A/N: Nothing but an ugly monk is mine. Also, a big thanks to JWH, who listened to my rants patiently and looked over the chapter; and to you, if you're still sticking with my little tale. Nothing to add other than that – although ... any Arya/Fäolin shippers out there? :P
You might recognise a few things in here from my Oneshot Reflections ...
5. Choices: Trapped
"Do I have to, Mother?"
"It is made from he finest silk of the Nóttavefr-worm, harvested in Ceris. It suits a princess, so I fail to see where your problem resides," she said somewhat coldly, or at least that was how it sounded to Arya.
It wasn't so much the gown itself; it was nice, simple, as any elfin dress, only valuable through the means it was made or through the fabric it was made of. It was what this gown stood for that made her want to run and hide.
But eleven-year-old Arya didn't protest any further; it would have made no difference. It never did. It only served to make Mother angry. She wanted her in the gown, and she would see her in it in the end.
She had begun to pick her battles; one night in this gown, even if it rendered her unable to run, and a meal in the company of boring grown-ups who only ever spoke about politics while she had to smile, was an acceptable price if she bargained her freedom on other days with it. She nodded to the elf who began to dress her. Her mother nodded as well, apparently satisfied.
"I have to hurry, child. The final preparations for Skemmestnót need to be overseen, we will have many an important guest in Ellesméra tonight."
She stroked over Arya's hair with her hand, fleetingly, in an absentminded gesture, before she left the room. Arya's eyes watched her retreat in the dressing mirror made of enchanted silver above the small table, in front of which she sat. Mother was in constant hurry, or so it seemed.
The other woman began to move around, and Arya obediently lifted her arms whenever she was told, politely, of course; each time followed by words of apology. She, in turn, would nod graciously, and the elf would resume her task.
Neria was her name; she was of the House of Miolandra, like any elf helping with the small everyday things in Tialdarí Hall. Of course, they were no servants; Miolandra was the House of Guardians, and while they did guard the forest, the term had long since undergone a broadening, and it was an honour to be chosen to assist with work in the court, sparsely though it was.
Arya distracted herself with thoughts about Neria to shorten the time; like how when she had been younger, Neria had so often played with her while Mother was absent on court duties. She had been there for as long as she could think; and Arya liked the elf. But she took her position very seriously, so there was no chance that she would let her go if she was anything less than perfect. If only she would hurry up!
An hour later she was wandering through the long and winding corridors of Tialdarí Hall. Like with all parts, it was made of trees sung into the shape desired by the singer, sturdy trunks, stripped of their bark, forming a firm wall; brown, with meandering, wavy grains and so wonderfully warm and alive to the touch, Arya thought, as she stuck her fingers out, and let them slide over the wood in passing.
The floor in this part was forest soil, a soft layer of fallen pine needles that covered the ground and felt magnificent beneath her bare feet. Other elves liked moss or grass, but this was her favourite; it had a lovely smell, so fresh, and a little bit spicy, and a marvellous texture.
As she looked down, she grudgingly admitted to herself that both her mother and Neria knew what they had been doing. The hem of her snow-white gown twined round her ankles, and the pure white engendered a powerful contrast to her ebony hair, which framed her face and was artfully divided into different layers, half of it up, held in place by a fine silver circlet around her forehead, with little diamonds in it that glimmered like the stars in the night sky over Ellesméra, the other half down, falling in a long wave down her shoulders.
Neria had spent a small eternity just on that.
She jumped over a small brook that suddenly crossed the forest floor, and paused, watching the pine needles that were carried away by the stream, spinning and drifting in the water. She did love the celebrations … if only she wasn't expected to show up at the Noble Dinner that was hosted by the royal house beforehand.
Later, when everyone moved away from the table into the meadow, it was fun. The dancing, the laughing, the boisterous atmosphere, as everyone celebrated and praised the summer … Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all.
Then again, that was what she hoped every year.
She sighed as she continued onwards, the trees becoming rougher and the corridor twisting around them … and suddenly, she was standing in the forest, without ever having passed either door or threshold. In a final line of trees, two beeches formed an archway, an elf positioned on either side. She approached them, and waited.
They turned, and announced to the clearing beyond: "Her Highness, Arya Dröttningu."
She walked past them, onto the clearing, where every elf besides her mother had risen; and the next almost quarter of an hour, she had to answer to the ritual, losing track of all the noble elves from all over the forest; until finally, the last elf seemed to have greeted her.
The clearing was the crest of a small hill, and a long table was set out in the centre under the open skies, bedecked with flowers in blue and red, the colours of Mother's House Eweádth: forget-me-not and love-in-a-mist and cupid's dart, love-lies-bleeding and dragon's blood, and whatever else there grew in Du Weldenvarden, it was there; the white linen cloth already filled with countless different fares. She took her rightful place on Mother's side, listening with mild disinterest to the exchange of pleasantries between the various elf Lords and Ladies, while she looked up and down the table.
"How fares the Varden, Queen Islanzadí? I heard the Vinr Älfakyn relinquished?"
"Quite so, Lord Methadr. He wishes to pursue a personal matter, which would not be acceptable were he still duty-bound."
And here were the politics. Mother was speaking to an elf with sharp, aquiline features, who nodded now, somewhere to her right.
"Yes, and such a tragedy it is …it was the right decision, of course. He more than anyone else has earned the right to seek out those that betrayed him … may the stars watch over him and his quest. But do tell, who is his successor?"
"Weldon, one of Brom's closest advisors. Have you heard of him?"
Her eyes met those of another elf, directly across from her, while the talk continued.
"Indeed I have not … far be it from me to question Brom's choice, but are you sure he chose well? We can ill afford a weak leader when the Varden are still as fragile as they are now…"
He looked to be fairly young. In fact, he seemed to be the youngest by far, except for her, of course. He had light blue eyes that seemed to twinkle in constant laugh and sandy blond hair, which fell past his shoulders. He smiled at her, and she smiled back; a genuine smile.
Throughout the feast, her gaze returned to him every now and then; and each time it did, she felt like both were sharing a secret knowledge, maybe a hidden amusement about the antics of Lord Methadr when Blagden flapped onto his plate, or perhaps a small joke at the expense of Rhunön, who set there, scowling at everyone, because Arya had convinced her to come.
And when finally the night began to fall and the feasting part was drawing to a close, and everyone began to rise, she sought him out at last; found him standing apart from the rest, in peaceful solitude.
He started on the greeting once he saw her, but she waved him off.
"I am sure I already greeted you." Then she looked down. "Though I fear I cannot remember your name. I also can't seem to remember you?"
He smiled kindly.
"Allow me a simply Good Evening then, Princess. And I daresay it would be a matter of impossibility to remember each and every name. Especially as you could not have known me from before, for tonight's the first time I have to honour to attend the celebration."
She smiled hesitantly, glad that he wasn't offended; watching him bow.
"Fäolin, of the House Miolandra."
"Neria?"
The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, leaving her embarrassed once more. But he never laughed at her outburst, just answered her question in all seriousness.
"My older cousin. She told me much about you, Princess, but no words could ever make up for meeting you myself. You shame every other elf in that gown. It is an honour to meet you."
She felt strange, then, suddenly exceptionally glad that Neria had put that much work into it and that she was wearing it now; even if she wasn't quite able to tell why. He smiled at her again, and her heart seemed to skip a beat.
"The pleasure is all mine," she said, beaming at him. "And you should not praise the gown, but your cousin; she alone made it to what it is now."
He laughed, a quiet, clear sound.
"That I will do when I see her, Princess. Yet I feel that no matter how great her skill, would it not be you who was wearing it, the beauty would be less for it."
Never had she felt like this. His words struck something deep inside her, or so she felt; and almost missed his question, when he extended a hand and asked kindly: "Would you give me the honour of a dance with you?"
Arya took it gladly, and they began what would be the first of many dances together; her gown flowing around her like a white cloud. She would not let up, but he didn't seem to mind; he had time for her and so they danced the night away. Had not magic itself touched this very moment? And here, in the very heart of Du Weldenvarden, mayhap that wasn't so impossible after all.
An uncertain amount of time later found both sitting in the grass and talking, Arya enjoying herself like she had never before on Skemmestnót, and it was not hard to make out the young elf next to her as the prime reason for that.
His finger traced a flower in the grass, though never picking it, while he spoke.
"Is it not lovely? Just a common buttercup, yet perfect in its own way – it is what it is, and never wants to be more; and that is makes it perfect. And then look at us; we elves always try our very hardest to achieve what this little flower possesses from the day it blossoms for the first time, without doing anything at all.
"And whilst, of all the races in Alagaësia, we are the one who has gotten farthest on this way, we never will be as perfect as this little flower; and it would be arrogant to presume as much. The simple reason that we try means we can never achieve this perfection we seek – for indeed, for us, there always will be more, a next step, and another one after that. This is what defines us and sets us apart from the flower; it's what makes us more and less at the same time.
"The buttercup, though – not the wisest elf could add aught, or take it away, without making it less than what it is now. And that is the case with every flower, you see? It is the reason I can spent hours and hours just sitting and watch the flowers open when the first ray of sunshine touches the bloom."
Arya nodded earnestly, and Fäolin smiled, rising.
"Come. I want to show you something."
He held out his hand again, and Arya put her small fingers trustingly in his, looking up at him, happily; and together, they meandered away from the celebration, through the clearing, towards the far edge. The air was warm, and the forest full of life; in every breath and every step Arya took so very full of an overflowing love of life, like it only ever was in those Grey Nights, when the sun barely went below the horizon, and the days in-between seemed to stretch on forever.
The noise from the celebration slowly died down, and finally became just another noise within the concert of the forest at night. He looked up, and she followed his gaze; up into the clear sky, with thousands upon thousands of little, twinkling stars, and a full, yellow moon that was inching slowly over the top of the black pines.
"Here."
Fäolin pointed to an old oak that was standing a bit apart from the other trees that lined the clearing. And then she saw what he meant. A vine twined around the tree, with a few, half-opened blooms; black on the outside, as black as the night. Arya knew what they were.
They were Myrkenen, the Blooms of Darkness. The plant was a Morning Glory, albeit a rare and strange variety of its kind; it could only exist here in Du Weldenvarden, where there was enough magic in the land, the animals, and the trees to sustain it because it never bloomed in the morning, like all its brothers and sisters did, but instead only ever opened its chalice at night, and only one night at that: only on Skemmestnót, the shortest night, the night of midsummer.
"Let us wait for the moon," Fäolin whispered.
They sat in silence, listening to the forest; grasshoppers chirping, accompanied by the trills of a nightingale, which sat in the oak. And then, the silver light of the moon touched the first blossoms, and the petals rustled audibly to her sharp ears and unfurled, opening wide, displaying the purest, darkest blue.
Fäolin rose and began to sing. He had a clear tenor voice, pleasing the ear, and sung a simple, a beautiful, sweet melody, which seemed to spur the nightingale, and both sang together. He moved towards the tree where now dozens of Myrkenen blossomed, and Arya could make out some words.
O! Myrkenest, bláreflur, í du úbira, skína, ljéma!
Atra'í gjöfte, bidha'no fra
Onr blómvalis opná,
Opnard!, eom ono gala éka …
O! Myrkenen, bluest flower, in the darkness, shine, shine!
May one gift I beg from you
Open your bloom,
Be opened!, to you I sing …
He traced a finger along one flower's throat, and sang; the bloom opened further, and then the vine moved towards his hand, caressing it, and parted with the flower, one of its precious jewels. Fäolin's song faded slowly into the night, in a last, haunting note, and he returned with the flower carefully resting on his palm.
He held it out for her.
"For me?"
Arya's eyes were wide with wonder. He looked at her then, perhaps with the hint of a smile at her childlike awe. He moved closer, and spoke with a conspiratorial air, as though he was about to share with her the secret of the world.
"You can plant it into the earth, right tomorrow, if you like – it will take roots, as I sang it from the vine. And furthermore, the magic I used changed it – look, the blue in the chalice is much more pronounced, and it fades into black towards the corolla. It is still a morning glory, but you will not find its like anyplace else, and it will open whenever you ask it to, not only just once a year."
Arya giggled a little at his antics, but beamed at his next words.
"It is something for you – just for you."
"Oh Fäolin, thank you. It is the most perfect and lovely flower in the whole world."
"As are you, Princess."
He smiled at her once more, and her heart fluttered a little.
"For tonight, though, it will go here."
Fäolin took it from her hands and stuck the pedicel in her hair above her circlet, midnight blue in ebony, and together they sat in the clearing, and watched the moon take its path, athwart the black trees of Du Weldenvarden.
They moved through the streets as fast they could.
Early morn's traffic started to fill the city, gloomy oil lanterns showing shadowy forms of people hastening through the streets: traders and regular townsfolk on they way to the daily market or their shops, with carts groaning under the load of fruits, meat and other groceries. As it appeared, the war had not yet reached the Empire; at least not here, though the darkness certainly failed not in its effect to the people either.
Instead of the usual hubbub of shouting traders and cursing cart drivers, an almost eerie silence hung over the city, and the mood of the people they passed was sombre. Even the hordes of beggars, which Eragon remembered from his last, ill-fated visit with Brom, seemed sparser. He eyed the lurking figures in the shadows between angled walls and shady alleyways, but they remained there, never venturing out into the open. Apparently, not even their fine elfin clothes promising wealth could overcome the general sense of fear and unease.
On the other hand, the hygiene was as poor as before. Eragon had to take care of his steps and stalk around indefinable dirt and small heaps of stinking muck. As they walked on, the houses grew bigger, though the stench never left completely; sticking to everything with dogged tenaciousness. He remembered that last time it had gotten better, but now, after his transformation, it was almost unbearable, and he wondered how the people could abide to live here for any longer than they absolutely had to.
Eragon started to yearn for the quiet, unagitated bustle of Ellesméra, with its houses of trees, in midst of the nature, with the dark pines and sunny clearings; and had to forcibly stop himself from breaking out into a full run away from the houses and towards the cathedral, whose towers were high enough to be constantly seen over the roofs, even as they got closer.
– * –
The building was every bit as hideous as he remembered. It was only one part of the Cathedral Close, which included the monastery, a cloister and a few other structures he couldn't make out; but it towered above them all, looming over the entire city like a crouching beast, a grim monument in stone. High up the towers stretched, soon lost to his sharp eyes in the ever-present night, the heavy clouds, or perhaps both. The darkness swallowed most of the embellishments on the façade as well, as they crossed the circular forecourt, but he recalled the snarling gargoyles, grotesque beasts frozen in silent screams, demonic figurines and kings and rulers of old; tall, beautiful and cold.
This was not a friendly place. Not hope was the foundation of this religion, but fear. Eragon stared at the massive cathedral on the other end of the forecourt, a dark shadow in the night, and suddenly, just like Orik's puzzle and the path up Helgrind had revealed itself to his refined senses, it shifted – as though his sight was suddenly clearer somehow, showing him things deeper, things beyond; things he would have missed otherwise.
He stared at the cathedral. Impossible, it seemed, to exactly point out what part had changed. Angles suddenly seemed simply … wrong, unmatched; proportions off. His eyes roamed the front, discovering oddities where there couldn't rightly be any. Weren't those geometric structures that simply did not exist? Lines connecting edges to physically impossible shapes? Yet somehow, the sum of all these parts were still the cathedral he knew.
As soon as he tried to fixate a single spot, the edges blurred and flickered. He felt unable to handle it. It was as if his mind simply balked at trying to process what it absorbed, not made to understand the forms it saw. They flipped over, were neither-one-nor-the-other, and he began to feel violently sick.
He felt like his gaze was too much, too clear. It better should have been left unseen, for him, for everyone. The world spun, as though it might, had he been not much used to heights and staring from great altitude into a deep ravine, and he fought back the urge to gag. The building slid in and out of focus, in and out of existence and reality, he blinked involuntarily and –
And everything was back to normal.
Eragon stared at the building in front of him, which looked dark and forbidding, but completely ordinary. Had he only imagined it? He felt completely fine. Had he even really felt ill? Chancing a look at Arya showed him no reaction. It probably had been a trick of his mind. He shook his head, and moved towards the main portal of the church. She hesitated.
"Are you coming?"
She ran her fingers through her hair, then nodded.
"Let us get it over with, then."
They entered the iron-bound door. It swung open noiselessly, following Eragon's push with little resistance. They walked down the church aisle, under the watch of the soulless eyes from statues placed between the windows, grey specks in the dark. The few lit torches and candles cast long, sinister shadows over the stone walls and the floor, scurrying back and forth, life-like, when the air moved the flames.
An oppressive silence weighed down on the empty rows of benches. Even their steps seemed to die away, far too fast, as if there was something in here swallowing each and any sound so that nothing might disturb the grave quiet.
The wind organ behind the altar was silent. Eragon slowly turned, looking along the nave, back to the door they came through, in the church's narthex nothing more than a black spot in the darkness. They were alone.
All hail, thee who entered. All hail, lost souls in search of the light.
Eragon spun back around, but the aisle was empty. Bemused, he ran a hand over his face. Hadn't he heard someone? Though perhaps no one had spoken, after all. He craned his neck, staring at the vaulted ceiling resting on the slim piers, far, far above his head. The peculiar acoustics made it hard to tell.
Did you hear something, Arya?
Her lips appeared as a thin line, barely visible in the half-light.
Yes.
He shook his head, once more moving to face the stone altar the aisle lead toward. The silence and constant dark was getting to him. The lonely cathedral only seemed to amplify it.
"And a fair good morn, my noble Lord and Lady."
Arya gasped, and the blade of the sword shrieked as it was ripped from its sheath. Eragon assumed a fighting stance at once with his own sword drawn, copying her.
Directly in front of them, where just seconds ago only empty space had been, now a priest stood, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere. He stared at them with a peculiar expression from underneath his hood, a strange half-smile that seemed unsettling rather than reassuring; playing around the corner of his mouth in a way that gave it a furtive edge and made Eragon uncomfortable.
Despite that, he pushed his sword slowly back into its sheath, as the monk was hardly a real threat; but how he could have managed to sneak up on them remained a mystery to Eragon. It was nigh impossible to surprise not one but two elves, and that he'd done it anyway was unsettling.
He stood there in silence, while Eragon surveyed his appearance, tensely. The monk was short and portly, and wore a simple habit made of coarse-spun wool; but Eragon noted its deep, inky black, almost gleaming in the light from the torch on the pier next to him. It was an expensive colouring to dye wool with, due to the great amount of dye needed to achieve this dark tone.
The most remarkable item of his clothes was a ruff, enwrought with precious golden threads. The index finger of his left hand was missing, and as he moved, Eragon realised he was missing his right leg as well, having a peg leg instead.
"I am your humble servant," he said, bowing obsequiously. "How can I be of assistance?"
His voice was oily and Eragon disliked it immediately. It reminded him of the traders he had met in Morn's tavern, many moons ago, praising the king and his deeds. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps the sinister atmosphere of the dark church weighing on him, but Eragon felt more and more uncomfortable in his presence and, without waiting for Arya to react, pressed ahead.
"We heard of your Order, monk. It is said to worship the mountain know as Helgrind. Is it possible to enter it?"
He heard Arya drawing in a hissed breath, while the monk moved slowly around them, smoothly, almost slidingly, belying his crippled appearance. Eragon had to turn his head to follow him.
"'Tis a dangerous bourn to have, oh yes." The smile had a sly edge to it. "One does not tread lightly on a journey Helgrind-bound, when all that it offers is darkness and death. Far better to leave your thoughts about the Dark Gates in here once and for all and return to where you came from. Go, friends, and don't look back. Yours will be the benefit."
Under the feeble guise of friendly concern, all Eragon spotted was the bearings of a calculating mind. Ill inclined to play any games, his answer was shorter than even he had intended.
"We thank you for your concern," he responded flatly. "So there is a way inside. How?"
The servile smile never changed.
"Perhaps not, perhaps so. Who can say, in the end? The secret Helgrind holds are manifold and mysterious, even to us. What is your purpose there?"
The question posed was uttered lightly, just in passing, like a natural continuation of his thoughts and Eragon had to catch himself, even as he wanted to answer. Too urging the whisper in his ear to answer the query; setting him at ease, an insouciant want to respond to an innocent question. Why would he hesitate? There was no harm there –
With a snarl, Eragon cleared his thoughts, staring at the monk in ire. Skilled magic, invading his mind, trying to ensnare his senses and draw the truth from his lips – the monk was anything but a simple monk. This shattered his already strained nerves.
Eragon, no!
Not heeding her, he retaliated, pushing against the mind of the man in an attempt of his own to forcefully rip from it that which he was unwilling to tell – and encountered strong mental defences. The monk staggered, but his stronghold around his mind yielded not.
Eragon pushed harder, gathering more magic, making the air crackle between them. The monk dropped to his knees, his hood sliding back, revealing two small and beady eyes staring at him hostilely, and a fringe of hair on an otherwise bald head.
"We do not like strangers. Especially not such ones that stick their noses in things that are no concerns of theirs," he hissed, then gasped for air, clutching his throat. Eragon stared down at him, dominated by one thought only, he almost gained control over my mind!, a sudden breeze extinguished the flame from the torch, leaving a spot of darkness that seemed to cling to Eragon, on the fringe of his vision, he saw Arya staring at him wide-eyed –
Suddenly he was flung backwards, and the monk dropped to the ground. Arya stood between them. He looked up at her, confused. She had never uttered a spell out loud.
"Eragon! What are you doing?"
She showed no outwardly sign of any particular emotion, but he had learned to read her well. She was furious.
"I –" he faltered. What had he been doing? He felt completely on edge. Did he almost –
Eragon slowly pushed himself off the cold ground, not looking at her.
She stopped me from seriously injuring him or worse, he thought.
"Thanks, Arya," he murmured and gazed at her as though to find absolution or some measure of forgiveness in her face, but her eyes held no sympathy.
"I did not stop you for the sake of your consciousness, to let you rest better at night. Tell me, Eragon, do you derive pleasure from breaking minds? I assure you, it is no enjoyable task, unless you are twisted beyond any redemption."
His eyes snapped up again, looking indignant at the thought.
"No! Why would you –"
"And yet you would attack him like that, showing all the tact of a rampaging dragon, and had your rashness cost me any other possible way to gain information," she interrupted him. "Explain yourself. I cannot, for the life of me, understand your actions."
Eragon felt his temper flare. There was nothing to explain. He knew she was right, and that knowledge only made it worse. He felt no desire to explain his edgy state to her, and instead drew himself up angrily. Arya's eyes held a warning, but he ignored it.
"I suppose you would have done better?" he asked, scowling at her darkly.
She was unmoved, regarding him coolly.
"Yes. Eragon, I would have. It was my plan. I knew what I wanted to do. You, quite obviously, did not."
He clenched his fists and spat a curse, turning away from her. Arya was infuriating. No one else except Saphira and perhaps Angela would've spoken to him like that. But Arya would always find something to criticise, it seemed, and he tried to ignore the little voice that told him that she usually was in the right whenever she did so.
"And I promised you. I promised I would find a way. Have you forgotten so soon?"
He spun back around, staring at her irately.
"And so you did. So what?"
He knew he had gone too far the moments the words left his mouth. Her eyes widened, for the fraction of a second, then they grew cold and distant. He regretted what he'd said almost instantly, especially when he knew how serious she, as much as any elf, would take a promise like that, regardless of the Ancient Language. A Heit Älfakyn, an Elf's Promise, people called it. In Brom's tales, he recalled, it had been a mystical and wonderful thing to be granted, because it was never broken, and as he had learned from Oromis, for once, humans had had it right.
But at the same time he felt defiant, and unwilling to apologise; in a muddled mess of anger, mostly at himself, shame and trepidation awaiting her reaction, clear from the anger in her features.
But it never came. Instead she regarded him intently and in silence, for a long while, his clenched fists and angry posture, and somehow this, her still, admonishing scrutiny, made him feel even worse. And then, as if to testify her control and his lack thereof, her own anger vanished from her face completely, without a trace, and her look softened.
"You still have much to learn, Eragon."
Eragon felt all his anger evaporate at those words, as Arya unbeknown to her echoed his own thoughts, from when they had stood atop Helgrind. All at once, the sole things remaining were dejection and bitterness at the truth in her statement.
It sounded spoken to him as much as a reminder to herself, gently, and that hurt more than any insult she could have thrown his way, for he knew well what it meant. That again, she had misjudged him, but for once overestimated. That she had held him at too high a standard, one he failed to meet, but so dearly wanted to: herself.
He looked down, staring at the floor, examining the patterns in the black and white stone. One plate was cracked. It looked almost like a spider's web. He traced the lines with his foot.
"I apologize, Arya," he said so softly it was barely audible. He knew that Arya would hear it. He raised his head again, and met her gaze, her green eyes inscrutable. "If you will have my apology. I'm sorry for letting my anger get the better of me, and acting rash; and for belittling your promise. I appreciate what you do. Never doubt that."
She said nothing, only looked at him thoughtfully again, and he felt his heart sink and turned to stare into the darkness, away from her. Realistically, he knew he did not have her expertise. He figured, that as an ambassador for thirty years, she would have a feeling for gauging persons and getting information out of them they didn't want to part with. You still have much to learn. It was the correct assertion, certainly, and it was the one thing he did not want to hear, not from her: that it wasn't his fault, for he could not possibly have her skills, which came but through experience, and that thusly he was excused. For while indeed that would have been the truth, it wasn't the demand he had on himself.
"Good. I accept your apology. You will do better next time, then. I expect nothing less, Eragon."
And Arya was understanding. His eyes snapped back up, astonished, thankful, and the rebuke died in his throat. No one else except Saphira and perhaps Oromis knew him like that; not even Roran, not anymore. She looked back at him, placid, now, green eyes barely visible in the night, but, and he felt that, as surely she stood here, knowing. Because I am the same.
He startled. Had she said that? Or was his mind playing tricks on him again? She gave no indication of having said anything, and he decided to let it rest, only nodding his thanks and receiving the same in return; and so was the matter cleared and put behind them.
"That still leaves us with him."
Arya followed his look, peering disgustedly at the portly man lying on the ground, unconscious.
"He knows something. That much I was able to glean. We have no time to start looking for someone else, so the only way –"
"Pssst."
A sudden shadow broke away from the dark wall. Both Eragon and Arya had instantly become alert and drawn their swords.
"Who is there?" Arya asked in the common tongue, switching back from the Ancient Language they had used to speak with one another, as they were wont to when it was just the two of them.
"Name's Mark."
A small form peeled itself out of the shadow, looking quickly around. He wore the same garb the monk had, but was missing the ruff.
"You're elves, aren' you? Brother Radoslav said jus' elves use the language, an' I heard it!"
Eragon felt Arya tense next to him. Her sword gleamed in the light of the lone torch on the pier, as the blade rose higher, threateningly. His voice trailed off as he noticed, and his tone turned from curious to frightened. He shrunk back, until he was backed against a row of benches and could move no further.
"Wha' – no, please I was jus' – don' kill me!"
Eragon felt concerned as well, although not because he thought she might kill him. He felt her weaving a complex spell, whose purpose eluded him.
What are you doing, Arya?
Making sure we do not acquire more problems than those already ours. He will not remember.
Eragon looked from her face, furrowed in concentration, to the dark form in the habit. The bulky garment smoothed the features, hiding his build, but he seemed rather short, almost as if –
With two quick strides, Eragon was over at his side and yanked down his hood, revealing the head of a child. His dark eyes were wide in fear, as he stared at the strangers, his gaze locked on the sword; pressed against the side of the benches.
"Please!"
He is but a child, Arya!
It made her pause, but only for a second.
We cannot allow him to go around telling what he thinks he knows to anyone he pleases.
He might be able to help us. Easier than the monk. If he can, what does it matter if he tells someone? We will be gone long since.
Her look was doubtful.
What would a mere child know that is of importance to us? We have no time to waste, Eragon!
Eragon cocked his head.
Let me. Children I know.
She said nothing, but after a long, tense moment, he felt her spell-weaving cease and she gave a thoughtful, acquiescing nod and stepped aside a little, while Eragon knelt down in front of the child.
"We mean you no harm. Mark, was it?"
"Yes."
His voice quivered as he bit his lip, and Eragon saw curiosity wage a fierce war with the fear on his face. Eragon moved a little, so that his face caught the torchlight fully.
"How did you know we were here?" he prodded gently, and Mark seemed to give himself a jerk. His inquisitiveness gained the upper hand.
"Heard you talkin' with Father Dolcelus, from over there," he explained, pointing somewhere to the left. "Then I snuck out." He frowned. "You don' look like no elves."
"We can change how we look."
Mark's eyes widened again. This time, however, in astonishment.
"Really?"
Eragon smiled and nodded.
"Observe."
He ran his fingers over his ears, infusing the magic to create the changes he wanted, and his ears returned to their usual state. Mark stared open-mouthed.
"That is so great!" he enthused. "Yes, now it's much more like elf! So the res' is like that, too?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued as he suddenly thought of something else. "But wait, what'd you change it for in the firs' place? And why're you here?"
Mark looked expectantly at him, all fear forgotten. Eragon smiled at him again, pleased. This was the transition he had been waiting for.
In a confidential tone, he whispered: "We have a mission."
"You wan' t' go t' Helgrind!" exclaimed Mark.
"Did you eavesdrop, Mark?"
The boy fidgeted uncomfortably under his stern gaze.
"Maybe." Defensively he added: "It wasn' s'if I knew it was supposed t' be private. You're standing in the middle of the church." Then he grinned. "Got Dolcelus quite angry, you did. Old codger thinks it's all his, an' you wanted to stroll inside, jus' like that. And then you knocked him out. Ha, that is priceless!"
"It is important for us, Mark." Carefully, Eragon extended his mind toward the boy. "If you listened, you know that we need a way inside. Do you know of one?"
The boy was silent a short moment, before he shook his head emphatically.
"No, I don' know nothin'."
Eragon didn't need his magic to know he was lying.
"Are you sure, Mark? It would be very important to us. You see, we have to find and rescue someone from inside."
The boy bit his lip, clearly conflicted.
"You would do two elves a great service."
That seemed to tip the balance.
"I'm not supposed to know. Father Dolcelus will have me whipped if he finds out," Mark gasped out. "But, you showed me tha' trick with you ears, 's was nice of you …"
"We won't tell him if you don't, Mark."
"Well, I have t' help cleaning the church … so I found it. All by myself!" he added proudly.
Eragon nodded encouragingly.
"The secret tunnel. Saw it when I was cleaning the wax from the candles one day." Mark spoke quickly, and looked around nervously, as if afraid someone might turn up at any second.
"And it leads to Helgrind?"
"Well, where else would it lead? The church is much older'an the rest of the city. It can' lead there."
Eragon tried to suppress his excitement. For all he knew, the secret passage could lead simply out of the town, ending on a field, or even be collapsed if it was that old, and be impassable. But there was a feeling in his gut that he was on the right track.
"Where does it begin? Can you show us?"
Mark nodded.
"I can. But we need t' be quick, we do, there's the ceremony this mornin'. I don' want to be there when it starts."
Do you think his words true, Eragon?
Eragon turned around to see Arya still looking sceptically at him and the boy. Her look strayed from them to the man on the floor that was still in his magic-induced sleep.
It could be a trap, even.
He's telling the truth as he knows it, Arya. I verified that.
She still looked unhappy, but nodded.
"Lead on, then, Mark."
The boy was fidgeting around and seemingly eager to get over with the entire thing.
"Quick, out of the open."
"Risa."
Mark led them through a row of wooden benches, towards the nearest wall, where a narrow portal was recessed in a dark oaken frame, almost invisible through the shadow of the wall. Eragon realised that this was the way both he and the monk had to have come so suddenly; unbeknown to them, they had been standing almost directly next to it.
Arya had floated the monk along and unceremoniously dumped him in the dark corner next to the open passageway, before they left the nave.
Once past the door, Mark seemed more at ease. He glanced at them quickly and through the small space, in which they now stood.
"We have t' cross the nave, 's on the other side. But you don' walk in there more 'an you have't. So the best way's –"
The deep chime of a bell vibrated in the air. Mark cringed.
"Oh no. The ceremony … You don' wan' t' be there. I need t' go to the monastery."
Eragon frowned, wanting to ask what he meant exactly, but he was already continuing.
"Listen t' me! The entry's on the other side of the church from here," he told them hastily. "Follow this corridor t' the staircase up, 's to the left, firs' doorway. Avoid the nave, cross is on the gallery – you can reach it from the staircase – back down on the other side, real simple, then the side aisle down to the vestibule directly before the transep'. The stairs to the crypt are there, in the tower. In the crypt, where the choir woul' be, above it o'course, there's the entry. Jus' have t' use the mechanism –"
Voices sounded down the dark hallway. Mark let out a terrified squeak.
"Have t' go. You too. I'm sorry."
And before either of them could react, he had slunk away into the dark of a corridor to their left.
"Mark!" Eragon hissed quietly, but there was no answer. He cursed softly, but it was no use. They had to find their way on their own.
– * –
Eragon looked around. They were standing in a dark, narrow corridor, which looked a little dusty, as though it was rarely used. Their footprints were clearly visible. The voices drifted away, but returned only moments later, now accompanied by sharp, bellowed words. Heavy boots thudded on the stone-tiled floor. The soldiers had arrived.
The sound came from the direction Mark had pointed toward.
Arya pressed her lips together. Her eyes focused into the far distance for a moment, then closed, before they abruptly snapped open again. He guessed she had tried to do what he dared not after the encounter with the monk, extending her consciousness to encompass their surroundings, touching upon the minds of the people near them to get an overview of the situation.
They are looking for him. They know he is missing. We are running out of time.
Eragon turned and looked at the dark oaken door, already open, leading out and away, then back down the corridor and bit his lip. He knew he should urge Arya to leave, since she would not judge rationally, because of her promise. To turn around and leave, while they still could. It was the safer way, certainly. It was the logical way. It was, however, also the way of accepting defeat. Of giving up on rescuing Katrina … of failing Roran.
They are coming this way. If we do not want to risk being spotted, we have to leave posthaste.
She sounded decisive.
Eragon exhaled slowly, making a decision.
Alright. He gave us directions, Arya. Let's follow them, then.
Was he completely certain? We have but this one chance. If he was mistaken …
Yes.
Arya's eyes flickered back and forth between door behind which the monk laid, and himself, finally resting on him. For a moment, there was silence. Then, she simply said: You are certain.
With swift movements, she crossed the corridor, closed the door and started to layer spells over it, sealing it. The niche glowed blue quickly, then she was done.
No one will enter this hallway that way. Lead on.
Eragon nodded shortly, and then, they walked down the corridor.
– * –
The spiral staircase leading up had narrow, high steps and was seemingly endless. Around and around it went, with no end or exit in sight. Eragon was plagued more and more with doubts. Had they missed an exit? They could not possibly be that high up and still be within the cathedral!
There was no sound other than their own footsteps in the narrow space. So far, they had evaded everyone successfully. He wondered whether the soldiers were even there anymore, but it was foolish to hope they might abandon their search, simply because they could not find them right away. They would not return until they had found them or searched the entire cathedral.
I do not like this, Eragon. Saphira's voice sounded suddenly in his head. Not one bit.
Eragon knew she wasn't talking about the missing door or the missing soldiers.
She had been skulking around in a moody silence on the heath for as long as they had been gone, but he'd felt her feelings change when they'd met Mark. Something in their encounter had made her uneasy. She had brooded over it the entire time, but apparently, she had come to some sort of conclusion now.
What is the matter Saphira? he asked concernedly.
There was a short pause. Then: You are being manipulated. Out-manoeuvred.
He paused in his steps, bracing himself against the wall. Arya looked at him, frowning.
Talk to Arya as well.
I am.
Eragon nodded.
So what makes you say that then, Saphira?
Use what Oromis taught us, she snapped impatiently at him. Think! What was our original plan to get Katrina?
Well, Eragon said slowly. You would fly us up to the entrance, where the Lethrblaka fly in and out –
Exactly. I would be there, to help you out, and fight the Lethrblaka, so that you could devote your entire attention to the Ra'zac and Katrina.
Arya had stilled, and now stood completely unmoving.
Yes. I see. And I should have sooner. Stars above, I should have seen it.
What, Arya?
The trap, Eragon!
What –
But then, standing in a narrow, dark stairwell, the faint echoes of nailed boots far under them, it came to him. In a sudden revelation, he saw. It all slid into a picture, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The happenings of the last days, the darkness, the wind, the fog, and the tunnel. It all made sense, a frightening kind of sense.
Oh no.
We always knew that there might be a trap, but did we ever stop to ponder that thought and what exactly it meant? It started with the winds, Eragon. They thwarted our original plan. So then you decided to climb up to the entrance, where at least I stood a little chance of reaching you, if ever it need be, knowing where it would be, from you –
– but we couldn't find it, because it was hidden, and dark and fogged all over, from the clouds that engulfed Helgrind, preventing us to see much of anything. So we decided to gather information here, and suddenly, there is a tunnel, easy to reach and so convenient a way inside.
Convenient for us, Eragon, Arya said. Saphira will be far away, unknowing where exactly we are, unable to follow and aid us against the Lethrblaka and whatever else awaits us. Separating us was as much the goal as having us enter by way of his choosing; through cutting off all others.
Eragon stared at Arya, not really seeing her. Then he shook his head abruptly and spoke out loud.
"Alright. That was it then."
Arya drew up an eyebrow.
"What, exactly?"
"We leave, forthwith. It's over." His voice was rough. "We are not walking into Galbatorix's trap. It is him, is it not? It was him all along. His writing is all over this. He wants us in Helgrind, through this path, and we cannot let him force our hand. I know you promised, but I exonerate you. I promised you I would not take anymore unnecessary risks. This –" he swallowed. "It has become one. Perhaps it always was."
He tried not to think of Katrina and Roran, but it was a futile task. It's the right choice, he told himself. I have responsibility for more than just myself. Saphira, Arya … essentially, the Varden. It is the right choice. But then, why did it feel like an icy fist grabbed his heart and squeezed it?
Arya looked at him hard. He couldn't discern what she would be thinking. He was being responsible. He kept his promise. But I promised Roran too, he thought. I've become entangled in my promises. And then he felt the irrational urge to laugh, because that was perhaps the only way to sum up his new life in one sentence. Entangled in all my promises. It started with swearing to avenge Garrow, and look where it got me.
Arya shook her head, and turned away, on the brink of the step, on the brink of their mission.
You promised your cousin.
Yes.
You should not have.
I know. I know, Arya.
Your life is more than just your own, Eragon. This is the lesson you have been learning all along. The war rests on your shoulders, it is your decision that can bring about victory or defeat. And yet …
She sighed.
Do you truly want to turn around and leave?
Eragon bit his lip.
It is the right thing to do.
Maybe so. However, will you be able to live with it? We cannot have you constantly second-guessing yourself, when the war heats up further and you need to lead.
Eragon was silent, staring at the rough, curved wall. He knew the answer to that, as did Arya. Already, he couldn't help the thoughts that came creeping back into his mind. Now it was different. Now they knew what lay in store. They were alert and ready, the element of surprise gone. What could Galbatorix possibly have there to overwhelm them, if they reckoned with it? The Ra'zac lacked magic, and elves were immune to their breath –
He forcibly wrest himself free from that line of thought, recalling Oromis' lesson. The fish and the osprey. They still were the fish.
And this time, they would be the fish fighting the osprey in the air.
No. He wouldn't do it. I'll manage, Arya. It will work out. We leave, and hope we can still fight our way out of the town.
What about the third Egg? Saphira asked suddenly. Did you not find a trace of it, Arya?
Arya's head jerked around, her eyes drilling into him as though he were Saphira. Then she stared at the wall, silent for a long while, until in a completely uncharacteristic display of anger, her fist came down crashing on the wooden handrail, snapping it cleanly in two.
"Curse Galbatorix and his wrenched mind! Were that fool as insane as everyone claims him to be, the war would be won long since!"
Her voice echoed in the stairwell. Eragon stared at her, completely stunned at that outburst. She had her back to him, facing the wall, posture rigid and fists clenched, until her wrath abated as suddenly as it had come.
"So this it," she murmured. "The last bait, when everything is on the very brink, ready to fall to either side. When we are just about to turn around and leave, there is the one thing he knew we could never withstand the temptation of – the last dragon egg."
"He knew we would discover his trap betimes, you know," she continued. "He planned with it, all along, and threw the sole thing of his possession into the scales he knew would tip them for certain in his favour. It really is perfect."
She turned to look at him, her lovely features set in a grim line.
"And how right he is. This is no longer about the girl, dear to you and yours as she may be; and neither a question of my promise or pride. It suddenly is the matter of winning one of the most important battles in this war. If there is but a chance that we might recover the green egg, I have to risk it all."
A bitter, mirthless laughter fell from her lips.
"Well played, Galbatorix."
Eragon stared at her, dismayed. Galbatorix had always seemed so far away. He never went into battle himself, and Eragon concerned himself with Murtagh, and thousands of soldiers, wasting not many thoughts on someone who only ever spend his days in a lonely tower.
He realised now that this was a dangerous misconception. Suddenly, the King was close, so disturbingly close. His long arm reached across the entire Empire, and he could make things happen with but a thought, as though he was only playing a game. He simply did not have to be anywhere else but in his citadel. His mind was sharp and constantly three steps ahead, and nothing that happened was happening by chance.
Oh, he'd always perceived him as a threat on a rational basis, knowing the war would end no sooner than he killed Galbatorix.
But for the first time, Eragon started to truly fear the king.
"Maybe we can find yet another way," he said, shaking off his thoughts. "There has to be one. You were right. The tunnel was a bad idea."
She shook her head.
"He would that we go there, Eragon," she said shortly. "You said it yourself. If I doubted the existence of this tunnel, I do no longer. And it will be the only way inside, he will have made sure of that. It is entering Helgrind by means of the tunnel, or not at all."
For a while, neither spoke.
"So we move on," Eragon said eventually. It wasn't a question.
"And so we do." Her eyes held a faraway look. "On and on, even though I cannot see the end; and so is mayhap that our wyrda. Pray, if you believe, Eragon, for you will need it."
He shook his head.
"Then may the stars watch over us, even if their light reaches us no longer."
A/N: And there is Galbatorix. I haven't forgotten about him, not at all :D He's currently sitting in his tower, watching his plan play out just like he wanted it to and cackling madly. And we don't even know the full extent of it yet. There's more to come, oh yes ... the story is finally picking up momentum. Action ahead.
See you next week :) And I thank you all for your reviews, I responded where I could – I love to read what you think.