Chapter 38: Gannel's Challenge
Upon exiting the throne room, Arya rejoined them. She led Glenwing with her, unsaddled and without reins. Behind trailed Snowfire, Cadoc, and–to Harry's detriment–Stupid. Eragon's gaze fell upon Brom's horse, and his composure visibly strained before he marshalled his emotions. He swung himself skillfully upon Snowfire, and gestured for Orik to mount Cadoc. Harry glared at Stupid who glared right back. My old enemy, he thought darkly.
Carefully, he clambered awkwardly into the cursed saddle, layering it with cushioning charms. When Stupid began cantering after Arya, he remembered why he named the accursed beast such. Even the cushioning charms did not fully abate the misery that was riding horseback. Every step he felt his spine being crushed by the lurching movement of Stupid's canter. Harry was in a foul mood right up until they stopped at a pair of enormous doors, shorter than the throne room, but much thicker and wider. A group of dwarves operated the colossal stone gate, heaving it open.
Harry blinked spots from his eyes. Actual daylight. Brilliant rays of sun streamed in from the open doorway, chasing away the perpetual twilight of the orange flameless lanterns the dwarves used. A fresh gust of wind blew through the tunnel, bringing with it the scent of summer. He twitched his nose. "Sunlight, how I've missed you," Harry lamented dramatically.
Arya glanced over and smiled. She had missed fresh air just as much as him. They cantered out and onto a stone path, and even Stupid's annoying bumping could not kill his mood. They set off down a cobbled path between verdant valleys which splayed out in front of them.
Dwarvish architecture outside of the tunnels was–in Harry's opinion–far more impressive. Great spires and temples, gazebos, pavilions, and multi-story residential buildings and houses lined the road in even, neat rows radiating from a central circle which surrounded the great marble temple. Miniature canals of fresh water raced down the center of the roads, spanned by miniature bridges wide enough for a cart to comfortably travel over. The burbling fluid flowed from the temple, down marble steps and ramps, and fed the entire village.
They rode ahead, eager to reach the temple. All around them, expert architecture spiced up the picturesque scenery. Aqueducts supported by graceful arches fed the temple from the mountains, bringing fresh spring water to the village. Where Farthen Dur's aesthetic was geared towards grand displays of opulence and scale, Celbediel was all airy arches and light marble paneling, often accented with precious metals and gems. Nearly surface aside from the floor had beautiful gilded scrollwork and designs upon it. Dwarves bustled about the temple complex, carrying bundles or herding children. Orik led them straight up to the temple.
An old dwarf with white hair and brown eyes regarded them with a smile from the steps. Saphira paced behind the group, eyeing him closely. "Welcome, welcome to Celbedeil." He caught sight of Arya, something which dimmed his smile slightly. "Come, the temple's attendants will stable your horses and take great care of them. I see you have accepted Hrothgar's offer." He addressed Eragon, gazing happily upon his helmet, adorned with a hammer and stars.
The priest waved over a pair of younger dwarves, who quickly bowed to the group and led away their mounts. Harry followed the dwarf up the stairs. "I am Gannel, chief of Durgrimst Quan, the clan in charge of religious manners." Arya made a subtle noise of disbelief and followed. "Ah, yes. Arya. It has been a long time since you've been here." The dwarf's tone suggested that perhaps that time had not been long enough. Harry smiled to himself. This ought to be fun.
The interior of the temple shielded them from the sun's direct glare, but was still designed to let as much natural daylight in as possible, illuminating everything brightly. "Hrothgar has briefed me on the situation, Eragon Shadeslayer. You have been adopted by clan Ingeitum, and must learn everything a young dwarf would be taught as a child." He laced together his fingers. "Obviously, we do not have time for you to learn everything, and so we must content ourselves with the most important. Rites and rituals which you must be familiar with, lest you get yourself banished for neglecting them." Eragon looked nervous, but Gannel laughed uproariously. "Not to worry, They are not overly onerous, and I shall teach you all you must know of them. Come, follow me."
The priest walked with a spring in his step, eager to reach his destination. That happened to be a grand wall covered with colored enamelled frescoes. At first glance, it appeared to be a history of Alagaesia. "From left to right, the beginning of time," Gannel announced proudly. "We dwarves were the first race to live in Alagaesia, created by the gods at the same time as the land, brought forth from stone by Helzvog. Since the beginning, we have recorded the events which shape the land here. When something of great import happens, it is added on, and thus, we never forget our past." He traced a rough hand over a depiction of warring tribes of dwarves, wielding cruder weapons than the current age. The next scene showed one dwarf above the rest, wearing gleaming armor and wielding a familiar hammer.
"That is Korgan, the first dwarf king, wielding Volund in battle to conquer the twelve clans and forge them into the dwarven kingdom as it is today." Harry took everything in with a bit of awe. Artwork on Earth rarely lasted this long, and historical art which survived the ravages of time usually consisted of crude cave drawings or relatively recent history like the Roman empire. Out of curiosity, he discretely cast an age spell on the earliest section.
Eight thousand years. He breathed in sharply. "What?" Arya questioned him.
"The earliest frescoes are actually eight thousand years old." She looked at him in confusion.
"Of course. That is the beginning of recorded history in Alagaesia." Arya explained.
"There is no surviving artwork on Earth this detailed or accurate–though I don't actually know how accurate it is."
"Quite," Gannel reassured them. "Whenever possible, our artists get the subjects themselves to sit for their likeness to be taken." He gestured to where Eragon was examining a depiction of his namesake, the first dragon rider, crouched over a white dragon egg. "The first Eragon was here for his likeness to be taken."
Harry drank in the carvings eagerly. Though they tended to focus on dwarves, every race was featured in the frescoes. He saw bloody battles between dragons and elves, a golden age of riders, a group of humans arriving by ship, led by a man wearing a crown that looked suspiciously like Roran. He elbowed Eragon. "Your brother and you have the blood of kings in your veins."
Eragon gaped when he saw the crown-wearing man standing at the prow of his ship. Arya sidled up to them. "King Palancar," she explained. "He was the second group of humans to land on Alagaesia's shores. The first group arrived by sea as well, though they left soon after. The only other group were dark-skinned artisans who now live around the fringes of the Hadarac desert."
The rider looked disbelieving. "Palancar, like Palancar Valley?" She nodded.
"That is the origin of its name, yes. King Palancar waged war with the elves repeatedly without provocation, so the elves were forced to remove him from his throne. He earned the moniker "the Mad King" for his actions, and was exiled to Palancar Valley where an elvish tower named Edoc'sil–or Unconquerable–was constructed to keep an eye on him and his descendants. It is the same place where Galbatorix murdered Vrael. Since then, the tower has been rechristened Ristvak'baen, or Place of Sorrow. The reason Roran looks so close to him is because the blood of kings runs thick in Carvahall." Arya traced the scenes she spoke of with her fingers, drawing their eyes to the beautiful colored illustrations.
"Had Brom truly been from Carvahall, you, Eragon, would likely look much more like King Palancar." The young man looked awestruck at being told he was descended from royalty.
Shoes tapped against the marble floor. Gannel led the group to the beginning. Before the eight thousand year history, the frescoes depicted gods shaping the races, and the dwarf priest began a long-winded recitation of the dwarven creation myths. Harry tapped his foot impatiently, exchanging bemused glances with Arya.
"How do you know?" Gannel turned to glare at Arya, who had cut in after a particularly lengthy description of Helzvog's physical features. "All you have as proof are frescoes eight thousand years old. I concede it is likely most of them are accurate, but what's to say the first dwarves simply made up a story to explain that which they did not understand?"
He spluttered, red faced and embarrassed. "Of course it's true! How else would Alagaesia and the life which lives on it come to be? The world cannot create itself any more than a helm or sword can forge itself. Besides, we do have proof. Whenever a new dwarf king is coronated, should Guntera approve, he himself appears to crown the new king. I saw it personally when Hrothgar was crowned! Any dwarven king who fails to secure the blessing of the gods, their reigns are, one and all, short, unpleasant, and bloody."
Arya crossed her hands over her leather jerkin and set her face. "You chose to believe rather than investigate. Religion often chokes innovation, zealous denial of fact in the face of mythos preventing true understanding of the nature of the world around you. Any competent magician can create an illusion. Perhaps you are so desperate to perpetrate this lie because you can tacitly approve or deny any monarch you wish?"
Gannel denied it vehemently in offended outrage, and Harry watched in bemusement as the argument began in earnest. The priest spluttered denials and gave passionate arguments, while Arya politely tore down the basis for dwarven religion as a whole, and implied that anyone who entered a temple to pray would rather beg the sky for help than solve their own problems. Harry found the whole thing amusing, and soon began to lend his own experience to the discussion.
"Gannel, would you say that the dwarven gods are the only deities in existence?" The priest stroked his beard, thinking carefully.
"Yes," he admitted finally. "We have proof of certain gods and myths, which lends credence to the veracity of the rest. Stone does grow. Those who can talk with their minds can see it in any coral stone. Though us priests are the only ones who can connect to other rocks. Every time a new dwarven king is crowned, it is done by Guntera himself, who appears in front of the masses and places the crown upon our new monarch's brow. I have seen it only once, when Hrothgar was coronated, yet Guntera's presence was there, as clear as day. Since other religions and gods conflict with our own, we must assume that we are right, for we have proof." Arya looked politely disbelieving.
"Coral is not a true rock. It is a colony of soft shelled polyps which secrete limestone. The structure builds off the skeletons of dead polyps, growing into the shape you are familiar with," Arya refuted. "Every manner of stone has an explanation behind its creation, none of which is organic, living growth. Igneous rocks are formed by cooling lava or magma."
"Ah!" Gannel pounced on that. "But where does magma come from? Beneath the earth where it grows!"
Harry cleared his throat. "Actually, the entire landmass of Alagaesia floats on an ocean of magma. It's under immense pressure, forced up by the weight of the tectonic plates weighing down on it. In areas where the crust of the planet is thinner, it forces itself upwards, creating volcanoes as you know them. The entire globe is covered by these massive plates which drift about on the magma, colliding, pushing, and pulling on each other. Through this, nearly all land features are created." The dwarf priest snorted in derision.
"You speak of proof. What proof could you possibly have of that?"
Harry elucidated with gestures. "The proof is in the stones themselves. In an untouched area, you cut out a sample and look at the striations, the patterns, the age of the rocks themselves. They will tell you about a cycle the planet is caught in. Magma rises to the air, cools, and becomes stone. Over millions of years, erosion from rain and wind wears away the stone into tiny little particles which become sediment. The sediment is swept away by the creeks and rivers, brought to the ocean where immense pressure and uncountable years crush it into sedimentary rock. The seabed gets subducted beneath a fault line between tectonic plates, or forced upwards into mountains. Subducted stone is forced into the mantle—the sea of magma beneath the entire planet–and melted down into lava, to restart the cycle." He paused. A group of dwarves and his companions were listening enraptured.
"It is a cycle which has continued since the Earth was formed, not from some god with their hands, but rather gravity itself. Before the planet existed, the sky above us was filled with dust and debris. Every bit of matter in existence exerts its own miniscule gravitational pull. Over billions of years, these motes of dust clumped together. The larger clumps had more collective pull, and so formed larger and larger clumps, until they became enormous masses the size of planets."
"Where does your mysterious dust hail from?" Gannel challenged. It was half-hearted at best, even Eragon could tell the priest was enthralled by the story Harry was weaving.
"Ancient suns. The one this planet is warmed by was not the first sun, nor will it be the last. Every tiny little star in the sky is a sun of its own, merely so far away it appears pathetically dim in comparison to our own, which is much closer. They are formed when enough dust accumulates to be bigger even than a planet. The very weight of all that matter crushes the core down, starting a reaction which radiates light everywhere. The reaction combines matter into heavier elements, from hydrogen to helium, helium to lithium, lithium to beryllium, beryllium to boron, boron to carbon, and so on and so forth. Each successive element is heavier and harder for the reaction to yield energy from. Eventually, the core of a star is so full of a heavy element, its gravity is no longer repulsed by the force of the reaction, and the star collapses on itself."
"And the star is gone? Then what?"
"No. Nothing is ever truly gone, and cannot be destroyed without magic. When a star collapses, if it is large enough, one of two things happens." Harry held up a finger. "One, it becomes a black hole. Black holes are invisible in the sky, and must be found by plotting the effect their gravity has on surrounding stars. An enormous star collapses, crushing every bit of matter into a single point, known as a singularity. The very nature of a black hole defies the laws of nature, bending light itself with its enormous gravity." He paused dramatically, savouring the curious expressions on the dwarves. I can't believe how much I missed teaching.
"The other thing that might happen is a star becomes a supernova. Instead of collapsing into a point, the collapse finally forces those heavy elements to fuse, yielding one last titanic blast of energy, enough to tear the star apart and blast itself across the universe. That is where the heaviest elements come from; uranium, lead, gold. It's a cycle, stars growing from accumulated dust, ending, exploding into dust, and that dust becoming a new star in turn. Our planet was created from some of that dust forming, just the right size to become a planet, not quite enough to become a star."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Harry surveyed them, satisfied. The seeds of doubt have been sown, he thought. Now, they will challenge what they think they know.
Gannel was deep in thought. What the wizard said changed everything. It shook the very foundations of belief his entire life had been built upon. That was not to say he would stop venerating Guntera and his subjects for better harvests, safer winters, and good fortune. Perhaps, though, this was worth investigating. "That does not explain how we came about," he gestured at his fellow dwarves. "Your theory lends credence to ours: dwarves are the first race of Alagaesia, born from stone itself."
Arya's mind raced. She listened carefully. "It's possible," he admitted. "I don't know enough to be sure. I do know how humans came about, though. Through some freak accident, miniscule bacteria were created, a single cell which was capable of dividing itself into two, and those two more, and so on. Over millions of years, they evolved. Just like some dwarves might be born with six fingers, every beast can be born with a mutation, unlikely as it is. If they survive and have children, the mutation they were born with is passed to their children. Whatever advantages they gain through random chance are perpetuated. If they benefit the family line, eventually that family will pull ahead of others by relying on their mutation. Fish who grew legs could survive better off grass on land that the other fish could not reach, and became frogs. Frogs with wings could reach the fruit on the trees, and so became birds. Monkeys with bigger brains were smart enough to outthink their brethren, and so became humans." Harry traced the frescoes idly with a finger.
"I have not studied dwarves enough to be sure, but I'd guess you came about a similar way. Humans with denser bones were better able to carve tunnels to escape predators, dragons perhaps. Tall at first, stature became less important in the tunnels underground without tall grass or foliage to look over, and so your race grew shorter. Less height means less food necessary to subsist, after all. Your eyesight grew sharper to see in the dim light of the underground, your lungs heartier to thrive off staler air in the tunnels. Just as humans are the ideal animal to live in open plains and forests, the dwarves are the ideal animal to live underground and in tunnels. Nature designs us to be perfect for the environment we live in."
"You said you were unsure," Arya observed critically. "Why do you think it's possible some mysterious deity created dwarves?"
Harry smiled mysteriously and turned to the crowd. "Because of what Gannel mentioned: there is proof. When I was with the Urgals, I felt the presence of their gods. They have a great totem pole in the center of their villages carved with the likeness of their deities, and when Nar Garzhvog returned from slaying Urzhad to prove himself to the tribe, the Urgal gods themselves proclaimed him worthy. I felt a magical presence, the brilliant and vast intelligence of Rahna herself."
The crowd looked outraged. Several dwarves made rude gestures or hissed angrily. Harry held up a hand to quiet the complaints. "I am not saying Urgal deities are the only true gods. Merely that they exist. I have no doubt that at the next coronation–hopefully many prosperous years from now–Guntera's presence will be there, as acutely tangible as Rahna's. I do not think any one religion is "right" like they may claim, rather, I believe these minor deities are created by their worshippers themselves." Harry used the word illusion to illustrate his theories.
"A thousand dwarves who believe with all their hearts in Guntera the god, king of their pantheon, who loves and supports them. That belief is a powerful force, and it influences magic to create that deity. A thousand Urgals do the same, and lo and behold: their own gods come into existence. A Mens Loci, if you will. All thinking beings have power, whether they can reach for magic themselves or not. Their beliefs influence the world, like a mother who sees her child crushed under a boulder she cannot lift, yet her need to save her child allows her to overcome her own limits and save them." He waved his hand through the illusion, dispelling it like a gauzy veil. "Arya here," he nudged her, grinning, "claims you are better off doing work for yourselves rather than sacrifice to your gods, and I must agree. They are not here, you are. Believe that you will not be struck down for daring to use the fruits of your own labor, and you will make it so." He bowed away uncomfortably.
Dwarves everywhere broke the silence with chattering conversations and discussions. Harry retreated, satisfied with the thinking he had spawned, and nudged Gannel. "What else do we have to do today?"
Gannel–who had been staring with an unfocused gaze at the frescoes–started and turned. He took a moment to restart his train of thought. "The most important thing for Eragon to learn is our funeral rites, which are a secret. I shall deliver your rider to you before dinner. If you must entertain yourself, our training yard is that way three hundred paces." He pointed in a direction opposite the temple.
"Thank you, Gannel. I had an excellent time debating religion with you." The dwarf actually grinned.
"Aye, myself as well. Not since Arya have I spoken with as great a debater as you." Harry laughed. Gannel tugged his beard and smiled in amusement.
"Thanks. I enjoy teaching a lot, and what is debate but teaching with opposition?" He grinned and waved, striding over to Arya and leading her out of the temple.
"Gannel said the training yards are thataway," Harry explained. They had been in the temple for several hours, and it was past time for lunch, so they made a detour to a bakery to fetch some bread.
Seating outside was provided, something he and Arya eagerly took advantage of. A wrought iron circular table on a paved patio out front. They sat beneath the awning which stretched out from the storefront and enjoyed their meal. As they ate, Harry watched the busy streets contentedly. Dwarvish children played games, chattering in their unfamiliar language. Women herded their spawn away from passing wagons and such, scolding them whenever they did something dangerous or foolish.
Doughy smells wafted from the propped open door. A gentle breeze ran through crystalline wind chimes, creating a gentle tinkling noise. "I am glad Gannel did not take offense at your words." Arya dipped a bit of bread into a vegetarian soup, biting off the corner carefully.
Harry shrugged and bit into his own meal, a thick sandwich with a variety of meats, cheeses, and vegetables. "I figured after what you were saying, the truth couldn't be much worse." He chewed for a moment, then took a drink of iced water. "Hopefully, that will inspire the dwarves to investigate. Who knows? Maybe they'll discover something no one's ever seen before."
Arya smiled and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. Harry was mildly envious of her composure, licking at his lips like a barbarian. "I hope so. Alagaesia could use some innovation. So far, only the Surdans have been making any great strides."
"Oh?" Harry prodded at his sandwich with a finger.
"King Orrin is actually one of their foremost minds. A great philosopher."
Harry's lips turned upwards. "Then they are on the right track. Though it is rather depressing to consider, the greatest advancements in the sciences always come during wartime. Gunpowder and firearms spurred the industrial revolution. Aeronautics took enormous leaps forwards during WWI, along with material sciences and medicine. During the Cold War, the USSR and the USA raced each other to place a man on the moon. Hopefully, King Orrin and his fellows will discover things which can be used as well in peace as in wartime."
Arya gaped at him in astonishment. "Surely you jest? The moon?"
Harry grinned at her. "Nope. The world is a great ball orbiting around the sun in a circle. It is affected by the sun's gravity just like we are. Only, to keep it from falling in, it circles at great speed. It is like spinning a bucket filled with water vertically. The water does not fall out. The moon is to Earth as the Earth is to the sun."
"Do you mean to imply that your people have been to the sun, as well? Not even the dragons could fly so high as to reach the moon."
Harry shook his head. "The sun is unbelievably hot. There is no metal, stone, ceramic, or other material which would not be vaporized far before it comes close to the surface of the sun. Plus, it is orders of magnitude further away from Earth than the moon is." He thought about how to explain rockets to a medieval philosopher.
"While dragons undoubtedly use some magic to keep themselves aloft, unless dragons can fly without flapping their wings, they cannot fly outside of the atmosphere. It is like an ocean which surrounds the entire planet and goes high above our head. Air is fluid like water, simply much less dense. Air floats on basically everything. Gravity holds it all down to the surface the same way it does to the ocean. By the time a dragon got up about a mile or so, they would find they had to flap much harder against the less dense air to stay up, and eventually they would be completely incapable of rising any further. To get into space, the only practical way is a rocket."
"A rocket?" Arya asked curiously.
"Mhm," Harry agreed. "It's a great pointy tower designed to pierce through the air like a swordfish through water and prey. At the tip, the people and cargo sit inside an enclosed room. Below that are all enormous fuel tanks and engines. Because there's no air, all the thrust provided must be brought with the rocket. The engines use the fuel to create a massive controlled explosion which they deliberately force to happen slowly over a long period of time. The rocket goes up and then sideways, to circle the Earth so fast it orbits. By necessity, any orbiting spacecraft or satellites must circle miles above the surface, beyond even the thinnest layer of the atmosphere, so they do not get burned up from crashing into the air."
"How would the air burn up this- rocket?" Arya asked dubiously.
"It's like- Hm, have you ever jumped into a lake? When you go in feet or head-first, you slip into the water with a small splash?" Arya nodded hesitantly. "And when you jump in, belly or back first, it feels like someone has slapped you across your entire body? And the splash is enormous? Air is just like that. If you fell into the water from a much greater height or speed and did not point your toes, you'd feel that same slap on the soles of your feet. Air is much less dense than water, but at tens of thousands of miles per hour, even a little bit of resistance will blast anything apart."
"How then does a rocket get from orbit to the moon?" She asked eagerly.
"The rockets turn off their engines for the time it takes to circle the earth, then start up at the exact right time. If you've ever used a sling, it's just like that. Right as its orbit is perpendicular to the moon and heading towards it, the rocket's engines activate and it flies next to the moon, and orbits that instead."
"They do not land?"
Harry frowned. "They might do now, but during the original moon landings, only a small pod–think rowboat–detached from the rocket. I forget if they used parachutes or retrorockets to land, but I don't think they could carry enough fuel to the moon to get the whole rocket back into lunar orbit, much less return to the surface of Earth. Instead, Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong got into the lunar lander module to get to the surface. Michael Collins was the third person on the main rocket, and he stayed in the rocket while they landed."
"What was it like, there?" Arya asked breathlessly. Her eyes shone with great curiosity. She was learning things no elf, human, or rider knew or would ever learn for centuries.
"Though there is technically an atmosphere on the moon, the air is too thin for humans to survive without space suits. Our bodies are designed for Earth's atmosphere, about fifteen psi, or pounds per square inch of pressure. The moon isn't even close to that, so any astronaut would quickly suffocate. That is, if they did not freeze to death, first. The atmosphere on Earth traps the sun's heat on the surface during the night, and insulates from it during the day. Else, we would be burned alive during the day, and freeze during the night.
"The lack of atmosphere means that asteroids do not burn up when they strike the moon, so the whole surface is pockmarked with craters. Some small from a pebble-sized impact, some big enough that they can be seen with the naked eye from Earth, and are many miles across and deep. Since there is no water cycle or weather, there are no biomes or terrain on the surface. Because the core of the moon is solid, there is no tectonic activity to create mountains and valleys. Everywhere on the moon is the same grey regolith. It is a haunting and dead expanse of dust and stone where every mile is the same as the last; lifeless."
Arya shivered. "But is it beautiful?"
Harry smiled. "Yes. It is."
The conversation stalled while she chewed a bite of food. "You would have made an excellent rider, Harry Potter. They were some of the greatest minds of their time," she said finally. Harry smirked.
"There's still time. Two eggs left, no?" She paused, then examined his face closely.
"Aye. Two eggs left."
Harry left a few coins on the table and stood, stretching. He and Arya made their way to the training yard with full bellies. The sound of metal drifted on the air, along with a much more prominent clacking of wood. Harry watched the dwarves carefully. They're all using huthvirn, he noted.
They pushed open a wooden gate and strode out onto the field. Off to the side, racks of dulled weapons gleamed in the afternoon sun. Harry went to pick one up out of curiosity, twirling it idly in his hand. Someone rushed over. "Apologies, Shadeslayer. Huthvirn are weapons only for Durgrimst Quan." The dwarf looked apologetic as he took the weapon from Harry's grasp.
"Really? Angela uses one." Harry looked puzzled. Of course, he knew exactly how little the herbalist would care about any 'superstitious ninnies' opinions. She probably reveled in the impotent rage of whoever she got her first huthvir off of.
He heard a derisive noise behind him and turned on the worn grass to see Gannel striding up, wearing leather armor and wielding a wooden mock-huthvir. "Angela. She won hers off us in a game of runes. It was a dirty trick–she knew only Durgrimst Quan is allowed to wield the blade staff." Arya's lips quirked.
"Fine. Who wants to fight, then?" Harry drew his massive sword and guarded its edge. Arya stood behind him and did the same, daring someone to challenge them. Gannel twirled his own blade staff expertly and squared off opposite them.
"I shall." Harry readied himself and nodded. The dwarf launched himself at Harry with speed and strength that belied his stature. Gannel wasn't as fast as Harry, but he could just about match his strength, and leveraged every advantage he had expertly. Ducking, rolling, jumping, Gannel's small body evaded every stroke Harry made, often leaping bodily over strokes or rolling under his outstretched arm.
Damn, he's fast, Harry thought irritably, deftly deflecting another strike with his guard and twisting to keep the dwarf in his vision. He found it incredibly difficult to pin Gannel in one place, the greatsword proving too cumbersome to block the agile strikes of the huthvir.
Maybe a tight horizontal spin? He pulled his sword hilt to his chest and spun, the blade flashing in a circle. Gannel–in a breathtaking display of agility–jumped straight up and bounced off the horizontal blade, tightly flipping at the apex of his jump, then diving down with his staff outstretched.
The brilliant maneuver nearly caught Harry, but he managed to avoid it in the nick of time by leaning back with bent knees, then leaping back at the last second. Gannel recovered quickly, twisting around a stab and leveraging the point dug into the ground to fling dirt into his eyes. Eyes instinctively closed, Harry shook his head and wiped at them with his sleeve. Gannel did not let up on his assault while he was blinded, but Harry was able to just barely foil his strikes by pinning down his location with his mind. However, the tactic did force him to be entirely on defense.
"Clean." Harry blinked his eyes open, just catching a looping blow which would have slid down his guard and rapped his knuckles. Sweeping his legs, he tried to catch out Gannel, but the priest was too wily to fall for such tricks.
A thought struck him, and he smiled devilishly. Gannel observed his expression nervously.
Harry twisted his bracelet, equipping his armor mid-fight. When Gannel came in for his next strike, Harry caught the blade with his left hand, slashing with his other hand on his massive sword. The dulled edge certainly left a bruise. Gannel cried out, then conceded between gusty breaths. "Well fought, Shadeslayer!"
He grinned. "Yourself as well, Gannel. You gave me the hardest time outside of shades, elves, and riders. Your skill makes me want to learn to wield the huthvir." The priest laughed.
"Turn into a dwarf, then become a priest, and we'll gladly have you!" Harry privately thought he might skip a few of those steps, but conceded the joke jovially, releasing the guard on his sword and stowing it on his back.
"Is Eragon along?" Harry glanced around the yard, but did not spot his friend anywhere.
"Aye," Gannel gestured towards an archery range. Eragon wielded the recurve bow Harry had presented to him. Despite the unfamiliar weapon, the rider was nailing bullseyes consistently, drawing a small crowd of eager watchers, betting cheerfully on his performance.
"Eragon!" Harry called out. The young rider jolted and threw his shot, hitting the second ring from the bullseye. The group around him split into cheers and groans as money changed hands. "Pay attention." he smirked. Eragon looked back irritably.
"I hate you," he said flatly.
"Surely not!" Harry feigned swooning. "Have you eaten? I'd like to make Tarnag before nightfall." Eragon bobbed his head.
"Aye. Have I yet to learn anything crucial?" Eragon addressed Gannel inquisitively.
The old priest considered for a moment. "Nay," he said finally. "Remember to follow the burial rites we spoke of, and you shall bring no shame or dishonor upon Durgrimst Ingeitum or King Hrothgar." Eragon unstrung his bow with a practiced motion, then slung it over his shoulder. Striding over to the target, he pried the sunken arrows out of the hay bale. Most of them plunged in up to the fletching, and made the task awkward and difficult. When he finished, Eragon bowed respectfully to Gannel. "Then I thank you for your time and your hospitality."
"May the stone beneath your feet be steady."
"And you as well."
When Harry emerged, his jaw gaped.
Celbediel was not, in fact, a city of its own–though Harry supposed it certainly acted like one–but an enormous temple complex high up the valley walls of a beautiful terraced city. The valley they approached Celbediel from was higher at its deepest point than the ridgeline which commenced Tarnag. In spite of himself, Harry had to admit he'd never seen anything like the city back on Earth.
He knew Venice by reputation, the city of canals, but even that surely wasn't as impressive as Tarnag? The city builders had expertly carved terraced homes, shops, public buildings like libraries and baths, and even farmland into the sloped crags of the valley walls.
Stone winding stairs and bridges connected everything together in an intricate frayed rope sort of path, which all flowed towards one enormous thoroughfare which wended through the city. Buildings on every side shone brilliant colors courtesy of some sort of glass-enamel decor. Harry spotted shuttered flameless lanterns and grinned. The neon colors would almost certainly light up Tarnag like downtown Tokyo at night.
The group trotted on their mounts down the thick thoroughfare. Eragon and Orik engaged in conversation along the way, chatting about what each other learned from their visit to Celbediel. Apparently, Orik had learned new legends himself during the rather one-sided argument Gannel held with Arya, and Harry's theories provided him with many new perspectives to look at his religion with.
Harry noted with some surprise that the dwarves had dug out drainage to wick rainwater from the road and channel it away. He wasn't historically learned enough to know when sewage and plumbing was developed, but he supposed if anyone would have mastered it, it would have been the dwarves with their masterful construction skills.
Along the walls, the edifice depicted bold scenes of fierce animals or beautiful patterns. Few words, he noted. That likely meant the average person–or at least a large enough demographic to matter–were illiterate. Harry spotted hanging signs with icons on the outside and amused himself guessing what kind of services the shop offered.
Most of them were incredibly easy to guess, though he supposed that was the point. Bread loaf: bakery. Tankard: bar. Hammer and tongs: blacksmith. Others were more abstract and required some thought like the icon for the public baths, while the last category fell under impossible due to cultural differences. Orik had laughed raucously when Harry unknowingly asked what a stout figure on a sign meant, and explained to Eragon's embarrassment and Harry's humiliation that it was a 'house of pleasure.'
Apparently silhouettes of female dwarves weren't readily obvious to humans. Arya looked rather amused by their reactions. Harry idly wondered if elves had such establishments in Ellesmera–not that he was overly eager to try Arya's temper by indulging himself.
They neared the square when someone raised a ruckus about their identities.
"Greetings, Shadeslayers, Orik," a dwarven rider approached them respectfully. He was rather less familiar with the common tongue for humans in Alagaesia, and it showed in his thick accent. "I am Thorv. I have been charged to escort you to Grimstborith Undin, and to offer you all his hospitality."
"On behalf of King Hrothgar, I accept his hospitality," Orik replied, nodding respectfully.
"And I, Islanzadi," Arya added smoothly.
Thorv reined in his mounted goat and turned towards the city proper.
Tarnag was surrounded at the base of the valley by an enormous wall which fused with the sheer valley wall at the end of a series of ramps and stairs. It wended around the uneven terrain with the stocky sort of construction Harry was beginning to associate with dwarves, slamming straight into hillocks which were cleared away on the other side of the barrier. He was surprised at the sheer girth of the city walls. Forty feet thick at least, the entry gate was more like an entry tunnel, shadowed but with a glowing semicircle at the other end to indicate its end.
Several hours past noon, the hubbub had drawn the attention of Tarnag's occupants, who now lined the cobbled streets. Beneath wooden eaves or pressed up against sturdy stone walls, a throng of hopeful, curious, or enraged dwarves watched. Dwarvish babbling sounded around the entire group as they advanced towards Undin's home.
The throng lining the streets muttered and murmured, words like 'shadeslayer,' and 'argetlam' poking out from the dull susurrations of the crowd. Though the reception trended towards adoration, Harry noted that Eragon's helmet was riling them up. More than once he spotted someone's face turn red with anger, or for a dwarf to spin and stomp off angrily.
Abruptly, a group of dwarves wearing purple veils emerged from the road. Thorv was forced to rein in his feldunost lest he run the group over. Instantly, the purple-veiled dwarves spoke passionately on some topic Harry could not comprehend, gesticulating angrily between themselves, Thorv, and Eragon. The lead dwarf jabbed a stubby finger at the crest of Durgrimst Ingeitum on his helm and shouted something. From there, the passionate speech devolved into a rant.
The dwarf vented his spleen at Thorv and Eragon. Harry watched the situation carefully, ready to deescalate the situation at a moment's notice. He fingered his wand nervously. Thorv interjected, stalling the rant, and a rapport began to unfold. Their guide pointed at Harry, then back at the purple-veiled menace. He asked a question, then challenged the interloper verbally. Harry got the impression Thorv enjoyed arguing and rather respected the dwarf he was debating.
Finally, the bickering boiled over and the lead dwarf made a disgusted noise. He pulled out of his pocket an iron ring. From his beard he plucked three strings and tied each one around the ring, tossing it derisively at Eragon and spitting on the thing.
Whatever it meant, even Arya looked shook, wincing minutely at each metallic bounce the ring made skittering across the cobbled road. Eragon glanced between the ring and Arya's face. The reactions he observed made him nervous. He glanced back at Thorv.
The humor in the dwarf's eyes had died. He stared at the spit-covered loop of metal gravely, with a nervousness Harry had never seen–not even when the dwarves under Farthen Dur faced down monstrous kull thrice their height or more. Whatever that ring meant, it was seriously bad.
Harry coughed slightly, tugging on Stupid's reins lightly and eliciting a whinny. "What does that," he nodded towards the ring, "mean?"
Thorv extracted a handkerchief from a pocket somewhere and carefully wrapped the offending item in it, tucking the bundle into a pocket somewhere. "It means trouble," he promised. He hopped back up onto his feldunost and they began riding towards Undin's manor.
Orik's mount sidled up to Harry and Eragon. "Those dwarves were of the clan Az Swelden rak Anhuin–the tears of Anhuin. Back in the time of the Forsworn, many clans could not enjoy the safety the tunnels beneath the Beors provided. Without our hunters, herders, and farmers, we would have starved to death far before any invasion could be launched. Anhuin was one such clan. One day, the Forsworn flew over the Beors and caught sight of her and her clan. They laid waste to every dwarf they could see, and only Anhuin and her guards survived. To this day, they wear veils over their faces and name themselves after Anhuin's grief at losing everyone dear to her in one fell swoop." The dwarf drew a deep breath to continue, but let it out abruptly.
"Why would they hate me, then?" Eragon asked, bewildered. "I want to take down Galbatorix, surely they would support that."
Orik shook his head. "Nay. Even before Anhuin's Lament, all the dwarf clans had many problems with dragons–both the riders and the wild ones. The riders favored humans and elves over the other races since they were part of the pact between them, and often negotiations did not favor us when they were the ultimate power in Alagaesia. As Swelden rak Anhuin's destruction was sealed because they allied themselves with the riders closer than any of us dared or were willing to. They sent their best fighters to do battle alongside Vrael in the time of the Fall. When the riders were crushed, Galbatorix sought to punish the clan by sending his accursed servants through the Beors and murdering every last dwarf. Since then, the resentment and hatred has festered in their hearts, growing only more virulent each year."
Thorv glanced over his shoulder. "Aye, the dragons have not been kind to us. They force wildlife out of their caves and eat our feldunost. We may not like it, but Ragni Hefthyn knows the dragons are the heart and soul of Alagaesia. They were here far before elves and humans both, and we have coexisted for thousands of years with them. The ring Az Swelden rak Anhuin threw at you means they do not agree. It is an oath–a promise, that they will oppose you, Eragon Shadelayer, in every deed, big or small. They will fight tooth and nail against even their own interests to deny you what you want. A dishonorable and dangerous action, one which has not happened in centuries now, since the time of the clan wars."
Orik nodded grimly. "It was not uncommon for families to be extinguished in their entirety over that oath. Clan wars have been started over less."
Eragon furrowed his brows. "Do they mean bodily harm to me?"
Thorv hesitated, then laughed nervously. "Nay. Not even they would harm a guest. It is forbidden. They merely want you gone. Gone, gone, gone."
Harry was not reassured. But neither of his guides looked willing to elaborate, so he left them to it.
"Come, let us speak of lighter topics. We are nearly upon our destination, anyways." Orik tried to inject some cheer into his voice. For the remainder of their travel, they talked about trivial things. Soon enough, they came across Undin's manor.
It was–as most dwarven architecture was–massive and skillfully built. Unlike Celbedeil with its airy marble construction, Tarnag favored a more vibrant and colorful palette of colors. Unfortunately, Tarnag was an unapologetically dwarven city, with approximately zero consideration for the taller races of Alagaesia. Doorways were never higher than five and a half feet, unless part of a particularly grandiose construction or public building. Harry was sized just a foot or two above most dwarves and found himself much more comfortable in the city, but it clearly grated on Eragon and to a lesser extent, Arya. More than once they had to nearly bow to pass under some sort of construction. Saphira stuck exclusively to the thankfully wide thoroughfare all the way up until their destination.
Undin's manor–for it could not be rightly called a house–was made of interlocking grey stone blocks which formed an outer wall. Beyond the open gates, the manor sat on a limestone foundation and was supported by thick wooden beams. Unlike most private dwellings in Tarnag, its construction was grand enough that Harry, Eragon, and Arya could all easily navigate the interior if they chose.
Split into two wings, the center of the manse was a great open courtyard whose centerpiece was a beautifully detailed fountain which burbled with crystal clear water. Greenspaces and gardens set in the brick floor added a bit of nature to what might have been a drab open space.
The two wings of the manor were connected by a skybridge which formed an arch over the entryway to the courtyard. A similar setup bridged the gap on the other side. Flung open shutters spilled candlelight out and illuminated the wooden paneling which made up the upper level, accented by carved pillars and buttresses. A balcony lined several different segments of the upper level, shaded by support beams covered in flowery vines and such.
Harry cast an appraising eye at the courtyard. Whatever was normally in the space had been cleared away to make room for a feast. Enormous tables, benches, and chairs sized for both dwarves and humans encircled the rather low tabletops. Against the wall stacks of barrels were being manned by dwarf servants, and the foot of the high table was left without a chair, and an enormous platter of roast meats.
A dwarf wearing the finest garb Harry had yet seen emerged from the manor flanked by a pair of guards. "Welcome!" he spread his arms. "I am Undin, Grimstborith of Ragni Hefthyn. Please, rest and refresh yourselves. There is a feast being prepared for tonight, and it would not do for the guests of honor to collapse from saddle sore before you all have the chance to fill your bellies with food and fine wine." The dwarf announced gregariously. Harry allowed himself to be ushered into the grand manor along with Eragon. A dwarf-maid guided Arya into a separate wing.
The inside was even more impressive than the exterior. Artwork of every kind hung on the walls, and mosaic floor tiles ran along the grand corridors and hallways. Mahogany stairs led up to a balustrade which forked into an airy hallway lined with windows. The frames had flameless lanterns bracketed on to replace natural light with the orange dusky illumination during the night. Eragon and Harry split off into adjacent rooms to prepare.
Harry's room had a beautifully furnished bed and adjacent table. Opposite it, an armoire with a small but brilliantly polished mirror in the center. An en-suite bathroom attached to the bedroom. Though it lacked the shower he was accustomed to, there was a bathing basin indented in the ground. A variety of scented soaps and toiletries lined carved alcoves in the walls. A tiny servant's door opposite the bathtub shut firmly and could be latched while Harry bathed.
Availing himself of the fluffy towels hanging on metal hooks, Harry quickly dried himself and conjured a nicer set of clothes for himself. Straightening his ascot, Harry unlatched the servant's door and his own, and emerged feeling much less battered and dirty than he had before.
Eragon's door hung ajar, so Harry shrugged and made his way through the halls. He ran his hand along a polished bannister with an appraising eye. Now that he had invested loads of time into learning new crafts, Harry found himself taking in his surroundings with a much more appreciative eye. Before, something like a railing would never even cross his mind. It was just there. Now, he examined the long and unbroken grain appraisingly. The dwarves must have carved this from one extremely tall tree.
The detailed mosaics on the floor were incredibly detailed, but even the sturdy construction drew his attention. Floors and walls met at perfect ninety degree angles without a single crack or fissure.
A servant rushed past him, bearing a covered platter. Harry's head snapped up. Behind the stream of lone rushing dwarves, a troop of eight knurlan bore an enormous oval plate with a colossal cooked boar on it. Harry looked twice at the great beast. Before he could really examine it, some dwarvish butler approached him and chattered at him in dwarvish, grabbing his hand and tugging lightly on his arm. Harry let himself be led outside.
Dusk was beginning to set in, turning the sky a ruddy purple-orange. Crickets chirped outside the compound, and the first of the flameless lanterns began to be unshuttered. All around the tiered and terraced city of Tarnag, light shone off the brilliantly colored buildings, illuminating the dwarven city like downtown neon lights.
Inside the courtyard, energetic chatter and laughter drifted through the arch, interspersed by the hustle and bustle of servants setting out arrangements of food. Harry turned through the arch and wandered into the courtyard. At the center of the head table, Saphira crouched, pleased as punch. A small pile of ash and charcoal indicated the fate the chair placed in her spot had experienced. It still glowed and smoked faintly.
"-set up the tables outside so the dragon may dine with us," Undin announced proudly. He spoke like Saphira was a particularly good dog he was humoring by letting her eat with them. Eragon glared stiffly at him.
"Saphira and I are honored by your thoughtfulness." Eragon spoke coldly, in a tone even an idiot couldn't mistake. Sadly, Undin must have fallen into that category, for the cheerful smile plastered on his face did not dim even briefly.
Harry slid into an empty seat next to Arya, across from Eragon and Orik. On one end of the long table, Saphira lounged imperiously in front of an enormous platter. Undin, the host, was then forced to sit at the foot to maintain some semblance of authority in his own home. Harry suppressed a smirk. Saphira made her feelings very clear on how she appreciated the way Undin treated her.
They assembled around the high table which creaked in protest at the plentiful feast piled atop it. Undin sliced himself a portion of the enormous boar. Eragon made to copy him, but Orik stopped him briefly. "Wait a moment."
Undin brought the chunk of meat to his mouth, chewing with exaggerated motions and rolling his eyes theatrically. "Ilf Gaunith!"
Orik released Eragon's arm. "It means 'it's good.' The Grimstborith testing the food first became tradition back when poisoning was rife."
"Grimstborith?" Eragon asked curiously.
"Basically, clan chief. There are a few differences, but he is the leader of Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. I suppose he would be the leader of inter-clan matters. The Grimstcarvlorss is always a woman, and she is the leader of domestic affairs. There are many jokes about their roles, often going something like "Grimstboriths make problems, Grimstcarvlorsses fix them." My beloved Hvedra is the Grimstcarvlorss of Durgrimst Ingeitum." Orik ribbed Eragon with a grin.
Saphira lounged at the end of the table, upending barrels of mead to raucous cheers and devouring the raw meat placed in front of her, often roasting it herself before consumption. She entertained the dwarf children by allowing them to scramble all over her glittering scales and tossing them gently to the thick grass screaming and giggling. Undin watched uncomfortably, feeling embarrassed by his treatment of her as a mindless beast.
Harry rather thought the celebration was a nice change of pace. Though he had experience with both Urgal grog and Firewhiskey, dwarvish alcohol was strong enough to make him take notice. Sweet and spicy all at the same time, the mead was delicious, the best he had. Though Harry had not yet tried elvish liquor, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that dwarvish alcohol was the best he had yet tried. Better than tavern drinks, that's for sure, he thought in amusement. Morn could learn a thing or two.
"What is this meat?" Harry asked Orik.
"Nagra, or giant boar. One of the four races native to these mountains," Orik grinned. "It is rare to be served, for only the bravest dwarves dare hunt Nagran. It is only served to honor great warriors."
"And the other three species?"
"Feldunost–the mountain goat which Thorv rode on, Shrrg: enormous wolves large enough to prey on Nagra and agile enough to catch feldunost, and Urzhad. They are enormous bears, bigger than any landed wildlife save the mightiest old dragons. The elves call them Beorn, for which they dubbed these peaks. Though we do not call them that ourselves, their true names are a secret we share with no race."
Harry rolled his eyes. He was beginning to disagree with Angela on the nature of dwarves. They were not superstitious, they were self-important ninnies. The grandiose nature of Tronjieim spoke to either arrogance, or a desperate need to impress on the other races.
Orik continued blithely. "I believe that Undin is serving Nagra to tell you, Eragon, that he will support you over Durgrimst Nagra." He dug into his food, maneuvering a cut of roast duck around his bushy beard.
Arya gave the veritable forest of cooked animals a haughtily disdainful noise and carefully filled her plate with only vegetarian foods. Harry could respect her dedication, but he enjoyed meat too much to cut it out on only someone else's word.
The variety of offerings was mind-boggling. Exotic spices and garnishses adorned plates of dozens of different waterfowl. Eels wrapped around roasted and smoked fish like salmon, tuna, trout, and bass. He spotted loaves of bread and wheels of cheese which servants deftly divided into serving pieces for the feasters.
Harry busied himself taking portions from each dish he saw, tiny slices so that he could eat some of everything. It reminded him of the feast Hogwarts hosted when Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrived for the Triwizard Tournament. He hadn't taken advantage of the foreign and exotic dishes, but he'd grown more adventurous since then, and feasts like the one in front of him didn't come around every day, especially in a society not yet post-scarcity.
He reached for the serving cutlery and pulled a platter to himself, cutting a filet of eel and transferring it to his gilded ceramic plate, grease and fat dripping from the perfectly cooked meat. He replaced the silver platter and its accompanying knife and fork. Steaming sweet rolls and various slices of cheese soon joined the plethora of exotic meats. Harry picked up the gleaming silver cutlery and dug in.
"Are all of these foods native to the Beors?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"The meat and mushrooms- yes," Orik affirmed. "Many spices and exotic greens come from either Surda or Du Weldenvarden. The beors are far too cold for cocoa beans and tropical fruits, so we must buy them from the elves who can make anything grow."
Harry chewed a bite of the delicious sweet and spicy Nagra with relish. "And other crops?"
Their host, Undin answered that one with a genial smile. "Though the mountainous terrain makes farming a great challenge, we can use stonework and architecture to carve out small regions where agriculture is possible. Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn is one clan who does such. Though it is true the most exotic foods are imported, everything else you see here was produced by mine own clan," he admitted proudly.
"Though, I suspect you would have little trouble growing such rare plants with the use of your magic. Every dwarf has now heard of you, Harry Potter. So momentous was the shattering of Isidar Mithrim that Hrothgar sent out missives of lamentation immediately after the battle. Imagine the confusion sown when not days later, knurlagn everywhere are rejoicing at the repair of our nation's beating heart–greater and more beautiful than ever. As soon as my duties permit, I shall have to take a pilgrimage to Farthen Dur and behold your work, wizard."
Harry smiled warmly. "It was no trouble at all. I could hardly let such a work of art be obliterated when I had the power to fix it."
Undin regarded him carefully. "Aye, but none of our own dwarven spellcasters could work out how to do it themselves. A skilled magician, you must be." Harry shrugged.
"We do what we can." The serious look persisted, then suddenly stretched into a smile.
"On behalf of mine clan, I thank you for your service," the chief pledged. "Though many clans would disagree–As Swelden rak Anhuin the most vociferously–I believe it is time for the races of Alagaesia to unite and overthrow Galbatorix's tyranny. When the time comes to fight for the freedom of the continent, Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn shall stand with you." Undin took a deep draft of his tankard and banged it down firmly.
Arya and Orik had been listening carefully, and both of them looked distinctly pleased by the proclamation. "Hrothgar will be very pleased," the dwarf said to Harry and Eragon gruffly. "And I am, as well."
The rest of the night passed in a drunken blur. Harry's low alcohol tolerance combined with the heavenly liquor the dwarves served quickly caused the stars to swirl and the brilliantly illuminated colors of the dwarven city Tarnag to stand out even more. He feasted and made merry late into the night, laughing as Saphira consumed entire barrels of mead in one go and then belched them high into the night sky. Eragon laughed right with him at his partner's behavior.
Dwarven musicians danced, sang, and played instruments to liven the atmosphere, and Harry soon found himself dancing unsteadily with a beaming Arya. The cool evening air was staved off by the burning courage the drinks lent Harry, and he boldly kissed the elf right in the middle of their dancing. Arya reciprocated, and they retired to Harry's rooms in earnest.
"Are you sure you want to risk having a child?" Harry breathed as they divested each other of their clothes." Arya's eyes smouldered, and she gave him an answer without words.
AN: Arya and Harry's relationship is getting steamy, folks. It's not quite smooth sailing for them from here on out, but their interpersonal relationship is pretty strong. (Harry hasn't met the family yet.) I haven't really written much angst, but I don't really enjoy reading it, so don't expect too much of that stuff for a while yet. I'm still not sure how to write about Eragon and how he feels losing his father, especially when he actually knew Brom was his father at the time of his death. The story follows Harry much closer than him, and there aren't a lot of snippets of rider life, especially when most of it boils down to traveling at the moment.
In canon, the next city we visit before Ellesmera is Ceris, which is the last stop until Ellesmera. They never went into the city, instead skirting the place out of some stupid desire to stay hidden so they could surprise the Queen or whatever. NOT ME. In canon, the only elven city described was Ellesmera, and I never really loved how it was characterized. Its sort of a perpetual dusk, and without elves or at first glance, it apparently looks just like a generic forest. I chose to skip Ceris and instead have a landing and feast at Silthrim, the city on the lake. I wanted to take the chance to describe what other elven cities might look like, especially ones open to the sun. Elves are all about nature and living in tune with it, so I tried to incorporate that in the architecture of a city where people can actually see the sun.
The religious thing with Gannel served a purpose in the long game. The Urgal gods exist in my story, just like Guntera in canon crowns Orik at his coronation. While that might merit a brief mention, I wrote that with Percy Jackson and the Olympians in mind. I wrote like one chapter when I got hit with a huge burst of inspiration, but don't expect to see that particular story for a while, especially since the multiverse stops are piling up and a rough order is forming (sorry folks, that one's quite a bit further down the line.)
I also have ideas on how the industrial revolution might affect the war in Alagaesia. Unfortunately, I don't think it can happen until the later end of the conflict, else Galbatorix will kinda get bodied right away. King Orrin in canon was a bit of a philosopher/scientist, and in this fic he's not going to be the only great thinker. Durgrimst Quan just had the foundations of their religion shook, and so are going to be investigating geology a bit. Angela's already been put on the path to space travel, and dwarves in general (especially Ingeitum, the forging clan) are teetering on the edge of the industrial revolution, what with their advanced siege machines and experienced metalworkers.
Part of the reason I really want to write a GOT crossover is to write about how the industrial revolution might change the landscape over there. A lot of SI stories have been written, and tend to fall in line with: Crop rotation magically doubles food output and allows the Alaskan tundra to miraculously grow more food than Iowan cornfields, OR: inventing gunpowder and skipping straight over muskets to proper rifles and such. For the first category, they're pretty easy to find by searching SI on FFN. The second kind, I highly recommend Greyjoy alla Breve by ShalGar
Bit of a rambling and lengthy AN, but its my story, and I can do what I want. So there.