Harry Evans's Fabulous Multidimensional Adventure

by androidrainbow

After dying in the forest, Harry is offered the chance to help other children of prophecy. Adventure ensues. Vol. 1: Inheritance Cycle

32. Exodus

Chapter 39: Exodus

Roran kicked a charred and twisted board with his heavy boots angrily. Baldor and Albreich flanked him, picking through the wreckage of the home he had grown up in. Nothing. There was nothing left but ash. As much as Roran wanted to rage and blame his cousin, he didn't believe for a second Eragon would do something like this.

The sky seemed to reflect his mood. Roiling dark clouds blotted out the sun, threatening to drown the valley below. A fierce wind blew at the world like the screaming of an angry god. Roran hunched over further in a vain attempt to shield his face from the tearing wind.

Whatever destroyed the house had burned so hot the metal nails, hooks, tools, and cooking ware had melted into so much slag. Garrow's body was nowhere to be found, and with the heat of the inferno that had consumed his home, Roran didn't think they'd ever find it.

"Oi!" Baldor called out. "Over here."

Roran picked his way through the treacherous floorboards towards him. More than once the blackened wood had simply dissolved into ash when he put his boot on it. He made it to the blacksmith's son without any pitfalls and bent down to examine what Baldor was examining.

"What is this?" he breathed. In the man's calloused hands, he held a small shard of brilliant blue gemstone.

"Part of Eragon's cursed sorcerer's stone," Roran said hollowly.

When he returned from Therinsford, it was to bleak faces and murmured condolences. He had been elated, his pockets were heavily laden with the wages he had received milling for Dempton in the neighboring village. He had spent the entire walk to Carvahall running over how he would propose to Katrina when he arrived.

The butcher Sloan's daughter was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on, and her visage had given him the motivation to work as hard and long as he could for Dempton so that he could ask for his hand and support whatever family they created.

He remembered Sloan's cruel smirk when he returned to Carvahall. Katrina's father was a vicious troublemaker who hated Roran and his family for no apparent reason. His wife, Ismira, had died slipping over the ledge of the falls which fed the village their water from the Spine. Ever since, the butcher had possessed a pathological hatred of the mountain range and refused any game hunted there, regardless of its potential bounty.

Roran remembered Horst taking him aside into his home and away from the crowd, telling him gently of what had transpired since he was last in Carvahall. It all seemed like too much to be real. Brom the storyteller, his cousin, and Harry and Arya the newcomers chasing off a pair of inhuman murderers who had claimed Garrow's life. It all revolves around that damned stone, he thought angrily. If Eragon had any sense, he'd have left it in the cursed mountains where it came from.

"Do you think it will give us any clues as to what might have happened?" Baldor asked Roran, holding the blue shard up to the light and turning it carefully.

"No doubt it's involved," Roran agreed, "But I doubt it's going to give us the answers itself. The strangers are at the heart of this mystery, and I intend to repay them for their crimes in kind." A flinty and challenging look gleamed in his eye. Baldor wisely did not argue with Roran, instead digging through the ashen floorboards more carefully, feeling the soot for any more of the blue crystals. Bits of the blackened dust and debris were picked up by the wind and flung into their eyes, making the exercise altogether rather miserable.

By the time the sun had fallen, Roran, Albreich, and Baldor had collected twelve more tiny shards. Roran had bitterly conceded that the fire had obliterated anything that might have been useful long before they had come around to salvage, and lent his efforts towards retrieving the last bits of the cursed stone which had brought such trouble down on their heads.

It was suspicious that they had only found thirteen small shards when by rights, they should have been finding the stuff all over and in much larger quantities. Whatever could shatter the supposedly indestructible gem, either it didn't leave much behind, or the ruins were already picked through. Or, he supposed, Eragon took most of them with him.

That stuck in his craw. Even after you've abandoned us, you take with you everything of value. My family, my home, my tools. Roran sighed and beckoned Horst's boys from the wreck. "Come on, there's nothing of use left here. The metal melted, and everything else was burned to ash."

Albreich and Baldor shared a glance, but stepped from the wreckage. "Father will have prepared dinner for us, and you as well, Roran," Albreich rumbled. "You should come with us. Staying at Morn's tavern is costing you coin which you need to raise your own home."

Roran looked mulish, but accepted regardless. "Fine. But I will work off any debt I incur later. I am no beggar, and Garrow would turn in his grave if he knew I accepted charity."

Baldor shot him a glance, but did not comment. They strode purposefully down the long path from the farm to Carvahall, hunched and with arms crossed tightly over their bodies..

In mere hours, Baldor was swiftly ascending the stone steps to the patio in front of Horst's two-story house. The blacksmith had built his house with his own hands years ago, and it's sturdy condition was a testament to his skill. Roran ran his hands along a sanded railing as he took the steps one at a time instead of by twos as Albriech and Baldor did.

The raised deck of the patio was constructed of faded wood boards supported by pillars of wood dug several feet into the ground. Innumerable planks formed many horizontal lines which traveled up the side of the house. The foundation was made of rough and amateurish masonry which lent a sturdy and powerful base to build off of. Roran's eyes flickered over a rocking chair off to the left of the patio, positioned next to a small table.

Albreich struck a metal bell twice next to the door, and the sound of footsteps on wood emanated from inside. Horst flung open the shutters quickly and identified who had knocked on the door before closing them shut again. The sound of a heavy bolt scraping resonated behind the heavy oaken door, which the smith swung open.

"Boys," he greeted. "Find anything of use?"

Baldor nodded and gestured to the candle lit hallway, indicating he'd rather discuss in private. Horst gave him a look, but waved them inside.

Baldor swept past Horst and waited only seconds for Roran and Albreich to follow before slamming the door and sealing out the howling gusts. He shivered and stomped his feet.

"Welcome, Roran. Elaine's just finishing putting something together, then we can all discuss whatever this is over supper," Horst announced. Roran nodded his thanks.

They walked down the entry hall. The walls were bracketed by metal candle holders which cast a yellowed illumination about the beautiful house. Inside, time and the elements had not been so harsh on the wood, so it looked much more vibrant than the faded boards outside. Roran craned his neck to follow the bannister which surrounded a flight of stairs leading to a second level. That was rare enough by itself in Carvahall. The only other two-story building was Morn's tavern, which had to be to fit all its guest rooms.

More candle light emanated from the upper level, though if Elaine was preparing food downstairs, either Horst had another guest or was burning wax carelessly. A second flight of stairs led down to an excavated basement which remained darkened.

Horst led across quietly creaking hardwood floorboards to the end of the hall, which branched off in both directions. The front led to an open and cheery well-lit kitchen at which Elaine was bustling about. Over a stone hearth hung an iron pot which stew boiled over, mouth-watering scents emanating from it. Roran's stomach growled at the thought.

Baldor and Albreich dropped heavily into two of a dozen oaken chairs which surrounded an oval table. Already present was the village healer, Gertrude. She was chatting idly with Elaine while the woman cooked supper.

"You boys must be famished," Elaine announced, setting a steel pot down heavily on the table and ladling out the liquid into several bowls. "Picking through dangerous ruins all day. Did you find anything interesting?"

"Aye, mother," Baldor said excitedly. "Some manner of blue gem shards, from the stone Eragon had brought back from the Spine, no doubt." He held out a large open palm and showed her their bounty. A handful of glittering blue gems winked up at her. Gertrude leaned forward interestedly.

"I can't claim to be an expert, but I'd bet those aren't glass. That's the genuine artifact," the woman opined.

"Well done, Baldor, Albreich," Elaine praised. "They are yours by right, Roran. I wouldn't dare tell you what, but I imagine such a rarity might help you on whatever journey life takes you next. Whether to sell it to some wealthy merchant or lord, or as a keepsake."

Roran frowned minutely, but nodded his head nonetheless. "There's enough that I might do both," he admitted. "Mayhaps have a piece set into a ring to remember Garrow by."

"Do you think he would have liked that?" She asked softly.

Roran snorted. "Nay, he'd call it useless fripperies and sell it for coin to make our lives easier."

Horst laughed gruffly. "A practical man, then. Perhaps you can find a practical use for the stuff, eh?" The blacksmith pulled out Elaine's chair for her, and received a grateful look. He sat heavily in his own chair and they quickly thanked the gods for the food on their table. "Let us eat!"

Bowls of steaming hot mutton stew were quickly drained by enthusiastic eaters. Roran did his best not to shame Garrow with his table manners, but he could hardly be worse than the other men, who slurped and drank eagerly at their supper like it was the first they'd had in weeks. Elaine scolded her husband gently, but wore an affectionate smile that said she didn't really mind. She made conversation with her guests and the atmosphere of the dining room was such that Roran could almost picture it happening in the farmhouse with Garrow and Eragon–perhaps even Miriam, too.

"What sort of trade are you thinking of plying to support yourself in the future?" Gertrude inquired politely.

Roran answered immediately. "Farming. The fields around the ruined house are mine by rights, now, and I'll not shy away from building myself another homestead to live out of. It may be a year or two before I start plying the land, but I have enough gold from working in Therinsford with Dempton to subsist until then."

Elaine nodded. "Any other reasons? You have experience enough to be a miller, and Carvahall knows you as a good and honorable man. Any tradesman but Sloan would likely be happy to have you as an apprentice."

Roran's eyes grew distant. "You honor me, but farming is what my heart belongs to. I have always loved nurturing the plants, watching them grow under my careful guidance, and then in turn providing for others with the fruits of my labor. Given any number of opportunities, I can't think of anything I'd rather do."

Horst smiled warmly. "It's good to know what you want from your life. Many are not so fortunate. Why, I remember my own passing interest with carpentry well. It was the summer before I apprenticed under the village's previous smith, Irtung. I had shown my interest in his work, but carpentry was my hobby back then. Woodworking is a much easier form of smithing. With tools, you shape your chosen material as you desire. Smithing took more grit, and I'm proud to have stayed the course and learned it well." Elaine kissed his cheek beneath his bushy beard and smiled.

"You caught many a maiden's eye with your smithing muscles, dear," she batted her eyes. Horst boomed out a laugh and grinned.

"Aye, that was another thing I was proud of."

Gertrude rolled her eyes, but did not comment, choosing instead to finish her bowl of stew. "Another bowl, Gertrude?" Elaine offered a ladle full of the mutton stew.

The healer politely declined. "You've been plenty generous enough," she smiled. "I fear should I take one more sip, I'll bloat so much I'll rupture."

Baldor snickered, earning a glare from his mother. "It's no trouble, dear," Elaine reassured. She settled back in her chair. "I heard a rumor going around, that someone spotted one of the menacing strangers back in Carvahall.

The mood in the room instantly died.

"When was this?" Roran asked tersely. Horst's eyes bored into his wife.

Elaine's face suddenly rearranged itself as it began to dawn on her that the news she had to share wasn't overly pleasant. "This afternoon, outside Morn's tavern. I didn't think it as important, since the man very clearly mentioned only one."

"Just because the other wasn't seen, doesn't mean he wasn't there. In many ways, it is better to know exactly where your enemies are than to find one unaccounted for," Horst spoke ominously.

"I'll be sure to inquire if I see the drunkard again. Though I doubt even he remembers," Elaine shook her head, brown hair shifting against her dress. Horst watched carefully.

"That would be for the best." Horst said lowly.

"We need to be on the lookout," Roran demanded furiously. "Foolish though Eragon may be for keeping the stone, he undoubtedly wasn't the one to kill Garrow. Though I am less certain, my gut is telling me neither did Harry, Arya, or Brom. The strangers were unnatural and menacing, demanding answers with the king's authority. They were the ones to kill my father, and I want justice."

---

Harry raced across the canopy of damp trees as low as he dared, bobbing up and down over the rounded treetops. Saphira led the pack at cruising speed ahead, driving her great sapphire wings powerfully back, then tucking them in to speed ahead. Overhead, the sky was overcast and drizzling rain fell on the group. It was a pleasant sort of precipitation, one which left the smell of petrichor in the air and kept the world damp and cool. Enough light filtered through the cloud cover for full visibility, though the harsh edge of the sunlight was cut entirely by the smooth mass of clouds overhead.

Without any urgent time pressures, Harry, Orik, Arya, Eragon, and Saphira collectively agreed to take the trip to Ellesmera at merely dragonback speed, rather than the truly ridiculous hypersonic travel time Harry could achieve with his broomstick alone. The wizard had cast the bubblehead charm with a mental twist which caused it to cover only the eyes of his party, acting like perfectly transparent goggles which let the cool droplets of water run down their faces.

Orik had nearly poked himself in the eye, examining the piece of magic interestedly. The dwarf was not comfortable flying under his own power on a broomstick, and Saphira had graciously allowed him to sit behind her rider for the trip.

Saphira pulled her lips back into a snarl which bared her razor sharp ivory teeth. She was a daughter of the sky, and she hated that an especially short two-legs-round-ears could fly faster than her on a stick. Her competitive and vain nature innate as a dragon pushed her to fly faster and harder, to pull past the flying sticks and their normally earthbound riders.

Her flight membranes strained and her wing muscles burned, but Saphira noted smugly that she could overtake their gliding speed as long as they weren't going so fast the very air was torn apart in their wake. Saphira did not doubt for a moment that she was the fastest dragon alive. Shruikan–though he hardly counted as a real dragon, being enslaved to the Oath-breaker–surely was unable to fly at her speed, he was far too large to cut through the wind and air like she could. Saphira examined her brilliantly flashing reflection in the blurry rushing waters of the river beneath them. Az Ragni, the two-legs-short ones called it.

Saphira snorted a tongue of blue flame. Az Ragni. It literally meant in the river in dwarvish. She narrowed her eyes at the rather pathetic flame. Inhaling more deeply, Saphira fired a much more powerful tongue of flame which extended several feet in front of her, despite their punishing rate of flight. She preened at the sounds of alarm her fellow travelers made. "As well they should," she projected to her partner-of-heart-and-soul, Eragon. She received from him a distinct sense of amusement. Oh well, Eragon was not a dragon, and so he could not hope to understand why she did what she did. Though, he was surely the closest person in existence to understanding.

Saphira sent him a wave of mental affection at the thought. She sensed her rider smiling, and made a pleased rumbling sound deep in her throat.

Rain continued to lightly sprinkle her and her companions throughout the journey. Saphira found that she did not mind the weather overly much. She did not like how the dulled sun refused to make her most beautiful scales sparkle and gleam, but she would enjoy the pleasant droplets of water rushing over her. Without that silly head-fur or the second-skins the two-legs tended to wear, Saphira did not get truly wet. Instead, the countless droplets of water slid off her scales, cleaning them of any grime. Though less effective than hot sand at polishing, Saphira could appreciate it nonetheless.

Plus, she thought, It makes the humans and dwarf less smelly. Eragon heard that thought and sent back playful indignation. "Before the wizard came along and harassed you into it, you were smelly." Saphira sent him her scent-memories of Eragon before he got in the habit of washing daily. Eragon shifted uncomfortably above her, and she was satisfied that her point had been made.

Alongside her, the wizard and elf played in the air on their flying-sticks. Arya was trying to catch Harry as he looped and bobbed around her. Saphira grudgingly admitted to herself privately that Harry was born to the sky like her. Certainly not to rule it as she did, but she could tolerate his presence beside her.

The two-legs-pointed-ears flew without the absolute confidence the wizard did, but Saphira knew it was only a matter of time. Arya flew like a fledgling, not yet sure of her movements, and occasionally unsteady on her broom. With a draconic grin, Saphira resolved to show her how a true empress-of-the-sky flew. She tipped forwards and dove towards the canopy of trees flanking the river, banking harshly at the last second to avoid being pasted upon the unyielding ground.

Saphira caught the yelp of surprise and some scared dwarvish muttering as she twisted and corkscrewed through the wet air. Oops. She forgot Orik was back there on the magic saddle Harry and the old one had made for her together.

"Arya has called us to land," Eragon spoke in her mind. "According to her, the distance we must travel is not so far at our speed, and she would like to teach us of her people before we meet them ourselves."

Saphira leveled out and glided downwards towards the river bank, thumping down to the ground rather heavily just beyond the treeline. She heard the crunching-stepping noise which told her that Arya and Harry had dismounted their flying-sticks and landed.

Beneath her watchful gaze, the two-legs wandered about making themselves a temporary den-lair-nest. She padded after the wizard as he led her a hundred yards into the forest before he pulled his bone axe from the bigger-on-the-inside bag he wore on his back and whirled around, lopping down enough trees to make a clearing large enough for her to rest and for the tent to be pitched in.

He used magic to shear off all the little branches of the trees he'd cut down and quickly formed a pile of brush, branches, and leaves. A few healthy but small branches with leaves were saved, shrunk and sealed in glass cylinders that tasted like frozen-sands-of-time, and the logs were stowed away after them. He said another strange word which was not of the Ancient Language, dwarvish, or the human tongue.

The branches steamed and faded in color, steam distorting the air around them slightly. At a flick of his tiny stick, the bigger dry ones assembled themselves into a pyramid. Harry made to light the fire, but Saphira beat him to it, snaking her sinuous neck around everyone else and breathing lowly on it. A jet of blue flames engulfed the wood, which instantly caught fire before fading to the typical orange of boring human fire.

Arya laughed her elvish-tinkling-bell laugh at her behavior. Saphira did not mind, though. Arya had carried her around in her egg for many years, talking to her and reaching out with her mind when Saphira could not help herself, trapped in her egg as she was. Her presence was familiar and comforting.

Eragon used the magic of the land to scrape away the brush beneath a square of land and level the dirt beneath. Harry tossed up the tent-not-a-tent and said a familiar word which caused it to expand into a cloth den for the two-legs to sleep in. She had been inside it many times, but each visit was harder for her. Dragons, she supposed, do not belong in tents. Navigating her great wings and gorgeous scales and powerful muscles and sharp talons through an opening designed for humans was tough. Instead, she swept her tail across the scraped underbrush beneath her and flattened a space to lie down on before curling up slightly and setting her jaw on the ground, unmoving except for her beautiful eyes which tracked the humans with unnerving intensity.

Arya came from the tent with several folding white woodless-metal-less-stoneless chairs and set out four of them arrayed in front of her, around the crackling fire. Soon, Harry emerged from the tent floating in front of him a wicker basket. A rounded table appeared in the middle of the chairs. He set down the basket in the middle and gestured at it. Plates, silverware, cups, and heaps of fresh food flew from the wicker basket. There was a loaf of bread, two kinds of cheese, one yellow and one nearly white. A pot of stew and strips of bacon came next, followed by a large plate of fruits. A tray of butter arranged itself next to the loaf of bread. Scrambled eggs sprinkled with salt, pepper, onions, cheese, and peppers emerged last.

The basket bounced up into the air, spun about, and closed itself with a burp before zipping back into the tent. The pitter-patter of rain on leaves and the misty splashes made Harry draw his plastic poncho tighter around himself. He grinned and dropped into his chair. Eragon fell silently into his own. Since they had left Tarnag, the young rider had been subdued. He had hid his grief admirably while dealing with the politicking and maneuvering of the dwarves and Varden, but now that those eyes were off him, he began to mourn Brom.

The man had been a mess of contradictions, hiding himself from Eragon in Carvahall, yet running off on an adventure with his son with nary a word of caution. He had sired his only child with the wife of his archenemy, but not out of spite, rather genuine love for Selena. The conflicted feelings only complicated Eragon's feelings for his father. He was incredibly grateful that Saphira was with him. She lent him perspective and unwavering support which he was sure he would have gone crazy without. Brom was not the only family he had lost on the day of the invasion. Murtagh had been dragged into the tunnels, and any attempt to scry him showed naught but blackness.

Eragon ate in silence while Arya spoke. "The elves, or Alfakyn in our language, are one and all, immortal. Though we can be killed, age shall never claim us. Because of this, elves consider manners to be the highest social value. We cannot afford to slight someone who may bear a grudge for centuries. This is doubly true because elves are not fecund. There are only six elflings in Alagaesia right now, and if we shared the same crime rates as humans or even dwarves, there would quickly be very few elves left. It is your duty as rider," she nodded to Eragon, "that you learn our customs and apply them perfectly. As a rider, you are expected to know how to behave, and any lapse will be perceived as deliberate."

The rider shifted nervously. "You'll teach us?"

"I shall teach you. Though the rest of you may listen and learn, Eragon must appear to be the best learned of you all. It is expected of him."

And thus began the most boring lesson Harry had ever experienced. Even Professor Binns' soporific lecturing could not compare to the mind-numbing tedium of elvish culture. Arya started out by describing the traditional greeting elves made to each other. It was a two-part affair with an optional third line, where archaic and convoluted rules dictated who spoke first (the person with lower status) and when the third line applied. Harry had already decided to ignore them.

"Atra esterni ono thelduin means "may good fortune rule over you," and is spoken first. When meeting Queen Islanzadi, all of us speak first but Saphira. Dragons are considered higher in status than even our monarch." Saphira looked rather pleased at that. "Atra du evarinya ono varda means "may the stars watch over you," and usually completes the greeting. If you are not sure when meeting someone which of you is considered higher in status, give them the chance to speak first, then do so yourself if they remain silent."

Harry groaned around a mouthful of bacon. "This is stupid," he announced. "All you've done here is made it easier to offend people with all these convoluted rules. Why can't you say 'hi' like a normal person and be done with it?"

Arya shot him a reproachful look. "The third line translates to "and peace live in your heart,"" she ignored Harry with practiced ease. "It is pronounced un atra mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."

Eragon swallowed heavily. It really was a lot of rules to remember. Arya didn't seem to notice his nerves. "When elves meet, they make this gesture." She held up two fingers to her lips, wrist and fingers twisted gracefully. "It means that we will not distort the truth while speaking." He suppressed a groan and got to work replicating the uncomfortable twisting gesture to Arya's satisfaction.

"Good. If you remember all we have spoken of, you shall not gravely insult anyone accidentally," Arya nodded sharply. "The last thing you must know is that the elves' native language is the language of Power and Truth. Because of its very nature, no elf can directly lie to you, nor you to them. That does not mean elves do not lie. The Ancient Language does not stop you from misleading or lying by omission. It causes politics and deception in Ellesmera to be incredibly complex and subtle, and takes lifetimes to master. Tread carefully in my homeland, all of you. It is a place unlike anywhere else in Alagaesia. Filled with unmatched beauty and life, yes, but also with hidden danger."

---

"Tell Ingvar if he cannot devise a plan to move livestock out of the Beors within six months, then I shall find a new master of livestock who can," Nasuada said imperiously to her young messenger. The boy nodded with wide eyes and sprinted out of her office.

In front of her were countless reports and censuses, written in either her father's neat hands, his scribe, her own, or any of the various men in charge of running the Varden. She rubbed her temples tiredly and leaned back in the soft leather chair. A small groan escaped her lips before she could suppress it. The leader of the Varden does not groan when she sits back in her chair, she chastised herself. Nasuada toyed with the delicate silver bracelet decorated with emeralds. A gift from Harry the wizard, it could equip her in armor instantly, if only she twisted it around her wrist.

The air in the corner beside her bookshelves shimmered as Trianna stepped from invisibility. What a marvelous ability, she thought. The applications in espionage alone…

"Thank you, Trianna," Nasuada acknowledged. "I understand you have better things to be doing than bodyguarding, but the line of succession for the Varden is unclear, and it would be an enormous disaster were I to die before plans can be implemented to keep it out of enemy hands."

Trianna smiled slightly. "It is no great task, Lady Nasuada. Harry advanced both the normal healers' and our own understanding of medicine greatly, and we are stretched less thin than you may have thought."

Nasuada narrowed her eyes. "Have you been using this free time productively?"

She thought about it. "Not with specific tasks, no. Instead, Harry taught us a method of increasing our own power and usefulness which I have practiced every day, and mandate our other members to do as well."

"Does it work?" She asked.

Trianna grinned. "Oh, yes. Very well indeed. Galbatorix's magicians are in for a nasty surprise the first time we meet in battle." Nasuada tapped her long nails against the walnut desk.

"What does it entail? Can you perform these exercises while you do other things?"

She frowned. "Mostly. It would be most beneficial for us to be exposed to a wide variety of objectives. However, we will still need a few hours a day to practice mental combat. What did you have in mind, Lady Nasuada?"

Nasuada sighed and toyed with a quill. "I'm not sure, yet. It seems a dreadful waste to let Du Vrangr Gata waste away while help is needed." She frowned. "You can assess your own skills and usefulness far better than I. This is your assignment. Take the rest of your magicians and interview the workers and soldiers of the Varden. Ask them what they need, what kind of inconveniences you can solve with magic, and bring those ideas back to me. We shall review the list and construct a new set of rotating duties for Du Vrangr Gata."

Trianna nodded. "Very well, my lady. By your leave?" Nasuada dismissed her and returned to her work.

The Varden was in a curious state at the moment. While she prepared to mobilize thousands of her people to overthrow the king, countless little issues kept cropping up in a near-limitless supply. It was beginning to make Nasuada despair that she would ever make it out from beneath the damn mountains they were holed up in.

Courtesy of Harry's generosity, certain resources were practically infinite, while still others were frightfully scarce. Nasuada shivered at the thought of the state they'd be in if not for the wizard. The generosity of the dwarves and King Orrin of Surda only stretched so far, and the Varden consumed enormous quantities of gold in food alone. Cutting off her reliance on foreign powers was critical if she wanted to overthrow Galbatorix. Not only would it grant her movement legitimacy it desperately needed, an independent Varden could not be crippled by Galbatorix laying waste to Surda.

Unlimited food, water, and the promise of fully arming the Varden, she mused. Nasuada was taking a gamble with Harry. He had promised to outfit the entire Varden with his marvelous enchanted weapons, and she trusted that he would hold to his word. But, it only mattered if he returned from Ellesmera before they were attacked. Else, they would be relying on well under half of their soldiers to fight with proper steel. Unfortunately, Nasuada needed the services of her blacksmiths for things other than weapons much more urgently at the moment.

Horseshoes, cooking ware, nails, hooks, buckles for saddles, intricate parts for siege weapons, Nasuada was gambling that she would receive those weapons before an attack came, and instead focused on the immediately useful wares she needed now.

Trianna also frightened Nasuada like nothing else. Ajihad had reduced their imports on food to nearly nothing, a frugal move to save gold. But if they lost Trianna's necklace, it could end the Varden right then and there. By refusing to buy in large quantities from Surdan farmers, their relationships had strained, and there was no guarantee that Nasuada would be able to reestablish trade before the Varden starved.

The Council of Elders had been effectively neutered by Harry. When Jormundur relayed what the wizard had said during their meeting, only supreme force of will had stopped Nasuada from laughing at him right in his face. The poor commander looked like a kicked puppy. She supposed she ought to put the five of them to work somewhere. Many of the Varden's higher staff had begun to drift away from her leadership under the erroneous assumption that she would simply allow them to ignore her. While she would certainly bring them into line like the errant fools they were, preparing to march out of the Beors took more time than she could spare shouting them into submission. Instead, I shall get the 'Elders' to do it for me.

Nasuada signaled for a guard to enter and sent him off to fetch the five snakes for her. While she waited, Nasuada pulled out a drawer and withdrew a roll of blank parchment which she weighted out flat. A list of objectives and troublesome people formed under the nib of her quill and by the time Jormundur arrived, Nasuada already had a dizzying list of things she intended to order the Council to wield their authority to get done.

"Lady Nasuada," he said respectfully.

"Please, Jormundur, sit." She nodded to the chairs in front of her desk. Jormundur obeyed silently. Falberd arrived next, followed by Umerth. Sabrae and Elessari arrived together. Nasuada gestured to the chairs and they each seated themselves. Sabrae assumed a rather condescending smile.

"It gladdens me to see you are able to ask for help when you are beyond your skills. How can we serve you, my lady?" Nasuada carefully marshalled her face to prevent any of the rage she felt from showing. She coughed slightly.

"How…gracious of you. I am sure you are often inundated with requests for aid. Should I require it, I will be certain to ask." She smoothed her dress out and straightened her back. "Recently I have experienced some rather irksome problems, minor issues, you see. Immediately, I thought of you. What better way to serve the Varden than as my hand or in this particular case, my fist."

Jormundur regarded her carefully. "We would be honored to do whatever it is our Lady requires of us." Sabrae looked like she had just swallowed a lemon, but managed to keep her reaction at least marginally within acceptable parameters for polite company.

"Good. The heads of staff in the Varden are straying from my orders, and like good parents, we shall spank them until they fall in line. This is a list of my current objectives." She slid the piece of parchment across the desk and spun it by the tips of her fingers. "Despite the unorthodox decisions I've outlined, I expect them to trust that I have reasons for all my decisions, and it is not their place to question them."

Falberd's beady eyes scanned the writing. "You wish for the metalworkers to completely halt the creation of weapons? Excuse me, Lady Nasuada, but surely you understand why Girn would question these orders. Any master smith who suggested fighting without swords would be thrown out on their ear for such an outrageous suggestion!"

Nasuada regarded him coldly. "I have procured another source of arms, arms which are far superior to any human or dwarvish metalwork. Only Durza's blade and the rider swords can claim to be of equal quality, and the blacksmith in question has told me he has plenty of refinements and improvements he can yet make. Surely you have heard from our soldiers of the seemingly magical swords which cut through enemy armor as if it were not there?"

Jormundur gasped. "You mean to outfit the entire Varden with those weapons? I admit I requisitioned one for the battle, and it was the best weapon I've ever had in my hand."

She nodded. "Aye. And he makes more than just weapons. I've ordered one full set of plate per hundred swords and spears. Why would I waste our metalworkers' time on weapons which will simply be discarded in favor of ones far superior."

Umerth narrowed his eyes. "And what will this cost the Varden? Whatever price this man quotes, we can easily beat, simply because it is free. Are you so eager to pauperize the organization your father helped build?"

"You go too far," Nasuada snapped angrily. "Were you anyone else, I would have you flogged for such imprecations. Remember this; you are not irreplaceable. Insult my father again and I shall have your head."

He swallowed heavily and nodded, sweat beading his forehead. "I apologize, milady."

"Accepted." she bit out. "No, he does not cost us any gold. I am gambling that we will not be attacked before he returns with the order, but it seems unlikely, and we are hardly defenseless in the meantime." Nasuada sighed. "Never in the history of the Varden have we left Farthen Dur, and problems and shortages are cropping up which none of my predecessors have never had to deal with, nor the craftsmen who would make what we need. Several thousand tents, horseshoes, portable cooking ware, wagons and tack to haul everything the Varden needs with us. If we want to leave the Beors at any time before the king is able to raise up another army, we must make haste, and that means stopping the production of weapons so that we may produce essentials as quickly as possible."

"What can we do to help?" Jormundur asked quietly. Nasuada seized the olive branch like a drowning woman.

"The wizard has granted us a way to carry as much food as we could ever need without supply trains, but for as many problems as it solves, there are still plenty more which need addressing. We need covered wagons to haul the weapons. The magical ones do not need any maintenance which will reduce the demand for rendered fat or linseed oil greatly. There are enough standard weapons that we will unfortunately still need to haul whetstones and oils, though I am eagerly awaiting the moment when Harry returns with the rest of the weapons so we can leave the accursed supplies behind."

Nasuada ran her finger down the list and read out the next objective. "Armor. One set of plate in two hundred is not enough, and I would not ask him to waste his time making mail when his time is better spent making the best swords humans have ever seen outside of the riders. That means we will have to produce or purchase whatever armor is needed, and carry it with us. The soldiers can march in their armor if necessary, but we will cover much greater ground if we have wagons for the stuff."

Jormundur nodded. "Aye, that will foster some serious goodwill. No one wants to wear their armor any longer than they have to."

"We have many horses, oxen, and mules to drag wagons, but it will not be sufficient, especially when we subtract some of those horses for cavalry. Since we need not worry about food, we have freed up enough gold that we can rather easily purchase whatever horses King Orrin is willing to part with to make up the difference. Authorize this budget for Hagleck to outfit both the cavalry and whatever number is needed to pull our wagon train." Nasuada scribbled out a number on a slip of parchment and slid it to Jormundur. The man glanced at the number with wide eyes.

"How in the name of Angvard did you get your hands on this much gold?" he breathed.

Nasuada smiled. "Our food is free. That was the largest expense the Varden accrued. With a herd of this size, I intend to assign a stablehand duties breeding more warhorses to replace any fallen. This is an investment which I expect to pay dividends."

"I notice this list lacks any demand for arrows, feathers, or arrowheads," Falberd observed shrewdly. "Another magical solution?"

She nodded. "Aye. During the invasion, Harry provided the bulwarks with buckets which magically refilled with arrows. I have yet to see a piece of his magic fail under stress or over time, and I expect this will be no different. They will have to be heavily guarded, against both theft and sabotage. Each arrow is superior to any I have ever used before. It is pointless to waste effort making our own arrows when we have access to unlimited superior ammunition."

Sabrae's painted face was pinched beneath the heavy pigment. "What do you need us for? Despite our misgivings-" she shrunk from Nasuada's glare, "-you have everything well in hand."

"I'm glad you asked," she said pleasantly. "You'll be carrying out my edicts. Each of you will be assigned responsibilities, and should they not be met, I shall know at whose feet to lay blame."

Elessari paled. "Are you sure this is wise-"

"Surely the experienced and capable Council of Elders can keep a few surly men in line?" Nasuada narrowed her eyes. "I am ordering you to do this. Obey, or be banished. The time for politicking and scheming is over. Now, our only responsibility is overthrowing Galbatorix. Until that happens, I expect your enthusiastic cooperation. Understood?"

She swallowed. "Yes, milady." They bowed out, but Nasuada gestured for Jormundur to stay.

"Your thoughts, Jormundur?"

The man collapsed tiredly into the chair and swept his steel-grey hair out of his eyes. "They will do it. They may grumble and grouse, but they all know what fate awaits them in the Empire, and they recognize that they are only powerful here in the Varden. A highly placed errand boy is better than a peasant."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? I was asking about this." She gestured to the parchment.

Jormundur sighed heavily. "Magic is not my area of expertise," he admitted. "It makes me uncomfortable that all the traditional laws of warfare can be thrown straight out the window when magicians are involved. By all means, leverage all the advantages it gives you. But if you want my personal advice? Be prepared for it to fail."

Nasuada interlaced her fingers and gazed into the heart of the violet sitting in its vase on her desk. "Can we afford to? The imperial army already numbers greater than us, and we are the invading force. The only way I can see to win this war is with unexpected advantages."

"Mayhaps." Jormundur agreed, noncommittal.

"You do not agree?"

"Neither of us are magic users, milady. The only guarantee you have of these magics' effectiveness is the word of others. I put my trust in the cold steel I can feel in my fist."

She sighed. "Magic really is the worst," she agreed. "Without it, Galbatorix would have died decades ago, and we might never have been in this mess." But Nasuada could not shake the feeling that Harry would be extremely disappointed in her for voicing that opinion. The wizard was irreverent and often infuriating, but he had a heart of gold. Magic made him tick. He tinkered and experimented wherever he could. She smiled slightly. He's certainly going to be thrilled to meet the elves. According to all accounts, they are the most advanced spellcasters in Alagaesia.

---

Harry dismissed the alarm charm with a slash. Groggily, he pointed his wand at his chest. "Ennervate," he murmured. Like a pure injection of caffeine, the spell shot a rush of energy through him which instantly chased away the sleep. Harry threw off the covers and bounced off the bed to get dressed.

Behind him, Arya made a noise of protest. He had thrown the covers off both himself and her, and the cool air in the room made her naked form shiver. Harry glanced back appreciatively. With great effort, he managed to tear his eyes away and dress (though it was a good deal less comfortable than if he hadn't looked back.) "Wake up, Arya. We're only two days out, and I'm eager to meet this mysterious teacher who is more knowledgeable than a rider about being a rider. I don't want to cause a delay."

She muttered some insults in the Ancient Language which made Harry shift uncomfortably. Whatever she said, she had to believe, or the magic wouldn't let her speak. Thankfully, nothing she said was too soul-crushing, and she arched out her chest, stretching lazily. Harry gulped at the sight. Arya caught his gaze and grinned like the cat with the canary. "Are you sure you don't want to…cause a delay?"

He shook his head numbly, and threw his clothes back off.

Fifteen minutes later, Orik rapped on the door impatiently while he was in a rather compromising position. "Oi! If you two are done, I'd like to make it to Ellesmera before I can trip on my beard!" Harry heard Eragon snicker through the door.

"C-coming," he stuttered.

"Yes, you are," Arya whispered naughtily.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Arya proceeded Harry down the stairs to the kitchen where Eragon had cooked up scrambled eggs. The young rider's face was bright red, and he was trying very hard to avoid making eye contact. Harry pulled open the fridge door and hung his hands on it, gazing at the foods within. He selected a pitcher of orange juice and poured himself a glass. "You want one?" he asked Arya. She nodded, and he poured another.

Eragon made surprisingly good eggs. They lacked meat out of respect for Arya's palate, but he had not skimped on anything else. It was salted and peppered, with chopped mushrooms, basil, thyme, and cheese mixed in. The entire dish smelled heavenly, and Harry eagerly ate his plate.

Orik was trying to discretely eat the plate of bacon placed in front of him, but the strange behavior just drew more attention to him. Arya gave him a flat stare and he froze, half a strand of bacon hanging out of his mouth. "Wha'?" he said around his food.

"Did Saphira eat?"

Eragon nodded. "She hunted for herself. I offered, but–and I quote–"I am not so pathetic as to eat food which cannot run from me." There's a dead buck outside."

Harry hummed. "Right. We're all ready?" He stood up and scourgified his plate before banishing it to the cupboards.

Orik coughed. "Actually, I thought perhaps I might stay in the tent today."

He smirked at the dwarf. "Afraid of heights?"

Scowling, Orik crossed his arms. "Dwarves were not made to fly, wizard. I do not mind the ride, it is the takeoff and landing which disagree with me."

"Fine, stay in the tent then. I copied the entire library at Farthen Dur into the computer before we left, see if you can entertain yourself. I can't actually read any of the stuff written in dwarvish. Or go make something at the forge. I don't care."

Orik reached down and stroked the braided designs on Dawnbreaker with a disturbingly fond smile. "Aye, I'll do that."

Harry nodded. "Blinky ought to keep you out of trouble."

Suddenly, the dwarf didn't seem so eager to stay inside. "Blinky is staying inside?" He asked nervously. Suddenly, he felt scales sliding up his leg. Harry cackled.

"She likes you! That's good, though. You really don't want to be around her if she doesn't." Orik swallowed heavily.

"I see that."

"Ah well, toodles!" Harry flounced out the tent flap and held out an empty hand behind him. His backpack flew obediently into his hand and disgorged his broomstick and windbreaker jacket. Harry zipped up and poked his head back into the flap. "I'm going to collapse the tent in a minute, get out here or stay inside today!" He chanted backwards from sixty, then made an obnoxious alarm sound with his mouth. "Bye! Deconvire!"

Saphira booped him in the chest with her nose, but took off anyways. "Looks like it's just us, huh?"

"For today, only." Saphira promised in his head. The trees swayed in the backwash of her air as she flapped, leaves disgorging all their rainwater and dew all over Harry. Saphira sent back laughter as she winged northwards. Harry mounted up and kicked off. He crouched low over the handle and arced backwards until he was flying in line with the dragon, hanging off his broom upside down. He waved goofily at Saphira with one hand and barrel rolled over her back. As gravity reasserted itself, the rainwater collected briefly in the hanging hood of his jacket ran down his back and into his pants. Harry shivered and cast a warming-drying charm quickly, hopeful that Saphira hadn't noticed.

She had. Harry felt the shameless schadenfreude in his head, making his cheeks burn. In retaliation, he pulled slightly ahead of her muzzle, just beyond the reach of her teeth, taunting her for her slowness.

Saphira grinned draconically and opened her mouth wide. Harry gulped. Deep in her throat, a brightening blue glow pulsed ominously, and he was forced to concede the round to the dragon, falling back to the right of her right wing.

Spreading her wings and angling down, Saphira began accelerating into an ever faster glide, leveling out just above the treeline before climbing with powerful flaps which put on even more speed. They dodged and raced all day.

Above, the weather had cleared up and the sky was a brilliant azure. Glorious sunlight sparkled off Saphira's pristine scales. She must have known somehow, because she was even more insufferable than normal, preening and dipping to examine herself in the surface of the river. In the east, the precipitation refracted sunlight into a pair of glorious rainbows which arced over the endless forest.

Harry noticed that they were gradually gaining altitude throughout the journey, and mentally mentioned it to Arya. He got back a sense of amusement. "The trees grow older and thus, taller, the further in you go."

"How big do they get?" Harry asked curiously.

"The biggest monarchs of Du Weldenvarden are in Ellesmera, and stretch many hundreds of feet up. It takes multiple minutes to walk all the way around the largest one."

Harry whistled. Saphira turned her head to look at him curiously. He relayed what Arya had revealed. "Enough to humble even a dragon," she announced. Harry gave her a dubious look. "What?" Saphira asked defensively.

Up ahead, the treeline sloped down to reveal an enormous lake. "What do you think that is?" he queried Saphira.

"If the map I was shown does not deceive me, that is Ardwen lake. And though your pathetic human eyeballs cannot tell, I can see an elven city bordering the opposite shore."

"Should we try to avoid flying over it?"

Saphira snorted. "What are they going to do? Anyone who mistakes my glorious scales for the dragon-slave Shruikan deserves to be immolated in dragonfire–something I shall gladly oblige if any make that mistake."

Harry snickered. "What do you think of landing, then? Surely, they will fall over themselves to serve your every whim, bring you delicious food, and pay you elaborate compliments."

A fire lit in her eyes. "Perhaps I ought to rest my wings…"

"Lets go!" Harry pushed down with his right leg and heaved up the broom's handle, corkscrewing high into the air. Roaring triumphantly, Saphira followed him upwards.

The sound scared a flock of resting birds from the trees, the flapping noise quickly lost to the open skies. Once they reached the proper height, Saphira leveled out, balancing on an updraft. She glanced over at Harry, then tipped slowly forwards. "Catch me if you can!"

They raced towards Silthrim. Harry allowed Saphira to overtake him slowly, then poured on the speed, drawing level, then ahead. Saphira abandoned any pretense of letting gravity conduct her and began flapping as hard as she could towards the ground, angled to land at the elven city.

"You ought to share this memory with Eragon." Harry suggested to Saphira.

"He's already experiencing it, I have taken him into my mind."

A smile stretched across his face. Harry reached out with his mind to his back, into the tent, and sought out Arya. He politely knocked on her mind's shields. "Would you like to experience the flight?"

Harry felt a rush of eagerness as Arya slid into his mind. He projected his senses to her. When she caught sight of where they were diving towards, Arya felt a frisson of alarm. "What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"It is too late now. I had not intended to be spotted until we reached Ellesmera."

"Why?" Harry asked in concern. "Are we going to be attacked or something?"

He caught an impression of denial. "No, it is simply expected that we present ourselves to the Queen before making our presence known. The rooster is among the hens, now. You may as well land."

Harry breathed in the lake air through his nose heavily, reveling in the rush of air. "Surely she won't hold it against you, right? Perks of being royalty and all."

Arya felt sour. "That would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

"Ah. Well, better to ask forgiveness than permission." Arya giggled.

"Words you live by?" Harry nodded and grinned.

Though they had clearly been spotted earlier–Saphira was rather conspicuous with her sparkling blue scales and great size–it was now clear to the elven city that they intended to land there, and cheers and laughter rose from Silthrim.

It was a dramatic departure from traditional architecture. The closest Harry had seen was the ruins of Doru Araeba, but even they held a distinctly dwarvish flavor–or perhaps that was just the size talking. Long and slim docks stretched out from the rocky shoreline. The surface was a light birch paneling, supported by leafy branches which extended from the shore like a root system. Two ramps met at the top of an embankment raised atop a retaining wall that held dirt and rock in to create a stony foundation for a balcony with a grass floor, looking over Ardwen lake.

Like a great crescent moon, the ground around the higher balcony sloped down in a gentle curve. Along the shore were strange houses with leafy roofs. It looked like deciduous trees formed the corners of the houses, or in the case of the larger ones, the vertical support pillars. The roots of the trees curled around flat stone foundations. Nearly all the houses on the waterfront had large hooks on the side of the outer walls upon which hung canoes made of a single continuous piece of wood. They must have been sung into shape. The construction was bizarrely airy. Harry spotted several beds on open-air balconies or bedrooms outright missing one more walls.

"The city looks its most beautiful in Autumn. The leaves turn the most incredible shades of red, yellow, and orange. When they fall out, the elves pull canvas coverings over the openings to insulate their houses from the winter winds, mild though they are here." Arya commented.

At the docks, larger ships were lashed to anchor points, bobbing gently in the waves the wind formed on the lake surface. They had graceful white sails shaped like wings or leaves. Like the canoes, the moderately-sized boats were made of one piece of wood. Only the largest ones were actually put together with carpentry. The quality of the woodworking was no less than the smaller vessels, which surprised Harry, since he had expected a society where carpentry was utterly useless to not know it.

"Elves pursue their passions. Even if they could sing everything the way they wanted it, some elves would still choose to use saws and nails to ply their craft." Arya was watching through his eyes as he scanned the city, and provided commentary on their destination.

The notion was one Harry could agree with. He still practiced his transfiguration and conjuration whenever he had the chance, but it rather cut the legs out from enjoying the act of making. It was part of why metalworking held such appeal to him. It was hard. It took planning and physical work to do, but the stuff he got out of it would last forever.

Further up the shore, the style of construction changed slightly. The stone foundations disappeared, replaced by oddly perfectly-shaped roots that formed square floors. "The foundations towards the shore are stone to protect from erosion when the lake changes levels," Arya explained.

A couple of winged boats sailed from the lake towards the dock, and along the shore, Harry spotted several canoes being rowed to the bank, elves clambering out of their watercraft eagerly.

They headed towards the central buildings, great towering affairs which stretched up a dozen stories or more. The buildings actually incorporated stonework in their designs. Rather than resembling an enormous tree, the constructions were made of marble, with wooden support pillars formed from trees that grew upwards. The buildings were connected by a network of wooden skybridges. From the bridges hung enormous boughs of leaves which fed the trees that formed the support pillars keeping the buildings up.

Glass windows ran up the towers, lit by the flameless lanterns which were so ubiquitous in dwarven architecture. Stained glass mosaics decorated the towers. The inside was so well lit that the sunlight from one side went right through and illuminated the stained glass so observers could see the scenes depicted by the glass artwork.

Dragons, elves, fire, trees, plants, and other images of nature adorned the towers, rendered so skillfully it looked as though they were animated. The skybridges were placed in such a way to avoid obstructing any of the windows, connected in a network that made it possible to start in one tower and reach any of the others without ever touching the ground.

In the center of the towers was a wide open circle of paved stone. In the middle of the square, a beautiful fountain shot water high into the air before arcing down and spilling over gorgeous carved tiers. The water collected in a basin that rippled happily. It was clear that the elves expected them to land there, for the square was lined around the outside with laughing elves. They had left an open circle for Harry and Saphira to land.

"Arya, how secure is elvish common knowledge from Galbatorix?"

"Very, he has yet to capture a single elf in a century of ruling."

He glanced over his shoulder. "So I can pitch the tent and let you out?" Arya sent him an affirmative.

Saphira flared her wings and slowed abruptly. Gusts of wind caused the elves' clothing to flap back and forth. Harry smoothly dismounted his broom. Nearly immediately, a stately elf wearing more ostentatious garb than the norm approached them, flanked by a pair of guards. The elf had a joyous smile on her face, though her guards were rather more cautious looking.

"Atra esterni ono thelduin, honored dragon." The lady twisted her fingers over her lips and bowed. Saphira eyed the woman in surprise. Though Arya had said she was above even the queen of elves (as if she didn't already know that,) she hardly expected the elves to actually recognize that. Saphira was used to the behavior of humans and dwarves, who both thought her race to be dumb beasts of labor.

"Atra du evarinya ono varda," Saphira projected to the lady. She noted that the elves did not even put up cursory resistance to her entering their minds. It was like they welcomed her presence even in the deepest parts of their memories.

"Un atra mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr." The lady finished the optional third verse. "I am Nisla, the governor of Silthrim. I would be honored to host you and your rider for the duration of your stay."

"I am called Saphira," she projected to the audience. "My rider is named Eragon, and we would be honored to accept your gracious offer."

Nisla turned with a beatific smile to Harry. She surprised him by starting the greeting herself. Harry coughed uncomfortably. "I'm not Eragon," he laughed.

Suddenly, the guards looked a lot more nervous and rather hostile. "One moment, I'll fetch him." Harry slung the tent over his shoulder and tossed it out. "Eructo," he called. Nearly the instant the tent settled, his three passengers filed out obediently. "This is Eragon Shadeslayer, Saphira's rider-" He made to introduce Arya and Orik, but a great cheer interrupted him.

Elves all around them danced, laughed, sung, and cheered joyously, and Harry hadn't the heart to interrupt them. However, Nisla did not join in the revelry. Instead, she was studying Arya's features most carefully. Abruptly, she twisted her fingers over her lips again and began the greeting anew.

Arya followed along obediently. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Nisla," she said quietly. Were Harry not standing next to the pair of them with his enhanced hearing, the words would have been lost to the cheering.

"Your mother has missed you greatly," Nisla responded, equally quietly. "There were days of great mourning across all of Du Weldenvarden. Your people miss you- missed you. I shall not send you away from Silthrim, but I strongly advise you keep your stay here brief, and make all haste to Ellesmera."

Arya looked uncomfortable. "Be that as it may, I am not happy with how mother handled the greatly exaggerated rumors of my death. The Varden is the lynchpin of a centuries-long effort to overthrow the enemy of all living people, and her withdrawal of support nearly led to its extinction at the hands of an Urgal army." Nisla gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

"How did they fare?" she asked in despair.

Smiling, Arya responded. "Better than they had any right to. If not for Harry," she gestured at the wizard who was craning his neck in awe to take in the architecture, "we would have been much worse off, if not outright extinct."

Nisla's eyes widened. "Is he a great warrior?"

"Among other things," Arya coughed and blushed. She did not mean to let that slip. Nisla shot her a grin. The younger elf rode over her before she could get in a taunt or barb. "He is a master magic user of terrifying power, with the most comprehensive knowledge of unknown magics I have ever seen. He is also an excellent craftsman, and forged many hundreds of weapons for the Varden, superior to any human or even dwarven metalworking."

The elf lady smiled mischievously. "Is he good with his sword?" Her expression made the double-meaning clear. Arya glared at her. Nisla spied Harry's cheeks flushing red and glanced at Arya curiously. "And apparently possessing elvish senses?"

Harry decided he'd heard enough and walked away in discomfort. Though a part of him was curious to know how Arya thought of him and his 'prowess,' he felt that if he stood there for a moment more, his cheeks would catch on fire.

He sought out Orik to chat with. The dwarf was entertaining a group of dwarves with tales of his prowess in battle, proudly showing off his magical axe. The elves were enraptured by the recounting of the Urgal invasion. Harry judged the dwarf occupied and instead busied himself examining the architecture in the city.

Elvish decoration was different from both dwarvish and Urgal decor. The elves seemed to venerate nature itself rather than any gods. As many murals and mosaics there were of glorious dragons, Harry spotted just as many breathtaking renditions of simple trees or vines.

Silthrim was constructed in a very airy manner. The central towers were far enough apart that even in the center of the square in the middle of them, they did not feel like they loomed over anything. Behind each tower was another of reduced height, then another, and so on. The towers seemed to form a parabolic curve with their heights which created the illusion of nine fin-like ridges. Flanking the tall buildings were wide open paved roads surrounded with gardens, grassy squares, and other greenspaces. Slim and graceful arches of marble and limestone reached over the roadways, shuttered flameless lanterns mounted on them which Harry supposed would light up the city at night.

Nearly every building in the city center that Harry had spotted from his aerial approach had a open-air balcony or roof access. The fresh lake air swept over everything, bringing with it the scent of nature and life. Silthrim was as close to a paradise as Harry had ever seen. From the ground, he could see the sun sparkle off the small waves in the lake, lapping at the beautiful docks and making the boats bob with the water level.

"Enjoying the view?" Harry started. Arya had approached silently behind him and encircled his chest with her arms. "Though I prefer the city I grew up in, Silthrim is often regarded as the most beautiful elf-city. I have negotiated with Lady Nisla for us to stay the night here. Though I intended to be seen first in Ellesmera, I cannot bring myself to drag you away from Silthrim before you see it at night. 'Tis a truly breathtaking view, especially from the great towers."

Harry turned in her grasp and kissed her. "I can't wait to see it."

---

Roran strode confidently down the cobbled roads of Carvahall. The streets were growing ever more familiar to him now that he did not live at Garrow's farm. He resented the familiarity, but his feelings were conflicted. He was proud to know the village he grew up in like the back of his hand. Wood-paneled and shingled buildings flanked the roadway, neat stone foundations holding the houses and shops aloft. Overhead, a pair of crows circled eerily, visible in the night sky only from the dim moonlight.

He was heading over to Morn's tavern to collect his things from the inn. It was only last night that Horst had offered Roran a room until he managed to build himself a house back on Garrow's farm. Roran had railed against the thought of charity, but Horst had raised a concern he himself held. Morn's inn was costing him gold, gold he had earned from Dempton in Therinsford to prove he could provide for the love of his life, Katrina Ismirasdottir. Morn had been sympathetic, but he ran a business, and couldn't afford to hand out his rooms for free–nor would Roran have accepted it if he did.

Overhead, the moon was new, and the only light came from sparse torches, faint candlelight escaping from wooden shutters, or the faint starlight in the sky. At his hip, a finely made steel sword swung with each step. Horst had pressed it into his hands and overrode Roran's protests against it. 'A man must be able to defend himself,' he'd said. With the strangers' return, and their previous acts against his family, Roran was uniquely at risk.

He hated the damn thing. It was finely balanced in his grip, but he didn't like the weapon itself. He'd never trained or drilled with the weapon, and it felt like nothing more than a sharp club in his hands. Nonetheless, it provided a sense of security that Roran clung tightly to. The idea that his father's murderer was slinking around in his village, it both chilled his blood and ignited a hot fury in him which would not cool.

Roran strode down the darkest stretch of road to the tavern, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The shadows seemed to stretch out and tug at him. He hurried his pace slightly.

Something sharp hit the toe of Roran's boot. He lost his footing and sprawled across the gravelly surface. Roran's heart raced as he grabbed the hilt of the sword in panic. There was a faint glint of steel in the dark as he rolled onto his rear and scooted around desperately.

Nothing.

Roran squinted at the ground. It was just a protruding rock. He swept it out of its crevice with his boot and kicked it off to the side, clambering. Heart racing, Roran twisted the sword in his grip, but eventually admitted there was no danger and stuck it back into its scabbard.

Rising to his feet, Roran resumed his hurried walk to the tavern. The light of the fire beckoned eagerly. Overhead, the crows shrieked louder than any mere crow had a right to.

Suddenly, something long and metal struck him in the chest, hard. The wind in his lungs whooshed out. Roran struggled to draw breath. His fingers scrabbled at his blade, but the unfamiliar weapon eluded his grasp.

A hooded face leered out of the shadows, and what little he could make of the thing's features horrified him. Roran doubted the thing had skin, for what skin glinted in the starlight. At its proximity, Roran could smell some rotting dead thing coming from underneath the black cloth. In its hands was a glinting sword, and unlike Roran, the creature held it like he knew how to use it.

Curving cruelly from beneath the hood, a bloodstained beak protruded menacingly, gaping wide open. A leathery long tongue licked eagerly at the serrated edges of its beak. A rattling sound came from deep in its throat. Black mist emerged from the mouth, bathing Roran in its foul scent. It chittered and clicked eagerly.

"Roran Garrowssson," it leered eagerly. "The king hasss…businessss with you."

Roran felt his blood freeze. He could not move, an animalistic panic had descended on him, fogging his mind with mortal terror. The thing gripped the scruff of his jerkin and began dragging him towards the darkened alleyway. Roran wanted to kick and scream, to struggle, reach for his sword and stab the foul monster, but his limbs would not obey him.

Just when he was resigned to a gruesome fate at the hands of Galbatorix, he heard a distinctive twang. The whistling of an arrow traveled so close to his ear it made Roran flinch violently. His captor, however, reacted differently.

The being twisted away from the arrow. It had been on a path to penetrate straight through the thing's face. Roran cried out as it dodged. It hadn't let go of his arm, and it was stronger than it had any right to be. Roran was a heavily muscled man from his work on the farm and later, the mill, but that thing tossed him about like a father entertaining his young children.

Roran fell heavily on the gravelly road, scraping his skin and very likely breaking bones. The paralysis stopped him from stretching out or bending his limbs to absorb the fall. He didn't hear a crack, but he certainly felt his free arm which trailed behind him, dangling like a paralysis victim. He'd landed heavily on it while it was twisted awkwardly underneath his body.

He tried to rise, but could only scrabble his feet against loose stones on the road. Away from the thing's breath–however briefly–had brought clarity to his mind and mobility to his limbs. But, the weakness persisted, and Roran could not stand. Whoever had fired the arrow had his life in their hands.

"Get away from him!" A male voice shouted. Twang. Another whistling sound whirred over Roran's prone body. "You are not welcome in Carvahall!" Twang. That one, Roran heard thud into the wood of a building, making an oscillating noise as it vibrated back and forth.

The thing made a chittering noise of frustration, and ran. Roran watched its retreat with wide eyes. It did not run like a human, and had abandoned all pretenses of such. Where its knees should have been, some other joint resided which allowed the bottom half of the thing's legs to twist and turn in an insectoid manner. Its back hunched over, and the parting screech it made chilled Roran to the bone. It was like a thousand nails on chalkboards, mixed with glass scraping on each other, and the sound of twisted and tortured metal. Overhead, the crows gave one last defiant scream, one which banished any notion of the feathery beasts being crows at all.

"Good riddance!" The male voice called after it. A rough hand came into Roran's view, and helped him up.

"Gedric?" Roran blurted in surprise. The village tanner supported him with his shoulder, his countenance a grim smile.

"Aye. What did that fiend want with you?"

"He uh- he wanted to take me to the king."

The tanner whistled lowly. "What have you done to get that kind of attention?"

Roran shrugged laboriously. "Probably something to do with Eragon and the stone," he guessed. "Why were you there to save me?"

Gedric laughed. "I was headed to Irma's to deliver her order," he gestured behind him. Over the man's broad shoulders was a powerful-looking bow and a small quiver of arrows. Roran followed his thick, scarred and stained finger to a bundle of tanned leathers laying on the ground where the arrows had come from. He must have dropped his goods to save me, Roran realized.

"Thank you for likely saving my life," Roran said honestly. "I am in your debt."

The tanner waved a hand. "Nonsense, Garrowson. You're one of us, and we protect our own in Carvahall."

Roran felt a warm and pleasant feeling in his chest. "Very well. You still have my thanks, Gedric."

"That, I shall gladly accept," he smiled kindly. "Now come on, it's not safe for either of us to be out and about this night. Where were you headed?"

"Morn's tavern, then back to Horst's," he admitted. "They offered to host me until I can raise a house of my own, and they offered to let me work off whatever debt I accrue there until I finish."

Gedric stroked his chin thoughtfully. Roran had to squint to make out his expression in the flickering torchlight. "We'd not want Horst and his boys to worry. I'll accompany you, if you agree to do the same for me. I must admit, running around doing errands on a night like this isn't an overly comforting prospect to me."

Roran quickly agreed, and Gedric helped him limp back to the pile of leathers. He shook his limbs and massaged them roughly, feeling his hot blood return to his extremities, chasing away the deathly chill. Strong enough now to walk unassisted, Roran offered to carry the leathers. "I'm useless with a bow, and certainly in no shape to use the sword right now." he nodded to the sheathe at his side which now contained the weapon Horst had given him.

Reluctantly, the tanner piled his load into Roran's arms, and they made their way to Irma's. When Gedric knocked, the weathered door stayed firmly shut. An old woman's eye peeked through the shutters, and then a wooden bolt scraped inside.

Wearing a dressing gown, Irma waved them in irritably. She was completely uncaring of being indecent. Roran could see rather more than he would have liked to, especially on a wrinkled old lady. "Come in quickly," she croaked. "Indecent? Ha! Indecent to come knocking well after nightfall." Hunched over, Irma placed shaky legs one in front of the other, until they reached a rather large room in the back of her house.

Inside the door, a few candle brackets cast flickering illumination on the room. Racks and hangers lined the outer walls, covered in bolts of cloth, fabric, and leather. Roran spotted a bundle of unspun wool next to a wheel. In the center of the room was a large table. On it rested strangely-shaped cuttings of cloth which were sewn together in a pattern Roran could not make sense of. If he squinted, he could just begin to recognize the shape of a dress.

A roughly hewn wooden cup held long needles stabbed into a ball of white thread. "Put 'em here, boy," she rasped. Irma pointed a long and arthritic hand towards a shelf which had only one sheet of leather on it–rather cut up, as well. Gratefully, Roran offloaded the heavy bundle with a grunt. "Good." Irma announced. "Let me go get my gold."

The old lady tottered out of the room without glancing back. Garrow and Roran stood around awkwardly. The tanner took a seat at the worktable, careful to avoid touching anything. From beyond the room, Roran caught snippets of old-person grunting, croaked out curses, and wood creaking. The noises abated for a moment, followed by a triumphant exclamation. Irma emerged in the doorway, a leather bag in her weathered and wrinkled grip. "I've got it right here," she announced. "How much do I owe you, Gedric?"

The tanner ran some sums in his head. After a moment of contemplation, he quoted a number which made Roran wince. Irma, however, was unbothered. "That's highway robbery, young man! (Gedric was in his late thirties) I couldn't possibly take your goods for so little!" The little old lady reached an unsteady hand into the pouch and began counting out coins. Gedric winced at the clack of each additional piece against the wooden table.

Finally, Irma was done. Reluctantly, Gedric swept up the coinage and deposited it in his own purse. "Thank you, Irma."

The old lady gave a gummy grin. "It was no problem. It does these old bones good to keep busy. Though I'll warn you, as any old person will tell you, there's a storm coming. And I get the feeling it's going to be more than just a bit of rain."

Gedric nodded solemnly. "Aye, that's for sure. Did you hear that screech?"

The old woman cackled. "I may be nearly blind, but my hearing's as good as ever, young'un. Don't you forget it."

The tanner flushed slightly. "Sorry. I meant that whoever it was, they mean trouble."

---

Arya clasped Harry's hand in hers. The lake breeze ruffled their black hair pleasantly. They stood together at the railing of the skybridge closest to the lake. The sky looked straight out of a Bob Ross painting. Brilliant dusky hues illuminated the sky, transforming the rippling surface of the lake from azure to orange and purple.

"It's beautiful," Harry admitted. "When I came here, I was fully prepared to dismiss Alagaesia's cities as primitive compared to my homeland. But the dwarves and elves, especially, have proven to be more exotic and beautiful than even the London skyline at night. If Silthrim looks like this, I cannot wait to see Ellesmera."

Since Harry had landed next to Saphira earlier that day, their group had been at the center of a non-stop revelry. Elves from all over the city congregated in the great open square to behold Saphira's magnificence (which did dreadful things to her ego) and bask in the hope which Eragon the Free Rider brought them.

Glorious feasts and singing occupied Harry until just before sunset began. Nisla had led the pair of them knowingly up a tall staircase which wound up one of the tallest towers, leading them onto a skybridge before departing to give them privacy.

Harry ran his hand over the polished smooth railing. The other was wrapped around Arya's waist. Thin poles of wrought iron held aloft the orange flameless lanterns whose shutters were currently shut tight. The sunlight darkened, casting long yet faint shadows across everything in sight. The great towers formed monolithic dimmed spots, the largest of which were from pairs of towers at the proper angle to merge with each other and form one enormous one.

They gazed off at nothing in particular, simply taking in the organic sprawl of the elf-city with their emerald gazes. The light dimmed and dwindled to nothing but the illumination from the night sky. Harry's breath caught. Millions of stars twinkled down at him from space.

Arya pulled him in closer and murmured in his ear. "Close your eyes." Harry obeyed. He made to open his mouth, but felt a finger pressed against his lips. "Shh, keep them closed." Then, indescribably soft lips touched his own. Harry kissed Arya back, eyes shut tightly. Beside them, Harry heard a faint squeaking noise.

Her mental presence slipped gently into his mind. "Open them."

Lips still pressed together, Harry slowly lifted his eyelids. They snapped the rest of the way open, and he inhaled sharply through his nose, Arya's unique natural scent heavy but not oppressive to his sensitive nose.

The shuttered lanterns had come open. The city was bathed in warm, soft orange light like autumn leaves. Harry saw Arya's eyes sparkling in the light of the lanterns mounted on the thin posts just above their heads. He deepened the kiss. When they broke apart, Harry had no words.

"Wow," he whispered. Dozens of little lanterns lit up the central fountain, the rushing water casting dancing spots of light everywhere. Beneath each of the skybridges, a great lantern hung which illuminated the towers in an otherworldly glow. Each of the successively shorter towers had their own skybridge. Underneath each one hung a great lantern, providing a path of illumination over the city, and lighting up the nine roads which stretched from the center square.

Atop the towers and mounted on the tip of their spires, the brightest lights shone like beacons to the world, announcing Silthrim to the elves of Du Weldenvarden. The proud race announced that they had hope again, and they would not be cowed by the traitorous king who had slain so many of their kin, as well as extinguishing the race they tied themselves closest to. They were elves, and they threw their support in behind Eragon and Saphira, the new hope for all the races of Alagaesia.

With a mischievous smile, Harry reached a hand behind his back. Arya caught the motion. "What sort of plan have you made?" she asked with a matching grin. The elf gasped when he withdrew his hand. In his grip were two broomsticks, his best work yet.

They looked like proper trees, constructed in an eerily similar way to Silthrim. The twigs on its rear had leaves on them, and a faint yellow glow emerged from them. The shaft and handle were not perfectly smooth or gently bent, but rather gave the impression of crookedness to the untrained eye. Arya appraised the length of wood in appreciation. Disguised in the bend and twist of a tree branch, Harry had almost hidden the ergonomic handle. It was designed for comfort either while sitting up, bending over, or riding side-saddle. The point contained no gem, for it was hidden within the leafy bristles.

Harry tossed her one and deliberately tipped backwards over the railing with a laugh. "Catch me if you caaaan!" His voice trailed back up to her. Arya leapt over in a single hurdle and mounted the broom, relishing the wind whipping her hair in her face. Harry hadn't bothered hopping on, and had nearly reached the ground, arms spread eagle, gripping the broom in his right hand.

Just before he decorated the pavement red, Harry put the middle of the broom beneath his feet and rocketed off down the streets. Arya followed him at a reckless pace, speeding beneath the hanging lanterns under the skybridges. With bent legs and hands low beneath his hips, extended diagonally outwards, Harry balanced on his broomstick and shot out over the lake.

Arya followed close behind, laughing at the facefull of mist she got crashing through his wake. Suddenly, Harry yanked up the front of his broom and shot into the sky. When she caught up, Arya saw that he was just hovering there, waiting for her. She maneuvered herself closer, drifting with small touches until they were within arm's reach.

Harry smiled and pointed down at the lake. From where they sat, the view was breathtaking. The lights and tiered city construction illuminated the surface of the water with its reflection. The lanterns rippled in the reflection. He leaned forwards on his broom and rested his chest against the bizarrely comfortable handle, bracing his forehead and cheek against the handle and gazing down at the lake.

They could hear laughing and singing echoing off the water, rising up to them. A gentle breeze drifted past. "It's beautiful," Harry admitted quietly. "Unless stopping here causes an unreasonably enormous amount of problems with your mum, I'd call this worth it."

Arya's face twisted. It was like she couldn't decide if she wanted to smile or frown. Her relationship with her mother was…complicated.

"Did you know why I chose to be the egg-bearer?" she emulated Harry's pose and relaxed in the broom, eyes unfocused. A curtain of raven tresses fell from her head.

"You had something to prove?"

She traced the shape of the towers with her eyes, pausing on the nine great points of light at each peak. "A good guess, Harry Potter. After my father died, mother…changed. Mayhaps it was the burden of ruling, but I will not make excuses for her. She grew more distant, more concerned with her image in front of her court, and she expected me to be like her–regal and composed."

They drifted silently for a moment. Harry did not want to interrupt her. He sensed she was gathering her thoughts. Waves lapped gently at the bobbing lanterns affixed to the lake boats. Elves carrying lanterns walked to and from the piers and docks.

"I hated it." Arya was quiet, and he could barely make out her words over the gentle breeze.

"It was stifling. Any time I wanted to venture out of Ellesmera, even if only to explore Du Weldenvarden, mother would argue and fret for days before sending me with an unreasonably large accompaniment of guards." She sighed. "Islanzadi drilled courtly manners into my head non-stop, insistent that I be able to take her place should Galbatorix claim her life. All elves are taught immaculate manners to keep the peace, but she took it a step further, and I resented her for it. When word arrived that someone was needed to ferry a dragon egg between the Varden and Du Weldenvarden, I knew immediately that I wanted to do it."

They drifted together in silence.

"I said as much to mother, but she forbade it before the last word was out of my mouth. So I did the only thing I could, and I took the Yawe."

Arya saw that Harry was curious, and elaborated. "Brom had a ring with the same symbol on it. When given by an elf to a non-elf, it symbolizes the status of elf-friend. For stealing the egg from Galbatorix, Islanzadi saw fit to bestow the title upon Brom."

"And when an elf gets it?" Harry prompted quietly.

Arya's face twisted into an uncomfortable expression. "It means the same thing."

Harry didn't process that for a moment. Suddenly, the implication hit him all at once. "You mean…?"

She smiled bitterly. "It means I am a friend of the elves, and nothing more. It was the ultimate slap in the face to mother, all but denouncing my family ties." She drifted slightly ahead of Harry and pulled her tunic off, keeping her back to him the whole time.

Harry blushed but kept his composure. Arya did not turn her head to talk over her shoulder, so the quiet words grew even fainter. Reaching one delicate hand over her shoulder, Arya traced the Yawe. She did it with such confidence, Harry had to assume it was an old nervous habit. "For an elf to take the Yawe, it means they are dedicating their life to service of the race as a whole. And that is what I did." She pulled her tunic back on, but made no move to turn or back up to level with Harry.

Tentatively, he drifted forwards. "You ferried the egg?"

"For many years," she said proudly. "With me were two other elves, my companions for many years. Faolin and Glenwing." Her face fell. "They died only days before I found you. There was an Urgal ambush, prepared by Durza. It was in a forest just outside the Spine, near Ceunon." Arya's eyes held a haunted look. "It all happened so fast, there was nearly nothing I could have done, nor them." Her eyes were far away. "The wind was blowing at our backs, down to the Urgals. We had nearly drawn level when, by some fortuitous happenstance, the wind changed directions."

She focused her eyes on Harry. "It is impossible to describe the horror I felt when the wind abruptly brought with it the heady smell of fetid meat and pure malice. Our horses instantly made to alert us, but even a human could have smelled the ambush. Durza used magic to slay our mounts, and nearly got me when he killed the horse who consented to bear me. Faolin and Glenwing quickly succumbed to the dozen Urgals, surprised, outnumbered, and thrown from their dead mounts. I only escaped through sheer luck. One of the Urgals who was to block my escape tripped on the fallen leg of Faolin's mount. I used the opportunity to jump over him and head into the forest."

"And you escaped?" Harry was–in Arya's opinion–a very good listener. He did not interrupt, and his eyes told her that he was listening carefully to every word she spoke. Unlike so often when he met authorities he didn't like, he could and was being respectful to Arya.

"Not quite," she shook her head. "Durza lit fire to an enormous circle of forest, creating an impassible ring of flames which was dozens of yards thick and burned hot enough to kill even elves before they could run all the way through it. When I reached the border, I felt hopeless. I would be the first elf ever captured by Galbatorix and his servants. And worse, I would lose the one hope we and the Varden had at toppling him; Saphira's egg. I prepared myself to be captured. They would surely torture me in the hopes of getting the location of elven cities, sensitive information about the Varden, my vocabulary in the Ancient Language, anything they might find of use."

Arya set her face, a hardened and resolute expression. "But I had made my choice to take the Yawe, anyways, and I was prepared to die in Galbatorix's clutches for my people. The unborn dragon had not, and I could not let her be captured. So I prepared to begin a spell, remarkably similar to your apparition, which sends an object to a distant location without it traveling through the space between. Just before I started speaking, it was as if fate herself decided to foil Durza's plans. Some unknown and terrifyingly powerful entity suppressed the flames directly in front of me, and I dashed through. They let the fire resume behind me to cover my trail, and I ran as fast as I could away from there."

The haunted cast returned to her visage. "Even from a mile away, I heard Durza's scream of rage when he'd realized he'd been deceived. He surely killed the Urgals serving him, for the entire forest seemed to shine the bright red evil color his magic was. I ran and ran as hard as I could for the only place I thought Durza might hesitate to follow. The elves have long heard the human rumor that Galbatorix somehow lost half his army in the Spine, and so that way I went."

Shivering, she drifted closer to Harry, their knees nearly touching. Hunching her shoulders closer, Arya continued. "Those days were some of the worst of my life. Hunted by a horrifying and implacable foe, in a frigid and haunted mountain range filled with some of the most treacherous terrain in Alagaesia. I had no food, and the only water I could get came from sacrificing body heat to entire handfuls of snow into a paltry sip of water. He could rather easily have ended the chase–he'd taken the Urgals' mounts and could rotate between them to ride constantly–but he was truly evil, and instead stretched the hunt into an interminable nightmare."

She gave a little gasp. "He had propped up the corpses of Faolin and Glenwing with some fell sorcery, prematurely rotted and decayed. They were tied to a pair of horses he had flanking him, so it looked like my closest friends were leading the chase. Many times, I thought of just sending away the egg and allowing myself to be captured, but some ethereal, intangible force stayed my hand, and I found the path to your house mysteriously clear of obstacles.

"I reached your door starving, exhausted, and desperate. Surely, I had thought, this is where I was being led. But when Durza caught sight of my goal, he decided he would not risk letting me into a stronghold where I might fortify myself. That was when he attacked. He got in a wound which should by rights have been mortal, and it was then that I knew my gambit had run its course, and began the spell to send Saphira to Brom."

"Why Brom?" Harry asked curiously.

Arya smiled. "He was the one to steal the egg in the first place. I could not send it to Ellesmera for the same reason why you cannot scry it; ancient and powerful wards cover the entire city and its outskirts, stopping any external magic from affecting it. The Varden was not an option for similar reasons, and I did not trust King Orrin of Surda to see the egg safely to the Varden. A good man he may be, he thirsts for power and is as slippery as they come. No, Brom was my only option."

She rubbed her belly in discomfort, remembering the devastating wound she'd been dealt all that time ago. "When you appeared in a bang, the relief I felt is impossible to describe. Like dropping the weight of the entire world from your shoulders. You killed Durza–at least temporarily–and the rest is history." Arya smiled at him. "I admit I was suspicious of you; I thought perhaps you were the mysterious force smoothing my path to you. You displayed the ability to use so many legendary or outright unheard-of spells, I was worried you had all but summoned me for the egg, or some other nefarious purpose."

Harry smiled softly. "I'm glad you didn't."

Arya leaned over and kissed him. "As am I."

---

They returned after that. Harry spotted a familiar figure standing regal and straight, right at the edge of the railing overlooking the docks. Nisla smiled as they came in for landing. "Is Silthrim everything you remember, Arya Drottningu?" She asked formally.

"Everything and more, Lady Nisla." Arya had a soft smile on her face.

"Good," she grinned and swept the elf into a hug. "I may not see you again for a while, but I look back on our time together in your childhood with fondness." She released Arya and turned her gaze upon Harry. He maintained eye contact. Nisla did not look away, and the exchange drew well into uncomfortable length.

Something must have shown in his eyes, for Nisla gave a sharp nod. "Acceptable. You make Arya happy, and for that, I can only be happy." Harry smiled hesitantly. "How do you find our city, wizard?"

His smile grew into a genuine grin. "It's more magnificent than I ever thought I would see," he said honestly. "The lights on the towers are an especially nice touch."

"I am glad you appreciate them. This is the first night they have been lit in decades. Silthrim is the least hidden city, but even we are not so foolhardy as to advertise our location to the Oath-breaker. Tonight, though, we are announcing that we are not afraid anymore, and we have hope again that Galbatorix shall be slain, and the dragons returned to Alagaesia." Nisla looked proud and regal, wearing a white set of robes with gold linings and blue embroidery. Her back was straight, and her chin level. "Go and rest, and tomorrow, we shall see you off to the capital, so that the riders may be rebuilt again."

Harry caught the dismissal and before he could do something odious to sour the elves' impression of him for assuming they could dismiss him, Arya dragged him by the arm to one of the towers where guest quarters had apparently been prepared for them all.

By some unspoken agreement, Arya handed back her broom and Harry stowed them both in his pack. On the way back, they walked through the city.

Little details stood out to Harry, things too small to notice from broomsticks. Granaries and food lockers were open to everyone for free. Some elves came and went, filling up containers to bring to their homes. The marketplace was still running, even this late at night. It appeared to operate on barter, and Harry could not find even a single coin or other currency in exchange.

The city felt not unlike London at night; slightly less active, but never asleep. Harry knew from personal experience just how little sleep elves really needed. Workshops still spilled bright orangish light out open doors and windows, deep into the night. Hammering, sawing, scraping, and scribbling sounds floated out.

The air was so fresh that to Harry's nose, it smelled somehow more than fresh. No cars, trains, or boilers belched up smog to choke the air. Even places that should have produced pollution like the forge, somehow sent up clean smoke. In some places, Harry could smell wood smoke, but it never carried or hung in the air like a gauzy curtain, some nasty black-and-white filter over London.

And the magic! It seemed to be the elves' replacement for pollution, hanging heady in the air. Only, instead of being unpleasant, it felt peaceful and natural. Everything Harry touched had some form of magic imbued in it, whether in a purposefully formed enchantment, or simply infused raw. The wood sung to him, songs of steady growth and the yearning for sunshine and rain. The grass warbled a higher tune of the same song, quicker and more ephemeral. They told him of the joy of summer, when they could grow and grow as much as they wanted.

The wind carried pollen on its breeze, spreading plants and new life everywhere it reached. Its song was whispers, quiet and free. We are quiet, they seemed to whisper. But we are many. Together we may drive great clouds of rain overhead, and over time, even the greatest mountain will be stripped bare.

Loamy soil sung of its fertility, its readiness to feed whoever might set down roots. It was dark and moist, and had everything any seed could need, be it grass, flower, or tree. Verses told of critters; bugs, bacteria, and worms. It was their home, and they would be fed just the same. Rabbits and badgers burrowed into the soil, protecting them from predators who might snatch them up.

Harry could hardly tear himself away, but Arya's insistent tugging reluctantly shifted his attention. "Come! This place is beautiful, but so is Ellesmera. When Galbatorix is dead, we can return to here and spend years on end listening to nature. Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we train. And after that, bring peace to this country." Her eyes twinkled with eagerness.

Harry allowed himself to be led under a wooden arch and into a grand hall at the foot of the tower they would stay in. Along the floor was a natural looking creek which fed a beautiful flower garden. Anywhere there was not a flower, the ground was covered in dark soil or thick grass. A cobbled path led from the arches to the grand staircase which wound around the outer edge of the tower. The ceiling of the first floor hung nearly thirty feet up, and a painting of the sky covered the whole surface. It looked to be night, and in the center of the mural, a breathtaking image of the night sky painted masterfully upon it. In the center, a perfect sphere of white crystal protruded from the ceiling. The lunar surface glowed a soft white light which somehow illuminated the entire room.

"They're all nocturnal flowers," Arya murmured. "The Tower of Night contains all the guest quarters as their purpose is for sleeping in. The windows and archways are enchanted so that even at noon, the light in this room is no higher than what the magic of the painting provides."

She led Harry up the winding staircase. They ascended quickly, and soon passed the ceiling of the first floor.

The second was even more beautiful than the last–if it could even be called a floor. The ceiling stretched far above, many dozens of feet more than the last level. A stream of water cascaded down the middle of the empty space. The staircase continued to spiral upwards, but was broken up by landings which led to balconies looking in on the great open space. Harry realized that each balcony must lead to a suite of rooms.

Beneath each balcony, Harry craned his head to see a different symbol. When he pointed it out, Arya explained. "It is how different rooms are remembered. Rather than the rigid numerical designations dwarves give their rooms in Tronjheim, elves tend to think more artistically. That," she pointed out, "is the room of the fox. That, the hare. Sparrow, bear, serpent, eagle, wolf," Arya gestured in turn at the many symbols which advanced up the wall in a helix.

"Ours is the room of the cricket. Had you allowed the servant to take your pack, he would have brought it there."

"Ours?" Harry's face reddened.

Arya blushed. "Nisla was a sort of mother figure to me. No doubt she thought it funny to blatantly state that she knew we were in a relationship." Unlike Islanzadi went unsaid, but Harry caught the sentiment, anyways. He had yet to meet the monarch, but his impression of the woman continued to sour with every new tidbit he learned.

The arduous climb began. Suddenly, Harry understood why medieval towers were seen more as a utility and less as a luxury. No elevators. He felt extremely sympathetic for Orik, and could only hope the elves had given him a suite near the ground floor. The stairs were made with taller beings in mind and Harry–on the short side himself–already had a bit of trouble with them. Orik had proportionally shorter legs, and lacked the ridiculous elven strength which let him eat up the steps two at a time with ease.

Over the rush of water, Harry could hear birds chirping inside the room. Little alcoves were dug into the walls, nests of birds set within them. All the way at the roof was the centerpiece of the interior. Like the crystal hemisphere which illuminated the room below, the tower was illuminated by a light fixture which hung from the roof. The one in the upper level was astounding.

Harry could clearly tell where its inspiration came from, and heartily approved. Carved out of some white gemstone, an enormous moonlily gazed down on the tower, spilling water from its pistlees. It provided the same gentle white illumination which pervaded the Tower of Night. Somehow, it managed to softly light the floor hundreds of feet below, and yet remain soft and nocturnal for the suites right at the top.

His and Arya's room was right at the top and as they drew closer, more details became apparent. The water for the falls was fed to the lily by four channels above the ceiling. He could tell because the bottom surface of the waterways was made of glass, and showed the rushing liquid from below as it curved in beautifully shaped channels up to the center.

They finally reached the balcony outside their door. Outside was a planter box which hung over the railing, filled with a variety of blooming flowers. Arya pushed open the oaken door gently and walked in.

The moment Harry crossed the threshold, his shoulders slumped. Some invisible tension drained away the moment he set foot in his rooms. Arya quietly placed her pack on an end table and ventured further into the main room.

Right beyond the door was a tiny hall maybe five feet across, half again long. To the left was a basin on a marble counter beneath a large mirror. On the right were hooks for cloaks and clothes. A towel hung on a circular mount in the wall next to the indent which held the basin.

The entryway opened into a larger room. A quarter of it was set a foot into the ground, separated by two steps which ran all the way around the border of the indent. The lower floor was covered in a thick white woolen carpet. On it sat a low table, around which there was a couch and two armchairs. Next to the armchairs were small end tables, upon which lamps rested. The lighting for the room was set in the roof, painted like the ground floor's ceiling. Little holes where the stars would be led to tiny flameless lanterns which gave off a gentle light.

A flickering hearth faced the furniture, crackling merrily. The tools to tend to the fire were propped up in a stand next to it.

Harry walked in further and examined the walls. They were made of forest green wallpaper, and tapestries of the forest hung on them. A glass sheet covered a framed painting of a sparrow taking flight. He ran his hand over the incredibly soft couch and fluffed the cushions. Spotting an archway, Harry continued to explore.

The room was a bathroom, and contained an indent in the ground which almost certainly demarcated a bathtub. Another sink and mirror to wash his hands, this time with a bar of soap. The ground was tiled and the wallpaper, an olive color. He turned and left the loo.

In the main area, the other three quarters made up the bedroom and dining room. The ceiling was not one flat square, instead broken by wide arches which stretched from one end of the room to the next. It helped Harry mentally break up the open area into separate 'rooms.' The bedroom was also carpeted, though that one was a muted green color, with abstract geometric designs. The floorspace was dominated by a king-sized bed and its great headboard. It was already made, covered in layers of sheets, blankets, and comforters. A folded white blanket sat on the end of the bed.

On each side was an end table with a lamp. The shutters around the flameless lantern were connected to a slider to easily dim the light. The painting of the night sky extended to over the bed.

The dining room had cupboards, cabinets, and drawers containing dishes, cups, and silverware for eating. The food must be brought up, Harry mused. There was no place for storage or to prepare it. A countertop lined the corner and extended down the wall perhaps a dozen feet on one side. The other side ended at a sliding door which led out onto an external balcony. There was another basin, this one with a pair of faucets.

In the middle of the floorspace was a rectangular wooden table, over which hung a chandelier. In the center was a glass bowl of fruits. Eight wooden chairs surrounded the table. Three on each side, one at the head and foot. The fruit looked divine, but Harry could not stuff any more food down his throat. The sumptuous (and vegetarian) feast Nisla had thrown was so grand as to rival even Undin's feast back in Tarnag. The race of elves had overcome their disdain for meat in their diet magnificently. The food was just as filling as if it had been full of red meat.

The lethargy of a harsh day of travel began to catch up with Harry, and only Arya's lidded eyes and smoldering gaze prevented him from collapsing bonelessly into the sinfully soft bed.

Harry's chest heaved. His eyes were bright and his body sated. Arya laid next to him, basking in the afterglow. "That was wonderful," Arya turned her head to face him. She smiled. "With how often we are practicing, I don't know whether to be surprised or relieved that I haven't gotten with child."

He grinned back at her. The idea of a baby, well, family was the one thing he held most dear to his heart, and starting one with a woman he loved- he couldn't think of that with anything but the utmost enthusiasm. "Then there's nothing for it but to keep trying."

Arya threw her head, getting the hair out of her face and behind her. It cascaded in a river of black off the other end of the pillow. "Splendid idea." She rubbed her splayed hand on Harry's bare chest. "Again?"

Groaning, Harry shook his head. "I can't believe I had the energy for the first round. Flying all day is hard work. Tomorrow, we can have a lie-in inside the tent, and Eragon and Saphira can carry us towards Ellesmera." He laid back and gazed up at the painted ceiling. "How many more days, do you think? I don't mind the travel, but I'm getting rather antsy to reach our destination."

Arya copied him, tracing the constellations with her eyes. "Perhaps two days. We should reach the wards by tomorrow afternoon, but even dragons have to walk the last leg of the journey, lest they fall from the skies. The magic which protects Ellesmera from detection and scrying, also interrupts the magic which holds dragons aloft in flight. I would not test your flying brooms against the ancient wards."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "I guess not."

She cracked a smile. "You know what that means…" she trailed off deliberately.

Groaning, he turned his head away. "Hate that stupid horse."

Arya made a token effort to engage Harry in further conversation, but it was clear he was rather exhausted and having none of it. So she surrendered and pulled the covers up to her neck, turning away and closing her eyes.

---

Nasuada sat back heavily on her luxurious chair. This would be the last day she sat in her personal office in Farthen Dur. It had taken a titanic effort to prepare the Varden, but prepared it was. The wagons were built and stocked, the horses bought and shod in iron, the livestock herded and led, no crippling resource was lacking.

The Council of Elders had been folded into her personal assistants, (much to her personal amusement,) and her personal guard retinue complete. It had been one thing after another, but she was finally going to venture out of the dim eternal twilight that was the dwarven tunnels of Farthen Dur, for the first time in a decade. All they waited on was her word.

Sighing, Nasuada stood and smoothed her dress. Her hair was done up in an elaborate braided knot which hung out of a golden circle mounted vertically on the back of her head. With a gesture, Imladris emerged from behind her secret bookshelf. She was Nasuada's personal guard magician, sent to her by Nasuada for her prodigious assassination and warding skills.

Nasuada was shocked at the difference in Du Vrangr Gata before and after Harry had shown up. The wizard had turned a small group of dangerous schemers into a loyal bunch of researchers, healers, and warriors. Even their bearings had changed. Before, magicians like Carn were timid and nervous, where now they all strode with all the confident swagger of a veteran warrior. She had yet to dream up a task they couldn't accomplish better than she had expected.

They each carried around an amulet to announce what organization they belonged to. A clear egg-shaped diamond inset in silver, with a wooden twisting path stretching vertically from the bottom of the teardrop to the top. Even her secret bodyguard wore her amulet, though she tucked it under her collar and beneath her shirt.

Imladris preferred to blend in rather than hide out, but when she did, she wore a scandalous set of tight black leathers which Nasuada actually found rather compelling. She wore such garb now, and it was trying to avoid her eyes wandering where they should not. "There is nothing more to be done here. We have received King Orrin's reply promising men and aid, and so we shall tarry not."

Nasuada strode confidently out the door. Imladris murmured a string of unfamiliar words, and vanished from sight. The only sign of her presence was the occasional footprint formed in the dust, which vanished the moment she lifted her foot again.

Her squadron of pikemen fell in line as Nasuada strode with poise and confidence down the stone halls to the stables. Eyes flickered over the carvings and scrollwork of the halls one last time, taking in the incredible dwarven architecture before she traded it for the raw beauty of nature. The guards stared stoically ahead, tromping in sync with each other.

Stragglers from the Varden scurried about, picking up this pack or the other item, grabbing every last thing dear to them which they could carry. Whenever her party passed, the people froze and watched her.

They turned down another hallway and passed under a great archway, where eight powerful horses munched on hay, coats gleaming from the brushing they had received at the hands of the stablehands.

The moment her party came into view, the stablehands scurried into action, running about stacking blankets, saddles, and stirrups onto the magnificent beasts. Nasuada had only to wait a minute before all the mounts were ready. With a practiced movement, she swung herself and her dress over the saddle and settled in.

She frowned when Imladris hopped onto her own horse. The only sign of her presence was a slight dip the horse made at accepting her weight, but the thing's mere presence might give her away. She cantered over and quietly voiced her concerns.

"It will not. I have devised a spell which deflects the attention of all but the most skilled magicians from my presence. So long as I do not announce myself–by attacking for example, observers shall dismiss this horse as being one completely unencumbered so that in case of an attack, you may switch and race away from here."

Nasuada frowned, but accepted her words. "Very well. Please do try and devise a more elegant situation. There is no guarantee that whoever tries to assassinate me will not be a skilled magician. In fact, it's rather a certainty. Perhaps a set of armor to replace one of my guards?" she mused aloud.

Imladris stayed silent. Nasuada tugged on the reins and pointed her horse towards the arch. "We ride!" The guards took up flanking positions. Then they were off.

Nasuada glanced over at the empty horse, then scanned the faces of her guards. Imladris was right; their gaze seemed to slide easily off the horse. It was like a piece of furniture: there, but it didn't really matter. She smiled to herself. Imladris was proving to be a most skilled secret weapon.

Her retinue passed dozens of covered wagons hauled by pairs of oxen or horses, wooden wheels rolling on the stone in a racket of noise. Men hauled about bags and packs strapped to their backs, belts full of tools and weapons. A procession of packhorses tromped along, led by men trotting along clutching leads.

For nearly an hour Nasuada passed a nearly endless column of men and supplies until finally, they reached the great doors. They hung wide open, a familiar yet hardly remembered stream of bright light spilling into the dim corridor, chasing away the shadows.

Nasuada closed her eyes and tilted her head back, reveling in the warmth and the smell of fresh air.

A thought repeated itself in her mind, like a mantra, the idea so powerful it seemed to sear itself into her soul, and the soul of the Varden as a whole. It's time to take back Alagaesia.

---

AN: Chunky chapter for you lot on easter. The next one is going to end up even longer. Nasuada has a magic-user bodyguard because it'd be stupid if she didn't when Du Vrangr Gata now has time on their hands. Elva isn't in the picture yet, but she's coming probably chapter after next. These chapters might start to come slower as I make them longer.