Chapter Sixty-Five: Silent Wisdom
The following morn, Eragon went looking for Arya in order to apologize. He searched for over an hour without success. It seemed as if she had vanished among the many hidden nooks within Ellesméra. He caught a glimpse of her once as he paused by the entrance to Tialdarí Hall and called out to her, but she slipped away before he could reach her side. She's avoiding me, he finally realized.
As the days rolled by, Eragon embraced Oromis's training with a zeal that the elder Rider praised, devoting himself to his studies in order to distract himself from the thoughts of Arya. In turn, he allowed himself the reminder of Mariah every night before he went to sleep, and every morning when he woke.
The constant reminder of her permeated his dreams. Her breath, her footsteps, and the soft rustle of her clothes sounding like spring leaves and the morning breeze. It felt like warm embers and soft fingers feathering across his hand, his cheek, slipping away after a fleeting moment. Glimpses of her face every night, flashes of memories: some that would startle him awake, dripping with sweat and writing in pain, and others that kept him in high spirits long into the following afternoon.
Night and day, Eragon strove to master his lessons. He memorized the words of making, binding, and summoning; learned the true names of plants and animals; and studied the perils of transmutation, how to call upon the wind and the sea, and the myriad skills needed to understand the forces of the world. At spells that dealt with greater energies – such as light, heat, and magnetism – he excelled, for he possessed the talent to judge nigh exactly how much strength a task required and whether it would exceed that of his body.
Occasionally, Orik would come and watch, standing without comment by the edge of the clearing while Oromis tutored Eragon, or while Eragon struggled alone with a particularly difficult spell.
Oromis set many challenges before him. He had Eragon cook meals with magic, in order to teach him finer control of his gramarye; Eragon first attempt resulted in a blackened mess. The elf showed Eragon how to detect and neutralize poisons of every sort and, from then on, Eragon had to inspect his food for the different venoms Oromis was liable to slip into it. More than once Eragon went hungry when he could not find the poison or was unable to counteract it. Twice he became so sick, Oromis had to heal him. And Oromis had Eragon cast multiple spells simultaneously, which required tremendous concentration to keep the spells directed at their intended targets and prevent them from shifting among the items Eragon wanted to affect.
Oromis devoted long hours to the craft of imbuing matter with energy, either to be released at a later time or to give an object certain attributes. He said, "This is how Rhunön charmed the Riders' swords so they never break or dull; how we sing plants into growing as we desire; how a trap might be set in a box, only to be triggered when the box is opened; how we and the dwarves make the Erisdar, our lanterns; and how you may heal one who is injured, to name a few uses. These are the most potent of spells, for they can lie dormant for a thousand years or more and are difficult to perceive or avert. They permeate much of Alagaësia, shaping the land and the destiny of those who live here."
Eragon asked, "You could use this technique to alter your body, couldn't you? Or is that too dangerous?"
Oromis's lips quirked in a faint smile. "Alas, you have stumbled upon elves' greatest weakness: our vanity. We love beauty in all its forms, and we seek to represent that ideal in our appearance. That is why we are known as the Fair Folk. Every elf looks exactly as he or she wishes to. When elves learn the spells for growing and molding living things, they often choose to modify their appearance to better reflect their personalities. A few elves have gone beyond mere aesthetic changes and altered their anatomy to adapt to various environments, as you will see during the Blood-oath Celebration. Oftentimes, they are more animal than elf."
"However, transferring power to a living creature is different from transferring power to an inanimate object. Very few materials are suitable for storing energy; most either allow it to dissipate or become so charged with force that when you touch the object, a bolt of lightning drives through you. The best materials we have found for this purpose are gemstones. Quarts, agates, and other lesser stones are not as efficient as, say, a diamond, but any gem will suffice. That is why Riders' swords always have a jewel set in their pommels. It is also why your dwarf necklace – which is entirely metal – must sap your strength to fuel its spell, since it can hold no energy of its own."
Kendra didn't speak much during their journey to the edge of Surda. It wasn't that Mark minded the silence, he very much appreciated it, able to hear the clip of Aluora's hooves and nothing much else. His title and position had been spread across the country since his aiding Nasuada first started, and in turn his head had become a high-profile target, for common bandits and the finest assassins the Empire could buy.
On the first night of their trip, he asked where they were headed. The place she had chosen for their new outpost was just north of Cithrí, where a shot of land pushed into the Empire's territory, making them just a peninsula of resistance. When it came to her plans, Kendra threw caution to the wind, allowing the best ideas to win out over any and all downfalls that presented themselves. He believed that she truly would sacrifice herself entirely if it would result in the king's death.
Mark's back started to ache as they rode, but after nearly two full days at a full gallop they were to arrive in Cithrí just before day break. They stopped to purchase a few supplies before they continued on. Walking their horses through the city center, Mark's eyes darted across faces and storefronts. Feeling unfamiliar, he heightened his awareness of the surrounding area, tensed for a fight with every step.
She glanced his way, chuckling under her breath. "Relax." Nyx sniffed around at her feet, dodging between people as they ran errands in the morning light.
"If only I could."
"Honestly, we can kill anyone that poses even a minor threat. Let's just get what we need and go." After tying Lynette to a post outside of a shop, she stepped inside, brushing away a gaggle of bells that rang loudly at her entrance.
"A very early good morning to you!" The shop keeper was a wirey balding man, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat as he greeted her. "What can I help you with this morning lass?"
Kendra looked around with sharp eyes as Mark appeared at her side quietly. There was a large gemstone hanging off of a necklace, just waiting to be charmed. "Is that a real diamond?"
"Why of course, see for yourself!" He trotted over and scurried upon a stool to reach the high hanging necklace. Turning, the man displayed it between his long fingers, dangling the trinket before her eyes. Quietly, Mark muttered a spell to authenticate it, waiting for the gem to glow if fake. The surface shimmered in the morning light, but remained unaffected.
"How much would you need to part with it?" He asked, setting a hand on Kendra's shoulder.
"Oh dear, no less than three hundred crowns I would think. That's a very large stone of such high quality. Travelers rarely carry that on them however, so we can make a bargain, if you have something of value?"
Mark smiled, reaching to his belt, pulling out a piece of solid gold, minted by the dwarves. "Ten of these in exchange for your necklace. Would we have a deal?"
"The markings are exquisite." He reached out, observing the coin, weighing it in his palm for a moment. Narrowing his eyes up at Mark, he finally nodded. "Certainly."
At his word, Mark pulled a handful of the coins from his pouch, laying them out on the top of the counter. "Nine more, as agreed."
The shopkeeper placed the necklace into Kendra's outstretched hand, collecting his coins and moving to hide them in a small chest below the counter. When he stood up again fully, they were both gone.
"Is that all we're going to need?" She asked, tucking the gem into her corset against her breast.
Mark pulled himself up into Aluora's saddle, nodding. "I just needed something strong enough to hold up the spells that I'm going to put on your new hideout." Spurring his she-horse she trotted out of town as Mark pulled his hood up over his head, the others right behind her tail.
When not with Oromis, Eragon supplemented his education by reading the many scrolls the elf gave him, a habit he soon became addicted to. Eragon's rearing – limited as it was by Garrow's scant tutelage – had exposed him only to the knowledge needed to run a farm. The information he discovered on the miles of paper flooded into him like rain on parched desert, sating a previously unknown thirst. He devoured texts on geography, biology, anatomy, philosophy, and mathematics, as well as memoirs, biographies, and histories. More important than the mere facts was his introduction to alternative ways of thinking. They challenged his beliefs and forced him to reexamine his assumptions about everything from the rights of an individual within society to what caused the sun to move across the sky.
He noticed that a number of scrolls concerned Urgals and their culture. Eragon read them and made no mention, of it nor did Oromis broach the topic.
From his studies, Eragon learned much about the elves, a subject that he avidly pursued, hoping that it would help him better understand Arya. To his surprise, he discovered that the elves did not practice marriage, but rather took mates for however long they wanted, whether it be for a day or a century. Children were rare, and having a child was considered by the elves to be the ultimate vow of love.
Eragon also learned that since their two races had first met, only a handful of elf-human couples had existed: mainly human Riders who found appropriate mates among the elves. However, as best he could tell from the cryptic records, most such relationships ended in tragedy, either because the lovers were unable to relate to one another or because the humans aged and died while the elves escaped the ravages of time.
In addition to nonfiction, Oromis presented Eragon with copies of the elves' greatest songs, poems, and epics, which captured Eragon's imagination, for the only stories he was familiar with were the ones Brom had recited in Carvahall. He savored the epics as he might a well-cooked meal, lingering over The Deed of Gëda or The Lay of Umhodan so as to prolong his enjoyment of the tales.
Saphira's own training proceeded apace. Linked as he was to her mind, Eragon got to watch as Glaedr put her through an exercise regimen every bit as strenuous as his. She practiced hovering in the air while lifting boulders, as well as sprints, dives, and other acrobatics. To increase her endurance, Glaedr had her breathe fire for hours upon a natural stone pillar in an attempt to melt it. At first Saphira could only maintain the flames for a few minutes at a time, but before long the blistering torch roared from her maw for over a half hour uninterrupted, heating the pillar white-hot. Eragon was also privy to the dragon lore Glaedr imparted to Saphira, details about the dragons' lives and history that complemented her instinctual knowledge. Much of it was incomprehensible to Eragon, and he suspected that Saphira concealed even more from him, secrets of her race that dragons shared with no one but themselves. One thing he did glean, and that Saphira treasured, was the name of her sire, Iormúngr, and her dam, Vervada, which meant Storm-cleaver in the old speech. While Iormúngr had been bound to a Rider, Vervada was a wild dragon who had laid many eggs but entrusted only one to the Riders: Saphira. Both dragons perished in the Fall.
Some days Eragon and Saphira would fly with Oromis and Glaedr, practicing aerial combat or visiting crumbling ruins hidden within Du Weldenvarden. Other days they would reverse the usual order of things, and Eragon would accompany Glaedr while Saphira remained of the Crags of Tel'naeír with Oromis.
She leaned against the wall for support upon exiting the massive throne room, her legs shaky and her breath uneven. Lifting her head, her hair fell back away from her face, allowing her to gaze into the morning sky illuminating the hallway through the high arching windows. Moving towards the end of the hall at a slow pace, she tried to let the full force of what had transpired coarse through her. The walk to her room felt like miles with her head reeling so fiercely. Her fingers moved across the gritty stone, feeling every crack, crevice, groove, and dip. The heavy door she had come to know felt stiff as she pushed it open; and pleasingly solid behind her back after it had closed.
The balcony overlooking the courtyard invited her to feel the wind rushing up and across the castle grounds. She turned instead to the fireplace, crackling with embers, gazing at it intently for a moment before pulling away. Mariah looked down at her hands, clenching her fingers tightly to her palms, able to feel herself shaking. When she relaxed the muscles, she saw the faint outline of her nails embedded in her flesh.
Looking up and into the mirror atop her dressing table, she shuddered at her own appearance. Her features more pointed and fair than she remembered them being even yesterday and the thought crossed her mind that she was surpassing even Kieran with her features. Red lips plastered across pale skin glowing with elvish magic, punctuated by the loose black hair cascading around her shoulders. Her eyes and ears were tapering, slanting and making her features all together angled. Even from a month ago, the changes were visible. Is it because of the Rider's blood coursing through my veins?
A knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. She moved to open it, staring at Kieran. The woman looked her up and down, raising a sculpted eyebrow. "You look a mess. Did you sleep in those clothes?"
"Let me change. I'll meet you downstairs in half of an hour; make sure the others are there as well."
Kieran parted her lips to say something, pausing at her demeanor and nodded. "Consider it done."
Shutting the door, Mariah turned and changed into a clean set of clothes, pulling her armor across her, belting everything tight. The sword she had finally been granted leaned against the wall until she retrieved it, tying it off at her waist. She pulled the door open and trotted down the staircase to the courtyard, waiting for the others to join her as the wind ruffled her hair.
Darling. Andrar approached her with a whirl of his wings. Twirling around her, he nuzzled against her arm. Do you believe this to be the best course of action?
Yes. I am a Rider for the Empire. We've already waited far too long to prepare the new recruits, training starts now. Galbatorix must be anxious to hatch his new legion.
He hummed to her, lifting his head as Thorn drifted down to join them, landing just in front of the doors to the castle, awaiting Murtagh to join him.
Lifting his hand, he placed it on Thorn's snout, patting his scales in greeting before looking at Mariah. Something in her gaze struck him and he stayed rooted to the ground where he was. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." Mariah turned her gaze from him, drawing her blade and inspecting it, running her fingers along the edge to sharpen it.
"You don't look it." He insisted, watching her carefully before walking to her. "Did something happen?"
She sheathed the blade, satisfied. Mariah gazed over the courtyard and training grounds. "I spoke with Galbatorix."
"About what?"
"My lineage."
He furrowed his brow, thinking. "Brom was your grandfather… what more is there?"
"My parents."
"I thought they both had died when you were younger?"
"They did. Around the same time yours did I assume." She caught the question on his face and bit her lip. "My parents… are both Forsworn."
He felt the rush of wind as Thorn twisted around to stare at her as well. Murtagh watched her fidget under their gaze. She looked as though she was lost. Underneath her beautiful exterior and Rider features, she was still only a teenage girl. All of this being pushed on her so suddenly forced a pulse of sympathy, and for him to step up to her, twining his arms around her in a hug. "That wasn't your choice."
She pulled away from him, folding her arms and catching his eyes, her gaze fierce. "No, but what I do with it is."
"Of course." He insisted, nodding. "I didn't choose who my father was either…" Murtagh trailed off as Kieran pushed the doors open, leading the gaggle of would-be Riders.
Mariah stepped towards them all, grinning. "Today's the day we start your training." Even Kieran looked at her questioningly. "Until now, basic swordplay, magic... all of your fighting skills have been rudimentary. The remainder of your lives will be devoted to the highest level of combat… speed, intelligence, reflexes, stamina. The raw power you will feel once you become a Rider is like nothing you've experienced so far. Trust me when I tell you, this is not going to be easy."
Kieran walked to her, speaking in a hushed tone. "What's got you so uppity all of a sudden?"
"New found pride in what I am." She said, looking at the princess. "If I can't have it my way, then I'll just have to make do with what I can. Now, do you want to help me lead a new legion of Dragon Riders, or would you like to stand there gawking?"
Kieran smirked at her, "Let's get started." She spun on her heel, clapping her hands with a menacing glow to her eyes.
Kendra pushed the door open, leaning on it heavily with her shoulder, dust clouding around her feet. Nyx sneezed before bolting inside and sniffing around. "Huh, Trevin was supposed to be here already." She looked around the sparse room at the table and chairs.
On cue, he dropped from the rafter above her, feet hitting the wooden floor quietly. "Yer highness."
"Funny," she pushed past him, looking around the room. "Is there a basement?"
"Yes, the ladder to go down is below the latch there," he pointed to a brass ring on the floor a few meters away. "Just as dusty as up here."
"It's not dust I'm worried about."
Trevin looked over at Mark who was inspecting the room. "Ah, so you did come, Lord Marcus." He smirked and gave a flashy bow, his red hair tumbling over his brow.
Rolling his eyes, Mark looked at Kendra, "What do you want wards for?"
"Scrying. An alarm in case something is trying to scry us. An invisibility charm around the perimeter so no one knows we're here would be nice, but not necessary. I need this place to be spy proof, so no one gets in or out without my say so."
"It might take me a while, but I can manage." He said, holding his hand out for the necklace. Kendra pulled the diamond from her corset and tossed it to him, watching his fingers curl around the precious stone.
"Go ahead and get started, Trevin and I have some shopping to do." She looked at the archer and headed back outside, listening to him sigh quietly as he followed, Nyx padding after them both.
Holding the diamond in his palm, he started muttering quietly, allowing his magic to seep into the gem as he went. Slowly, he started working wards around the building, weaving a complex set of spells that would keep out anyone except for Kendra. A basic confusion ward to start, layered with an invisibility charm that would kick in if anyone came back a second time. The next layer took several different spells, to prevent scrying the building, and anyone else inside of it. The wording he chose was careful and after nearly two hours he had finally finished with every spell he could think to cover the new hideout Kendra had chosen. Mark sat down, feeling the magic radiating off of the diamond in his palm, letting out a heaving sigh as he finally relaxed, waiting for them to return.
The door handle turned and the princess stumbled in, carrying a bag laden with parchment, quills, and ink. Trevin was behind her with food and fabrics. He blinked a few times, looking around, then back outside.
"The confusion spell should wear off after you step through the door…" Mark commented, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Ah," he nodded, setting the food packages on the table, throwing the blankets on a chair. Kendra laid out the parchment and quills, trying not to tear or break any of them. The ink she set in the middle of the table, out of reach of the edges.
"Wonderful job," she said, turning towards Mark. "I couldn't have done better myself."
"Isn't this what you brought me here for?" He asked, raising an eyebrow, handing her the diamond.
"Yes, however, you did much better weaving those spells together. It's like a spider's web, unlike mine which is akin to a spool of thread." She took the diamond in her hands, able to feel the energy pulsing through the stone. "Incredible. Are you sure you didn't sell your soul to a demon for this?"
"I'm certain. Shade I am not." He stood, stretching. "You'll need to hide the diamond somewhere safe - in the basement perhaps, or under a floorboard. Without it, there will be no magic to hold the spells. Do you have any further need of me?"
She looked him over once, then back at the gemstone necklace. "No. Thank you. If you need to return to your lady, then you may do so immediately. I won't be returning to Aberon for some time. I have a few pieces of business to take care of before then. Tell Nasuada she is lucky to have you."
Trevin glanced between them and then looked down at the table, fussing with a map Kendra had purchased in town. He shuffled the parchment around, looking back at Mark out of the corner of his eye.
"Until later then." Mark smiled a little at both of them before heading outside. He pulled himself back up into Aluora's saddle and wheeled her around, trotting her southward once again.
Kendra turned around, catching Trevin's stare. "Yes?"
"You don't feel like you trust him too much?"
She shook her head. "On the contrary."
"What?"
"I wish I would have met him much before now. Our goals would have been advanced far beyond what they are now much sooner." Looking at the diamond, she nodded, walking over to the trapdoor to the basement. She pulled the latch on the floor up before jumping down into the darkness.
Each morning Eragon sparred with Vanir, which, without exception, ignited one or more of Eragon's seizures. To make matters worse, the elf continued to treat Eragon with haughty condescension. He delivered oblique slights that, on the surface, never exceeded the bounds of politeness, and he refused to be drawn to anger no matter how Eragon needled him. Eragon hated him and his cool, mannered bearing. It seemed as if Vanir was insulting him with every movement. And Vanir's companions – who, as best Eragon could tell, were of a younger generation of elves – shared his veiled distaste for Eragon, though they never displayed aught but respect for Saphira.
Their rivalry came to a head when, after defeating Eragon six times in a row, Vanir lowered his sword and said, "Dead yet again, Shadeslayer. How repetitive. Do you wish to continue?" His tone indicated that he thought it would be pointless.
"Aye," grunted Eragon. He had already suffered an episode with his back and was in no mood to bandy words.
Still, when Vanir said, "Tell me, as I am curious. Howe did you kill Durza when you are so slow? I cannot fathom how you managed it," Eragon felt compelled to reply: "I caught him by surprise."
"Forgive me; I should have guessed trickery was involved."
Eragon fought the impulse to grind his teeth. "If I were an elf or you a human, you would not be able to match my blade."
"Perhaps," said Vanir. He assumed his ready position and, within the span of three seconds and two blows, disarmed Eragon. "But I think not. You should not boast to a better swordsman, else he may decide to punish your temerity."
Eragon's temper broke then, and he reached deep within himself into the torrent of magic. He released the pent up energy with one of the twelve minor words of binding, crying "Malthinae!" to chain Vanir's legs and arms in place and hold his jaw shut so that he could not utter a counterspell. The elf's eyes bulged with outrage.
Eragon said, "And you should not boast to one who is more skilled in magic than you."
Vanir's dark eyebrows met.
Without warning or a whisper of a sound, an invisible force clouted Eragon on the chest and threw him ten yards across the grass, where he landed upon his side, driving the wind from his lungs. The impact disrupted Eragon's control of the magic and freed Vanir.
How did he do that?
Advancing upon him, Vanir said, "Your ignorance betrays you, human. You do not know whereof you speak. To think that you were chosen to succeed Vrael, that you were given his quarters, that you have had the honor to serve the Mourning Sage…" He shook his head. "It sickens me that such gifts are bestowed upon one so unworthy. You do not even understand what magic is or how it works."
Eragon's anger resurged like a crimson tide. "What," he said, "have I ever done to wrong you? Why do you despise me so? Would you prefer it if no Rider existed to oppose Galbatorix?"
"My opinions are of little consequence."
"I agree, but I would hear them."
"Listening, as Nuala wrote in Convocations, is the path to wisdom only when the result of a conscious decision and not a void of perception."
"Straighten your tongue, Vanir, and give me an honest answer!"
Vanir smiled coldly. "As you command, O Rider." Drawing near so that only Eragon could hear his soft voice, the elf said, "For eighty years after the fall of the Riders, we held no hope of victory. We survived by hiding ourselves through deceit and magic, which is but a temporary measure, for eventually Galbatorix will be strong enough to march upon us and sweep aside our defenses. Then, long after we had resigned ourselves to our fate, Brom and Jeod rescued Saphira's egg, and once again a chance existed to defeat the foul usurper. Imagine our joy and celebration. We knew that in order to withstand Galbatorix, the new Rider had to be more powerful than any of his predecessors, more powerful than even Vrael. Yet how was our patience rewarded? With another human like Galbatorix. Worse… a cripple. You doomed us all, Eragon, the instant you touched Saphira's egg. Do not expect us to welcome your presence." Vanir touched his lip with his first and second finger, then side-stepped Eragon and walked off the sparring field, leaving Eragon rooted in place.
He's right, though Eragon. I'm ill-suited for this task. Any of these elves, even Vanir, would make a better Rider than me.
Emanating outrage, Saphira broadened the contact between them. Do you think so little of my judgement, Eragon? You forget that when I was in my egg, Arya exposed me to each and every one of these elves – as well as many of the Varden's children – and that I rejected them all. I wouldn't have chosen someone to be my Rider unless they could help your race, mine, and the elves, for the three of us share an intertwined fate. You were the right person, at the right place, at the right time. Never forget that.
If ever that were true, he said, it was before Durza injured me. Now I see naught but darkness and evil in our future. I won't give up, but I despair that we may not prevail. Perhaps our task is not to overthrow Galbatorix but to prepare the way for the next Rider chosen by the remaining eggs.
"Again." Mariah said, staring down Camilla, still unscathed. The older woman was bleeding out of her shoulder and panting. Her brilliant fur-lined coat laying discarded several meters away, littered with gashes and blood stains. She had volunteered first, and it wasn't about to get easier for any of them.
Staring her down, the Rider's lips crested into a small smile. "If you scratch me you can be done."
Camilla straightened, a scream caught in her throat as she lunged forward with her rapier. "You bitch." Smoothly pushing to her left, Mariah parried the blade and spun around, kicking Camilla's legs from beneath her. She watched her rapier scatter across the stone floor of the courtyard, leaning heavily on her arm, forcing another gush of blood to stream down her skin. Spitting, she stood back up, Mariah simply watching until she retrieved her sword.
She lifted her chin slightly. "Again?"
From the side, Galbatorix watched intently, pleased. He held his hands together, tapping his finger pads against one another. Camilla was intently aware of his presence and turned herself back to Mariah, lashing out with her sword in a complex series of maneuvers, listening to the consistent clash of steel against steel. From her waist, she drew a dagger, flinging it towards the Rider no more than three feet from her.
Twisting away, Mariah felt the blade graze against her armor before it clattered to the ground, unmarred by blood. Camilla's brow furrowed as she jabbed towards her, hoping the knife was a good enough distraction to get in a single blow. Aiming for her face, the tip of her blade slid past Mariah's nose as she turned, watching the needle point zip past her face.
She howled, growing impatient. "Stop dodging and fight me you coward!" In the next moment Camilla was on her back, Mariah's sword tip lying against her clavicle.
"Do not taunt me, Reikena. Your temper is going to result in your death one day, by my blade or another's. You would do well to listen to what I'm teaching you."
Camilla's fingers found purchase on her dropped dagger, flicking her wrist and throwing it up towards the Rider, watching as it tore through her breeches and skin. She smirked, staring up at the smaller girl.
"You think yourself clever, but had I not held my blade, you'd already be dead." Mariah stepped back, allowing her to stand.
Galbatorix clapped slowly, motioning for Camilla to come to him. "Yes, come here my dear. I have something I want to show you." He looked over the others. "We shall resume tomorrow, keep up the hard work!"
She smirked at Mariah, prancing over to him in her heels after retrieving her coat, sheathing her rapier at her waist. The king wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her inside, talking with her exuberantly, twirling his hand about as he spoke.
At the Crags of Tel'naeír, Eragon found Oromis at the table in his hut, painting a landscape with black ink along the bottom edge of a scroll he had finished writing.
Eragon bowed and knelt. "Master."
Fifteen minutes elapsed before Oromis finished limning the tufts of needles on a gnarled juniper tree, laid aside his ink, cleaned his sable brush with water from a clay pot, and then addressed Eragon, saying, "Why have you come so early?"
"I apologize for disturbing you, but Vanir abandoned our contest partway through and I did not know what to do with myself."
"Why did Vanir leave, Eragon-vodhr?"
Oromis folded his hands in his lap while Eragon described the encounter, ending with: "I should not have lost control, but I did, and I looked all the more foolish because of it. I have failed you, Master."
"You have," agreed Oromis. "Vanir may have goaded you, but that was no reason to respond in kind. You must keep a better hold over your emotions, Eragon. It could cost you your life if you allow your temper to sway your judgement during battle. Also, such childish displays do nothing but vindicate those elves who are opposed to you. Our machinations are subtle and allow little room for such errors."
"I am sorry, Master. It won't happen again."
As Oromis seemed content to wait in his chair until the time when they normally performed the Rimgar, Eragon seized the opportunity to ask, "how could Vanir have worked magic without speaking?"
"Did he? Perhaps another elf decided to assist him."
Eragon shook his head. "During my first day in Ellesméra, I also Islanzadí summon a downpour of flowers by clapping her hands, nothing more. And Vanir said that I didn't understand how magic works. What did he mean?"
"Once again," said Oromis, resigned, "you grasp at knowledge that you are not prepared for. Yet, because of our circumstances, I cannot deny it to you. Only know this: that which you ask for was not taught to Riders – and is not taught to our magicians – until they had, and have, mastered every other aspect of magic, for this is the secret to the true nature of magic and the ancient language. Those who know it may acquire great power, yes, but at a terrible risk." He paused for a moment. "How is the ancient language bound to magic, Eragon-vodhr?"
"The words of the ancient language can release the energy stored within your body and thus activate a spell."
"Ah. Then you mean that certain sounds, certain vibrations in the air, somehow tap into this energy? Sounds that might be produced at random by any creature or thing?"
"Yes, Master."
"Does not that seem absurd?"
Confused, Eragon said, "It doesn't matter if it seems absurd, Master; it just is. Should I think it absurd that the moon wanes and waxes, or that the seasons turn, or that birds fly south in the winter?"
"Of course not. But how could mere sound do so much? Can particular patterns of pitch and volume really trigger reactions that allow us to manipulate energy?"
"But they do."
"Sound has no control over magic. Saying a word or phrase in this language is not what's important, it's thinking them in this language." With a flick of his wrist, a golden flame appeared over Oromis's palm, then disappeared. "However, unless the need is dire, we still utter our spells out loud to prevent stray thoughts from disrupting them, which is a danger to even the most experienced magic user."
The implications staggered Eragon. He thought back to when he almost drowned under the waterfall of the lake Kostha-merna and how he had been unable to access magic because of the water surrounding him. If I had known this then, I could have saved myself, he thought. "Master," he said, "if sound does not affect magic, why, then, do thoughts?"
Now Oromis smiled. "Why indeed? I must point out that we ourselves are not the source of magic. Magic can exist on its own, independent of any spells, such as the werelights in the bogs by Aroughs, the dream well In Mani's Caves in the Beor Mountains, and the floating crystal or Eoam. Wild magic such as this is treacherous, unpredictable and often stronger than any we can cast.
"Eons ago, all magic was thus. To use it required nothing but the ability to sense magic with your mind – which every magician must possess – and the desire and strength to use it. Without the structure of the ancient language, magicians could not govern their talent and, as a result, loosed many evils upon the land, killing thousands. Over time they discovered that stating their intentions in their language helped them to order their thoughts and avoid costly errors. But it was no foolproof method. Eventually, an accident occurred so horrific that it almost destroyed every living being in the world. We know of the event from fragments of manuscripts that survived the era, but who or what cast the fatal spell is hidden from us. The manuscripts say that, afterward, a race called the Grey Folk – not elves, for we were young then – fathered their resources and wrought an enchantment, perhaps the greatest that was or ever shall be. Together the Grey Folk changed the nature of magic itself. They made it so that their language, the ancient language, could control what a spell does… could actually limit the magic so that if you said burn that door and by chance looked at me and thought of me, the magic would still burn the door, not me. And they gave the ancient language its two unique traits, the ability to prevent those who speak it from lying and the ability to describe the true nature of things. How they did that remains a mystery.
"The manuscripts differ on what happened to the Grey Folk when they completed their work, but it seems that the enchantment drained them of their power and left them but a shadow of themselves. They faded away, choosing to live in their cities until the stones crumbled to dust or to take mates among the younger races and so pass into darkness."
"Then," said Eragon, "it is still possible to use magic without the ancient language?"
"How do you think Saphira breathes fire? And, by your own account, she used no word when she turned Brom's tomb to diamond nor when she blessed the child in Farthen Dûr. Dragons' minds are different from ours; they need no protection from magic. They cannot use it consciously, aside from their fire, but when the gift touches them, their strength is unparalleled… You look troubled Eragon. Why?"
Eragon stared down at his hands. "What does this mean for me, Master?"
"It means that you will continue to study the ancient language, for you can accomplish much with it that would be too complex or too dangerous otherwise. It means that if you are captured and gagged, you can still call upon magic to free yourself, as Vanir did. It means that if you are captured and rugged and cannot recall the ancient language, yes, even then, you may cast a spell, though only in the gravest circumstances. And it means that if you would cast a spell for that which has no name in the ancient language, you can." He paused. "But beware the temptation to use these powers. Even the wisest among us hesitate to trifle with them for fear of death or worse."
The rain started pounding a few miles south of Cithrí. Mark growled at the sky and silently forced a bubble around himself and Aluora, shielding them from the rain. The she-horse whinnied at him, continuing on until she started slipping in the mud. "Great." He dis-mounted and walked with her slowly, hoping the rain would stop sooner rather than later. Rushing back to Aberon was unlikely to happen in a downpour.
He waited beneath a tree with his mare, letting her rest for a while until the rain stopped. Mark willed himself warmer and in a rush of magic, felt the shivering stop. After nearly an hour, he started muttering to himself. "I'm not getting back in two days with this mess." He looked back at Aluora who then blinked at him, nickering and nosing him in the shoulder. "It's alright; Nasuada won't miss us one extra day." Mark gazed back up at the black sky, "though it doesn't look like this is going to let up any time soon."
Groaning, he pulled himself back up into her saddle and continued south. The rain didn't let up, not for the first day, nor the second. It was during this second day of non-stop rain when he spotted another sole traveler on the road ahead of him. The man looked to be armed, and he didn't much feel like fighting in a thunderstorm. He turned himself and Aluora invisible, the silent spell pushing through his thoughts in an instant. Pulling the she-horse off the road, he continued at a slower pace, each of her hoof-beats dampened by the squelching mud.
After routing around the traveler, he had Aluora continue at a brisk pace, finding a new road and continuing onward. He let up the invisibility spell and spurred Aluora faster, sighing quietly as the rain started to let up at last.
His arrival in Aberon didn't go unnoticed. By the time he had reached the main gate, the guards were hailing his arrival. "By the gods, I've only been gone just over a week…" Mark grumbled. "It's like I'm a damn war hero or something." The white she-horse pranced through the streets back to the castle's stables. One of the young boys tending the horses took her reins from Mark as he jumped down right in front of Nasuada. "You'd think I'd been announced with the racket they're making."
"You're the Varden's knight in shining armor, white steed and all. Just like in the stories. What else do you think they would do when they saw you?"
"Ignore me," he growled, pushing past her. "I'm not a hero. I've been drenched and starved for nearly a week; I'm more ready to sleep than save someone."
She raised an eyebrow, watching him stalk off into King Orrin's castle, a smile curling around the edges of her mouth as he nearly snapped at one of the guards.
Upon reaching his room, he slammed the door and rubbed his face. Striding over, he abandoned the cloak around his throat to the floor, flinging his shirt off into a corner and dropped on to his bed, sinking into the blankets. Mark kicked off his mud-soaked boots, stretching until he felt a satisfying pop in his back, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.
Mariah had Kieran help her brawl with Cederic, Pearce, Hal, and Innes. The two of them were more than a match for the boys. Odette trailed off to the archery range, and Murtagh followed to keep her company and assist her, not wanting to be near Mariah and her bloodthirst at the moment.
Innes waved Kieran off, backing away, panting heavily and dropping his sword. "Forget this…" He clutched his calf, healing it. "Waíse Heill. I'm done." He repeated the spell, healing up another gash in his side. "You two are insane." Kieran pushed him against the wall for a moment, sneering at him.
"You're pathetic Innes." She held his gaze. "I'd be ashamed if you were the one fighting beside me in a war. You're dead weight, I'd be better off leaving you for dead and going on my own than protecting your ass."
He looked down his nose at her, biting his tongue as she dropped him. Turning back to the others, launching towards Cederic's back, tearing her sword across his armor. He turned and swiped at her with his greatsword, watching her jump backwards out of the way, twirling and jabbing at him again with Eirian. Innes watched the five-way battle and huffed, stalking off to find Odette and Murtagh.
"Who's going to be the next one down?" Mariah asked, looking between Pearce and Hal, flipping a dagger between her fingers, sword in her right hand. With a laugh, she ducked below Hal's swing and stabbed him in the leg with the dagger, leaving it there to permeate the muscle. He hit the ground heavily, gritting his teeth before yanking the dagger out, putting pressure on the wound to keep it from bleeding more. "Just you and me now Pearce."
The blond lifted his shield up to protect himself, watching her footing. She waited for him to attack first, stepping around Hal now that he way laying on the ground cursing at her. Pearce waited until she was between himself and Cederic, pushing forward and striking at her with his short sword. She turned, side stepping out of the arc, crashing into Cederic. He twisted and swung towards her, throwing her out of the fighting area with the heavy blade.
Mariah pulled herself back up to her feet, watching Kieran fend the two of them off on her own with ease. She stood and watched the fight, chuckling a little as Cederic finally crashed to the ground beside Hal. Pearce glanced between the two of them and stopped.
"What's the matter?" Kieran asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Hopeless to fight the two of you on my own… regular soldiers, fine. But this is unfair, to say the least. Two Riders against a single soldier? No, I'll live thanks." Pearce sheathed his sword and lowered his shield arm.
"At least he has some sense." Mariah looked at the other two boys on the ground. "You two will keep on fighting alone until it kills you… allies are beneficial in a fight, I'll have you know. There is strength in numbers."
"You're both Riders!" Cederic growled out. "It was unfair from the start."
"Idiots. It's not about that… Kieran and I were working together to attack all of you, meanwhile, you were all too busy trying to show off and get the final blow in yourselves. Pearce is the exception. You nobles are all the same. You feel entitled. Your pride gets the better of you, and that is how you lose. Remember for a moment you are mortal just like everyone else, and if I run you through with a piece of steel, you will die upon it, just like everyone else…" Mariah stood over the two bleeding men on the ground. "Remember that during your next fight, and you might actually succeed."
Murtagh returned with Odette and Innes, catching her gaze for a moment before walking back inside the castle. Andrar eyed her from across the courtyard, nudging at her mentally. She put her blade back in its sheath and stalked inside after them. When Odette and Innes trailed off towards their wing of the castle, she followed Murtagh. He paused, waiting for her to catch him. "Yes?"
"You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry," he insisted. Murtagh looked over at her again. "I'm worried about what is happening to you. I thought you didn't want this."
"I don't." She said, putting a hand on his forearm. "I just don't know what else to do."
He took her wrist and pulled her after him into his room. "What do you mean?" Murtagh closed the door behind them, hoping no one would nose in on their conversation.
"I just…" She paused, trying to find what she meant. "I want my existence to mean something. I thought it was destroying Galbatorix, but now I feel like that's not it. If my parents were both Riders and my grandfather before that… then, what if I'm just meant to continue it? What if I'm supposed to lead a rising of new Dragon Riders? If this is my heritage, I don't want it to die with me."
He stared at her. "You want Galbatorix to win now?"
"No… I want us to win. If it means being in a world where Galbatorix started it, then that's fine. I just don't want us to fade into legend… like when I was growing up. I don't want it to just be a story."
"You would have the Empire remain, controlling the world, in exchange for Dragon Riders to exist?" Murtagh waited for her answer, grasping her wrists. "Mariah…"
"I know, it seems stupid." She hung her head, watching as her tears soaked into the rug below her feet. "If that's not what I'm meant for, then my purpose is to destroy all resistance of the Empire. And that too is betraying my lineage… my grandfather. I don't want to have to choose a side. I want to make the right choice."
Murtagh lifted her head to look at him. "It is a noble thought to want to restore the Riders, but under the circumstances, do you truly believe that to be the best course of action? If this happens, and we indeed do become his new Forsworn, the nine of us that there are so far will have more than enough power to destroy anything that falls in our path."
"If that's what needs to happen to restore the Riders, then that's what needs to be done."
"Mariah, what you're suggesting isn't restoring the Riders. It's creating a larger Forsworn for Galbatorix to control. If he has us all under oath, any dragon that hatches will belong to him. You're only making him more powerful. Is that what you want?"
She pulled away from him. "If you don't understand what I'm trying to do, that's fine. I can do it myself." Mariah wiped at her face, pushing out of his room and hurrying to her bed, curling up in tears. She was unable to sleep, half-conscious throughout the night as her tears finally ceased.
The next morning, and every morning thereafter so long as he stayed in Ellesméra, Eragon dueled with Vanir, but he never lost his temper again, no matter what the elf did or said.
Nor did Eragon feel like devoting energy to their rivalry. His back pained him more and more frequently, driving him to the limits of his endurance. The debilitating attacks sensitized him; actions that previously had caused him no trouble could now leave him writhing on the ground. Even the Rimgar began to trigger the seizures as he advanced to more strenuous poses. It was not uncommon for him to suffer three or four such episodes in one day.
Eragon's face grew haggard. He walked with a shuffle, his movements slow and careful as he tried to preserve his strength. It became hard for him to think clearly or to pay attention to Oromis's lessons, and gaps began to appear in his memory that he could not account for. In his spare time, he took up Orik's puzzle ring again, preferring to concentration upon the baffling interlocked rings rather than his condition. When she was with him, Saphira insisted that he ride upon her back and did everything that she could to make him comfortable and to save him effort.
One morning, as he clung to a spike on her neck, Eragon said, I have a new name for pain.
What's that?
The Obliterator. Because when you're in pain, nothing else can exist. Not thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it's strong enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we are, until we're reduced to creatures less than animals, creatures with a single desire and goal: escape.
A good name, then.
I'm falling apart, Saphira, like an old horse that's plowed too many fields. Keep hold of me with your mind, or I may drift apart and forget who I am.
I will never let go of you.
Soon afterward, Eragon fell victim to three bouts of agony while fighting Vanir and then two more during the Rimgar. As he uncurled from the clenched ball he had rolled into, Oromis said, "Again, Eragon. You must perfect your balance."
Eragon shook his head and growled in an undertone, "No." He crossed his arms to hide his tremors.
"What?"
"No."
"Get up, Eragon, and try again."
"No! Do the pose yourself; I won't."
Oromis knelt beside Eragon and placed a cool hand on his cheek. Holding it there, he gazed at Eragon with such kindness, Eragon understood the depths of the elf's compassion for him, and that, if it were possible, Oromis would willingly assume Eragon's pain to relieve his suffering. "Don't abandon hope," said Oromis. "Never that." A measure of strength seemed to flow from him to Eragon. "We are the Riders. We stand between the light and the dark, and keep the balance between the two. Ignorance, fear, hate: these are our enemies. Deny them with all your might, Eragon, or we will surely fail." He extended a hand towards Eragon. "Now rise, Shadeslayer, and prove you can conquer the instincts of your flesh!"
Eragon took a deep breath and pushed himself upright on one arm, wincing from the effort. He got his feet underneath himself, paused for a moment, then straightened to his full height and looked Oromis in the eye.
The elf nodded with approval.
Eragon remained silent until they finished the Rimgar and went to bathe in the stream, whereupon he said, "Master."
"Yes, Eragon?"
"Why must I endure this torture? You could use magic to give me the skills I need, to shape my body as you do the trees and plants."
"I could, but if I did, you would not understand how you got the body you had, your own abilities, nor how to maintain them. No shortcuts exist for the path you walk, Eragon."
Cold water rushed over the length of Eragon's body as he lowered himself into the stream. He ducked his head under the surface, holding a rock so that he would not float away, and lay stretched out along the streambed, feeling like an arrow flying through the water.
That night, as he drifted away from his back pain and body aches, Eragon let his responsibilities fade as well. He was able to stretch, fight, run, climb, and jump, without his back ever so much as pulsing. Only here did he still feel truly unbroken.
He rushed through the forest of the Spine, whether chasing or fleeing he didn't know, dodging past trees with astounding speed. Rounding a bend, he leapt across the stream before the rushing of water faded from his hearing once more. He skidded to a halt only when he was about to crash into her. She whirled around and smiled at him, looking him up and down once.
"Running from something?"
Eragon ran his tongue over his lips. It was the first time she actually talked to him like this, usually it was just memories. "I think… running to you."
"You can't."
"Here I can." He insisted, watching as she reached out for him, putting her hand against his cheek gently. Eragon closed his eyes as her warm fingers graced his skin. "I miss you."
Mariah smiled, dropping her hand and wrapping her arms around his waist, lacing her fingers together. She felt warm against him and he pulled her close, rubbing her back slowly, able to smell lilacs when he pressed his cheek against her hair. "How are you?"
He pulled back slightly, looking at her, still holding her around her waist. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Your back… it still hurts."
Eragon nodded. "But not here."
"That's… good." She danced her fingers along his back, tracing where the scar would be. "I hope you are able to overcome the damage that Durza caused."
"I would do it again to save you." Her fingers stopped and she blinked up at him. "I would endure anything for that."
She shook her head. "I would rather you be able to move as you used to than to suffer for me."
"You shouldn't say such things." He scolded, tapping her nose. "I would do anything, brave anything to have you back." Mariah watched his face, his expression, bright and serious. He laughed and stepped back, spinning her around once. "But I'll settle for this… as long as you come back to me tomorrow night, and every one after." She hummed and nodded, resting her head against his shoulder.
When he woke, pain instantly settled once more into his spine. He clenched and unclenched his hands, staring up at the ceiling in anger before turning his head to look at the fairth beside his bed. Eragon let out a sigh and forced himself to stand, convincing his body that every painful movement was worth doing.
With love, as always,
Mariah