Chapter Sixty-Eight: Unbreakable Bonds
"Come on," Mariah insisted, laughing. "We'll be late."
"I'm hurrying as fast as I can." Eragon called up to her, darting between the trees until a ridge opened up in front of them.
One of the higher passes of the Spine left them with a breathtaking view of the ocean. The sun bled into the water, turning the tide crimson and gold. She smiled and sat on the edge, dangling her feet over a sheer drop of several hundred feet. He sat down beside her; leaning against her shoulder, cheek against her hair.
"We only did this once, and yet you remember it so vividly…"
She nodded. "Of course, this is my favorite sunset." Mariah hummed at the sound of his heartbeat, turning her face to him. Her nose brushed against his and she tipped her head up to kiss him gently.
At a loud lightning crack Mariah woke slowly from her dream and sighed, dressing methodically and heading down the massive staircase. Rain pounded heavily against the windows. Andrar?
I am alright my dear, it's just a little rain. He tucked his wing in tighter to his side, curled up with Nasreen, huddled against the side of the castle blocking the wind.
Very well… She continued to the dining hall, pausing as she entered. Missing from the table were Pearce and Odette, along with Kieran, though that wasn't too unusual. It was true princesses needed their beauty sleep.
"If you're looking for the others, they're downstairs…" Camilla surveyed her nails as Belladonna curled around her ankles. Her eyes flashed up towards Mariah. "Hopefully you aren't too late."
She bolted down the hallway, taking the stairs down two at a time, falling into the wall as she reached the floor. Mariah went skidding around the corner, nearly tripping on the polished floors. Launching forward, she heaved the door open, her knees going weak.
"They both just hatched…" Kieran said as Mariah appeared in the doorway, "Didn't force them this time at all." She had her arms cross over her chest as she watched the scene unfold in front of her.
Mariah stopped and stared at the eggs cracked on the floor, one shining copper and the other a stunning turquoise. Pearce scooped up the copper dragon in his arms, the large hatchling rumbling a purr as a silver circle appeared on his right hand. Kneeling, Odette twirled the turquoise dragon's tail around her fingers, smiling slightly.
Galbatorix waved Pearce and Odette away. "Good, now you may leave. I expect both of you tomorrow morning, with the rest of the group in the courtyard." The dragons chirped at one another until they were both being held and brought away quickly. He turned to Kieran and Mariah. "Now that the dragons are all hatched, let us begin the final phases of our plans. I have nine of my thirteen Forsworn… the Shadeslayer makes ten. Your brother, Mariah, would become my eleventh if you are able to persuade him to join us. That leaves two, and there are indeed enough dragons now for us to be able to have several clutches of eggs within the next year."
Glancing over, Mariah observed the last remaining. An emerald egg sitting nestled atop its pedestal. She turned her attention back to Galbatorix as he spoke to her. "I have promised you gifts in the past. If you would, I present them to you now… this way." He turned and swept from the egg's room and into a series of hallways. Here there were hordes of treasure piling up in the catacombs, giant mounds of gold that would make any noble jealous.
He turned down another hall, pushing open a door. Before her was a mass of weapons and armor, unlike anything she had seen before. Shining blades as though they had been forged yesterday and glittering gems embedded in the hilts. Brilliant fabrics and clothing in colors that she thought impossible to recreate, laced with embroidery and delicate details.
A quick touch out towards the objects, and she felt a magical pressure; a spell warding corrosive damage to the items in the room. Galbatorix walked forward, waving his hand towards a set of armor. "This here and any Rider's blade you find will belong to you when the eve of battle arrives."
Mariah reached out and touched the silver metal, filigreed with intricate swirls and curves. "This is elvish make… no human could have forged this… and no dwarf made this armor."
"Indeed." He motioned to the end of the room where there was a line of Rider's weapons hanging from the wall. Their brightsteel blades were unmistakable. Mariah stepped over, observing the swords for a moment, pausing at the sight of a sapphire blue blade, reminding her of Saphira. Finally, she reached out for a stunning orange and gold hilted longsword, a stunning gemstone settled in the hilt, with brightsteel the color of the setting sun, with it a matching dagger. "An excellent choice."
She looked at the rune on the thin sword and smiled gently, running her fingers along the engraving on the brightsteel. "Ancalë… Radiant One." He took the blade from her delicately. "I will have them readied for you. When you march onto the field of battle, these will be with you. Now, I have some preparations to make." Galbatorix waved the two girls off, closing the door to the treasury behind them, striding off into the catacombs. "Lucky you…" Kieran said, heading upstairs with her. "I'm going to spend the day beating the stuffing out of Innes. Since he got his damned dragon, he thinks he can say whatever he wants to me. You want to join?" "No… thank you," Mariah said. Kieran shrugged and stalked off to the dining hall. A moment later, she was shouting at the blond man who was exchanging equally venomous words with the princess. They didn't even make it outside into the rain before Eirian had been drawn.
The days leading up to the AgaetÍ Blödhren were the best and worst of times for Eragon. His back troubled him more than ever, battering down his health and endurance and destroying his calm of mind; he lived in constant fear of triggering an episode. Yet, in contrast, he and Saphira had never been so close. They lived as much in each other's minds as in their own. And every now and then Arya would visit the tree house and walk through Ellesméra with Eragon and Saphira. She never came alone, though, always bringing either Orik or Maud the werecat.
Over the course of their wanderings, Arya introduced Eragon and Saphira to elves of distinction: great warriors, poets, and artists. She took them to concerts held under the thatched pines. And she showed them many hidden wonders of Ellesméra.
Eragon seized every opportunity to talk with her. He told her about his upbringing in Palancar Valley, about Roran, Garrow, and his aunt Marian, stories about the time he spent growing up alongside Mark and Mariah, stories of Sloan, Ethlbert, and the other villagers, and his love of the mountains surrounding Carvahall and the flaming sheets of light that adorned the winter sky at night. He told her about the time a vixen fell into Gedric's tanning vats and had to be fished out with a net. He told her about the joy he found in planting a crop, weeding and nurturing it, and watching the tender green shoots grow under his care – joy that he knew she, of all people, could appreciate.
In turn, Eragon gleaned occasional insights into her own life. He heard mentions of her childhood, her friends and family, and her experiences among the Varden, which she spoke about most freely, describing raids and battles she participated in, treaties she helped to negotiate, her disputes with the dwarves, and the momentous events she witnessed during her tenure as ambassador.
Between her and Saphira, a measure of peace entered Eragon's heart, but it was a precarious balance that the slightest influence might disrupt. Time itself was an enemy, for Arya was destined to leave Du Weldenvarden after the Agaetí Blödhren. Thus, Eragon treasured his moments with her and dreaded the arrival of the forthcoming celebration and losing one of his few true friends among the elves.
The entire city bustled with activity as the elves prepared for the Agaetí Blödhren. Eragon had never seen them so excited before. They decorated the forest with colored bunting and lanterns, especially around the Menoa tree, while the tree itself was adorned with a lantern upon the tip of each branch, where the hung like glowing teardrops. Even the plants, Eragon noticed, took on a festive appearance with a collection of bright new flowers. He often heard the elves singing to them late at night.
Each day hundreds of elves arrived in Ellesméra from their cities scattered throughout the woods, for no elf would willingly miss the centennial observance of their treaty with the dragons. Eragon guessed that many of them also came to meet Saphira. It seems as if I do nothing but repeat their greeting, he thought. The elves who were absent because of their responsibilities would hold their own festivities simultaneously and would participate in the ceremonies at Ellesméra by scrying through enchanted mirrors that displayed the likeness of those watching, so that no one felt as if they were being spied upon.
Narrowing his eyes, he could see the outline of a city in the distance. Closer yet however, buried amongst the landscape was a large campsite. Galbatorix had said there were resistance fighters near Furnost, but if they honestly thought that they could camp in plain view, they were daft. He saw horses tied up just past the tents and lowered his gaze to the ground below. A horse would be a better way to get into the city unnoticed. Many would question him simply walking in without supplies for a long journey.
Land. We'll camp here tonight. Murtagh felt a rush of air as Thorn spiraled downward, snapping his wings out and landing on the north side of a large hill, dotted with tall fir trees. He curled up in the growing shadows of sunset and allowed his Rider from his back. He went to remove the saddle when Thorn growled.
Leave it hatchling. It would be best, in the event we need to leave in a hurry. I do not like you being alone and I want to be able to assist you if need be.
Murtagh nodded and patted his nose. "I'll see you later Thorn."
Be safe.
He pulled the black leather belt around his waist and tied his sword to it. His bow and arrow slung across his back, he rounded the hill and headed for the camp quietly. The land was rocky and he had to mind his footing or risk slipping, more than once did he have to catch himself with magic to avoid falling. Murtagh paused underneath a tree, glancing between the tents and the horses. The clearing was up against a heavy tree line, but the other side was completely barren. Naturally, that was where the horses were tethered.
Biting his lip, he circled around and stepped from the line of trees, one hand on his sword. Minding his steps, he crept from heel to toe. Halfway there he heard a soft rustle and tightened his grip. A lose flap from the tent beside him wavered and a shadow moved from beneath it. A pair of gold eyes glared up at him as a rippling snarl sounded low in its throat, breaking off as it snapped at his ankles.
Murtagh scrambled back, drawing his sword, and inhaled sharply at the cold dagger pressed against his throat. A foot slipped under his shin and tripped him, shoving him forward to the ground. He twisted as he went, snarling, reaching up and grabbing at the wrist of his attacker as she pounced on him, twisting her arm and forcing her to drop the knife. He stared up into midnight blue eyes and faltered.
Her other hand was already reaching for another knife when her lips stopped moving, the swell of magic leaving her veins. She stilled, able to hear her pounding heart and his heavy breathing. Kendra finally let out a shaky breath and stood up. Murtagh pushed off the ground, elbowing his sword sheath out of the way before reaching over to brush her hair from her face. His fingers arced around her ear before his hand dropped to his side.
"Sorry about Nyx." Kendra's words came out in a whisper, her eyes still taking him in.
Murtagh watched her face, noting her biting her lip and sweeping her tongue across to wet them slightly as she turned her face downward. "He always did like to bite me."
"What are you doing here?"
"Sneaking into Furnost… I was going to steal one of your horses."
"You bastard." Their eyes met again and a half-grin spread across her face. With a single step she was pressed against him, throwing her arms around his waist. Murtagh wrapped his arms around her shoulders, placing his cheek on her hair, letting out a relieved sigh. He felt her exhale shakily and moved his head away, alarmed. She shook her head and buried her face in his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat.
A ragged breath racked her body again as she pulled away, balling up her hands. "I thought you were gone." Her hands shook. "You know how long I looked for you? Do you?" She huffed through her tears. "You must have been dead, or caught by Galbatorix… and I… I couldn't bear either of those thoughts."
His mouth attempted words, but no noise escaped his throat. His face pained, he finally managed to speak. "Can we… talk?"
She shook as she moved ahead of him. They rounded the tent and an arrow whipped past her, shooting into Murtagh's side, grazing him – a warning shot. He swore under his breath and glared up at the guard. Kendra gritted her teeth. "He's fine, go back to your watch."
She glanced back at Murtagh, eyeing the wound but saying nothing more of it as she slipped back into her tent with Nyx, muttering a spell and lighting the candles, afterward putting up sound wards so that the others wouldn't wake again to their voices. Murtagh stepped after her and blinked at the maps and battle plans lay out before him on the table. He looked back at Kendra as she sunk down into a chair. "…what have you been doing?"
"Fighting him. Recently, with the Varden's help…" she croaked out. "Where have you been?"
"Hiding…" Murtagh said, noting how cowardly it made him feel while he stood next to her. Laid across the table were her months of effort working against the Empire, and here he was. Watching her as her tears started to dry, he asked, "Are you alright?"
Kendra nodded. "Sorry, it was just a surprise to find out you were alive. Someone told me they saw you taken in Farthen Dûr…"
"Knocked out after a bloody battle, but I made it out. Some of the others weren't so lucky." She nodded, letting the silence overtake them. Nyx prowled around Murtagh for a moment before going off and curling up in a corner. The Rider shuffled his feet, unable to bear the silence with everything else weighing on him. "Your hair is really long."
"Yeah."
"I mean… it was above your shoulders the last I remember."
"I like it like this, though it does get in the way." Kendra said, playing with the ends.
As he watched her, his chest ached, remembering the last time he had seen her - it had been almost a year. At the castle, Kieran had been a constant reminder of her, but she had always paled in comparison. He watched as she brushed away the last of her tears, it made her seem vulnerable, and he wasn't used to it. She didn't usually cry in front of anyone.
"Yes?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You're staring."
"It's just… been a while."
She nodded, standing back up. "How much do you know about what's going on?"
Murtagh shook his head. "Not much." He followed her over to the table. Kendra pointed, starting with Furnost and then gliding her finger through Surda and some of the southern cities. She told him where they had spies located, how many. The troop numbers made his heart sink. If Galbatorix decided to march on them they would be no match. He assumed he, Kieran, and Mariah alone could destroy most of, if not their entire army, given enough time.
She leaned across the table in front of him, splaying her palms on the wood and moved a few pins, glancing up at him. "I've even spoken with their leader, a woman named Nasuada. We're as prepared as we can be with the information that we have. Between my group, Black Lightning, and the Varden, and King Orrin's assistance in Surda, I think we've got a good chance to hold our own against his army. Even if he does have a few Dragon Riders." She looked at his face and sighed. "Besides Kieran… there's at least one more. From what my spies have told me. Another girl... the Varden's one Rider is probably no match for Kieran though…"
Murtagh managed to bob his head, fingers gripping the edge of the table at the thought of Eragon. Leaning over the table he attempted to memorize the map, trying to figure out where to attack. If he could guide Galbatorix into doing the least amount of damage while making headway for the heart of their army, he could minimize casualties and hopefully spare more than anticipated. Kendra moved a few more pins, brushing her hand past his.
She paused and set down the last marker. "You met the Rider."
"I did," he said, watching her.
"I met someone… his name is Mark. He said that you were taken along with his sister. He said you traveled with them for a while."
Murtagh tensed for a moment. "It was how I managed to get to the Varden, despite my best attempts at avoiding it."
"Do… you know what happened to her?"
"No…" He swallowed, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for himself. "They spirited us, and the dragon, away. They had knocked us out, and while they were busy with the dragon halfway back to Urû'baen I ran. There wasn't much more I could do."
Kendra nodded and sighed. "Mark thinks his sister is the new Rider for Galbatorix. You know, he would have tried to do the same to you if he'd captured you too."
"What do you mean?"
"The eggs we collected over the years, he would have tried to get one to hatch for you, and make you a Rider. You're like the son he never had. Kieran and I always were disappointments to him for that reason." She observed the table again slowly. "I do not look forward to meeting her on the battlefield."
He hadn't even thought about that before. Murtagh watched her quietly, trying to imagine what it would be like to see the two of them fight now. The sound of clashing steel echoed in his ears. He had seen them fight before, and it was fierce. Kieran had a dragon, yes, but she would insist on fighting her alone, without the advantage, just to prove to both of them that she could beat her. The thought of seeing them fight, and the possibility of watching Kieran kill her twin was almost unbearable. "You aren't actually going to fight her, are you?"
"I'll be on the front lines of any battle we have against Galbatorix; you should know me better than that by now." She said, avoiding his gaze, knowing where his mind had been. "I'm not scared of my sister."
"I just don't want to see something happen. I can't imagine…"
She smirked. "I'm not gonna die. Not yet. I refuse to die until I see Galbatorix fall."
"You know it's not your choice…"
"Well maybe it wouldn't be such a concern if I had someone covering my back. I have only a handful of people I trust and they are all busy doing other things I trust no one else with - and you left me."
"I left because I couldn't become one of his pawns. You did the same."
"Only after you left me there!"
"You said it yourself; he was going to turn me into a Rider. If I hadn't escaped, then what?"
"Then he would have turned you into a Rider, just like my sister. He tried to convince me many times, and I always refused. I know you remember those days. When you left and he had no one else to turn to, I was certain I was going to be forced into it. I never wanted that life, you know that. When I heard you had managed to escape, I left in the hopes that I would be able to track you down. But obviously you fled too well. You never came back."
"You understand why I left, don't you? That was the hardest thing I ever had to do, leave you there. I couldn't have taken you with me; you would have died before we made it to the gates."
"I nearly did, you leaving me like that!"
"I'm sorry!" He watched as she nearly broke into tears again, his voice softening. "I'm sorry… I left you there. I wanted to come back for you the second I left. Kendra…" Murtagh watched as she turned and wiped at her face again. He sighed and stepped to her, setting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
She twisted into his shoulder and held onto him tightly, curling her fingers into his jerkin. "I know."
Murtagh pulled her closer and tipped her face up to look at him, brushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked down, wiping at her tears and sniffed as he rubbed her shoulders gently, trying to calm her back down. He held her close and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Murtagh…"
The sudden rush to his chest felt like being in the middle of a battle. Aware of how close she was, Murtagh noted her eyelashes brushing against the tip of his nose and her breath hot on his face. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he went ridged, unprepared as she pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Regaining himself he responded, his gloved hands slipping up her neck and into her hair. She leaned back against the table when he pressed forward. Murtagh quickly used the table to steady himself, throwing out his left hand, while his right lingered in her hair. Finally, there was a break and she inhaled shakily, her breath dancing on his lips. She turned her eyes upward, watching him.
Leaning down, he set his head on her shoulder, turning his face into her neck. "I missed you."
"I missed you too." She held him tight against her and pressed her cheek against the stubble on his face, kissing his jaw. Kendra ran her fingers up his neck and twisted her fingers into his hair. "You should rest… you look like you've been traveling." Pulling back slowly, dropping her arms around his neck, she gazed at him before cupping his face with one hand, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone.
"I've been through worse and lived."
She smiled a little and blushed, bringing her hands down to toy with his collar. "You look like you were in a fight recently, that's all…"
Murtagh glanced down at her hands before turning his gaze back to her eyes. "I was, but I assure you I'm fine."
"One of my spies shot you earlier…"
"I'd honestly forgotten about that." He admitted, touching his side and finding fresh blood. Murtagh ducked under his bow and quiver, hanging them on the chair beside him. Wincing, he reached for his magic and was about to utter a spell when he stopped himself. She didn't know he could use magic. Murtagh's heart pulsed once harshly, knowing in the back of his mind he had been hiding it from her the entire time. He refused to tell her the truth, not wanting to know what her reaction would be if she found out.
"Well, let me heal it for you, it's the least I can do," replied Kendra, taking his arm and making him sit down. She crouched beside him, looking over the tear in his jerkin. "I need to see it." Without thinking, Kendra grabbed at the red fabric and tugged it over his head. He winced as she did so, watching her fling the tunic over the back of the chair.
"Kendra…"
"Shh, I'm trying to concentrate…" she muttered the spell, her fingers glowing slightly with magic the color of her eyes. Walking her fingers across his torso, she poked at the wound and then slid her index and middle digits across the gash. His skin stitched back together seamlessly and the pain rushed away as the last of her magic seeped into the muscles.
Murtagh sat on the edge of the bed, watching her carefully. It was apparent with the level of concentration and chosen words that she was trying to do the best she knew how, not just quickly, but thoroughly. Waiting until she was finished, he took her hand and pulled her down beside him. "Thanks…"
"You're welcome." Kendra glanced at him, watching as he leaned forward on his knees with a sigh. His back rippled as he did so, the scar glaring even in the dim candle light. Instinctively, her fingers reached out, tracing along the center. Murtagh stilled at her touch. "Does it hurt?"
"No…" he insisted. "Very rarely does it give me trouble. It's just a reminder… that's all." Murtagh looked back at her as she removed her hand, shaking his head. "I can't believe I ran into you like this…"
"Wasn't really your fault, I did assume you were an assassin and I did try to kill you first." She tipped her head, watching him as her hair fell into her eyes.
He let out a chuckle, smiling at her. "There are better ways to go." He laughed harder as she elbowed him in the side. "Sorry, I forgot, not supposed to upset the princess."
"Knights aren't supposed to upset their princesses," she insisted, her smile broad.
"Then I apologize again, your highness." Murtagh told her. "…you… really should sleep the rest of the night you know. I'll still be here in the morning." He stood and stretched, moving for his tunic.
Her smile dropped, reaching for his hand. "Don't leave me." Kendra twisted her fingers with his. "I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and think this was all a dream."
Murtagh leaned down, his nose brushing her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "I'll stay. Now sleep, please…"
"Okay," she agreed, watching as he removed his gloves, boots, and sword belt. After setting those on the chair nearby Murtagh turned again to her, pulling her back into a hug. Kendra smiled as he brushed his nose against hers; leaving light kisses on her eyelids. "Don't let go…" she muttered quietly as she pulled him to lie down beside to her, setting her head on his shoulder.
"I won't," Murtagh promised with his lips against her temple.
A week before the Agaetí Blödhren, when Eragon and Saphira were about the return to their quarters from the Crags of Tel'naeír, Oromis said, "You should both think about what you can bring to the Blood-oath Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function, I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if it's the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you each make a separate piece. That too is custom."
In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?
I might have one. But if you don't mind, I'd like to see if it works before I tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone protruding from the forest floor before she concealed it from him.
He grinned. Won't you give me a hint?
Fire. Lots of fire.
Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know more about farming than anything else, but I don't see how I can turn that to my advantage. Nor can I hope to compete with the elves with magic or match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their talent exceed that of the finest artisans in the Empire.
But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.
Oh?
Your identity. Your history, deeds and situation. Use those to shape your creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.
He looked at her with surprise. I never realized you knew so much about art.
I don't, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a bit.
Ah, yes. I had forgotten.
After Saphira left to pursue her project, Eragon paced along the edge of the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What's important to me? He asked himself. Saphira, Mariah… Arya of course, being a good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn't blindingly obvious? I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have already expressed everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to determine what struck the deepest, darkest chords within him. What stirred him with enough passion – of either love or hate – that he burned to share with others?
Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves' epics that so engrossed him.
A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting stairs – two at a time – to the study, where he sat before the writing desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.
The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue…
The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to transport it fully formed into the world. Having never composed a work of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that accompanies new ventures – especially since, previously, he had not suspected that he might enjoy being a bard.
He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from his quill by the wild force of his writing. So intense was his concentration, he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the empty paper, and thought of nothing buy the phrases etched in lines of fire behind his eyes.
An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand, pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay before him. It was the most he had ever written at one time. Eragon knew that his poem could not match those of the elves' and dwarves' great authors, but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh at his effort.
He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley. You would not recognize the untested boy who first set out for vengeance, I think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a hundred years.
He smiled. If I live that long.
Mark spun a gold coin on the table, sighing as he listened to Rowan divvying up his spies for their missions for the day. Each of them waited their turn in the meeting hall, moving when their leader called their name. He watched a young woman step up next, her footsteps lighter on the polished ebony than the boys that had preceded her. Since Nasuada's leadership had taken hold, and Mark had started to help Kendra, the number of female recruits had nearly doubled. He assumed it was because they weren't treated as fairly in the Varden's army as they were in the underground of the Black Palace.
He glanced around at the walls and ceiling, admiring the details and designs on them. His coin dropped to the table and he lowered his attention once more, watching as the last of Rowan's spies fled from the room. "Plans for the day?"
"I thought you had to babysit Nasuada?"
Rolling his eyes, Mark stood and stretched. "If I babysit anyone, it's your princess. But she's off who bloody knows where. I scryed Trevin early this morning and he said she's gone off somewhere. That charm of hers is very strong if it can ward off even me trying to scry her."
"Yes, she worked on that one for weeks before she was satisfied. Had Eirika scry her several times to test it," replied Rowan. He watched Mark looking at the walls again before shaking his head. "If you're not going to help Nasuada today, then you can make yourself useful for us. Lose the lordly attire, find a uniform. You can meet with one of my units and convey back what they have to report about the southern coast. Think you can manage?"
"How far?"
"Just halfway to Reavestone."
Mark nodded and strolled off to the armory, gathering up a neatly stacked solid black uniform. A black wolf was embroidered into the left shoulder. He changed, pulling on the pants and leather jerkin, pausing as he went to pull the hood up over his head. Mark glanced in the mirror nearby and swept his hand through his black hair, as his fingers released his locks, they streaked a shade of gold, starting at the roots and flowing to the tips. Smirking a bit, he blinked twice and watched his eyes, suddenly liquid amber. After running his palm over his face, his features softened slightly, shaving off a few years in a matter of moments. Satisfied, he turned, tucking his own clothes in a cubby. Mark picked up his sword belt and tied it around his waist securely.
Returning to the main hall, he strode through the rest of the group members unnoticed. Rowan glanced up and watched him walk across the floor, eyeing Mark's sword and his stride, still unmistakable to the assassin's trained eye. As soon as Mark hit the staircase, Rowan turned his gaze back to the map laid out before him.
Mark pushed the door open to the alleyway and headed to the stables to fetch Aluora. Bobbing through the crowd as they went about their day, shopping, he was hit in the shoulder by a large man. He turned to apologize and met a scowl, the words on his tongue faltering. Mark moved to the side of the road and avoided most of the traffic. A guard nearby eyed him and the patch on his arm. "Black Lightning, eh? Don't be causing any trouble now."
He met the guard's gaze and was surprised to see no fear in his eyes as he stared him down. Mark blinked, suddenly feeling exhilarated. No one was following him through the streets. There wasn't anyone calling to him, asking questions or requesting things from him. No women flaunting themselves at him. He grinned at the guard and nodded. "Yessir, you have a good day now."
Hurriedly, Mark turned and made his way to the soldier's stables, finding an unattended, army-owned horse and freeing him from his quarters. The stallion nickered at him a moment before Mark calmed him down and pulled himself up into the saddle. He twisted the horse around with his heels before heading out of town southward.
"Rough but true," was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the poem.
"Then you like it?"
" 'Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?"
"I suppose not."
"However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue. No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty arises when one attempts to speak it, for that would require you to tell untruths, which the magic will not allow."
"I can say it," replied Eragon, "because I believe it's true."
"And that gives your writing far more power… I am impressed, Eragon-finiarel. Your poem will be a worth addition to the Blood-oath Celebration." Raising a finger, Oromis reached within his robe and gave Eragon a scroll tied shut with ribbon. "Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I want you to place around yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered at Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions weaker than ours. Unprotected, your risk losing yourself in the web of our magic. I have seen it happen. Even with these precautions, you must take care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad – wonderfully, gloriously mad, but mad all the same."
Dripping from the storm, Kieran flung open the doors to the castle, drained. Innes had put up a good fight, a good, long fight. She had to knock him unconscious to win, and even that had been difficult considering his silver tongue.
Nearly back to her room, she saw Mariah barreling towards her in panic, slamming into her, holding onto her forearms, sweating. "I need you to wipe my memory."
"What?" She recoiled, looking over her face. Her hair was hanging wildly around her face as beads of sweat dripped from her brow. Her hands were shaky on Kieran's arms, in response, she gripped Mariah's hands. "What are you talking about?"
"Please. Murtagh's gone. He usually does it for me. But I can't remember this time, please."
The princess watched her panicked breathing, narrowing her eyes. "What did you do?"
Mariah shook her head, nearly in tears. "If he finds out… please Kieran!"
"I don't know... you said Murtagh's done this before?"
"Yes! If you don't he will kill me."
She set her jaw, watching Mariah fidgeting and groaned, pressing her fingers to her forehead and speaking the spell aloud, wiping her memory. Kieran caught her as she collapsed, holding her against her chest. Her mouth parted in shock as she glanced over the events Mariah was trying to escape. The brush against her consciousness had felt bare of so much; however, bright in the flash was a blond man, and Kieran instantly knew he was the reason why Mariah and Murtagh had been fighting.
Picking her up off the floor, Kieran carried Mariah to her room, setting her down in her bed gently. Brushing Mariah's hair out of her face, she sighed, kissing her forehead. The princess went to leave, pausing when her gaze caught the small stack of books on the table nearby. Moving to it, she picked up the first thin volume and started reading through it, shifting her weight onto her left leg.
"Nailah Moonsinger…" Kieran muttered, reading closely. She moved to the chair placed next to the table and sat with her legs crossed, bouncing her heel as she went through the book. She looked up when Mariah woke, smiling. "Is this what you stay up all night reading?"
"Yes." She said, rubbing her forehead. "Which one is that?"
"It looks like it's just some basic information about the Forsworn, names and dates are listed, some of them are torn or blackened out. It's difficult to make any of this out… how are you getting through them?"
"I'm satisfied with whatever I can learn about my parents… I still can't figure out who my father is though. My mother was Brom's daughter, from what I've found. They mentioned her training with him once… I'm sure he never told me because he was so ashamed of what she had become."
"She became a Rider, and he should have told you that much. There are few positions more honorable than that."
Mariah smiled, "True."
Looking up at her, Kieran sighed, shaking her head. "We should get back to training; I came up to get you and was distracted. You must have fallen back asleep after running about this morning."
"I don't remember getting up yet…" she said, looking over her clothing.
"I knew it; you are sleep walking, aren't you? Tell me, how do you scale down the side of the castle in the dark without being awake?" Kieran stood as she asked, snapping the book shut and leading the way out of her room.
On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren – which was to last three days – Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a host of elves were assembled, their black and silver hair flickering in the lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen's left shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there, as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recognized, such as Lifaen and Narí and, to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the stars glittered in the velvet sky.
"Wait here," said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Eragon greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. "Well met, Brightscales and Shadeslayer." Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwarvish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to converse with someone in the rough speech of his native land.
"What did she say?" asked Eragon, bending down.
"She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal working." Awe crossed Orik's face. "Eragon, she first learned her craft from Fûthark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him."
Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a marble spear. A soft white orb gathered itself above her palm from the light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hollow in the bark, where it remained, pulsing.
Eragon turned to Arya. "Is it begun?"
"It is begun!" She laughed. "Any it will end when the werelight expends itself."
The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the forest and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere, they produced tables laden high with fantastic dishes, which from their appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers' handiwork as the cooks'.
Then the elves began to sing in their clear, fluelike voices. They sang many songs, yet each was but part of a large melody that wove an enchantment over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibitions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sorrow of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.
What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall. It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He could remember certain incidents with vivid clarity – bright, pungent flashes filled with merriment – but it was beyond him to reconstruct the order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or night, for no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the celebration.
Galbatorix walked past them all, lined up in the middle of the courtyard at the first light of day. Each of their dragon hatchlings were curled around them, sitting at their sides obediently. He surveyed the group a moment before pointing at the largest one. "Cederic first."
He smirked and stepped forward, the smoky dragon standing and walking with him, lashing his tail.
"What did you name it?"
"Reaper," said Cederic. From behind him, Camilla smirked, unable to believe her brother's brilliance.
"Excellent, now, do hold still…" He said, reaching his hand out and speaking aloud in Elvish. The pain that coursed through Cederic was unexpected, blasting from his every muscle he shouted out in agony, writhing on the floor as the smoky dragon croaked out. The squealing soon turned into a deafening roar beside him as the dragon grew. As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Looking up, Cedric was in tears, reaching out and touching Reaper's nose.
He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elf-maid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of juniper in the air…
Pearce hesitated, watching what unfolded in front of him. Reaper was now half the size of Thorn, and he anticipated more to come. The copper dragon at his ankles quickly twined around behind him, shivering. Reaching down, Pearce held Talath to his chest, speaking quietly to soothe their troubled thoughts.
"Unless you wish to be crushed, you would do well to set him down." Galbatorix said, turning his outstretched hand towards them, repeating the phrase once more.
Quickly, the dragon jumped down from his arms and scurried a ways away. Pearce felt a mental snap, the dragon blocking off his thoughts as the spell took effect. He watched muscles ripple and bones snap helplessly, rushing after his dragon. Talath's long tail pushed him aside before another spasm attacked the dragon, after which he fell to the grass with a half-hearted growl.
"Please let me back in," he begged, kneeling next to the head of his dragon, stroking scales that would now scarcely have fit in his palm. "I don't care if it hurts me…" Pearce muttered shakily. "Talath… please."
He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed gold harps and called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and then, pointed a finger at the sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various shapes before fading away…
Hal scoffed at the two of them. "Pathetic. You two can't deal with a little pain."
Galbatorix turned on him, "You wish to be next then?" Before Hal could respond, he choked and watched as Deíron writhed beside him. He braced himself for the pain, feeling the rush as his muscles were tearing apart and reforming all at once. His dragon thrashed, knocking him to the floor. Hal groaned, clenching his hands, sweating in agony. After several minutes of lying there being tormented, the pain let up. He crawled over and leaned on Deíron's tail, panting.
He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching the same elf-maid sway before a rapt audience while she sang. He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful – mostly both. He heard Arya's poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islanzadí's, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to listen to those two works…
Camilla watched in horror while Belladonna encircled her throat, at all three of the men grounded next to their dragons. When Galbatorix turned to her, she took a step back. "No. Please… I don't need her to get so big so quickly…"
"You will need a mount when going into battle, and there is nothing better for a Dragon Rider than a dragon. This is what I chose you for Camilla. Are you going to reject your destiny now, after everything? I have seen you broken and bleeding on these stones in the past months. Are you telling me you don't want this? You once claimed this as your fate… how you would become one of the most powerful beings ever lived. And you're going to let a few moments of suffering ruin everything for you?"
She faltered, looking at Belladonna at her cheek. The dragoness chirped and dipped her head. This is what you want Camilla.
Not like this. I never wanted it to be like this.
This is what has to be done.
I want to be strong.
Then we will be strong together.
She turned her gaze back to Galbatorix, waiting for her answer. "I… alright."
"Magnificent," he assured her, straightening slightly as Belladonna dropped from her shoulder, sitting daintily in front of her.
Don't cry Camilla.
She turned her head away as the king spoke, hiding her face in her hands. Her spiraling hair fell over her as she crouched, curling up tightly, closing her eyes, trying to focus on breathing and not the screeches from her dragoness beside her.
He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration, many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with the assistance of magic. Puzzles and toys, art and weapons, and items whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another elf had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from the throats of a hundred white lilies.
Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead and other such items without harm, and a delicate sculpture of a wren in flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill that the bird seemed alive.
A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fifty-eight interlocking pieces was Orik's offering, much to the elves' delight, who insisted upon disassembling and reassembling the pyramid as often as he would allow. "Master Longbeard," they called him, and said, "Clever fingers mean a clever mind."
Innes paused when Galbatorix came to him. "I want to do it."
He tipped his head with curiosity. "You can't control that kind of power."
"Then finish it, but I want to try."
"Very well, you will have to use the power stored in there." He pointed over at a locked chest the guards had carried out earlier. "It will provide you with the power that you need."
Innes nodded, tapping into the abundance of magic within the chest. Ecaeris sniffed at him, twining around his legs and hissing at the others. She waited patiently for her Rider to speak, looking towards him with her full attention.
He spoke and she shuddered, quickly growing in size, hissing at him as he did so. He felt some of her pain and attempted to ease it, rewording the spell as he went. Finally, when he could no longer hold the spell, he dropped to the ground, panting. Ecaeris moved to him and helped him stand with her tail, her large glossy black eye the size of his fist.
He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and asking the elf, "What's wrong?"
"You need to clear your mind." Oromis guided him to a fallen log and had him sit. "Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better."
"I'm fine. I don't need to rest," protested Eragon.
"You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you can list the spells of changing, great and minor, then you may rejoin us. Promise me this…"
She surveyed the rest of them and whispered quietly to her dragon. Galbatorix picked up on her hushed voice and strode to her, reaching towards the dragon as she tried to hide him behind her back. "You are the last."
"I can't let you do it. He just hatched yesterday." Pearce looked up from Talath and headed for Odette, hoping to help her ease her suffering.
"So did Talath. Let's finish what we've started." He grabbed her dragon, which squirmed until he managed to bite Galbatorix's hand.
"Cordis!" Dropping the dragon he swore and spat the cursed spell out from his mouth. Odette dashed towards him, unable to make it closer due to the flailing wings and tail. As Galbatorix spoke he writhed and twisted. Odette stilled as she felt something break. "…Cordis?" The dragon ceased moving and stared at her, jaw agape with glazed eyes. "No…" Tears welled and streamed down her cheeks, staring at the mass of wings and scales. "No!" She screeched, trying to run to him.
Pearce was holding her, letting her kick and scream as he picked her up, biting his tongue. "Odette. There's nothing you can do."
"I need him, let me go to him!"
"He's gone."
She twisted in his grip and scratched him with her nails, sinking her teeth into his hand holding her, drawing blood before finally breaking free of his grasp. Hitting the stone, she heaved and gripped her stomach, vomiting and spitting blood. Picking herself up, she slowly crawled to her dead dragon, sobbing as she felt his cold scales. After he had hatched for her, she had realized her mind only ever felt half full. With his consciousness twined with hers, she had felt whole. As Odette wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head onto her lap, her mind felt like the void. "Cordis… please… no."
He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths of the forest. They majority were animals who had been altered by the accumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find nourishment in the presence of the elves' magic. Most dared reveal themselves only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light. One animal that did expose itself was the she-wolf – in the form of a white-robed woman – that Eragon had encountered before. She lurked behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth barred in an amused grin, her yellow eyes darting from point to point.
But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different ideal of beauty. An elf covered in brindled fur leaped over and Eragon and continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to his knees, and his long-fingered hands had rough pads on the palm.
Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They moved with languid grace, and when they touched their hands to their lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon saw that their fingers were joined by translucent webbing. "We have come far," they whispered. As they spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks, exposing pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.
He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pallid flames that ever flickered in the pits of his flared nostrils. And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves who, when motionless, were indistinguishable from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even where the whites should have been, who possessed an awful beauty that frightened Eragon and, when they chanced to touch something, passed through it like shadows.
The ultimate example of this phenomenon was the Menoa tree, which was once the elf Linnëa. The tree seemed to quicken with life at the activity in the clearing. Its branches stirred, though no breeze touched them, at times the creaks of its trunk could be heard to match the flow of music, and an air of gentle benevolence emanated from the tree and lay upon those in the vicinity…
She had been unable to watch the transformation, and found herself shaking with rage at Odette's shrieks. Mariah cut off her mind to Andrar and headed for the throne room, waiting for Galbatorix to return. The door busted open as he appeared.
"Your timing is impeccable, Dawnsinger, you know that? I had needed to speak with you."
"You killed him."
"An accident, easily corrected. Now, about yesterday…" He waved his hand, shouting and slammed her against the wall, barreling into her mind. "How are you still so disobedient?"
Mariah felt her head crack against the stone as she gritted her teeth. She could feel the blood dripping down her neck. She straightened and watched him, her chin tilting upward slightly as he spoke again.
"After everything I've given you? All the effort I've put into training you… preparing you for this… you repay me with traitorous thoughts? Leaving me… escaping the Empire?"
"I never wanted to be one of your Riders."
"But you are – just like your parents."
"My mother only became a member of the Forsworn to protect those she loved."
He watched her expression and smiled. "Then you are here for the exact same reason that she was. Are you not?" She dug her fingers into her palm, staring him down. "I have… tried… Dawnsinger. You were improving for a while, yes… but now, I see a heavy deterioration, and I can only blame myself. I trusted you with far too much with so little control. I had hoped you would see events unfold the way I do." He traced a finger across her cheek. "You will lose everything. I will have you destroy everything you hold most dear to your little heart. And I will feel your misery when I make you run a blade through your friends… your brother."
Her thoughts flashed to Eragon and Mark, her nerve wavering.
"If you do not submit now, and vow to me your life, your blade, your dragon… I will take it for myself."
And he remembered two attacks from his back, screaming and groaning in the shadows while the mad elves continued their revels around him and only Saphira came to guard over him…
Mariah set her jaw. "I would rather die."
"So be it." Galbatorix raised his hand towards her, uttering Elvish words she didn't know the meaning of, feeling her control slipping away.
On the third day of the Agaetí Blödhren, or so Eragon later learned, he delivered his verses to the elves. He stood and said, "I am no smith, no skilled at carving or weaving or pottery or painting or any of the arts. Nor can I rival your accomplishments with spells. Thus, all that remains to me are my own experiences, which I have attempted to interpret through the lens of a story, though I am also no bard." Then, in the manner that Brom had performed lays in Carvahall, Eragon chanted:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue,
On frigid winter's final day
Was born a man with but one task:
To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Nurtured by the kind and wise
Under oaks as old as time,
He ran with deer and wrestled bears,
And from his elders learned the skills,
To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Taught to spy the thief in black
When he grabs the weak and strong;
To block his blows and fight the fiend
With rag and rock and plant and bone;
And kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Quick as thought, the years did turn,
'Til the man had come of age,
His body burned with fevered rage,
While youth's impatience seared his veins.
Then he met a maiden fair,
Who was tall and strong and wise,
Her brow adorned with Gëda's Light,
Which shone upon her trailing gown.
In her eyes of midnight blue,
In those enigmatic pools,
Appeared to him a future bright,
Together, where they would not have
To fear the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
So Eragon told of how the man voyaged to the land of Durza, where he found and fought the foe, despite the cold terror within his heart. Yet though at least he triumphed, the man withheld the fatal blow, for now that he had defeated his enemy, he did not fear the doom of mortals. He did not need to kill the foe in Durza. Then the man sheathed his sword and returned home and wed his love on summer's eve. With her, he spent his many days content until his beard was long and white. But:
In the dark before the dawn,
In the room where slept the man,
The foe, he crept and loomed above
His mighty rival now so weak.
From his pillow did the man
Raise his head and gaze upon
The cold and empty face of Death,
The king of everlasting night.
Calm acceptance filled the man's
Aged heart; for long ago,
He'd lost all fear of Death's embrace,
The last embrace a man will know.
Gentle as a morning breeze,
Bent the foe and from the man
His glowing, pulsing spirit took,
And then in peace they went to dwell,
Forever more in Durza,
In the land of shadows.
Eragon fell quiet and, conscious of the eyes upon him, ducked his head and quickly found his seat. He felt embarrassed that he had revealed so much of himself.
The elf lord, Däthedr, said, "You underestimate yourself, Shadeslayer. It seems that you have discovered a new talent."
Islanzadí raised one pale hand. "You work shall be added to the great library in Tialdarí Hall, Eragon-finiarel, so that all who wish can appreciate it. Though your poem is allegory, I believe that it has helped many of us to better understand the hardships you have faced since Saphira's egg appeared to you, for which we are, in no small way, responsible. You must read it to us again so that we may think upon this further.
Pleased, Eragon bowed his head and did as she commanded. Afterward was time for Saphira to present her work to the elves. She flew off into the night and returned with a black stone thrice the size of a large man clutched in her talons. Landing on her hind legs, she placed the stone upright in the middle of the bare greensward, in full view of everyone. The glossy rock had been melted and somehow molded to intricate curves that wound about each other, like frozen waves. The striated tongues of rock twisted in such convoluted patterns that the eye had difficulty following a single piece from base to tip, but rather flitted from one coil to the next.
As it was his first time seeing the sculpture, Eragon gazed at it with as much interest as the elves. How did you make this?
Saphira's eyes twinkled with amusement. By licking the molten rock. Then she bent and breathed fire long upon the stone, bathing it in a golden pillar that ascended toward the stars and clawed at them with lucent fingers. When Saphira closed her jaws, the paper thin edges of the sculpture glowed cherry red, while small flames flickered in the dark hollows and recesses throughout the rock. The flowing strands of rock seemed to move under the hypnotic light.
The elves exclaimed with wonder, clapping their hands and dancing about the piece. An elf cried, "Well wrought, Brightscales!"
It's beautiful, said Eragon.
Saphira touched him on the arm with her nose. Thank you, little one.
Then Glaedr brought out his offering: a slab of red oak that he had carved with the point of one talon into the likeness of Ellesméra as seen from high above. And Oromis revealed his contribution: the completed scroll that Eragon had often watched him illustrate during their lessons. Along the top half of the scroll matched columns of glyphs – a copy of "The Lay of Vestarí the Mariner" – while along the bottom half ran a panorama of a fantastic landscape, rendered with breathtaking artistry, detail, and skill.
Arya took Eragon's hand then and drew him through the forest and toward the Menoa tree, where she said, "Look how the werelight dims. We have but a few hours left to us before dawn arrives and we must return to the world of cold reason."
Around the tree, the host of elves gathered, their faces bright with eager anticipation. With great dignity, Islanzadí emerged from within their midst and walked along a root as wide as a pathway until it angled upward and doubled back on itself. She stood upon the gnarled shelf overlooking the slender, waiting elves. "As is our custom, and as was agreed upon at the end of The Dragon War by Queen Tarmunora, the first Eragon, and the white dragon who represented his race – he whose name cannot be uttered in this or any language – when they bound the fate of elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our blood-oath with song and dance and the fruits of our labor. Last this celebration occurred, many long years ago, our situation was desperate indeed. It has improved somewhat since, the result of our efforts, the dwarves', and the Varden's, though Alagaësia still lies under the black shadow of the Wyrdfell and we must still live with our shame of how we have failed the dragons.
"Of the Riders of old, only Oromis and Glaedr remain. Brom and many others entered the void this past century. However, new hope has been granted to us in the form of Eragon and Saphira, and it is only right and proper that they should be here now, as we reaffirm the oath between our races three."
At the queen's signal, the elves cleared a wide expanse at the base of the Menoa tree. Around the perimeter, they staked a ring of lanterns mounted upon carved poles, while musicians with flutes, harps, and drums assembled along the ridge of one long root. Guided by Arya to the edge of the circle, Eragon found himself seated between her and Oromis, while Saphira and Glaedr crouched on either side of them like gem-studded bluffs.
To Eragon and Saphira, Oromis said, "Watch you carefully, for this is of great importance to your heritage as Riders."
When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids walked to the center of the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were exceedingly beautiful and identical in every respect, except for their hair: one had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other's hair gleamed like burnished silver wire.
"The Caretakers, Iduna and Nëya," whispered Oromis.
From Islanzadí's shoulder, Blagden shrieked, "Wydra!"
Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands to the brooches at their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away. Though they wore no garments, the women were clad in an iridescent tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon's tail wrapped around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her torso, and then across Nëya's back, ending with the dragon's head on Nëya's chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance of a rainbow.
The elf-maids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next without interruption. Then they each lifted a bare foot and brought it down on the packed ground with a soft thump.
And again: thump.
On the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. A thump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and a moment after that, those elves with flutes joined the throbbing melody.
Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and Nëya began to dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulating to that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles across their skin.
Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so complex that its meaning escaped Eragon. Like the rising wind that precedes a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the by the inexorable cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep pulse so strong that it vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle and the air shimmer.
Faster and faster spun Iduna and Nëya until their feet were a dusty blur and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat. The elf-maids accelerated to an inhuman speed and the music climaxed in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first Eragon thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised his wings, and clenched his talons.
A burst of flame erupted from the dragon's maw and he lunged forward and pulled himself free of the elves' skin, climbing into the air, where he hovered, flapping his wings. The tip of his tail remained connected to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast strained toward the black moon and loosed an untamed roar of ages past, then turned and surveyed the assembled elves.
As the dragon's baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the creature was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained by magic. Saphira and Glaedr's humming grew ever louder until it blocked all other sound from Eragon's ears. Above the specter of their race looped down over the elves, brushing them with an insubstantial wing. It came to a stop before Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirling gaze. Bidden by some instinct, Eragon raised his right hand, his palm tingling.
In his mind echoed a voice of fire: Our gift so you may do what you must.
The dragon bent his neck and, with his snout, touch the heart of Eragon's gedwëy ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went rigid as incandescent heat poured through his body, consuming his insides. His vision flashed red and black, and the scar on his back burned as if branded. Fleeing to safety, he fell deep within himself, where darkness grasped him and he had not the strength to resist it.
Last, he again heard the voice of fire say, Our gift to you.
When he finished speaking, she woke with Shruikan's massive talons caging her against the floor. Her vision flashed icy blue. Twisting her neck, she saw Kieran standing in the doorway, her lips parted as Mariah heaved, spitting blood out of her mouth. Shruikan removed his paw, allowing her to turn as to not choke. Coughing heavily, she leaned on one arm, looking up at Galbatorix looming over her.
"Stand," he demanded.
Mariah stood, far too close to him for her liking. He smiled maliciously and stepped back, summoning a knife from a table. It hung in the air, spinning slowly without gravity. As it turned, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror of the blade, her eyes were dilated and edged with icy blue instead of jade. She reached for the dagger and grasped it in her fingers tightly. Holding both arms out in front of her, she watched the blade point touch her palm, pressing until a bead of ruby pooled to the surface. Meticulously, she pulled the dagger against her hand again and again. While she wanted to scream, she heard herself laugh as the droplets of blood hit the floor.
"Now kneel." She wanted nothing more than to drive the dagger into his chest as she was pulled to the floor by some unseen force. Her neck bent forward, lowering her head, kneeling on one leg in an act of fealty. While she stared at the pool of blood trailing from her hand, she realized Galbatorix finally seemed pleased.
With Love, As Always,
Mariah