PROLOGUE
Sundas, the 20th of Sun's Dawn, 201st year of the 4E
The knock came at the door, loud and unexpected, in the hours before dawn, when the world was still dull and grey.
Groaning, Azzias opened his eyes and made to sit up on the edge of his large canopy bed, the silken sheets tangling. "What is it?" He called out, yawning as he rubbed his eyes tiredly.
The raven-haired woman that opened the door, all but a crack, just far enough to stick her head inside, was Lydia, first and most loyal of his housecarls, and the captain of his household guard, said, "Pardons my lord, but it seems the Eldunarí are begging an audience. Umaroth would speak with you, he says the matter is urgent. I thought you would wish to know."
"If he really must, then I require but a moment to change into something presentable," he groaned, rising nude from his bed to stretch his arms and legs, the stone floor warm beneath his feet from the dwarven metal pipes they'd constructed—with spells and pickaxes—to pump the scalding waters of the natural hot springs from far beneath the ground, throughout the entirety of the citadel, like blood rushing through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone, and filling the air with a moist humidity, keeping the soil beneath from freezing.
Moving across the bedchamber over to the wardrobe, he pulled from it; a tight white shirt with ties at the cuffs, a black vest decorated with gold and violet braiding and embroidery, dark pants, black gilded sandals, and a swirling cape that fastened under his throat with a studded brooch, before covering a yawn with the back of his hand as he walked through the towering doors of ancient nordic cast iron, set within the mouth of a stone dragon, and started down the wide, turnpike stairs leaving to the outside of his eyrie tower, high upon a finger of rock overlooking the great central keep, and down to the main courtyard.
The steps were shallow, but the walls between them were wide enough for a dozen armored knights to ride abreast with ease. That had been Azzais's initiative—in consultation with the Greybeards and Paarthurnax, along with the Eldunarí, as a mandatory feature for the Dragon Riders' new home. Everything in the hold, even the chambers that served as personal quarters, had been built for use by all but the very largest of dragons, same as the structures on Vroengard Island—the old home of the Dragon Riders, as well as the city of Bromjunaar, or the Labyrinthian—which had once served as the capital of Skyrim during the height of the Dragon Cult's power and influence. It was a necessary feature of the hold, one that without the aid of Odahviing and Paarthurnax, would have proven to be a monumental exercise for their traveling companions in the elves and dwarves, as most of the chambers were huge and forbidding, even more so than in the great dwarf city of Tronjheim, as his general plan had been to see the hold as a well seasoned blend between the capital city of the dwarves, the great monastery of High Hrothgar, sat roughly halfway up the Throat of the World, and the ever expanding College of Winterhold, with the elves having been charged with refining the more elegant details.
Yet still, even the dwarves had a slight hand in the holds decoration, while the elves had sung many songs to grow and spread trees of all kinds, towering redwoods, mighty white oaks, weeping willows, blue spruces, sycamore maples and giant sequoias, the dwarves had mounted hundreds of their flameless lanterns in brackets at regular intervals along the walls.
He wandered down to the main courtyard, following the clanking song of swords and the call of "Notch, draw, loose!" to where the huntress Aela overlooked two dozen guardsmen firing at practice butts, their arrows like the sound of a flock of birds taking wing, while not too far off in distance the twins, Farkas and Vilkas danced back and forth between great swirling blades of Skyforged steel. Azzias watched the confrontation as he stood some distance away from them, his hands clasped behind his back; though he felt no inclination to join in, as did he saw, the guardsmen who peered between the gargoyles as they strode the wall walks and the battlements of the outer wall.
It was then from there that he made his way to the chamber where the Eldunarí had been stored. Having heard the chamber referred to as The Hall of Colors, Azzais inclined to agree with the choice as he couldn't help but find the name fitting, as the hue of the Eldunarí had come in every color.
It was a large, disk-shaped chamber. In the center, upon several tiered daisies, sat an assortment of glittering Eldunarí. Mostly those he and Vulthurin had fetched from the Vault of Souls on Vroengard, while all the others had been the hearts of hearts that Galbatorix had once kept slaved to his will, having then been driven mad with his spells and mental tortures.
The larger Eldunarí rested upon the central dais, while the smaller ones had been arranged in rings about them. Piercing the circular wall of the chamber were dozens of narrow lancet windows, which the elves had fitted with pieces of crystal that split the incoming light into flecks of rainbow. No matter the time of day, the north-facing room was always bright and strewn with multi-hued shards, both from the windows and the Eldunarí themselves.
He made his way to the center, dipping his head in greetings as he past by in front of the sparkling, gold-hued gem that was Glaedr's heart of hearts. The dragon's mind touched his own, and Azzias felt a vast vista of thought and feeling open up before him. As always, it was a humbling experience, though he could not help but feel a sense of unease rolling off in waves from the great golden dragon's Eldunarí.
It was then that Azzais felt another mind joined theirs, that of Umaroth, one of the oldest Eldunarí. Out of reflex, he glanced towards the white heart of hearts that contained the dragon's consciousness.
"It is not often that you bacon me here, what is it that troubles you. Umaroth?"
Tell me, Argetlam. Do you remember how my wingmates and I kept watch upon Alagaësia from within the Vault of Souls?
"Yes," said Azzais, already having an inkling of what the dragon was hinting at.
He was right. Well we have continued the practice, Argetlam, casting our minds farther than ever, as a means of whiling away the days, yes, but also that we might stay abreast of events and not be surprised by the rise of some new enemy. And it seems we were right in doing so.
Suddenly more minds made to join Umaroth's: the rest of the Eldunarí, pressing in around Azzais's consciousness like a sea of growling voices. As always, it took a concentrated effort to ward them off and keep hold of his own thoughts. Why am I not surprised?
"Very well then," said Azzais. He took a deep breath as he prepared himself then lifted his gaze. "Show me."
Inexorable as an onrushing tide, the dragons' minds washed over his own. They swept Azzais out of his body, out of the Hall of Colors and away from snow-clad Mount Arngor and all his cares and worries, carrying him toward the distant and unfamiliar lands east of Alagaësia.
Images blossomed before him, and within them Azzais saw and felt far more than he'd expected...