A/N: Here comes chapter two, from Eragon's POV. Hope you enjoy.
My warmest and heartfelt thanks to all of you who were kind enough to review. It was very encouraging to receive such a wonderful response to the first chapter of this story.
Anyone who thinks I own the Inheritance Cycle probably isn't that intelligent. On a side note, I noticed a couple of intrusive grammatical errors in the first chapter, so I decided to actually edit this one. Hopefully I didn't miss anything glaringly obvious.
In truth, there is no such thing as death, nor separation, for those we cherish are always with us. So thought Eragon, as he gazed out the window of his chambers in the fort which served to house the Riders and elves who lived with him in the lands to the east of Alagaesia.
Somewhere out there, he knew; across miles and miles of grassy steppes; over the waters of the Edda River and in the middle of the enchanted forests of Du Weldenvarden, his nephew was being drilled by Arya in the fundamental precepts of their Order. Not for the first time that day, Eragon wished he was with them.
No, he corrected himself; you only wish they were with you. And he knew it was true, for he had grown to love this place which had become his home. Even so, he often found himself thinking of another place he had once called home; of friends and family he had left behind. Eragon blinked, trying to remove himself from his melancholy mood, and turned his attention back to the scrying mirror sitting on his desk, just as a silver haired elf stepped into view.
"Greetings, Shadeslayer. Atra esterni ono thelduin" the elf greeted him with two fingers pressed to his lips.
"Lord Dathedr. Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr." Eragon smiled warmly at the elf. It was good to see him, he realised, as he felt Dathedr to be a man of honour and one of very few elves Eragon could trust to speak honestly and bluntly.
"My apologies, Shadeslayer. The Queen is testing your nephew's skills with a sword, and is unavailable at this time."
"I will wait for her, Dathedr. I'm sure she shan't be long; he's only human, after all."
Dathedr nodded in acquiescence, and told Eragon that he would inform Arya of his desire to speak with her the moment she returned from the training grounds. Left alone once again with his thoughts, Eragon expanded his consciousness and examined the world around him.
What he felt troubled him. The last few times he had scryed the land, Eragon had felt uneasy. There was a growing restlessness in the world, a sense of something shifting in the dark, dormant for the last forty years and only now coming to life.
Eragon shivered as a tingle of fear crept down his spine. Storm's coming, he thought as he looked out his window towards the ominous clouds gathering on the horizon. In more ways than one.
Saphira's thoughts brushed his from where she sat in the courtyard, watching Yarbog and Ivaldn; two of his Riders, spar. 'Rid yourself of these dark musings, little one', she said, 'they serve no purpose but to make your mood foul. We will deal with whatever dangers might arise when they do so, and not before. We cannot fight our enemies before they reveal themselves.'
'You are right, Saphira, as always', Eragon replied. 'I have been spending far too much time in my own head lately. There has been little to occupy my time since only Alanna has yet to finish her training and I finished all of the books in Tenga's library.'
In his mind, Saphira snorted with amusement. 'That old hermit is as mad as a hatter', she said.
Eragon smiled to himself as he remembered the surprise he had felt when, only two years after settling in the area, he had discovered the hermit Tenga established in one of the spare chambers of the fort, which he had constructed with magic and the help of both the Eldunari and the elves who had accompanied him. Mouth agape, Eragon had stumbled into a room full of piles and piles of tomes and scrolls, with a bench covered with odd looking beakers and other strange apparatus, to find Tenga scurrying about, muttering to himself in that half-crazed way he had. The hermit kept exclusively to his own company, but had allowed Eragon the use of his library.
From that library, as well as from the Eldurnari who were kept in a vault below the keep, Eragon had learned a great deal during the years since he had left Alagaesia; philosophy; science; history; magic and much about the cultures of all the races which inhabited the land. Constant practice and sparring had allowed him to nurture his skills with the sword and a variety of other weapons; the physical exercise giving him great enjoyment. After the first thunder of dragon hatchlings had been raised, they had spread far and wide, and needed no more help from the elves or Eragon in order to raise their young. Thankfully, the dragons left alone the crop of small villages that had been established in the land between Hedarth and Eragon's fort, named The Roost by the people of the small town that surrounded it on account of the fact that it served as home to the Riders and their dragons.
The people of these villages had followed Eragon after he left Alagaesia, often seeking simply to live under the protection of the Riders. Others had left the Empire in order to get away from the chaos and destruction caused by the war against Galbatorix, and more still were poor folk looking to create better lives for themselves. Regardless of how they came to be there, however, they had one thing in common; all of them looked to Eragon for guidance, demanding that he govern them. Despite persistent pressure, Eragon had refused.
It is not right, he thought, for mortal men and women to be ruled over by one of the undying. The way that these people revered; giving him almost godlike status, had mortified him, reminding him of the Ra'zac and the religious fervour of the priests of Helgrind. I will not become a monster.
Instead, Eragon had simply offered them the protection and justice of the Riders. He encouraged each township to appoint a leader by vote, with courts established by the common people to trial criminals, and the promise that the Riders would carry out whatever sentence that those courts might provide. This compromise had almost backfired when his popularity actually rose due to the fact that he was seen as giving the people concessions by allowing them so much control over their own governance, as though they hadn't followed him to this land of their own free will.
People can be so... frustrating, sometimes.
A gentle knock on the door of his chambers startled Eragon out of his reverie and he stiffened in his chair, suddenly sure he was about to receive news which would not make him happy.
"Enter", he called out cautiously.
Into his rooms strode a strikingly beautiful elf woman; Alanna, the most recent addition to the Riders, discounting Garrow. Black hair framed her angled face, falling only to her shoulders, short for most women. Her blue eyes, normally soft, had a hard edge to them, and her mouth was set in a thin line. By her posture and expression, Eragon knew this was no social visit.
"What news?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"The village court found the farmhand, Hector, guilty of raping the elder's daughter. They have sentenced him to death." Her tone was bitter.
Eragon felt a tinge of sadness for the man. He knew Hector; had spoken to him on occasion, and more than suspected that the young girl claiming to be a victim was only trying to save her own reputation by saying she had been forced. Hector was not the kind of man who would turn criminal. Unfortunately for Eragon, and indeed most unfortunately for Hector, the court had refused to accept an examination of the minds of those involved as evidence, due to Eragon's friendly acquaintance with Hector, and Eragon knew that he had made a promise to carry out the justice decided by the people. Eragon would have to kill a man he thought could be innocent; there was no way around it.
Eragon sighed, and held his head in his hands, leaning upon his desk.
"When do they want me?" he asked.
"As soon as you are available; they want the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible... Are you really going to do it? He never seemed like the kind of person who... and that girl is rumoured to be a total strumpet... Is this justice?"
Eragon carefully considered his words before speaking. "What is or isn't justice is not for us to decide; that we leave to the people. We cannot afford to impose our own will on them; for it is a path will lead only to tyranny, such as the Empire experienced under Galbatorix's rule. I made a vow to carry out their justice, and they have decided that Hector must die. My personal opinion of the man cannot be allowed to get in the way of my duty to uphold the laws and decisions of the people. I..." he sighed again, "I have to kill him."
Eragon felt a consoling hand on his shoulder, as Alanna saw his distress.
"Ebrithil... you don't need to do this yourself. I'm sure Yarbog could-"
"No." He cut her off, "Yarbog made no promises, and this is a matter to concern humans, not urgals. Besides, think of Hector. Would he really prefer to be hacked to death by someone not of his own race? I will do as I must."
Eragon noticed movement in the scrying mirror, and then saw Arya step into view. He turned back to Alanna.
"Tell them to make ready. When I am done here, I will perform this unsavoury task they ask of me."
"Nen ono weohnata, Ebrithil." As you wish, Master. Alanna left the room, walking with the lithe grace worn only by the members of her race.
Eragon ran a hand through his hair, forced a smile to his face, and turned to give Arya the traditional elven greeting. She was sitting now; she looked to be in the antechamber of some hall or another; most likely Tialdari Hall, her house's ancient seat.
"You seem troubled", she said, her brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything alright?"
"It's nothing, I..."
"It's not nothing, Eragon, or you would not be so worried. Tell me; perhaps I can help."
"Just the sound of your voice is help enough, Arya." The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Eragon felt a heat rise in his cheeks.
She smiled at him; one of those smiles which so accentuated her beauty that even four decades after meeting her, Eragon's heart was set frantically beating within the confines of his chest. He decided then that, despite all of his recent troubles, perhaps this day wasn't all that bad after all.
"In any case," he continued, "There is nothing you can do for it. I am to fulfil the role of executioner after we part ways."
"Ah", she said, emerald eyes full of sympathy. "That is indeed cause to be gloomy..." She lapsed into silence for moment, a serious looking replacing the carefree smile she had previously worn. "I apologise for being late; your nephew has your determination to excel with the blade. No matter how many times he was defeated, he never gave up. It is a commendable quality, one which seems to be a common trait in your family."
"Indeed", Eragon inclined his head towards her in acknowledgment of her roundabout compliment. "And how does young Garrow's initiation progress?"
"Better than I had expected; he attacks his challenges with fervour, shows talent with a sword, and is very well educated for his race; he speaks almost fluently in the Urgal tongue."
"Urgal? ... I suppose that makes a kind of sense; he grew up on the edge of the spine, and no doubt Palancar has done a steady trade with their tribes since the end of the war"
"Would that he was fluent in the ancient language;" she pursed her lips in amusement, "You should have heard him butcher the greeting when we first met."
Eragon laughed heartily. "Too much time spent speaking in grunts, I suppose. And how is Firnen?"
"He is well. I think he is becoming frustrated with the dragon hatchling, though. They have been in Ellesmera nearly three weeks, and the hatchling holds an entire conversation now, but still refuses to choose a name for himself. Garrow threatened to simply give him a name, but the stubborn youngling won't budge."
"Determination and Stubbornness; a fit pair." Eragon felt a tingling in his gedwey ignasia, and shivered as the winds changed direction abruptly, sending cold air into his chambers through the open window. Feeling suddenly tense, he closed the window with a spell.
"What's the matter, Eragon?" asked Arya, noticing his change in mood.
"The wind changed direction is all; it was cold. Everything seems to set me on edge these days."
"Why is that?"
Eragon was quiet for a moment before he replied. "When I've scryed the land recently, I've had a strange sense of impending doom; as if times are about to change for the worse. Everywhere there is restlessness and uneasiness. Dark memories haunt my dreams; of Durza, of fighting in the war; of blood and death... I can't help but feel as if there's something out there, some unnamed shadow, stirring to life. I don't know... perhaps I'm simply paranoid."
Arya frowned. "I think I know some of what you speak; I too have been restless of late. I thought perhaps I was simply getting bored of living quietly in Ellesmera, but perhaps there is more to it... Listen, Eragon; the land will speak to those who have ears to listen. I trust your instincts and your judgement; if you believe something is wrong in Alagaesia, I would not simply discount it."
"Thank you. Your trust means more to me than you know."
Her brow was furrowed now; she was deep in thought. "I will scry the forests more often, though I doubt I will discover anything of use to you. You should communicate with Nasuada and Orik; perhaps they have noticed something off-kilter within their realms."
"I shall indeed do that." Eragon shivered again; why was it so cold?
If Arya noticed, she gave no indication of it. Instead, she glanced towards something or someone nearby, and frowned in annoyance.
"I fear I must leave; the nobles are gathering in Tialdari Hall and will be expecting me."
Eragon wished they could talk longer, though he did not say so. "I too am being waited upon. We should speak again soon; I will want to be kept up to date on the younglings' progress."
She glanced around again, as if to be sure she was alone, and then spoke his true name in farewell. Eragon smiled, and mouthed Arya's true name in response, then ended the spell which had allowed them to speak through the mirrors.
Glancing around his sparsely adorned chambers, Eragon spotted his sword, Brisingr, propped up against the bare stone wall on the other side of his small cot. Retrieving the sapphire blade and belting it on, Eragon gave his room a final examination before leaving, closing the polished wooden door softly behind him.
'Hardly the kind of chambers one would expect the Head of the Riders to keep', he commented to Saphira. 'Though I suppose I have always been more about practicality, and I still think of myself more as a farm boy than a Lord.'
'Nests are made for sleeping in', she replied simply. 'Scales are made to sparkle and look pretty. Use them for their assigned purposes; to do otherwise would be foolish.'
Eragon made his way down the windowless corridor, which was kept alight by the elves' ever-burning lamps. Here and there were fairths hanging from the walls; images the elves had created to remind them of home and make the imposing stone seem less dreary. There were various pictures of Du Weldenvarden, including one which depicted the Crags of Tel'naer, where Eragon had been trained in the ways of the Rider. The elves spent much of their free time trying to improve the look and feel of The Roost; Eragon personally had no interest in it. If the elves wished to indulge their vanity, he would not stop them, but neither could he be bothered to help them. His only concessions had been the fairths of Roran and Arya he had created to sit on his desk, as well as a small wooden carving that resembled Saphira which he occasionally worked on if he had a spare moment. Most of his time, though, went towards practical ends.
Turning at the end of the corridor, Eragon made his way down three flights of stairs and stepped into the entrance hall of the keep. Stone statues of each dragon who had hatched for a rider since the creation of the new Order lined the path which lead to a raised table at the end of the hall. At that table were a set of throne-like chairs; one for each Rider. The largest throne, set at the head of the table, belonged to Eragon. He found the gaudiness of the entire affair to be rather distasteful, but knew that the elves were right when they said that appearances mattered. If the Riders wanted their authority respected, they must look as if they were people of authority.
Eragon admired the statue of Saphira as he walked past it. Each of the statues was incredibly lifelike; detailed down to individual scales and coloured through use of magic. It looked as though the dragons were actually present within the hall, providing an impressive and fearsome spectacle. Eragon had been astounded by the craftsmanship of the elf Yaela, who had carved each statue by hand after acquiring the right kind of stone.
As he exited the building and descended the steps to the courtyard, Eragon felt the cold which was even more intense outside.
I should have worn a cloak, he berated himself.
Then it began to rain.
Pathetic fallacy. A grim thought.
Eragon moved to his right, where a large group of over a hundred villagers had gathered around a temporarily erected executioners block. Hector the farmhand was being restrained beside the block; his arms held behind his back by two village men. When he reached the block and was stood beside Hector, Eragon addressed the crowd.
"Get the children out of the courtyard, please. They should not have to see this."
We lose our innocence, the first time we see a man die. We realise, then, that life isn't like the stories; all honour and glory. Eragon seemed unable to shake his melancholy mood.
There was movement among the crowd, and five or so protesting young boys and girls were lead away by concerned parents.
Why were they even here in the first place? Wondered Eragon. Sometimes people just don't think before they act.
A sadness settled in Eragon's heart as he turned towards Hector, Brisingr seeming to weigh more than a mountain where it was sheathed on his side.
"If you have any final words to say, now is the time", he said kindly.
Hector seemed resigned to his fate. "Just get it over with", he said dejectedly, and knelt to lay his head on the block.
Such a waste of a life, thought Eragon sorrowfully. He drew Brisingr resting the sword point down in the dirt, his hands on the pommel.
"Hector, son of Farrick, you have been accused and found guilty of rape and violent assault. In accordance with the laws of these lands, you were sentenced to death." The rain was a downpour now, great sheets of it soaking Eragon and chilling him to the bone. "In the name of justice, I, Eragon; son of Brom; Shadeslayer; Kingslayer and Head of the Dragon Riders hereby carry out that sentence."
Eragon shifted his hands to grip Brisingr firmly and swung his blade in a wide arc, knowing that the only gift he could give Hector would be a single, clean blow. He didn't miss.
Eragon turned and slowly walked away, making for the far side of the courtyard, where Saphira lay, flanked by Yarbog, Alanna and the dwarf Rider Ivaldn. The only one missing was his first apprentice; Vanir had gone to Hedarth with his dragon Opheila to mediate a trade negotiation between the Dwarves and the city-state. They cut forlorn, dejected figures in the rain. Only Yarbog seemed unaffected by what he had just witnessed. Eragon wiped his brow, suddenly so weary that he felt he might collapse.
'Oh, little one... do not let this weigh on your conscience overmuch', Saphira told him.
'I may have just committed murder', he replied.
'That man was not judged by you, Eragon, his death is not your burden to bear.' Her voice was stern; reprimanding. 'For all you know, he was guilty anyway. Do not question your own decision to let the people rule themselves; you were right to do so. Hector's trial, whether fair or foul, was their affair, not ours.'
'Perhaps you are right', he conceded.
She snorted. 'I am always right; you have said so yourself.'
Eragon shook his head at her arrogance, so typical of a dragon, and sheathed Brisingr; for it had been washed clean in the rain. Turning his head slightly, he saw that the crowd of villagers had quickly dispersed, taking Hector's body with them to bury.
Just before he reached Saphira's side, Eragon felt a pair of minds he knew well approaching swiftly from the north. A glance towards the sky confirmed his suspicions.
'It's Thorn and Murtagh!' He exulted to Saphira.
Over the time they had lived at The Roost, Thorn and Murtagh had often visited during their travels, but never settled for more than a few months at a time. In the distance, Eragon could see the crimson scaled dragon fighting through the wind and rain, wine-coloured wings flapping strongly.
Soon after, Thorn alighted a few yards away and Eragon rushed forward to greet his brother. The great dragon's chest heaved with the exertion of his flight, and gouts of steam flowed from his nostrils into the freezing cold air.
As Murtagh jumped down from the saddle on Thorn's back, Eragon wrapped him in an embrace. When he stepped back though, he noticed the grim expression on his brother's face and was filled with dread as he realised that, once again, he was about to receive harrowing news.
"What has happened?" He asked with trepidation.
Murtagh ran a hand through his messy brown hair before responding in a bleak tone.
"We are the bearers of tragic news, I fear. Not just over an hour ago we went to visit friends of ours; a pair of dragons who were nesting. They were... they were dead when we arrived; they had been killed by magic."
An overwhelming feeling of desolation and hopelessness clutched at Eragon's heart. "Murdered..."
Saphira's mournful keening filled the shocked silence that Murtagh's news had created. Thorn let loose a roar of terrible rage and anger.
Eragon felt Murtagh's hand on his shoulder.
"There is more, brother. I said the dragons were nesting; they had three eggs."
Eragon dropped to one knee, supporting himself with one hand on the muddy earth, enveloped by the futility of the situation.
"Were they... were they killed? Shattered?" he asked in a dull monotone.
Murtagh's reply was slow in coming. "No", he said, "It is worse than that. They were taken."
A suspicion that had been forming itself within Eragon's mind hardened into a cold certainty. He remembered vaguely the odd feeling in his gedwey ignasia and the strange change in the wind he had felt during his conversation with Arya, and realised that even then he had known something terrible had happened.
'You were right', Saphira said, 'our unknown enemy has made his first move. There will be a reckoning for this.'
Her anger fuelled him, filling Eragon with blinding fury at those who had commited this treachery.
So it begins.
A/N: Any reviews or constructive criticism you kind souls are willing to give would be greatly appreciated. Next chapter will probably take a lil' longer to come out, due to the fact that I have many, many exams this week. :(
This chapter was pretty dark and ominous in tone compared to chapter one. Not sure whose POV to do for the next chapter yet, but most likely it will be Garrow again.
Bye now.