no other hole. It had to be this.
Suspiciously, he watched the glassy black stone; tendrils of all thickness, from a spider's thread to a strong man's leg. Could it be … growing?
A shiver went down his spine as he imagined it sneaking out, twining around his legs, arms, torso; rendering him unable to move, to escape, keeping him in this place for all eternity; around his neck, cutting off his air … hastily, he started to climb through the black tunnel. Had it been this long when he crossed it in the other direction? It stretched and stretched … He flinched when the smooth stone brushed back his sleeve and touched bare skin. Cold, so cold, in endless night … but then something in pocket started to beat, reassuringly, strongly. There was still life here, he was not lost.
He emerged on the other side unharmed, taking a deep breath, before he started to run down the way he had come; almost welcoming the fog of the clouds that returned once the stony trees became more sparse and thin. He had no desire to return to that place for a long time; that, at least, he was certain of.
Unfazed by the storm that tore at her and whipped over the top of Helgrind where there was no shelter, Arya was already waiting at the arch, so unmoving that she could have been part of it. Yet even with seeing not much more than her outline in the dark, Eragon could tell from her posture that she was impatient and on the edge; and he didn't blame her. This place made one so. She looked at him as he emerged from the mist, but didn't relax her stance.
When he'd joined her at the arch, she asked: "What kept you? Has something gone amiss?"
Eragon frowned. The howling wind had abated for a spell of time, pausing as if to catch breath.
"Did you ever get the feeling that this place is not … right? That it should not be here, and furthermore, that it does not like our presence? As if it was alive, somehow, even though it is the antithesis of all life …"
Arya looked at him unblinkingly, but said nothing.
He shook his head after a while.
"No matter. My mind is playing tricks on me."
Straightening himself, he answered her original question.
"I went deeper into heart of this forest of stone pillars. I found a single blue flower, in the exact centre of a depression, and it took me a while to get back. That was all."
He was almost sure he could feel the petal in his pocket.
"So that was your meaning. I wondered what you tried to convey with your words."
She was looking at him sternly. Eragon grinned sheepishly.
"What did you hear?"
Arya shook her head and her lips quirked an almost-grin.
"It is of no consequence. As it seems, Helgrind does not react well to magic."
She started to walk through the arch. Eragon followed her lead, a twisting path between the rocks that soon turned into a hollow-way.
"I noticed. The stone seems to absorb it, even though that should be impossible."
"Which was a great aid in my discovery."
Noticing his questioning gaze, she added: "The rock absorbs it. The air does not. It stands out. Here."
She stopped and held her hand about three feet high in midair. The walls on either side had grown to towering heights. It felt to Eragon as though they were walking through a great chasm in one of the peaks of Helgrind, which they probably were, he realised. It almost looked like an axe had cleaved the peak asunder.
"Can you feel it?"
Slowly, Eragon moved his hand through the air, not really knowing what to expect. A finger's length away from her own, there was … something. A faint prickling, perhaps. He tried to concentrate more, but the trace was very faint.
"It feels … strangely familiar. Like something I know or knew, but not quite. Different, but the same. I cannot believe you discovered it, though. I would have missed it for sure – it is barely there!"
For a short moment, Arya looked almost pleased.
"An apt description, Eragon. It is indeed of the same quality, yet from a different source – different than any one you could have known. What you feel is how the green Dragon-Egg feels like."
He jerked his hand back, staring at her, eyes wide.
"Are you certain?"
"I carried a Dragon-Egg for twenty years. Its magic is unmistakeable, and like all things magic, it leaves a residue, wherever it goes. So since the green egg is the only one left, it having been here is an adequate guess."
"Yes, Oromis spoke about that."
Distracted, he moved his hand back through the air in a steady motion, sensing the faint prickling for barely a heartbeat, before it was gone again. If he hadn't known what he was looking for, he would have dismissed it as the cold air's touch on his skin.
"Still, I can't believe you did not miss it."
"A Dragon-Egg is a powerful entity in its own right, as you know. And those who are sensitive to the nature and its forces can feel it easily. You have not lived a life as long as I do; a childhood surrounded, even pervaded, by magic in Ellesméra, so it does not come as natural to you."
Eragon remained silent at that, but his thoughts were troubled. Incidents like these made him realise how much he still had to learn. It wasn't a nice feeling.
And while he moved his hand back and forth, trying to the ingrain feeling in his memory, so that he would recognise it whenever he met it from here, he resolved for himself to do better and pay even more attention to Oromis, and whoever else could teach him.
"You could follow it?" he inquired.
"Yes."
Arya led him further along the path. It turned progressively more narrow, as the walls on the sides started to close in; twisting and winding. Soon after, the cleft was barely more than two feet wide. Arya and Eragon had to bend in various directions, following the path the stone dictated; nimbly dodging sudden bulges of rock that almost completely closed the gap, going as far as moving sideways for there was no other way to possibly pass through.
After a sudden turn, he could see the black clouds again like a grey slit between the black walls. However, the path had all but vanished. Eragon and Arya were crawling underneath a rock.
"If the walls are closing in any further, I have doubts that we will reach the end. We'll get stuck here!"
Eragon's voice was muffled as he was speaking against the rock, but at least the ever-blowing wind had been all but absent here.
"It will get better after this constriction."
True to Arya's word, the path became broad enough to walk comfortably next to each other again, but Arya slowed down.
"Carefully."
They reached the end of the split, and when Eragon wanted to take another step, he saw what Arya had meant.
There wasn't another step to take.
The ground fell away sharply into the night, directly in front of him, thousands of feet in a vertical drop. They were standing on a narrow ledge that ran alongside the mountain to their left for a few paces, until it vanished as well, in the smooth, glassy black stone that was surface of Helgrind.
He stuck his head out and felt the wind like a physical blow.
"So what now?"
"It leads over the sill."
Without another word, Eragon started to walked out on the ledge, sideways; providing a target as small as possible for the wind.
Soon, they reached the end. Clawing at the wall, Eragon turned his head towards Arya, questioning.
It leads further to our right.
Eragon turned his head into the opposite direction.
But there is nothing there! Haven't you been here before?
To his right, the wall curved outwards, effectively swallowing the last of the small landing they were placing their feet on. His eyes searched the rock face, tracking the ledge and trying to extrapolate it in his mind, wondering where it could end up, when he suddenly noticed something.
Interestingly enough, he noticed it because it was not as black as the rest of Helgrind.
It looks like we have to jump, then. A bit above us, in the wall, maybe six feet away.
Arya followed his gaze.
I never stepped out of the split. But you may very well be right, by all means; it looks like a cave opening to me.
Eragon nodded, starting to concentrate. There was no place to take a run up, and he had but one try. The abyss in-between was unforgiving with even the smallest slip or miss-step.
And then he jumped.
A/N: Oh no! Is Eragon hanging from a cliff? Cross your fingers that I'm able to write fast, so that we can see whether he'll fall down or not! Meanwhile I'd love to hear what you think, reviews are always appreciated :) You can even rant about me ending the chapter in the worst place possible – or maybe it wasn't that bad …?
Chapter progress as always in my profile; the next one is titled Choices.
Translation: Rock of Bryggja – Rock of Landing, the place where the first boat of the elves touched Alagaësian soil.