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

33. Ellesmera

Edited: 8/19/2022 (hair color continuity)

Chapter 40: Ellesmera

Harry held a hand to his lower back, grumbling ill-naturedly. "Twenty six straight hours of riding, all because no one wants to camp out just beyond the city's borders."

Arya shot him a glare from her position atop her steed, Glenwing. Orik rode Cadoc, and Eragon, Saphira. The trip was long enough that he had doled out a small mouthful of the alchemical powder he always kept a mountain of in reserve. The quarter-dose of miracle solution injected them with just enough energy to see them to the border of the city.

All in all, Harry couldn't really complain about the misery of riding. When they left Silthrim forty-eight hours ago, he had bullied Eragon into carrying the tent on dragonback himself, and retreated to the interior to spend a whole day having hot monkey sex with Arya. His eyes gained a faraway look.

Someone pinched him on the shoulder.

It was Arya, glaring at him. "What?" he demanded indignantly.

She pointed ahead of him. "Pay attention. I know exactly what that look means, and it is not what you want at the forefront of your mind when the gatekeeper examines you and chooses to grant or deny you admission to our capital."

Sure enough, about twenty paces ahead of them, a figure stood sentinel. Surrounded by a lone beam of golden sunlight, it was pretty obvious the guy was important by the way he stood dramatically in his own magical spotlight.

They drew near, and Harry began to make out his features.

The guy was old, older than any elf he had ever seen. He was older than Nisla, the governor of a large elven city. He stood straight and tall, hands folded over a naked white blade with a golden hilt that seemed to shine with ethereal light. Older than the ghost of Evandar, older even than Brom looked with his wrinkly skin and white hair. The elf had no wrinkles, but his hair was white as snow, and his eyes seemed to peer straight into Harry's soul, despite his impenetrable mental defenses.

Overhead, the trees rose hundreds of feet high, thick wooden branches holding the canopies aloft like ribbed arches. The leaves were so thick that the only light came from a hovering lumos he'd cast, and the brilliant sunbeam which illuminated the man. Underneath, a thick layer of pine needles crunched softly underfoot.

"Gilderien the Wise," Arya murmured, twisting her fingers over her lips. She bowed and began the greeting. Harry glanced at her in surprise. She, the elven princess, was acknowledging this man's status as higher than her own.

Gilderien did not speak or respond, rather smiling gently and nodding to Arya. He turned his gaze upon Eragon. "Hold up your right hand," Arya coached the young rider. "Show him your palm and ring."

Eragon nodded slowly and held his hand out like a woman expecting it to be taken and kissed by a suitor. Harry valiantly suppressed giggles. He turned his hand over, and Gilderien again smiled and nodded.

Saphira fixed a great blue eye upon the ancient elf, as if daring the man to inspect her. Gilderien bowed respectfully, and moved on to Orik.

"I am Orik of Grimstborith Ingeitum, nephew of King Hrothgar, adopted son of King Hrothgar. I come as an ambassador to my people, and to observe Eragon's training." Gilderien nodded to the dwarf.

Finally, he turned his eyes on Harry.

Immediately, he felt his soul laid bare before the ancient man, undoubtedly the oldest being he'd ever met. For several long seconds, neither said anything. Harry held Gilderien's gaze for nearly a minute. It was like Dumbledore was examining his face all over again. He felt like he held no secrets from this man.

Then, the elf beamed, a brilliant and happy smile. He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome, then dissolved into motes of light. The golden spotlight faded, and Arya let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"Come," she beckoned them forwards. "We are welcome here."

"Who was that?" Harry cantered up.

Arya smiled. "Gilderien the Wise. Prince of House Miolandra, wilder of the White Flame of Vandil, and guardian of Ellesmera since the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons. None may enter the city unless he permits it."

"Old as hell, too." Arya sputtered. She nearly stopped Glenwing in outrage, but was shocked into silence at the sound of deep laughter echoing from behind them.

"One of the oldest elves, yes." she nodded. "Though we do not age anymore, before Du Fyrn Skulblaka, this was not the case. We were blessed with an extraordinarily long lifespan, often measuring centuries, but we would die, nonetheless. It was not until the Rider Pact that we became truly ageless. Gilderien was chosen to guard the city when he was an elven warrior of great renown. As the war dragged on, he aged until the Pact was formed, and now remains a sentinel to Ellesmera for as long as he wishes. He was released from his duty by Queen Tarmunoa at the end of the war, but chose of his own will to continue to be the shield of our people."

Harry rubbed his chin. "Is there anyone older?"

Arya thought for a while. "I am uncertain. The second oldest elf I know of is Rhunon, the master smith who forged the rider blades. She too, hails from the time before the rider pact. Yet her age does not wear on her body so hard as Gilderien, so perhaps she is younger. Of the elves who bore arms in Du Fyrn Skulblaka, precious few remain. I shall attempt to ask her."

"Attempt?" Eragon asked curiously. "Do elves consider their ages private?"

She shook her head. "Nay. I say attempt because Rhunon scarcely ever leaves her forges. I'd be very surprised if she has emerged since I last dragged her out for the Agaeti Blodhren celebration. Even if I were to go there and ask, there's no guarantee she'd answer. She was born before we became ageless, and thus was raised before the current code of conduct was implemented. Often she's rather rude."

Harry grinned. "Well, now I have to meet her."

Arya's lips twitched. "Yes, you two would get along like a house on fire."

Ahead of them, Harry's sharp eyes began to pick out deliberate structures. The entire place was shrouded in dusky shadows, but certain sections gave way to planter beds. Twisting shapes of cleared ground indicated roads and paths. Oddly-shaped trees, upon closer inspection, revealed the kind of treehouses Arya and Brom had taught him how to make. The auburn shadows which were so ubiquitous yielded to floating lanterns of soft light.

The structures and gardens blended in with nature so perfectly, it was nearly impossible to pick out where artifice ended and nature began. Once the proper filter was mentally applied, Ellesmera transformed from shaded trees to beautiful architecture. Hexagonal buildings grew from tree bases, linked by flying buttresses and archways. Moss and lichen bearded graceful windows and doorways, the script of the Ancient Language carved into structures, creating entrancing patterns and scrollwork.

Hesitantly, elves began to step into view. A pale hand, a shadowed foot, blinking eyes emerged from the pooling regions of darkness which were the shadows of the already-dim city of Ellesmera.

Every single one was a ten. The women tended to wear their hair unbound, falling down to their lower backs in perfect waves straight out of a L'Oreal commercial. Some of them had elegant braids done up into crowns, intricate and beautiful knots, or simple ponytails which were all the more beautiful for the figures they sprouted from.

The colors of hair and eyes were nearly all exotic. Dark green, emerald, navy blues and browns were mixed with bright pink, lavender, gold, and silver. Even the elves with mundane or natural colorings were striking, the rest of their ensemble perfectly complimenting whatever colors of hair grew from their heads.

Exotic and beautiful features stared at them, drawn as if magnetized to the sapphire dragon behind them. All of a sudden, it was as if a spell was broken. Elves rushed towards Saphira, singing and skipping, laughing and smiling. Someone sang an elvish melody over the cheers and laughter.

For all that they were a party of several different races not seen in Ellesmera since the fall, it might have been that Saphira arrived alone to the sunset city. Elves heaped lavish praise upon the dragon, dancing around her and complimenting Saphira with poems and lines about her razor-sharp claws, long and deadly teeth, and brilliant sapphire scales. Harry could nearly see Saphira's ego inflate. He was mildly surprised that she didn't float away.

Some would leap a dozen feet straight up onto a branch overhead, and run along the narrow wooden bridge above. Eragon's neck craned in awe, turning this way and that to take in every exotic sight. "Are the houses done by singing?" he asked Arya, pointing at a particularly grand seven-story hexagonal tower which a great and ancient tree grew out of.

She nodded. "Aye. Just like your father and I taught Harry. For a novice, he did amazingly well on his first few attempts." she turned a smile on Harry who grinned.

"Never as large as these, though," he admitted. "I used space-expansion charms to cheat. These trees are so damn big, they don't need 'em."

She laughed happily. "No, they certainly don't."

Ahead of them, a pile of roots formed a staircase up to a grand wooden door which swung in without prompting at their approach. Eragon looked rather nervous, but Orik clapped him on the shoulder bracingly, and they made their way up.

Inside was like a microcosm of the entire city itself. A dozen trees on either side of the hall stretched up, extending boughs over the roof and meeting in the middle like a steeple. Golden motes of light floated in the leaves like the candles in Hogwarts's Great Hall.

Between each pair of trees was a chair, six on each side of a long, oaken table. In each chair sat an elf lord, the men and women sitting with regal bearing and perfect composure. They all wore circlets adorned with gems and precious metals. The only sign which betrayed their feelings were their eyes, bright with eagerness and excitement. In those eyes, Harry spotted hope. The same hope he saw on the eyes of Dumbledore's Army when he arrived in the Room of Requirement just before the destruction of the diadem horcrux. It was a look he knew well, and a look which boded well for Eragon's acceptance with the elves.

At the head of the assembly sat a white pavilion, atop which stood a throne of knotted wood. In its seat, Queen Islanzadi sat regally. She was as beautiful as her daughter, but in a different sort of way. She was the mirror to Arya's passion and energy, exuding regal imperiousness. Her lips were as red as holly berries, her hair midnight black. Upon her head rested a diamond diadem, its beauty exceeding even the legendary diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.

She wore a crimson tunic cinched at the waist with a braided gold girdle. And falling down her back was a velvet cloak of swan feathers.

But for all her regal bearing and garb, she looked almost…fragile. Like only a single phrase might shatter her into a million pieces. Harry had a sneaking suspicion what that was all about, and left it up to Arya to reconcile with the woman. His opinions were rapidly solidifying about the woman, and he had to admit they were better than they'd been before meeting her.

She was no Aunt Petunia, using her child to bolster her social standing in the neighborhood. She was Queen Islanzadi, devastated by the death of her daughter, so much so that she recklessly ceased aiding her greatest ally against her most dangerous enemy. Harry saw genuine grief in her eyes and could only wonder how it was that the Queen had never scried Arya since Durza's attack, if only to retrieve her body and bury it for peace of mind.

In her left hand she clutched a scepter, topped with a raven landed upon a sphere. Harry was taken aback when the raven suddenly came to life, flapping and adjusting its grip. The artwork he'd seen from the races of Alagaesia was so skilled, it was nearly impossible to tell what was real and what wasn't. "Wyrda!" the raven called.

Behind them, the oaken door creaked shut, and the four of them approached. Arya knelt, and so Harry and Orik followed suit.

Though it looked like it caused her great pain, Saphira managed to force herself to lower her long neck slightly in a sort of bow.

"Your majesty," Harry murmured perfunctorily, like a good Briton in front of the Queen. Islanzadi raised an imperious eyebrow, but stayed silent. She surveyed the group one at a time, starting with Saphira. She breathed levelly, quietly through her nose. Her lips remained together, straight in an emotionless mask as her emerald eyes swept across Orik, then paused on Eragon. She scrutinized the rider, memorizing each minute detail as if she intended to later paint a portrait of him from memory.

When her eyes met Harry's, she paused almost imperceptibly, then her eyes flicked to Arya, and her breathing stopped. Her eyes widened in shock. In no more than a whisper, she turned her stunned eyes upon the elf of their party.

"Arya?"

It was like time had frozen. The elf lords and ladies around the table stilled completely, and breathing in the room as a whole ceased. Islanzadi stood and approached her, holding out an unsteady hand. "Oh my daughter, I have wronged you!"

A crystalline tear dripped from her jaw and fell from the floor. She went to embrace her daughter. Harry could tell the moment she noticed Arya was still kneeling. A frisson of embarrassment flitted across her face. "Rise," she said, affecting an imperious tone. It was as transparent as the tear she shed for her daughter.

Arya smoothly got to her feet. When her mother embraced her, Harry could tell that all the resentment she had built up in her heart drained away, and suddenly it was just another mother meeting their daughter after a long time away.

When Islanzadi stepped back, mother and daughter were both grinning like fools. "Oh my daughter, I have wronged you!"

---

Nasuada wore a dress which reached to only her ankles and wore her magical armor deployed. The chestplate fit over her bodice perfectly and had been skillfully bejeweled and beautified by a jeweller in the Varden's employ. Trianna had assured her that the piece's protective properties were not compromised by the decorations, and she'd taken to wearing the armor whenever in public. It was beautiful enough for her station, and also light and comfortable enough to wear day in and day out.

She liked the image it projected to her people. Nasuada looked like a warrior queen, and it symbolized how she was ready to fight for the people under her command.

The dress was a simple white affair without sleeves. The fabric fell straight to her ankles, surrounded by discrete vertical ruffles. At her hips, the dress transformed into a light tunic in a golden V. The sewn-in belt allowed her to wear her corset beneath the garment. Ironically, the chestplate of the armor was actually more comfortable than the corset.

Sabrae had given her a scandalized look at her clothing and though she managed to hold (and keep) her tongue, Nasuada could see the word floating through her mind. 'Slut,' she screamed with her eyes. Elessari, on the other hand, had given her an appraising look and then pronounced her attire 'excellent.' Considering the woman showed the most cleavage Nasuada had ever seen, she had conflicted feelings about her approval.

"Trianna, here to see you!" One of her guards announced gruffly from outside her tent. It was a large circular structure which took much more effort than the traditional rectangular tents the troops slept in. She felt guilty about forcing her servants to put in the extra effort, but she understood the importance of image. Plus, she could hardly hold court in a two-man tent.

"Enter," she called authoratively. Nasuada sat in her smaller chair behind a much more subdued desk than the one she left in her father's old office back in Farthen Dur. It weighed nearly twenty stone, and she could not justify lugging that all the way to Uru'baen when lighter replacements were available. She smoothed her skirts and composed her face, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder just as Trianna entered the flap of the tent, held open by a guard.

"My lady," the sorceress bowed perfunctorily. It was clear to Nasuada that the woman was simply paying lip service to her position as leader of the Varden. She couldn't bring herself to care, especially not when Harry blatantly flouted even her father's authority.

Trianna wore rougher clothing, yet was no less beautiful for it. Dyed leathers in subdued colors, the most spectacular part of her ensemble was the amulet she wore proudly on the outside of her top. It was a great diamond set in a beautiful golden setting of a wandering path. Nasuada recognized the amulet as the same her secret guard Imladris wore, but in gold instead of silver. To denote her leadership, Nasuada supposed.

Nasuada gestured to the petitioner's seat in front of her desk. Elessari had insisted that her petitioners be seated in a chair less grand than her own. Since her chair was subdued, the petitioner's post was a sorry seat, indeed. Little more than a shortened barstool, It never failed to amuse when great self-important men tried to look powerful and imposing while squatting on the tiny thing.

Trianna was unbothered, and swept aside her skirts to take her seat. "I have reviewed the difficulties the Varden faces, and composed a list of duties which I think Du Vrangr Gata will be best served working at alleviating."

Nasuada did not bother putting on airs for Trianna. She had known the woman well, before she succeeded her father. "Please."

"We have learned the enchantment Harry uses to such effects in making his swords unbreakable."

Naduada leaned forwards in interest. "Really? What does he call it? Is it difficult?"

Trianna rolled her eyes. "It's called the 'unbreakability charm,' and no, it's trivial to cast."

She laughed out loud. "A bit on the nose?"

Trianna grinned. "You have no idea. Some of the scarier tomes he's lent us have rituals with pretentious names, but the magic usually deserves whatever pretentious name the wizards came up with. On the all, Charms, they're called, do what their names say. The incantations are in a strange language. Latin, Harry called it. It's a proto-language, and quite obviously came before the Ancient Language."

Nasuada was very interested in that. A language which came before a language so old its name was lost, and it was simply referred to as 'Ancient.' "Does Latin have useful properties?"

Trianna winced. "I cannot tell you. When Harry began to teach us, he extracted an oath from each of us, that we may not share anything related to magic we learn with knowledge he gave us. It's supposed to prevent us from letting anything slip to the king's spies."

She nodded approvingly, and tapped her long fingernails on the desk. "Prudent, I suppose. When he returns, I shall ask him to allow me to swear the same oath. How are you able to tell me of even Latin's existence?"

"It's a language, not magic. We're allowed some leeway, myself especially since it is expected that I tell you about our capabilities. But anything we recognize as exceedingly dangerous knowledge is covered by the oath."

"The oath is guided by your own understanding?" Nasuada's mind whirled. That was dangerous information.

Trianna frowned and nodded. "All oaths are, I believe. The Ancient Language binds oaths by its ability to prevent lies. When one says for example 'I will not jump,' They can't jump because doing so would turn their previous statement into a lie. But if they are able to justify to themselves perhaps that leaping is not jumping, they could do so."

Nasuada narrowed her eyes and pulled out a blank sheet of parchment, dipped her quill in ink, and scribbled away. "I have the strangest feeling this information will be crucial in our fight against Galbatorix. Keep it to yourself." she ordered. "We have digressed. How do you plan to use unbreakability charms to help the Varden?"

"I had planned to send our magicians around and place them on things like axles, wheels, and tool handles. I have also devised a spell to trap lubricant wherever it is applied, which will hopefully save our repairmen and maintenance workers much time."

"Make it so," Nasuada ordered.

Trianna smiled. "As you wish, milady. We have also learned of a spell which diverts attention from something."

"Imladris has shown me this magic, yes."

"It does not need to be applied to something. It can be placed somewhere."

Nasuada took in a sharp breath. "You could place it over the entire camp?"

She bobbed her head, sending her earrings swinging back and forth. "Aye. Though it is cautioned that the effect will be weaker the more obvious the hidden thing is. We can cast it once upon the entire camp, and again internally on priority objects like the armory and such."

Nasuada thought about that. "Will it not prevent our own people from guarding or using whatever it is you choose to cast this spell on?"

"Nay," Trianna said. "There are many ways to add exceptions to this magic. Harry used the phrase 'key in,' like a list of authorized people. We do not even have to have their names. 'Members of the Varden' works just as well."

"Very well. Do so." Nasuada sat back in her chair silently, mind whirling. "It occurs to me that all these tasks you have presented need only be cast once. Have you any plans for how you will occupy your time once you've finished?"

Trianna frowned. "Hopefully, by then something new for us to do will have presented itself. I suppose we can always lend our magic to the healers."

Nasuada shook her head. "Perhaps one of you might be on duty, but the vast majority of our injuries demand attention because of infection. With Harry's new cleanliness edicts in effect, the number of people getting sick has plummeted to practically zero. All the women in the Varden know how to clean and bind minor injuries, and they can heal on their own. I want you to think of something you can do for months which will consistently provide aid to the Varden. We need gold, men, time, security, things I'm looking for a solution to. Continue chipping away at men and time, by all means. But I want to hear some solutions. Put yourself in the mindset of a greedy magic user. How would you make gold?"

The woman dismissed Trianna and penned in the sorceress's current self-appointed tasks. She'd send someone to observe and make sure everything went smoothly.

When the missive was finished, she waved it dry, rolled it up, and sealed it with wax and her ring. "Hamel!" She called out. A burly guardsman swept aside the tent flap and stuck his head in.

"Milady?"

She extended the missive. "Please send for Jarsha and have him deliver this to a trusted man with some time on his hands." The big man took the scroll from her with calloused fingers and tugged at his black beard.

"Aye, milady. I know just the man." He was about to duck back out of the white canvas flap when Nasuada stopped him.

"Thank you, Hamel."

The man clasped a fist to his breast. "You are welcome, milady."

Nasuada sank back into her chair and began yet another letter to King Orrin. The ruler of Surda had notoriously prickly pride and she really did need his support. If not his gold, she needed his men. They had exchanged perhaps a dozen letters now, and she felt no closer to receiving aid than when she started. Only two of the four letters were written in Orrin's own hand. The king's scribes had distinctive calligraphy, the sort of immaculate writing that only came from a hand which had done nothing but write their entire life.

Smooth vellum unrolled beneath her fingers, and a pair of stones weighted the curled edges down. Nasuada selected a finer ink with some sort of metal suspended in it. The metal had the effect of turning the ink iridescent, and missives to her royal peers demanded that sort of consideration.

She kicked off her shoes and rubbed the carpet with her toes, grateful for the privacy her tent provided. The letter demanded all of her attention, and she did not regret cutting off the train of thought which dictated how she carried herself with an audience.

The rugs were soft and cool. Sunlight filtered through the roof above, enough to illuminate even the smallest fiddly text on densely written books, yet dim enough that her eyes could rest.

His Majesty King Orrin Langfeld, Son of Larkin, Of the Line of Thanebrand the Ring-Giver, King of Surda.

Nasuada wrote slowly and deliberately, in the best calligraphy she could manage. Even writing just the man's rather lengthy title with the care necessary had begun cramping her hand.

The Varden have left Tronjheim and even now march upon the Broddring Empire, with the goal of-

No, 'with the goal of' didn't sound righteous enough, or confident. Nasuada scrapped the vellum and selected a rough sheet and standard ink, resolving to produce a rough draft before wasting any more of the fine material.

The Varden have left Tronjheim and even now march upon the Broddring Empire. I ask for your aid in overthrowing the tyrant Galbatorix whose monstrous shadow is cast upon all of Alagaesia. The Varden have won the support of a free rider, the only one alive today. The last rider. Without the mighty nation of Surda at our backs, we will surely fail.

Nasuada groaned and rubbed at her temples. She poured herself a cool drink of water and refocused. She was the new player in this game of kings, the youngest and least accomplished. Treading the fine line between respect and deference was giving her migraines. She could not afford to be seen begging for troops, nor could she slight Surda. Guntera give me strength. Nasuada scribbled out a few more lines, crossed them out, and wrote some more.

By the time she finished the letter, the sun had set. A pair of candles lit the tent. The letter appropriately addressed the concerns Orrin had raised in their previous correspondence, and Nasuada thought she'd struck the proper balance between deference and pride. With a flourish, she signed her name.

Head of the Varden, Nasuada Ajihadsdottir

That was it. She had no great accomplishments to her name, and no bards had given her a title she could yet wear proudly, that would mean something to her.

Nasuada the Brave, Nasuada the Bold. They gave her acclaim for daring to leave the safety of the dwarven nation and campaign openly against the king. But for all anyone knew, the endeavour might be doomed the moment Galbatorix rode out into battle. Everyone said it was unlikely to happen, but unlikely was just another word for unlucky, and some days, Nasuada felt that title applied to her better than anything else the bards might name her.

No, until she had overthrown Galbatorix, she would affix no title to her signature. And when she did, it would be 'Overthrower of Galbatorix.' That was what the Varden backed her for. Nasuada Ajihadsdottir would serve until she was immortalized in the annals of history for dethroning the black king, or else she would be forgotten.

It wasn't even the last name she would have chosen for herself. Her parents were both from the Wandering Tribes of the Hadarac. As far as she knew, her maternal uncle Fadawar was still the leader of the tribe she would have belonged to. They carried the names of their tribes after their given names, in a language Nasuada barely remembered anymore.

She twisted her bracelet counter-clockwise and sighed as the breastplate she'd worn all day flowed down her shoulder like water, letting her truly relax for the first time that day. Nasuada carefully stripped out of her dress and lowered herself into the basin set up for her. As she scrubbed away at the dirt of the day's riding, Nasuada cast her mind upon what she wanted for herself.

Since she could walk and talk, Nasuada had given her life to the Varden. She politicked and backstabbed and lied to clear the path for her father. She had disposed of many of his enemies without him ever knowing of their existence. When Ajihad was slain in battle, taking over for him was as easy and natural as breathing. It was what she'd prepared for all her life, after all.

Only now was it occurring to her, that without the Varden and Galbatorix to define her, she was nothing. Nothing and no one. As Nasuada scrubbed away at her ebony skin, she realized that she was okay with that. Some evils are worth giving your life to fight. And Nasuada knew, her lack of identity was no different from a soldier who would fall in battle. If her men could give their lives to her banner, then Nasuada owed them nothing less in return.

She stood slowly from the warm water. It splashed quietly back into the basin, droplets rolling off her nude form. It occured briefly to her that Imladris might be invisibly watching. The thought inexplicably made Nasuada blush. She thanked the gods that her skin was dark enough that such signals did not show on her countenance.

Feeling bold, she stretched, catlike. She yawned lazily and walked with a tiny extra bit of sway in her hips, over to the folded linen shift she wore at night. It almost made her reluctant to cover herself. Nasuada had worked hard for her body. In some ways, it was just as important as a sharp mind or political allies. Beauty could be wielded as a weapon, and Nasuada had trained herself to use her own.

The cot in her tent was softer and more luxurious than any of her men had. The bedding was soft, and in such variety that she could be comfortable at night in any climate. Her line was from the desert, and they were comfortable in the heat.

Nasuada piled the comforter on top of herself and blew out the candles with a sharp breath. Tomorrow, she would send off the letter to Orrin, and they would march again.

---

Arya and Islanzadi broke apart from their embrace. The atmosphere in the wooded throne room was awkward and tense, and both mother and daughter sensed it. "Daughter o' mine," Islanzadi lamented, eyes glistening. "Will you forgive me?" The elvenqueen held Arya's hand in her own.

The lords and ladies of Ellesmera betrayed none of their discomfort, but for their eyes which screamed that they would rather be anywhere but here. Eragon's jaw was still gaping from the reveal that Arya was royalty. Orik stood stiffly at attention, but said nothing at all. He was as still as stone, and twice as stoic.

Harry thought he spotted a flash of irritation in Arya's eyes, but it vanished immediately. "Yes, mother. I forgive you." Her voice was soft and sincere.

The queen smiled softly and embraced her daughter again. "Thank you, my daughter! This is joyous news, indeed. Now tell me, what has befallen you since the moment of ambush outside Ceris?"

Arya's eyes flickered with shadow, and Harry nearly lost his composure in his anger at the woman. He remembered well what it was like to spill his soul in front of Dumbledore about the ordeal he went through after the Triwizard Tournament. And here Islanzadi was, demanding she recount her traumatic experiences in front of an audience of impartial observers. Arya was an intensely personal woman, and Harry knew it would be torturous for her to speak of how her friends and if he was not mistaken, first lover were murdered in front of her and made to hunt her like grotesque corpse-puppets.

"That sounds like a tale to be told in private," Harry said coldly, fire in his emerald eyes.

He heard gasps from the elf-lords around the hall. Orik looked nervous, and poor Eragon had only just regained his composure, only for Harry to steal it from him once more. Elvish eyes darted back and forth between each other, as if to say, 'is he suicidal?!'

Islanzadi whirled furiously towards him, her own eyes boring into him. Harry met her gaze unflinchingly. Voldemort's presence, while evil, was far more commanding. Arya looked at him helplessly, shoulders tense and face closed off. "You would question me in my own court?" She demanded furiously.

Arya reached her hand out a foot, opened her mouth, closed it.

"I would stop you from destroying the relationship you have only just mended with your daughter," Harry said levelly.

"And what would you know about that?"

"When I went through something like her ordeal, I found it humiliating and terrifying to relate what befell me to a trusted friend and family. Look at your daughter and tell me you aren't making a mistake." Harry felt hot anger balloon in his chest, struggling to erupt out of his throat in the most foul curses and angriest rants he could compose.

Islanzadi's eyes slid off of Harry and she glanced at her daughter. Harry could tell the moment she understood, when all of her fury drained away. "Arya-" she was lost for words. "I apologize, lords and ladies. Should any pertinent information come of my daughter's story, I shall relate it to you on the morrow. Wizard-" she turned and paused. "-You are wiser than your years."

If Harry's interruption caused a commotion among the audience, it was nothing compared to getting the Queen to walk back her words. Islanzadi's eyes darted between the elves present. She paused for a moment in silence, before schooling her immaculate features and drawing herself upright. "Thank you, my daughter. It is time now for the elves to lay their claim to the free rider. Follow." She spoke imperiously, and strode out of the hall with nary a glance over her shoulder."

Harry noted how she referred to Eragon as 'the free rider,' and not by name or achievement. With a monarch as skilled and experienced as Islanzadi, the reference had to be intentional. It was like she was divorcing herself from Eragon the person, and treating him like an office a particularly ambitious politician might aspire to.

He followed sedately, towards the end of the entourage, in hopes of gauging the court's reactions. But the elves were experienced and cunning, and only followed him silently with their eyes until the doors of the hall slammed shut.

Islanzadi led the party with purposeful, confident strides. She followed shaded paths with perfect grace. Eragon had followed in her path with half a mind elsewhere, but placed his feet with care when he tripped over a tree root. The border between architecture and nature was thin, and Eragon was inexperienced at finding it.

The Queen led them through countless elven houses and manors, seamlessly growing out of trees or within the canopy overhead. Harry had to marvel at the architecture. He could see where the lake city of Silthrim's style was drawn from, but it had taken only the loosest styles from Ellesmera. The elven capital was both grander and poorer. The dwellings were larger and the city as a whole was interconnected on a mind boggling level with soaring arches and buttresses, catwalks, balconies, and paths. But Harry could not see the whole place like Silthrim. The shade and trees cut visibility to a couple hundred feet at most, and only the most discerning eyes could even pick out the buildings further than a few paces away.

Within thirty minutes, the density of the trees fell away. They had arrived at a cliff. Beyond it was a set of crags which formed a small valley. Islanzadi stopped their party several paces from the precipice, and turned to face them.

"This is the greatest secret of our people. An invaluable resource which Galbatorix would stop at nothing to destroy were he to know of it. You will swear an oath in the language of truth to never reveal what I am about to show you." The way Islanzadi spoke brooked no argument. It was the most commanding tone Harry had ever heard, and he wanted to object on principle, but Arya's face drew him short.

Her eyes sparkled with a rare excitement, and she had to fight to keep herself from smiling. Whatever the secret was, it was worth swearing to keep it such, if only to see what had inspired Arya so.

"The wording of the oath?" Harry asked in resignation. She looked at him imperiously, and gave him the most comprehensive oath he'd ever seen. Lawyers would have given their right arms to compose such an elegant contract. It was concise, and yet it left no loopholes at all.

Harry repeated the words as Islanzadi spoke them, and turned expectantly to his companions. Eragon swore himself without much preamble, though the queen was thorough in that she extracted an oath from Saphira, as well. He was so used to the dragon blending into the background that it was somewhat surprising the elves had the foresight to bind her, too.

When their eyes landed on Orik, the dwarf looked surly. "I came here to assure my king that Eragon was being trained well, and to give testament to his skills. I see no reason to gag myself for some mysterious secret that my honor would demand I keep, anyways." He crossed his arms and looked mulish.

Islanzadi raised a haughty eyebrow. "We will not jeopardize the entirety of the rider order because one dwarf wanted to test his honor. Swear, or go home empty handed."

Orik agreed. It took several minutes to coach the dwarf on the meaning and proper pronunciation of the wording, but in the end, he too, was bound.

"Very well. Now, your training begins. Oromis!" she called off the edge of the cliff. "Glaedr!" The queen's voice rang clearly from her place at the edge of the crags, filling the area below.

Thump.

A shuddering thud rocked the ground, and Harry's eyes widened, his lips stretching into a grin. Arya's eyes sparkled, smiling widely. Even Islanzadi's lips curved upwards. Eragon looked bewildered, but Harry knew better.

Thump.

Harry thought it could only be more obvious who–or rather what– was down there if he was sitting in a car with a cup of water on the dashboard.

Thump.

A great gust of wind seemed to emerge from below the cliffs, powerful and driving wingbeats which echoed throughout the enormous crags. And from beyond the edge of the cliff, an enormous golden dragon rose, on his back a white haired elf.

With a final, shuddering thump, the dragon landed heavily on the edge of the crags. The rider dismounted gracefully, falling tens of feet from the high saddle and landing with a slight crouch.

"Welcome, rider and friends, to the Crags of Tel'naeir. I am Oromis, and this, my partner Glaedr. We are Togira Ikonoka, the cripple who is whole, and Osthato Chetowa, the mourning sage. We welcome you to our home."

Eragon looked stunned, and Saphira had a lusty look in her eyes as she raked them across the form of the enormous golden dragon. Eragon blushed and quickly twisted his fingers in front of his lips. Harry thought Saphira's gaze was indicative of a certain trouble she'd absolutely get herself into if she didn't manage to contain herself.

Atra esterni ono thelduin," he said reverently.

Oromis smiled. "Atra du evarinya ono varda."

"Un atra mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr." Eragon was awestruck at the sight of the living legend before him. He bowed deeply to the golden dragon Glaedr, who bent his neck and stared directly into the rider's eyes before nodding once. "Welcome, younglings." Glaedr's mental voice projected to all of them, deep and ancient.

Harry greeted the pair respectfully, rather nervously aware that he was in the presence of two people who could actually kill him, and rather trivially, too.

"Fear not, wizard. For all you have done for us, the Varden, and your efforts to oppose Galbatorix as a whole, we would count you as a friend." Oromis spoke.

The rider was tall like most elves, with long silvery-white hair that fell just past the man's shoulders. He had delicate and narrow features, and sage amber eyes that surveyed Harry with all the intensity of Dumbledore and Gilderien the Wise. He wore the same tunic most elves seemed to favor, though his was a subdued brown. At his belt he wore a rider's blade with a yellowed diamond set in the pommel. The stone shone like a second sun with power.

The rider turned to Eragon and smiled gently. "Be welcome, Eragon Shadeslayer. Long have I watched your journey. You have risen to bear your burden admirably, and I mourn Brom's passing with you."

Twin gasps rang out. "That's right!" Eragon looked awestruck. "You were my father's teacher!"

Oromis inclined his head. "I did instruct your father in the ways of the riders. He was a good student, and I am proud to call him such. I mourned his death with you. He would have been proud of the man you are."

Eragon's eyes watered. He grinned weakly and nodded jerkily. Words had failed him and he was afraid he might begin weeping at the slightest touch.

"You knew." An accusing voice came from behind Harry. It was from Islanzadi, and the queen looked furious. "You knew the egg had hatched before today, and didn't think to tell me? You knew my daughter was alive, and you let me drown in sorrow for years!" The queen stood, stock-still, disbelieving anger etched into every line of her beautiful face like granite. "Why have you betrayed me?"

Oromis was unfazed in the face of the queen's ire. "It was no betrayal to keep my piece about information you should know by your own efforts. I scryed the lands as is my duty, as is your duty. If you had done such, you would have known immediately. The land itself practically shouts in joy at Eragon's presence."

Islanzadi looked like she had been punched in the gut. "I have been a fool," she whispered. "What other damage have I dealt in my grief?"

Harry's respect for Oromis, already quite high, rose another few notches at the rebuke he dealt to his monarch. When it looked like the rider intended to treat Islanzadi's question as rhetorical, Harry piped up.
"I know the Varden are feeling the withdrawal of your support heavily. Especially now that they have chosen to march on the king, with or without your aid."

Islanzadi swayed, her crimson cape rippling in the cool breeze which blew in from the crags and over the lip of the cliff. Her feet looked unsteady in the yellowed grass scrub at the edge of the rocky ledge. "They march on Uru'baen?" she asked breathlessly. Suddenly, as quickly as her fury had risen, joy broke across her pale visage, her cherry-red lips turning into a beaming smile. "Of course she has. A rider has arisen and aligned himself against Galbatorix." She looked at her daughter, and her smile only grew. "We must have a feast, then. To the beginning of the end of Galbatorix's reign!" She surveyed the members of each race present. Abruptly, her eyes unfocused for a moment as she communicated mentally with someone.

Suddenly, Eragon's face flushed crimson. "A-apologies, your majesty," he clumsily copied Harry's method of addressing the queen. "Lady Nasuada has given me a missive to deliver to you." He withdrew a scroll from his sleeve. It was rather worn around the edges, and slightly crumpled, but the red ribbon tied around its middle was intact, and the waxy seal with the Varden's sigil, unbroken.

The queen raised an immaculate black eyebrow and extended a hand to receive the scroll. She regarded the state of the vellum critically, but broke the seal silently, anyways. Her emerald eyes scanned the paper quickly. "I was unaware Ajihad's daughter was the head of the Varden?" she commented mildly.

Eragon winced. "Ah, yes. There was an attempted invasion in Farthen Dur. Ajihad survived the initial invasion, but was slain when hostilities broke out while Harry was ramming a truce down both sides' throats."

Islanzadi's eyes rose from the parchment to meet Harry's. "You rammed a truce down the throats of empire soldiers?"

Eragon coughed. "No, your majesty. It was Urgals."

The queen raised an eyebrow at Harry. "They were being mind-controlled by a shade, Durza."

Oromis folded his hands over each other and watched patiently.

"I suppose Durza is how you got your title, Eragon Shadeslayer?"

The young rider's cheeks were aflame. "It was Arya who actually put a sword through his heart," he admitted. "I broke the Isidar Mithrim to distract him. They have called all three of us," he gestured to Harry, "Shadeslayer, because we did it together. Though Harry already has titles more prevalent like wizard. The dwarves call him Ascudaruna."

"Blessed steel," Islanzadi mused. "If that is true, you must introduce yourself to Rhunon. She is the most skilled metalworker to ever live." Her eyes returned to Nasuada's scroll. Two minutes passed silently, during which Harry began to fidget restlessly.

The sun was setting now and the sky behind the ridgeline turned orange. The breeze ruffled the grass scrub. Slow, gusty breaths marked Glaedr and Saphira's presence.

Harry glanced at Arya, then back at Oromis.

The old rider raised an eyebrow.

Saphira traced Glaedr's musculature with a microscopic intensity that rivaled Islanzadi.

The queen read silently.

Finally, she rolled up the scroll. "Very well. Eragon, you will return here tomorrow to begin your training." She pivoted and strode away, deeper into Ellesmera.

When the queen left their sight, Oromis spoke. "Orik of Durgrimst Ingeitum. I can see a question in your eyes. Ask."

The dwarf held an unreadable expression, and regarded Oromis as if he was just now discovering who the elf was. "Why have we never seen or heard of you? The Varden could have used your support for decades now. Why have you hidden in the forests of the elves all these years?"

Oromis sighed. "Glaedr and I wait. We waited for the egg to hatch, so that we might instruct the next generation of riders, and pass along the secrets of our order. Were we to be slain before doing so, those secrets would live on only in Galbatorix's mind, and there would be no one to teach my successor."

Orik turned angry. "That," he said, voice quavering in rage, "is the excuse of a coward." Arya gasped, brows meeting in a thunderous expression. "The egg might never have hatched, and you would have cowered here for the rest of time. And what was your reason for hiding before Brom had stolen the egg at all? You knew there were three eggs left, and the only way to get them was to overthrow the king. Would you have left the infant dragons in the mad king's clutches forever, to save your own skin?"

"You go to far, Orik!" Arya shouted angrily. "Were you anyone else, I would kill you myself for such venomous words."

Orik turned and sneered at the elf. The argument looked like it was about to devolve into blows when Oromis cleared his throat. "You are right, and you are wrong. Togira Ikonoka, the cripple who is whole. That is our title, mine and Glaedr's. We fought in the Fall, and did not escape unscathed." He gestured to the massive golden dragon who turned slowly, and revealed that where his left foreleg ought to be, instead sat a grisly stump. Suddenly, Orik looked horrified with himself.

"I-I… My apologies, master rider. I did not mean to-" Oromis held up a long-fingered hand and forestalled whatever else Orik might have been about to say.

"I said you were also right, did I not?" He gestured to himself. "I suffer occasionally from attacks which leave me paralyzed and by some foul magic, I can no longer cast any but the most trivial spells. Even were I the greatest swordsman alive, I could no more fight than a rabbit for all that I might collapse at any moment. And to challenge the king, one must have mighty magic behind them, indeed. But those challenges can be overcome. I have stored energy constantly in the gem within the pommel of my sword. It is the source of power for countless mighty wards designed to protect me during any bouts I might suffer. And Glaedr is a mighty dragon who could still devastate his adversaries without the use of one of four limbs."

"Then why do you not fight?" Orik asked, quietly and respectfully.

"By the time we had recovered from the injuries dealt to us, it would be the two of us against Morzan, Galbatorix, and the other eleven surviving Forsworn. Along with Durza, all of them held unnatural power beyond anything I could muster. Only Brom's exceeding brilliance and cunning enabled him to overcome the Forsworn. One at a time, deliberately and as a result of decades of planning. Brom was human, and so Galbatorix mistakenly assumed he was a lesser threat than an elven rider. Additionally, Brom's dragon, Saphira, was slain in the Fall, and Galbatorix had made it his personal mission to enslave all dragons to himself, and exterminate every one who refused. Were Glaedr and I to emerge from hiding, he would hunt us to the ends of the world to own Glaedr's heart."

Orik accepted that with a sad nod, and the matter was closed.

Oromis turned, then, and addressed Harry. "I would speak to you as well, Harry Potter. I feel the strangest urge to instruct you, despite not being a rider. Though I do not know the source of this urge, my mind is telling me to trust this source." Harry gave him a suspicious look.

"That sounds like the most obvious trap I've ever seen. Or heard of." Oromis quirked a lip.

"It does sound rather foolish, doesn't it? Nevertheless, Your time is better spent honing your skills than growing fat. Both of you, be here at the hour of the rabbit." He paused. "Arya, yourself as well."

"Hour of the rabbit?" Harry asked.

"The first hour after sunrise," Oromis stated.

"Someone ought to introduce the twelve hour clock to you lot," Harry grumbled. "Tempus." Oromis looked at the emerald green numbers intently. It was after 8:30 P.M.

"Eight and thirty?" The old rider asked curiously.

"Yeah," Harry said. "It's not as useful as it would be if everyone used the same time. I think it became popular because it stays the same throughout the year. Midnight is the same on both solstices. And that's not even including daylight savings." He peered at the elf's face. "I think sunrise is…Tempus." he cast the spell again. This time, instead of a digital interface, the spell showed a green analog clock pointing to 8:36 P.M. On each side of the clock, a little orange marking indicated sunrise and sunset. Next to the clock was a digital readout flashing through time down to milliseconds. On the other side was a display showing the planet with little wireframe lines tracing out longitude and latitude. A thicker blue line traced the leading edge of the shadow the Earth cast upon itself when facing away from the sun. Opposite the blue line was an orange one which indicated sunset.

A blinking white indicator showed where Harry was in relation to the planet, just before the orange line. Beyond the earth was a large orange dot that represented the sun. Lines and semicircles drew out angles and degrees all over. The advanced Tempus charm was a godsend for astronomy. Harry remembered messing with his intent when casting it and getting the stars and constellations cloaked in angles and measurements.

Oromis was enraptured by the spell. "How accurate is this? To show the rounded earth, I had thought it obscure knowledge, known only to dragons and riders who had flown so high as to see the horizon curving."

Harry scratched his neck. "I don't know." He squinted at the planet, making out the shadowy landmasses on the globe. "I think it is accurate," he said in wonderment. "Those aren't the continents on my homeworld." Sure enough, the distinctive shape of Africa and the Americas wasn't present. The landmasses were shaped completely differently. "The time certainly is. The sun is definitely not to scale, it's like a million times further and would be way bigger than Glaedr at the earth's scale." He put his eyes closer to the blinking white dot, peering at the shape of the landmass intently. "That's what the west coast looks like," Harry agreed.

The continent of Alagaesia extended to the north for hundreds of miles. There was no detail on the map, so he couldn't tell when Du Weldenvarden's treeline ended, but it looked like it was just outside the arctic circle.

Oromis was studying the map with a frightening intensity. Harry recast the spell, a proper colored topographical map in mind. The green wireframe flickered and was replaced by a brightly lit planet. The lines and time readouts were still present, so Harry carefully modified the magic and dismissed them, waving off extraneous information until only the planet remained with its blinking indicator to show where they were. The only lines were for longitude and latitude, though the longitude was not numbered. No one in Alagaesia had thought to name the Prime Meridian.

"There are other landmasses," Oromis breathed. West of Alagaesia was an ocean which rivaled the size of the Atlantic ocean. A continent slightly smaller than Australia sat in the middle of the crossing. Beyond that was basically North America 2. The same verdant colors painted a familiar continent. The shapes were rather off, but close enough that if Harry squinted, he could almost make it out. Rather than a tapering Mexico connecting via Central America to South America, the continent was one long and thick landmass which stretched from well into the arctic to just before the antarctic circle.

"How I'd love to chart this all," Oromis whispered. He shook himself out of his stupor. "There is a feast to attend," he informed them brusquely. "There will be time for that tomorrow. Bathe, change, prepare yourself for later this evening. I shall see you tomorrow."

After the rider's dismissal, Arya led the group back towards the city center. She strode hesitantly at first, but as her memories shook off dust, more confidently. Orik scrambled on short legs to keep up with Arya's long and brisk strides.

They traced the route the queen had led them on, and soon arrived back in front of the throne room. Arya took a turn to the right and led them down a shaded path lined with gently glowing flowers. They approached the grandest building Harry had yet seen in Ellesmera. It surpassed even the tallest towers of Silthrim.

The hall was constructed not unlike the throne room. Rows of trees grew up along the sides, dozens of paces across. The boughs of their canopies arched over the rooftop, creating a great hall. On the sides were large flowerbeds which stretched from the entryway all the way to the end of the hall, where similarly massive doors stood open.

Arya stopped in the entrance and spread her arms, smiling. "Welcome to Tialdari Hall. It is where the royal family stays, and also contains all the lodgings for our guests. Eragon, Saphira, you have your own house, which I shall take you to in a moment. Saphira, do mind that your tail does not sweep across the beds."

Arya walked down the wide path with assurance, glancing around and taking in the familiar sights of the home she grew up in. Flanking the great doors at the end of the hall were two curving wooden staircases which led up to a split hallway that extended in either direction. Arches and buttresses of wood seemed to support the leafy ceiling.

Hanging or floating lanterns and fairy lights illuminated the hallway cheerily, and the arches were marked at regular intervals with stripped and carved wooden doors which presumably led to guest suites. The doors were marked similarly to the Tower of Night in Silthrim; diverse animals and plants in stylized symbols on the capstone of the arch over the door.

Arya pointed to two adjacent rooms, one with a badger over it, the other, a lion. Harry smiled into his hand at the idea of Orik in Hufflepuff. "These two rooms are unoccupied, and shall serve as your quarters for your stay."

Harry called dibs on the lion rooms so fast Orik's head spun. The dwarf glowered at Harry for a moment, but entered the badger room without (verbal) complaint.

The suites were even nicer than the ones in the Tower of Night. Proper dividers granted more privacy to the bedroom in each suite, and there looked to be proper indoor plumbing for the loos. No showers, but baths with a hot and cold faucet were familiar enough to Harry.

The rooms had kitchens with stoves, pots and pans, and cupboards stocked with vegetarian ingredients. Harry thought that the elves were the closest he had seen to the twenty-first century. The hanging lights had shutters with little slides to easily brighten, dim, or even completely darken the illumination they gave off. The ubiquitous illustrations of nature were present in murals, carvings, tapestries, and such. The style was familiar, but somehow…more. Silthrim was understated compared to the luxury the lion suite offered.

The bed was even larger, the linens in greater number and variety, the pillows larger. Though one thing Silthrim won hands down was the view. There was a proper skylight, but then Harry could have gotten that from the balcony that overlooked Ardwen lake. Harry thought that he preferred the Tower of Night to Tialdari Hall, since the luxuries of a fully stocked kitchen and more expansive rooms were moot if he intended to sleep in his room within the tent, regardless.

Harry put his explorations on hold and washed himself for the feast which was to commence soon. The soaps, washcloths, and towels were as Harry had come to expect from the elves; immaculate. It was only minutes before he was lifting himself out of the basin of warm water and toweling himself off.

Someone had left a folded up set of garb for him to wear to the feast, and unlike with the dwarves, the clothing was actually superior to what he could produce with knowledge of modern clothing and conjuration. The garment was a sort of tunic that extended to the top of Harry's knees, but cinched at the waist with a cord. It was soft and relatively stretchy, yet still warm enough to be worn in all sorts of temperatures. The tunic was dyed emerald green with a stylized crimson tree stitched onto the front.

He slipped it over his messy wet hair and underwear, pulling up a pair of black woven pants which were beneath it. The cord which served as a belt was already loosely tied in the manner which was expected, so all Harry had to do was step into the loose circle, slide it up to his waist, and pull it tight.

No shoes were provided, so he went with his ever-present sneakers and hoped it wasn't some sort of social faux-pas. If it is, screw 'em, he thought with a smile. I'm dating their princess, so there!

Harry pushed open the door to his suite. It swung silently on hidden hinges. Orik had apparently brought a set of fine clothes with him, since he wore dark leather embossed with silver and embroidered in gold thread. The dwarf looked very stately in his outfit. He wore Dawnbreaker at his side in an elegant sheathe that looked fine enough to wear at formal dinners. When the dwarf caught sight of Harry, he grinned.

"You chose to wear the clothing they put out, eh? I wasn't sure they hadn't given us pajamas, they were so soft!" he laughed. "Now that I see you wearing it, they look a lot more formal than I had expected. Ah well, so be it. Let us see if these elves feast as well as they do everything else!"

Orik strode with purpose towards the tall stairs and made his way to the entryway of Tialdari Hall. Harry watched curiously as the dwarf navigated architecture blatantly constructed for a taller user. He showed uncommon agility in descending the high stairs, walking down with strange footfalls that made Harry's gut clench with each step. He would swear each time, that Orik was certainly about to plant his face in the wood of the steps below, and bounce his way to an untimely demise. But each step, the dwarf proved him wrong.

Orik glanced back at him. "Are ye done waiting for me to make a fool of meself? Or are ye coming down with me." Harry's cheeks pinked and he made his way down the stairs, albeit with less grace than the dwarf. Orik saw his strange, limping gait and guffawed. "Aye, but it won't be me who's made a fool!"

Harry's rubber soles were nearly silent against the cobbled path. The air was humid inside, but not unbearably so. By contrast, Orik's metal-shod boots practically echoed, a rather impressive feat given the roof was made of boughs of leaves, and the majority of the flooring comprised of loamy soil flowerbeds.

When they emerged from Tialdari hall, it was to a different city. The city was actually brighter at night than it largely was during the day. Lanterns hung and bobbed in the air like the candles in the great hall, dangled from wooden boughs, or were imbedded in the meticulously shaped wooden buildings.

Gone was the shadowed and autumnal lighting that filtered from the sun through the dense canopy overhead. The orange and yellow lanterns which were so common in Farthen Dur were everywhere. They lit the colossal trees from root to stem, arching high above. Harry followed the slow tide of arriving elves mutely. They were all headed towards the same general area.

Perhaps most stunningly, some magic had caused the tree branches overhead to recede. Over the paths and in the parks, enormous openings in the canopy revealed a breathtaking firmament speckled with stars. A purple-blue band of light stretched diagonally from horizon to horizon, the galaxy of Alagaesia laid out before them in all its magnificence.

If not for Orik's loud boots, Harry surely would have been walked right into as he gaped unmoving at the sky. "Oi," the diminutive being grumbled. "Why've you stopped?" He wordlessly pointed up. Harry could tell when Orik tilted back his head, because the footsteps instantly stopped and the quiet bustle of elves was suddenly punctuated by a deep gasp. "By Guntera," Orik whispered. Harry nodded mutely, eyes fixed upwards.

When a familiar presence touched the wizard's mind, Harry reluctantly tore his eyes from the sky. Arya danced and wove through the tide of elves moving towards wherever the feast would be held. She smiled and made eye contact with Harry, beckoning him onward. "Come, Harry, Orik. The feast is about to start!" Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and joy.

It took only a couple minutes to reach where the feast was to be held. The area was the widest open space Harry had yet seen in Ellesmera. A wide open field several hundred yards in every direction, covered entirely with lush grass. Sourceless lights bobbed and drifted in the slightest breeze, casting a yellowed light over the field. Ahead of them laid the largest tree Harry had ever seen.

The monoliths of Ellesmera were several dozen paces around. This tree put all that to shame. The trunk alone could easily swallow a palace. The thick base of the tree stretched straight up without any branches for many hundreds of feet before splitting off into enormous branches that could support houses atop them. Leaves the size of dinner plates feathered the great arbor, collecting sunlight and rainwater to feed the monolith.

Harry was certain the only reason the field existed was because the great tree must have completely shadowed every other tree within miles. Above the great field, the long and wide branches parted to form a great window to the night sky above. Arya followed his gaze and remarked upon the giant tree.

"That is the Menoa tree. It has an interesting story." Her eyes held an unusual intensity as they traced the colossal trunk, stretching high into the sky. Harry saw Eragon approach from out of the throng.

"Is it entertaining?" Harry asked.

Arya thought about that. "It contains an important moral, I think. The Menoa tree's story is one of jealousy and murder."

"The Menoa tree?" Eragon echoed. "Where is it?"

Harry pointed at the behemoth. "It's rather hard to miss. Why do you ask?"

"Something Solembum told me."

Arya have him an intriguing look. "If a werecat tells you something, it's best to listen closely. What did he have to say?"

Eragon scrunched his face in remembrance. "That if I needed a weapon, I should look beneath the roots of the Menoa tree. Also, when all seems lost and my power, insufficient, I should speak my name to the rock of Kuthian and gain access to the Vault of Souls."

"The Vault of Souls," Arya echoed faintly. "The name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it…" She had a faraway look.

She shook herself. "Do you need a weapon?"

"It would be nice to have a rider sword again," Eragon admitted. "I don't regret giving Zar'roc to Murtagh, he has a greater claim to it than I. But I have a feeling I will regret not replacing it if given the chance."

Harry nodded. "I would not rely on my swords holding up to Rhunon's works. Zar'roc is a masterpiece. What's more, the spells on it are integrated with the metal in a way I have been unable to reproduce." He made to scan the ground around the tree, but Arya caught his arm.

"There will be time for that later. Come, the feast is about to begin."

And she was right. Long wooden tables were laid out on the grass. The elves had brought out hundreds of wooden chairs and arranged them around the long tables. There were seven in all, and the center one was the shortest.

On one end was a visibly more impressive chair reminiscent of the knotted throne in the throne room. Islanzadi sat regally upon her chair. The lords and ladies at the throne room table surrounded the sides of the table, though they left a gap of six chairs next to their queen. The foot of the table lacked a chair, and a great platter rested atop the table. Saphira lumbered over, carefully folding her wings to avoid knocking any of the elves off their chairs or sweeping away any open seats.

Arya led Harry, Eragon, and Orik and assumed positions near the queen. Arya sat at her right hand, and Oromis the left. The tall elf was wearing altogether more impressive raiment from the simple tunic he wore when they met him at the Crags of Tel'naeir. Glaedr was nowhere to be seen.

"Good evening," the elfin rider greeted them politely.

Eragon hesitantly returned the sentiment. "Where's Glaedr?" Harry asked. Arya gave him the stink-eye.

Oromis smiled. "He is hunting. Our fare cannot a dragon live upon. Elves do not eat meat. Also, I suspect he realizes his size would make proper seating impossible, especially with a dragon already present." he gestured towards Saphira.

Eragon made to respond, but Oromis placed a finger on his lips. A hush had fallen over the crowd. Islanzadi had stood from her chair.

"Tonight, we celebrate a new hope for Alagaesia." Her words rolled, loud and clear across the field. "I had foolishly thought hope lost. Many of you know I believed my daughter, the egg-bearer, slain by Durza." Harry could hear sorrow and pride in her voice. Islanzadi shook her head, eyes aflame with pride and passion.

"Fortune has smiled upon us. Arya escaped Durza and with the help of a new ally, recovered not the egg, but the new rider she had hatched for. They are all here tonight, and we feast in their honor. To Eragon Shadeslayer, the newest rider who will slay Galbatorix, who has already rid these lands of a dangerous fiend in Durza. To Saphira Brightscales, the fierce and beautiful dragon who will fight beside him. To the wizard Harry, whose magic and skills have kept Eragon alive thus far. And to every man, woman, elf, dwarf, and child in Alagaesia, be they free or enslaved. That we might share in Eragon's inevitable victory, and usher in a new era of peace, and a new era of dragons!"

Cheers rose up from the hundreds of elves assembled. Various displays of magic shot up from the tables. A group of incandescent butterflies flitted up from one table, colorful fireworks, another. Harry grabbed his wand and added to the joyous conflagration, fountains of sparks in every hue erupting from the tip of his wand.

Harry had to admit, Islanzadi knew how to play the crowd. Her subjects were riotous in their elation, and the joy they exuded was palpable. She clapped her hands once, and a downpour of flower petals sprang into being above them, floating gently to the table.

That was the signal. A sumptuous feast sprang into being before their very eyes. Eragon looked very impressed, but Harry had seven years of the same trick to dull his enthusiasm. What couldn't dull his enthusiasm was the food. It was divine.

Harry had scarcely imagined there existed this many vegetarian dishes. Rice cakes, pastries with fruity fillings, actual cakes, Harry even spotted ice cream serving bowls along the length of the table. He began serving himself like he did at Undin's manor; a little bit of everything. Potato cakes, fresh vegetables of every variety, noodles and tomato sauce, buttered biscuits, garlic breadsticks, olive oil, quiches and baguettes with countless spreads.

Orik was sitting with his neck and shoulders stretched as high as he could manage, searching out meat on the table. His stature made such a task doubly fruitless, since he could scarcely see over the serving bowls to the rest of the table. Arya's eyes sparkled as she watched his vain efforts to find meat to consume.

Harry felt bad for the dwarf and took mercy on him. "Elves are vegetarian," he said with a grin.

"And what does that mean?" Orik demanded. "Why is there no meat to be had?"

"It means they don't eat meat," he rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine. They've clearly figured out how to live without it, since we're not surrounded by dead or starving elves. Eat."

The beginning of the meal was awkward. Islanzadi ate with impeccable manners, more robotically than any human. Her face betrayed no enjoyment at the explosion of flavors present, and Harry could imagine her making the same face while eating alchemical nutrient dust: tasteless, odorless paste.

Soon the wine began to flow, and conversation begain in earnest. The drink was called Faelnirv, and apparently consisted of distilled elderberries and spun moonbeams. However that worked. Arya broke the ice by describing how she, Harry, and Eragon had worked together to take down Durza and save the Varden and the Urgals from driving each other extinct. She downplayed the injuries they recieved (which in Harry and Arya's case, still occasionally pained them,) and talked up Eragon's intervention as absolutely crucial in killing the shade. Which was valid. Eragon, of the three of them, most needed the title Shadeslayer. Harry was known as the wizard for his prodigious strength and knowledge of magic, and Arya as the egg-bearer, or among her people, the princess.

A loud caw interrupted Harry's ruminations. It came from a bleached white raven who landed at the edge of his plate and began picking at his food, bobbing its beak forwards and swallowing a blueberry. "Midget!" He shouted at Harry like a parrot Fred and George might have trained.

The high table froze, all except for Arya who rolled her eyes at the bird. "Pea-brain," Harry shot back, flicking a pea with his thumb and forefinger at the raven. It bounced off his white feathers, eliciting a squawk of indignation and a fit of flapping for balance. The elven princess let out a peal of laughter.

"It seems you have met your match, Blagden!" she giggled mirthfully. The raven sent Arya a glare and flapped away from them down the table.

"Pay no mind to Blagden," Islanzadi said dismissively. "Several elves have tried fruitlessly to straighten his crooked tongue." Harry snickered.

"He reminds me of a couple friends of mine." Bless Fred and George's hearts, they would not have limited themselves to 'midget' when teaching birds naughty vocabulary.

Arya smiled. "Blagden is rather infamous among the elves of Ellesmera. My father had tripped when fighting an Urgal, but just before they could land a killing blow, a raven flew in and pecked out the Urgal's eyes. Evandar slew the Urgal and blessed Blagden with the gift of speech. Though his manners and courtesy leave something to be desired, King Evandar's blessing also bestowed the gift of foresight upon the raven, bleaching the color from his feathers. Should Blagden croak out something which is not an insult nor a dirty scrap of doggerel, you would be wise to pay attention."

The chatter at the tables resumed, and Arya resumed telling her tale of how they had reached Ellesmera, and what sorts of adventures they'd had. Though she glossed over the more horrifying details, the queen read between the lines of her daughter's story.

Oromis was courteous and polite, but he betrayed his interest with his intense eyes which followed Arya as she talked about how his future students conducted themselves. When she summarized Ajihad's death and her daughter's appointment to headship of the Varden, Arya's mother suddenly brought the weight of her attention upon her daughter.

"How does Nasuada bear the burden of leadership?" Islanzadi asked imperiously. Everything she did was imperious. Except in regards to her daughter.

Arya smiled and swallowed a mouthful of quiche. "Admirably. She outmaneuvered the Council of Elders by allowing herself to be appointed under the guise of a puppet, then decisively seized control of the Varden. She is strong and bold, tempered by cunning and cleverness."

"An example, if you will?" Islanzadi sipped her faelnirv and dabbed a napkin at the corner of her perfectly clean lips.

Arya pondered the question. "She has made excellent use of the artifacts Harry left with them after the invasion, but wisely prepares for their failure or sabotage. She set Du Vrangr Gata to create their own duties based on their skill sets, and from what I have scryed, Trianna has taken to this task with a fervor. Her smiths work on armor and utilities rather than swords, under the expectation that Harry will finish arming them with superior weapons once he returns from Ellesmera." She paused, then smirked.

"She has taken the Council of Elders from the highest power in the Varden, who elect leaders, to her personal assistants. Then, to soothe their bruised egos, she has allowed them positions as mentors for her to draw on their experience and expertise."

Islanzadi nodded sharply. "A good successor, then. If she holds to those silly human beliefs, she ought to think her father proud, in whatever afterlife they believe in."

Harry and Arya exchanged looks. Harry wanted to correct her, but Arya stalled him. "Not now. Later, in private." Oromis caught the exchange and made note to ask them later.

"Oromis tells me you are the leader of-" the queen's lip twitched, to frown or smile Harry was not sure. "-Du Vrangr Gata." Ah, The Path Wandering. A noble name, to be sure. "Did you have leadership experience prior to your appointment?"

"I led a sort of hybrid study group/child soldier militia." Oromis squinted at him incredulously.

"Child soldier militia?" Islanzadi asked dangerously.

"They were the same age as me!" Harry backpedaled hastily. "Well, most of them," he amended. "A powerful and evil magician returned from the dead, and the government refused to believe me, actively putting out misinformation to placate the public. I thought we ought to learn to defend ourselves, and I had the most experience doing so, so I led the group." He shrugged.

"A powerful, evil magician returned from the dead." Islanzadi stated dubiously. "Was this shade not Durza? What fate befell him. Where was this? I have heard neither news nor rumor of another shade."

Harry prodded around half a cinnamon roll he'd been cutting with the flat of his fork. "Voldemort was not a shade. He was a human magic user who used one of the most evil magics to chain himself to life beyond the destruction of his body. A fell artifact called a Horcrux, which housed part of the user's soul."

Oromis exchanged a loaded glance with the queen. His eyes unfocused for a moment before snapping to Harry with atypical intensity. "A Horcrux…can you explain why housing the soul out of the body is so monstrous?"

Harry grimaced, his face taking on a shade of green. All of a sudden, the feast laid out in front of him was much less appealing. Diagrams and illustrations of the ritual floated through his mind, grisly and vile. He glanced up and saw that Arya was feeling similarly. "The Horcrux ritual was invented by an infamous dark wizard called Herpo the Foul. The gist of it is, a soul is born to be inviolable. From the moment of birth until death, when it travels on to the afterlife." Islanzadi watched with polite disbelief. "The Horcrux ritual is designed to harness the damage done to one's soul when they deliberately commit an act directly against nature. After a rather grisly ritual, the caster's soul is shattered, and a piece drawn away and into an external container. The Horcrux acts as a sort of anchor, binding the rest of the soul to the mortal plane by its sympathetic connection with the other pieces. Thus, if the caster is killed but his Horcrux remains intact, his soul will be chained to life. Bodiless, no more than a wraith, but there exist rituals to cloak a soul in flesh once more."

That got Oromis's attention. Suddenly, Harry felt the weight of many intense stares on him. "You have a method of creating a body for a soul without one?" His golden eyes drilled into Harry with frightening intensity. Islanzadi's emerald gaze weighed heavily upon him.

"Yes?" he said hesitantly. "I saw it performed in person."

"What does it entail? Costs, limits, drawbacks?" Oromis interrogated breathlessly.

"Bone of the father, Flesh of the servant, Blood of the enemy," Harry listed off. "The ritual was done around a base potion, though it could have been water–but I doubt it."

Oromis frowned. "Must the bone be of the father? And does it have to be the greatest enemy? Or will any 'enemy' work as well?"

Harry frowned. "I can look for the ritual. I'd bet it's in Darke Magick. From what experience I have with growing bodies, I'd bet it has to do with links to mortality. Bone of the father: lineage, genetic template–I'd bet something from the mother would work even better, ties to birth and infancy." He frowned harder. "I'm not sure why Voldemort chose to use Wormtail as 'flesh of the servant.' He had access to a far more capable and honorable servant when he did the ritual. Why he would choose to use a cowardly traitorious rat–and I mean that in the most literal sense–I have no idea."

"Blood of the enemy?" Oromis asked quietly.

Harry smiled mirthlessly. "Power. Surely. Voldemort had this great monologue about how he chose my blood, his prophesied enemy, how it would be the most potent, the most powerful he could possibly get. It worked, too. Before he used me in the ritual, my mother had ritually sacrificed her life to protect me from Voldemort specifically, and that protection made me untouchable to him. After he took my blood…"

Arya and Orik looked horrified. Even Islanzadi had a disturbed look on her face. She had set down her utensils and stopped eating. Oromis was not. He had a nearly manic look in his eyes. "His mortal enemy. Did it have to be you? Or would some lesser enemy have worked?"

Harry suddenly felt like telling Oromis everything he knew about the ritual might be a very good idea, and the compulsion to do so was nearly overpowering.

Just do it. Just tell him. He needs to know.

Harry felt a familiar weightlessness, a floating ecstasy that would continue if only he told Oromis how the ritual worked in detail…

He shook his head sharply, tearing his mind brutally from its train of thought. Who had cast the Imperius curse on him? In a world where wands have not been invented, and that particular curse has never been seen? Harry felt a frisson of fear shoot through his spine. Was someone watching? Or someones?

The presence withdrew immediately, and Harry could not trace its elusive presence. Was it Galbatorix? A terrible suspicion formed in Harry's gut. Was it Oromis? Or perhaps most horrifying, some other enemy, entirely.

"I will consult the book," Harry said stiffly. "And if the answers are pertinent, I shall share them with you." He bowed away from the feast as rigidly as if steel rods had been placed in his back to keep it perfectly straight. Harry had scarcely cleared the table's line of sight when he vanished with a quiet pop, straight into his rooms.

Harry hastily threw up the tent and sealed the flap shut. He needed privacy, and he needed answers. Whatever secrets lay in the Bone-Flesh-Blood ritual, they were more important than he'd ever thought. Who was out there without a body that needed one so badly as to blatantly manipulate his mind in the presence of all the most powerful beings besides the King?

He hurried up the stairs to the library, stomping on the carpet in his haste. Breathing heavily, Harry flung open the double doors and slammed them shut behind him. "Colloportus!" he commanded, the Elder wand in hand. A jet of black light raced out of its tip and lit the doors with an unholy light.

Scanning frantically through the aisles, Harry cast the point-me charm and raced after the dangerous tome. Fingers traced hastily across dozens of nasty looking bindings. The books were almost certainly from the Black library. No, not that one…there!

Harry yanked the book from its shelf, a shudder of revulsion rushing through him. The familiar human skin binding, the crimson writing, more serpentine than any text he'd ever read. Just touching the thing made him want to burn it in fiendfyre.

As suddenly as the manic desire to reach the book hit him, the obsessive desire drained away abruptly. He had the book. It was safe. In his arms. Which was the last place he wanted it to be.

For some incomprehensible reason, Harry cracked open the book. He scanned the eerie text for a passage relating to the ritual in question.

The Anima Restituo Ritual reflects the mental and spiritual state of the caster. In my experiments on unwilling subjects, when the subject's soul is intact, the Ritual creates a virtual duplicate of the once-living body the subject occupied. When the subjects' souls are deliberately shattered, the results are fascinating. Wizards who have wrought the change themselves fare far better than unwilling subjects whose souls are changed by others.

In either case, something is gained. Those who have wrought the change themselves become a physical representation of their true nature. A lesser colleague of mine held a fascination with scorpions. After the change, the obsession became tenfold. Her Device went into the Ritual and emerged a true reflection of her Anima. She grew a stinger and her teeth changed to mirror the creatures of her fascination.

For those who are changed, they emerge as tortured fleshcraft, unrecognizable except by their Anima. A true representation of the weak-willed. I have buried their Devices next to the Pharaohs in the hopes that they will never be found. The lands of Osiris are not for the weak-willed, and I could think of nothing more fitting than to be chained to a tortured existence.

At that, Harry could read no further. He voided the contents of his stomach on the carpet in the library, horrified. He couldn't even fathom such an existence, trapped in darkness, surrounded by virulent curses. With nothing to take his mind off the pain, nothing but waiting. He resolved to eradicate such vile devices as soon as he could manage once he returned to his homeworld.

He felt dimly aware that he was hyperventilating. The taste of bile weighed heavily on his tongue, and had gotten all over the front of his tunic. It would have to be burned.

Through titanic force of will, Harry forced himself to turn back to the evil book and read further.

I have designed the Ritual to deliberately reflect the state of the Anima of the caster. In testing, I have found that using artifacts of the mother often yields whole and unchanged infants. This would render the Ritual rather useless. A true wizard does not have the time to wait through adolescence to revenge himself upon whoever destroyed their bodies. Permanent aging rituals never yield such good results as growing up naturally.

Only the 'Bone of the Father' is necessary to reconstitute a body. The other ingredients are designed to benefit the caster further. The 'Flesh of the Servant' is a method of binding one's loyalty to you eternally. Only the moste ancient magick may overcome such bindings. See 'Mens Shatter' ritual for solutions to such a problem. To use the 'Blood of the Enemy' is to take its power for your own. A word of caution: Blood of the Enemy requires all the Enemy's blood. A wizard who already has their enemy in their grasp hardly needs a portion of their strength. Take until there is nothing left. That is the nature of Darke Magick. One who takes some but leaves the unwilling donor alive will be influenced by the living's nature.

Harry shivered. He could only imagine what havoc Voldemort might have wreaked had he done the ritual properly. The prophecy referred to them both as 'equals.' What might the dark wizard have done with twice the power available to him?

Could he in good conscience allow anyone to learn of this ritual?

The answer was yes.

Oromis had worn a frightfully intense expression when he all but demanded information on the ritual, but Harry didn't think the elf was evil. There was a good reason behind his asking, Harry knew. Far more concerning was the strange influence which nearly forced the secrets he held between his lips. He felt no buildup of power from anyone at the table, making it unlikely that Oromis had been the one to cast the spell. Then again, magic users in Alagaesia had frightening mental powers, and perhaps Oromis did not need to couch his mind magic in the power of an Unforgivable curse to compel him…

Harry decided to take his measure of the man first, then he would decide. First impressions could be deceiving, but Harry believed himself to be a reasonable judge of character. Besides his own impression, he'd summon Brom and ask him about his old master. He didn't think Oromis had tried to compel him. Harry would keep an eye out for the mysterious party who had done it, but did not expect much in the short term.

Closing the book, Harry walked down the aisle to the doors of the library. Tucking the book under his arm, he pushed open the windowed doors and moved it to the shelves in the living room downstairs, sending a sticking charm at the cover so it could not be removed without a finite, a spell Oromis did not know. Arya or Eragon might be able to cast it, but Harry had to trust that his friends had his back.

Afterwards, Harry hopped into his bed. He was too tired to bother checking if anyone was at the entrance, and he wanted to sleep in his own bed after the troubling events of the day. He settled in under the covers and turned over, frowning. Already, he had gotten used to Arya's presence beside him at night. Her absence made drifting off to sleep a longer affair than he was used to. With a sigh, Harry whispered "Nox," and closed his eyes.

---

"Would you like to tell me what happened since Durza's ambush?" Arya's mother asked kindly. They sat together in the queen's quarters, around a small circular table in a humble sort of parlor. A potted bonsai tree grew out of an alcove in the wall, lit by a yellow werelight that drifted above it. The yellow light provided dim illumination that reminded Arya of human candlelight.

Arya was unused to her mother's behavior. Undemanding and soft, she rarely used to ask things of her daughter, typically demanding them imperiously like she was just another one of her mother's subjects. Her jaw clenched for a moment. "No," she admitted quietly. "But I will, anyway."

She began with the horrifying chase, sipping at a cup of faelnirv her mother had poured for the two of them. Arya was already slightly tipsy from the feast, but her story was one she didn't want to recount sober, and so she drank the delicious liquor she hadn't known how much she'd missed until now. When she reached the point in the story where Harry had healed her, she paused.

"It was incredible, mother." Mother. The word felt foreign in her mouth. When she had been in her rebellious phase that led up to her taking on the Yawe tattoo, she had referred to her mother as 'my Queen, or your majesty.' Those little flinches of pain were some of the only times she had gotten to see behind the mask her mother wore, and a bitter part of her didn't mind that Islanzadi suffered for it. Let her understand how I feel, she had thought spitefully. "His civilization has discovered how to increase volume within a container beyond the size of the exterior. By his own hands, in the middle of the Spine, Harry built this beautiful house on a ridge. The basement is so much larger than should be possible…" she trailed off.

"The riders could manipulate space as such, also." Islanzadi remarked offhandedly.

Arya saw right through her mother. "You don't like him." she said flatly.

"I didn't say that," she prevaricated skillfully. "I am merely pointing out that his skills with magic are great, but not unheard of."

"He can make something out of nothing, teleport himself and passengers, enchant objects to teleport other people without him, create vehicles which fly without the associated toll of strength. He uses magic in a way drastically different from anything Alagaesia has ever seen." Arya retorted. "Why are you so determined to dislike him?"

Islanzadi was silent for a moment. "Is it so wrong to want what is best for my daughter?"

Arya crossed her arms. "I'm an adult. I can choose for myself."

She smiled wryly. "You remind me of your father. He was driven and passionate, and it was those qualities which saw him on the knotted throne." Her face sobered. "They were also the qualities which saw him slain. He fought in the Fall, even though I begged him not to. Selfish, I know," her lips twisted bitterly. "The elves need you," I would say to him. "A King who does not fight for his people is no King at all," he would say."

Islanzadi gripped her own cup and drank deeply. "Your father loved you very much, Arya. But he was of the opinion that a King's first duty was to his people, then his family. And he did not truly expect to fall in battle. Evandar never sought to fight Galbatorix directly. He believed that privilege was reserved for the riders whose order the black king once belonged to. But when his people were threatened, anyone who knew him knew exactly what he would do. I am told no one but Vrael came so close to killing the Oathbreaker as your father did."

She finished the cup and poured herself another. "When you took the Yawe, I cannot describe how fearful it made me. It was all I needed to know that you were every bit your father's daughter." She reached out a hand and gripped Arya. "I am so proud of you for the woman you have become, never forget that. But I am the queen, and if anyone should bear that risk, it should be me."

Arya gripped her mother's hand back tightly. "Ellesmera was suffocating. I hated the pressure of my parentage, the weight of everyone's expectations. Yours as well," she admitted. "When Saphira's egg landed in our hands, how could I not lend my sword and magic to protecting it? It was everything my family has taught me to do."

"You are going to turn me to oak before Galbatorix's body is cold," Islanzadi smiled fondly. "Now tell me all about your adventures–the ones before Durza. Every time I scryed you while you were gone, you were smiling and had this radiance about you that I have never seen."

She beamed. "Ellesmera is my home, and I missed it greatly, but there is so much we miss in our leafy exile. The mortal races live such full lives. I would travel through a village on my route, meet a man, and learn of his family, passions, and desires. When I would return, they would be different people entirely, often with larger families, children, sometimes grandchildren. Humans and dwarves are driven unlike any elf. They lust after men and women they know they cannot have, yet they try anyway. They fight fiercely, and love just as much. Cities change and grow by each year, the dwarven cities especially grow more beautiful with each passing year."

Her face fell. "Ellesmera is exactly like I remember it. I could navigate it with my eyes closed. The same houses, paths, even gardens. Gilderien still stands sentinel outside the city. Rhunon still works her forges. You still sit upon the knotted throne. Nothing has changed here at all." She pawed around on the table for her drink, cup wobbling as she brought it to her lips.

Islanzadi frowned minutely. "Elves have the wisdom to leave something which works alone. Why should the craftsmen take time from their works to build a new house, one which they will appreciate less than a new sword or tunic? With magic, our every needs are fulfilled. The humans die in droves, even in times of peace. Rarely do they reach even a single century of age, Arya. They need to reinvent themselves, for their cities are filled with entirely new people every couple decades."

"Exactly!" Arya crowed. She leaned back into her chair rather unsteadily. The faelnirv had loosened her tongue more than she realized. "New people!" Her face morphed into sadness. "It's too bad we have so few children. It's impossible to go through a human village without seeing several babies in the arms of their mothers."

She leaned forward as if imparting a great secret to her mother. "I'm trying to be a mother."

Islanzadi's eyes widened. She had drank far less than Arya, both during the feast and now at the little table. "You are?"

Arya nodded mischievously. "Harry and I try all the time."

The queen gasped. "Arya!" she reprimanded. "You know why we do not mate with humans."

Her daughter's face fell. "Does it count if he's immortal, too?"

Islanzadi narrowed her eyes. "I think not. A human and an elf always have mortal children. I see no reason why a long-lived human would not count as a normal human to blood. Are you so foolish as to court heartbreak like this? I could scarcely bear the thought of you dying after a mere century. You will be lucky if any child of his makes it that long."

Arya's face brightened. "He might count as an elf, mother! I remember, he studied my blood when he sang his body to full health. His ears remained round, but he gained the strength, speed, and stamina we share." She gave her mother a suggestive look. "His stamina, especially."

Islanzadi blushed slightly. "Arya, there are some things a mother doesn't want to hear about her daughter. Please regale someone else with the tales of your mating exploits."

She gasped in mock shock. "I would not have taken you for a human woman, ashamed of their bodies and the beauty of procreation. Elves mate with who they want, when they want. Next you'll be telling me you subscribe to that silly human tradition of marriage for life."

Arya's mother laughed. "Darling, Evandar was plenty of elf for me. Be careful with your paramour. If you intend to take another lover, I would hate to see it fan resentment in your Harry's heart."

Arya and Islanzadi drank and laughed and cried for many hours more, and when Arya eventually collapsed in her mother's arms, the queen carried her daughter to her bed with a fond smile and tucked her beneath the covers. "Sleep tight, starlight." she whispered to Arya, kissing her brow.

Islanzadi stretched catlike and pulled off her royal garments, hanging them upon wooden pegs in her bedroom. She slipped into her bed next to her daughter, mind pleasantly abuzz with the effects of the faelnirv. Closing her eyes, she fell into a deep and contented sleep.

---

Harry woke to the sound of wind chimes signaling his alarm had gone off. Though his enhanced metabolism had burned through most of the last night's drink, he still had a bit of a headache. He dressed quickly, donning athletic clothing. Shorts, t-shirt, socks and running shoes. After a moment of hesitation, Harry grabbed Herpo's book and brought it with him.

He scrambled downstairs and put together a hearty breakfast then brushed his teeth and splashed his face. A depilatory charm stripped the stubble from his face and Harry felt ready to go. He slipped both his wands up a holster on his left underarm and threw open the flaps to the tent.

Orik was waiting outside his door. He raised a critical eyebrow at Harry's choice of attire, but did not remark, other than to ask to be brought with. Harry offered an arm which Orik took reluctantly, and with a pop, they were gone.

The sun had already risen over the Crags of Tel'naeir. Harry and Orik arrived at the ledge of the cliff where Oromis waited next to Glaedr. His eyes were closed and his hands folded over his drawn sword which was embedded in the earth. At the sound of their arrival, he opened his eyes. When he spotted the dwarf, he raised an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid much of my teachings will be useless to one who cannot use magic," he said, an undertone of apology in his voice. Orik frowned.

"Ye'll not be teaching swordplay and such?" He asked gruffly.

Oromis smiled mysteriously. "I rather believe my predecessor has covered that ad nauseam. Instead, today I shall be getting to know my prospective students. I can tell you what I glean from my observations of you, but I fear your time will be better spent pursuing skills you can improve on, rather than wishful thinking that the ability to use magic will simply fall into your lap."

Orik sighed and nodded. "I'll do your examination because I'm curious, then I suppose I'll go meet this Rhunon character everyone seems to rave about."

The old elf folded his hands. "Excellent. Our other charges arrive now." Sure enough, Arya and Eragon were cresting the nearest rise then. Saphira soared above them. When they drew up to Glaedr's bulk, Oromis greeted them cordially.

"Greetings, Oromis-elda," the young rider said. 'Elda' was a suffix added to an elf of great wisdom. Harry supposed it fit the wizened elf well, but Oromis frowned gently as he corrected Eragon.

"Ebrithil," he said. "Or Master, in this tongue. You are my apprentice, that is what you will call Glaedr and myself, Eragon-finiarel."

Harry's mouth suddenly soured. "Of the people I've met who demanded people call him master, I have yet to find one who I got along with."

Oromis laughed. "I think perhaps the nuances of those words are lost in translation. Ebrithil means master like master-apprentice, not like master-slave. If you do not wish to use the common tongue, then do not. What else would you call me?"

"Professor," Harry answered. "It means 'teacher,' but lends more respect and implies that the professor in question is more learned in their craft than a mere teacher."

The old rider raised an eyebrow. "Acceptable, I suppose. If you must refer to me in common, professor is acceptable." He swept his gaze across each of them in turn. "This first lesson is a private affair, so I shall be giving it one at a time. And because it is most crucial that Eragon learn these lessons, he shall be first. Come." Oromis beckoned to Eragon.

"With me, Saphira Brightscales," Glaedr rumbled. The four of them departed and then Harry was left with Arya and Orik for company.

There was a moment of silence which Harry promptly obliterated by producing a particularly hated square of cardboard and handful of silver figurines.

"Monopoly?"

---

Eragon soon found himself sitting at a small table outside Oromis's humble home. He had drunk and ate before coming here. Oromis sat across from him wearing a serene expression.

He kept waiting for the elf to speak, but nothing came of it. Eragon shifted awkwardly in his chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped just before words escaped him. When ten minutes had passed, Eragon gave up trying to count the time in his head and traced the sun's progress as it rose ever higher in the cloudless sky. Instead of waiting, He simply sat there, present in the moment.

Green grass rippled in the breeze, forming rippling patterns which drew Eragon's eye. The day was warm but not hot, and so Eragon made himself comfortable in his seat and withdrew his expectations for Oromis to fill the silence between them.

Finally, Oromis spoke over the tranquil silence. "You have learned the value of patience well. That is good."

Eragon took a moment to find his voice. Several hours had elapsed since they sat. "You cannot stalk a deer if you are in a hurry."

Oromis's face was unmoving. "True enough," he supposed. "Let me see your hands. I find that they tell me much about a person." Eragon pulled off the gloves he had gotten way back in Daret and allowed the elf to grip his wrists with thin fingers. He examined Eragon's hands with a strange intensity that bordered on making him uncomfortable, tracing the lines of his palms, the callouses and muscles that composed his hands.

"Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are more accustomed to a bow."

"Aye."

"And you have done little writing or drawing, perhaps none at all."

"Brom taught me my letters in Teirm."

"Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to be reckless and disregard your own safety."

"What makes you say that, Ebrithil?"

"Anyone who has such a collection of scars has been either hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?"

"No."

"Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only one explanation. Unless you think differently?"

Eragon ruminated on the thought, casting his mind back to his previous experiences since Saphira had hatched for him. "I would say, rather, that I see that which I dedicate myself to, through to the end regardless of cost. Especially for the ones I love."

"And do you undertake challenging projects?"

"I like to be challenged."

"So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test your abilities."

"I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I've faced enough hardship to know that it's foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It's all I can do to survive as it is."

"Yet you chose to follow the Ra'zac when it would have been easier to remain in Palancar valley. And you came here."

"It was the right thing to do, Ebrithil."

For several minutes, no one spoke. With a bit of effort, Eragon slipped back into that tranquil state while he waited for his teacher to gather his thoughts.

Finally, Oromis stirred. "Where you, perchance, given a trinket in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelery, armor, or coin?"

"Aye," Eragon fished out the charm Gannel had given him. "Gannel gave this to me before we left on Hrothgar's orders. To prevent Galbatorix from scrying me. How did you know?"

"I could no longer sense you," Oromis admitted.

"Someone tried to scry me in Silthrim," Eragon suggested. "Was it you?"

Oromis shook his head. "Ater I first scryed you with Arya, I had no need to use such crude methods to find you. I located you with my mind. But when time allowed or I had a greater interest in the events surrounding you, I would gaze upon my looking pool and watch you. Until Brom wizened up and cast a ward to prevent it. Though it failed with his death, and I was able to watch Durza's end."

He paused for a moment, brief compared to earlier. "You come here to complete your training. What do you think that entails?"

Eragon wondered at the question which he thought rather obvious. "Swordsmanship, magic, fighting. My father was unable to teach me all he knew before the Urgals took him from me." He said bitterly.

"Power is worse than useless without knowing how and when to apply them. It is dangerous for a man as such. Galbatorix is the most poignant example of this." Oromis stood abruptly and gestured for Eragon to follow. "Take off your tunic, and show me what you are made of."

Eragon was hardly a bashful person, but he quailed under Oromis's penetrating gaze nonetheless. Reluctantly, he pulled his tunic over his head and squared his shoulders.

The elf circled him slowly. "You are rather muscled, taller than average. Rather lopsided, but hardly the worst case I have seen. Are you ambidextrous?" Eragon hesitantly answered negatively.

"Harry and I both put some effort into learning to fight with our off-hands, but neither of us reached a level of mastery which could rightly be called ambidextrous. Out of the two of us, Harry came much closer. He wished to wield his wand and sword at once. Despite his sword being a true two-handed weapon."

Oromis scowled. "That will cost us time, a resource we have precious little of." He turned towards the cliff where the rest of Eragon's companions waited. "Less even than I had thought, if I am to teach four pupils instead of two."

The rider then had Eragon run through a series of exhausting exercises, twisting and contorting his body into bizarre shapes, running as long as he could manage, lifting progressively heavier objects, all the while Oromis maintained a barrage of questions on varied subjects ranging from Botany to Astronomy to taxidermy and metallurgy. As the questions grew more complex and the exercises more demanding, Eragon began to feel rather inadequate in the face of Oromis's immense knowledge and skill. He had nearly begun to dismiss Oromis's infirmity as inconsequential when it happened.

Eragon saw Oromis's first attack. The elf's tendons stood out like wires, pulling his skin taut. His fingers hooked into claws that dragged at his robes, and his face flushed crimson that let Eragon peer at some great struggle which went on inside the rider's head.

When the fit subsided, Eragon helped Oromis to his chair at the table. Oromis thanked him briefly and sat at the chair, loosening his muscles rather unsteadily. "Is this what ails you?" Eragon asked in horror.

Oromis nodded grimly. "The result of an attack by two of the Forsworn who managed to catch Glaedr and myself in a fiendish trap of Durza's making. We managed to escape, though it took a toll upon the both of us which we feel even now. The seizures are the result of a malady which even the best healers Ellesmera have to offer can do aught but stave off the effects." He smiled darkly. "Elves fancy ourselves immortal, but we can and do die from incurable disease, injury, or mortal wounds."

"How much time do you have left, Ebrithil?"

"Plenty," the rider reassured. "I shall not drop dead before your instruction is well and truly complete. The spells I layered over myself were meant to keep me alive to train the next rider, whenever the egg might have hatched. And that might not have been for decades more." Oromis led Eragon into his hut, bracing himself upon the scabbarded blade he carried.

The interior of the hut was sparsely decorated, filled with a small kitchen and pantry, a bedroom, and an open area with a hearth and chairs around another small table. In the walls were hundreds of hexagonal cubbyholes containing uncounted masses of scrolls both thick and thin. Next to the doorframe leading outside hung a rectangular piece of polished slate, a colorful image formed upon its face. It depicted a beautiful city of graceful towers and airy buildings, an enormous overhang looming over the center citadel. A sunset colored the sky a dusky orange-purple that had been captured magnificently in the image.

"Where is that?" Eragon pointed at the slate.

"That is a fairth," Oromis explained. "It is a polished tablet of slate that is prepared beforehand with a coating of several pigments. There is a spell which takes a mental image from its caster and mixes the colors to produce the image in your mind's eye on the surface. And that one was taken as I fled Ilirea with the other riders during the Fall."

"Where is Ilirea?" Eragon persisted.

Oromis smiled. "There lies the heart of your problems, Eragon-vodhr. Ilirea was an elven city which we abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka. The humans took it up later, though it was still called Ilirea. During the fall, Galbatorix drove us from the city, and it is now named Uru'baen, the capital of the Broddring Empire."

"Broddring Empire?" Eragon asked inquisitively.

Oromis looked at him incredulously. "How can you not know of the Broddring Empire? It is the country you live in, the country we fight to free from the king's tyranny!"

Eragon crossed his arms defensively. "My father focused on teaching me things which would help me survive, rather than useless trivia pertaining to long-dead men."

He tapped his fingers upon the table. "I would explain right now, but I suspect Harry is even less familiar with this subject than you, and I am loathe to teach the same lesson twice. Your answers have given me ideas as to your curriculum. Now, we return to the cliff. I am rather familiar with Arya's own education, which leaves only Harry to assess."

He beckoned Eragon towards where the pair of dragons stood outside the hut. Saphira's eyes had never left Glaedr's massive body. Though the golden dragon stoically ignored her gaze, Eragon was embarrassed on Saphira's behalf for her behavior. They mounted their dragons, Oromis lacking a saddle and simply resting in the great dip of Glaedr's neck just above the shoulders. It was the work of under a minute to reach the ledge where the sounds of bickering reached them.

"Orik, you cannot let Arya have Park Place! Rent on Boardwalk is $50. The moment you give her a monopoly, it goes up to $100, and that's before she builds hotels, which will make the rent $2000!"

"Six times I have been around the board, and the only time I landed near there was when I got Park Place. She offers me the remaining two railroads which drives their rent up to $200."

Harry had a fist in his hair and tugged on it in anguish. "She will be the only player with a monopoly! It will be only a matter of time before she wins." The wizard maintained a steady stream of objections as Orik threw the game so hard it probably would have fallen off the cliff.

Glaedr and Saphira landed with heavy thumps which sent up gusts of wind. The current flung handfuls of colorful paper money everywhere, eliciting groans from the players. Harry, because he loved Monopoly. Arya, because she was on track to win a game with him for the first time ever.

Oromis regarded the gameboard critically. He had observed this party playing it on their trek through the great plains. "You are in a deadlock, master dwarf. Choose how and where it ends on your terms, and you control the outcome."

Harry gave Oromis a look of utmost betrayal. "No kibitzing!" he gasped.

"Teaching," the rider corrected with a gentle smile. "Come, Eragon can take your place. I would know your skills and who you are." Oromis beckoned Harry towards Glaedr whereupon they both descended the cliff towards the hut in the crags.

"Firstly, I would like to apologize to you for my appalling behavior last night at the feast. Your words gave me hope for a better outcome of this war than anyone could ever possibly hope for. Though I will let the subject lie, I hope that one day you will come to trust me enough to reveal the details of that ritual, and perhaps we can work together to make it palatable." Oromis sat at attention in his chair, contrasting Harry who lounged in his own with his back slouched and his knees braced against the rim of the table.

Harry gave Oromis a critical look, then withdrew Herpo's book from his expanded bag and placed it on the table with a thump. It seemed to radiate a malevolence that a mere book should not be able to possess.

"I am not averse to letting others read this book. I would be a hypocrite if I did, since I have used spells from in here myself," he admitted. "The way you reacted simply reminded me rather uncomfortably of someone I put quite a lot of effort into killing back home." And that was truer than Harry cared to admit. The avarice in his eyes, the desperation to delve into the nastier side of magic- it all fit together in a very unsettling way.

Oromis inclined his head. "Voldemort."

Harry was mildly surprised. Oromis shouldn't be able to know about him at all. "How do you know so much about me? And events you couldn't possibly have witnessed."

"I haven't," he admitted. "I believe Brom taught you all how to scry?" When Harry nodded, he continued. "There is a variation I will teach you which enables sound as well as sight. For those with the senses who happened to be watching, your arrival in Alagaesia was visible. I watched and listened when you told your story to the Urgal chieftain Nar Garzhvog, and again whenever you told it in hopes that it might reveal more about you."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I often felt someone watching me while we were traveling. But I thought you had to have visited everywhere you wish to scry?"

Oromis smiled. "You do. The riders of old would travel the length and breadth of the continent so that they may scry anywhere they wished and see everything. I have flown over the Spine before, and even visited some of the Urgal tribes in their mountainous villages."

Harry was silent for a moment before letting out a gusty sigh. He pushed the heavy tome across the table. "The ritual in question is bookmarked. If you want to read it…" he trailed off.

The rider accepted his offering and picked it up, disappearing into his house for a moment before returning with a pot of tea and a pair of cups. Glaedr laid down behind Oromis and curved his long neck around the table, facing them from the side with one unblinking golden eye. Oromis poured Harry a cup, then himself, and sat down.

He sipped at the tea quietly and did not speak. Harry picked up his own tea and drank from it. It was surprisingly good, despite the lack of sugar in it. He preferred his tea with as much sugar as the liquid would dissolve, then a bit more to sit at the bottom. Hermione always shot him looks of disgust when he prepared his tea.

When a full minute of silence had elapsed, Harry picked up on what the sly rider was trying to test; his patience. Unfortunately for Harry, he had none.

Instead, the wizard conjured up a chessboard and set the pieces, putting each in their square by hand. "You've been watching us long enough to know the rules of Monopoly, so you surely know how to play chess. I figure if we started a game of Monopoly, we'd be here at the same time tomorrow."

The corner of Oromis's lip twitched. "Indeed. Very well, I choose white."

Harry gestured with his hand and caused the board to rotate slowly so that the proper sides faced each other. Without preamble, Oromis advanced his king's pawn two spaces. Harry followed suit and with practiced moves, the two of them began developing their pieces into a typical board.

Soon the pile up at the center grew to a breaking point, and it looked like it was up to Harry to begin clearing away the pieces. He resisted the impulse to play carelessly like he did so often with Ron and now his new friends in Alagaesia. Somehow, he understood that Oromis would be disappointed by that. Even more surprising, Harry found that he rather cared what the wizened elf thought of him.

Perhaps it was a remnant of fighting a terrorist insurrection where the primary resistance was schoolteachers, but Harry had immense respect for educators in general. He had possessed some niggling idea that he might try to become a professor before everything back home went to shit. Unlike Ajihad, Nasuada, Hrothgar, and even Islanzadi, Oromis also put on no airs. He lived in a humble home and demanded no respect beyond being called his title by his students. That made Harry respect him quite a lot more than any office or title he might have held.

So when Harry went to make his move, he really thought about it, counting up threatening pieces and searching for a chink in the defense he was presented with that might cut Oromis's strategy out from under him. Nearly ten minutes passed before he found a move he thought would slip through the net of pieces the elf was presenting him with.

He took Oromis's king's pawn, and the opening moves ended. The next couple of minutes, the only sound was the sound of chesspieces on chesspieces as each side took and sacrificed their way to a cleaned up board. Nearly fifteen minutes after Harry had scrutinized that deadlock, he wound up one pawn up on his opponent. He brushed away the fleeting disappointment when Oromis spoke.

"One pawn can make all the difference," he said sagely. "Even now you may not feel its effects, but as surely as a queen, a few pushes–seven in this case–and you will alter the balance of power in the world."

The game continued slowly and deliberately in that vein. Harry had taken Oromis's hint to heart and marshalled all the pieces his defense could spare to advance that lone pawn to the other side. When Harry finally managed to checkmate the elf, he felt a pang of disappointment shoot through him.

"You deliberately lost," he guessed.

Oromis smiled mysteriously. "Is it really losing if I got what I wanted from it?" Harry looked bewildered. "You gave me more insight into your mind than merely waiting an hour to gauge your patience. For example;" he ticked off on his fingers. "You are capable of planning and strategy, but seem to avoid it unless pushed. You have little patience for doing nothing, but doing anything at all, you can go for nearly a half an hour without speaking a single word. You are cautious to the point of cowardice with the lives of others, brave to the point of foolishness with your own. The potential for cunning is in you, but left dormant and untrained." he cleared away the board.

"Would you consent to letting me examine your hands? I find they tell me quite a lot about a person."

Harry gave a put-upon look to Oromis, but surrendered his hands to the elf's examination. "You have strangely strong feelings about someone reading your hands for answers," he remarked with some amusement.

"I had a divination professor who behaved more like a charlatan than a teacher, and palmistry was something she taught. It put me off of the practice. Anything she taught, really."

Oromis paused his examination and looked up. "Divination was a branch of your magic?"

"In the loosest terms, yes. I am unsure whether anything Trelawney did was real, except for a pair of prophecies she gave which wound up coming to pass. I'm a lot less dubious about Angela's casting of knucklebones than crystal ball gazing and tarot cards."

"I suppose I shall defer to your expertise in the branches of magic you grew up with." The man set down Harry's hands. "Correct me if I am wrong, please. You have written quite a lot. Less than a scribe, but far more than any layman or even noble."

"My professors would assign us essays to write on topics they taught, both to gauge our understanding on lessons they gave, and to solidify their lectures in our minds."

"An excellent idea," Oromis remarked. "Were literacy so common in Alagaesia, perhaps more people would learn thusly." He tapped Harry's wrist with a finger. "You have the musculature of a conductor, though from the tools you wield, I will take it to mean wandwork?"

When Harry confirmed it, he resumed. "You have a good deal of experience preparing food, or at least fatty meat," he guessed.

"Yes, how can you tell?"

"Grease burns leave a particular mark, even if it looks like they have healed over. Hair does not grow back there anymore, in races other than elves."

"You don't have hair below your neck?"

"Very useful for shaving, indeed. We can grow eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair on our heads, but it stops growing just below our ears, so no sideburns. That is, unless we choose otherwise. Many elves choose to alter their bodies to better fit their ideals of beauty once they learn how."

Harry grinned. "Yes, I employed that particular brand of magic to great effect."

Oromis looked at him critically. "I see. You have none of the hallmarks of an elf–pointed ears, lack of hair, angular bone structure–yet there is a vitality about you that suggests you are immortal, and your senses appear keener than any human would have a right to. How did you accomplish this?"

"I studied Arya's tissue under a microscope. The main difference elves have is an extremely high cell density compared to humans, likely contributing to your elevated strength and senses. Beyond that, your cells undergo an additional phase during mitosis where the telomeres on your DNA are given some blank information to prevent genetic degradation."

He looked rather bewildered. "I suspect that in the sciences, you will wind up teaching me more than I you. I would like to understand what you've told me." He gave Harry a sly look. "I imagine the knowledge will make cross-species romance much less fraught with heartbreak if a method of bestowing immortality is available for us."

Harry blushed and waved Oromis to continue. He hummed. "You have wielded- a greatsword?" He glanced up at Harry with polite disbelief.

"I thought it was cool," he defended. "When I set out learning medieval weapons, I was given a bow and chose to master it, make it my primary weapon. When the time came to learn a melee weapon, I picked what I thought would be the best for if someone managed to reach a group of unarmored archers. Now that I have the strength of an elf, I can wield it with enough strength to eliminate the weaknesses my stature caused."

Oromis gave him an unimpressed look. "Has it occurred to you that your opponents will also have the strength of an elf? Durza for example. The rider bond, given enough time, will eventually empower a human with our strength as well. Then the reliance you have on your superior strength will be your undoing. Bring your sword here tomorrow. When we spar, you will understand why I am doubtful of your choice." He picked up Harry's hand again and made a noise of assent. "Yes, I see archery here. Next is smithing. An accomplished smith, with an unreasonable amount of experience for a twenty-year-old."

Harry scratched the nape of his neck and took a sip of tea. "I promised the Varden I'd outfit them all with weapons, and I did nearly a third of it before leaving for Ellesmera. I figured I'd devote maybe four hours a day to the craft, since I can spare that much sleep. Of course, I've already made thousands of blades. They're superior to anything a non-magical smith could make with the enchantments I put on them."

"Do you have an example of your craft?"

He pulled out his greatsword from the pouch and set it sideways across the table, the naked white blade nearly glowing in the sunlight. Oromis picked it up and examined it carefully, sighting down the edges of the blade and hefting it experimentally.

"Superior, indeed." he remarked. "Rhunon's works edge yours out by a good deal but then, if you can convince her to teach you her method of forging, I imagine only the minor differences will remain. Do you have a generic sword like the ones you supply the Varden with?"

Harry wordlessly withdrew one such example, a bastard sword with no adornments. Oromis raised an eyebrow as he examined it. "I have never seen a weapon so rushed by magic before. Rhunon would likely be offended by its very existence were she to see it." He gestured towards the greatsword. "Might I test their durability?"

He nodded and made a gesture of permission. Glaedr watched Oromis disappear into his hut and return with a sheathed sword. The hilt had a yellow diamond in it, a beautifully carved crossguard which stopped at the mouth of a golden-looking metal scabbard. Oromis drew his blade then, a pale yellow affair which gleamed with iridescence.

Taking the plain sword, he thrust it into the ground and lined up to swing at it like a golf tee. A great clang rang out as he struck with middling force. Harry observed that a notch had appeared in the edge of the (supposedly) unbreakable blade. But still, it held fast. Oromis struck again, much harder this time. Harry winced at the effect. A deep gouge appeared in the edge. Finally, he reared back and swung with all his force at the vertical sword. It sheared straight through the blade, leaving a jagged edge on both halves. The elf breathed deeply several times, then sat back down.

He picked a thread from his tunic and draped it over the edge of the greatsword. Two halves of the thread fell on either side of the blade. "Incredible quality for something mass-produced," Oromis praised. "I would advise you to beg the secrets of spellforging from Rhunon before you resume churning out swords for the Varden. This" he tapped the sword with a fingernail, producing a faint ringing, "will delight her, especially since she has not taught you her techniques. To have produced this without apprenticing under her is a worthy feat."

Harry bobbed his head gratefully. Oromis paused for a moment. He rose from the table and gestured for Harry to follow. "Remove your shirt," he commanded.

"How forward of you," Harry muttered under his breath. Oromis ignored him, paying close attention as Harry pulled his athletic t-shirt over his hair.

"No scars at all," the rider remarked, pacing a deliberate circle around him. "A runner's body. Defined musculature, yet streamlined and lithe." Oromis led him through a series of stretches that Harry found challenging, yet doable. He began asking many questions to test the depth of Harry's knowledge.

Oromis was privately astounded by the depth of knowledge a twenty-year-old had on all manner of subjects. The man had the most advanced knowledge of the sciences Alagaesia had ever seen, and would likely vault their understanding of nature ahead decades if not centuries. He obviously had absolutely zero knowledge pertaining to the history of Alagaesia but then, neither did Eragon who had lived there all his life. Harry challenged Oromis's understanding of the world in many ways, arguing his points in such a way that Oromis rather looked forward to debating with him. Harry was experienced with metalworking, pottery, glassblowing, and practical chemistry, but that was where his skills ended. He was hopeless in tracking game, preserving food, maintaining gear. It was clear to Oromis that Harry also possessed some rather large gaps in his skills which his skill at magic had allowed him to ignore entirely.

Eragon possessed little knowledge except that which pertained to the life of a hunter and swordsman. He would have to be taught from the ground up. The trick would be to make the lessons engaging enough for Harry to fill in the gaps magic had left in his foundational knowledge.

Oromis straightened out from the laborious stretch he was leading the wizard through. "I now possess an adequate understanding of your skills, knowledge, and capabilities. We shall retrieve my other pupils, and then training can begin in earnest." He leapt deftly onto Glaedr's lowered back and offered Harry a hand to follow suit.

When they made it up the cliffside, someone had set up precautionary wards to prevent Glaedr's downdrafts from snatching up the paper Monopoly money and tossing it into an errant breeze. Harry leapt down and raced over to see how Eragon had managed his affairs in his stead.

It didn't look good. Orik had taken Oromis's words to heart and rather clearly became the driving force on the board, brokering deals and offering trades to shatter the midgame deadlock. Though Arya had developed a pair of hotels on the dark blues, Orik had claimed the light blues, oranges, and yellows in her stead. The railroads remained split between himself and Arya. Eragon looked to be hanging in the game by tenterhooks, undeveloped browns and reds the only monopolies to his name. His piece sat upon boardwalk and his pile of cash was a sad little thing which promised bankruptcy the next time he was forced to pay rent on a developed property.

"Eragon!" Harry feigned swooning with a grin. "You've betrayed me and ground my business empire into the dust!"

"Blame Orik," the young rider said rather sourly. "He has a head for economics and a silver tongue for negotiations." The dwarf grinned insolently.

"Ah well, you can't win 'em all," Harry mourned, dropping himself diagonally behind Eragon. "I suppose you did the best you could for a poor medieval hick."

Oromis treaded over to where they played and folded his legs beneath him, sitting at the unoccupied edge of the board. "Normally, I would begin my lessons immediately, but the day grows long. Tomorrow, you must all bring your weapons of choice–all of them. I would test your skills at arms." He dismissed them and returned to Glaedr's back.

When they returned to the shade of the ancient forest, Orik begged off any tourism and headed directly to his rooms in Tialdari Hall. When he had split off, Eragon invited Arya and himself to his new home, the treehouse Vrael used to live in.

Eragon led them with growing confidence down the wending paths of Ellesmera and soon they stood beneath a great tree. A delicate staircase wound around the trunk up to where the trunk exploded into enormous branches. Faint light emanated out of windows carved into the great wooden offshoots, indicating their hollowness.

Behind them, Saphira leapt into the air with a pair of powerful wingbeats, looping over the branches and landing out of sight behind the obscuring woods. Eragon led them up the staircase which did indeed travel all the way to the crown of the trunk. However, instead of climbing to the top, he ducked into an arched doorway grown out of the trunk. Within was an antechamber with a wooden plinth in the center of the circular room. A whittled carving of a pair of hands entwined without touching, carved from some wood so pale it was nearly white. Three archways led to different rooms. One a dining room fit for no more than ten, another, an alcove indicative of the elvish baths Harry had seen in Silthrim. The last led to yet another set of stairs which opened into a bedroom.

Set in the wall was an arch large enough for a dragon of even Glaedr's large bulk. A lantern hung from a hook in the center of the slightly conical roof. Along one wall was a bed. In the center of the room, Saphira lounged in a cushioned divot sized again for a dragon far larger than herself.

Arya greeted the dragon, then followed Eragon out of the great arch to a massive open wooden platform, shaded by a leafy canopy. The thick branches of the tree slanted upwards from the platform. Several were hollow and led upwards and out of sight, faint yellow light emanating from the openings cut in the great branches. Harry spotted a pulley system from which a rope wound in a figure eight around a pair of metal prongs which slanted away from each other at a shallow angle.

Eragon pulled the single loop of rope off the bracket and heaved downwards, collecting an armful of slack. A creaking sound above caught Harry's attention, and when he glanced up, a smile crept across his face. The rope split into a web of pulleys and slings which pulled the boughs of the tree to one side like an iris, revealing a dusky sky streaked with sparse clouds. Eragon looped the middle of the rope around the bracket thrice, gave it a tug, and dropped the bundle in his arm to the floor. "Welcome to my home," he gestured with a broad smile. "I can scarcely believe it is mine, or that Vrael himself used to live here."

Harry whistled. "It's a pretty posh house." He gestured to the hollowed branches which contained hallways leading away from the trunk. "Where do those lead?"

"Two of them have doors in the middle and lead to houses similar to this one–if a bit smaller. Neither of them are occupied. I'll show you the others." Eragon smiled and trotted up the inclined wooden floor.

The mouth of the bridge-tunnel opened into another circular wooden floor. Notably, there was no other way but the bridge to reach the platform. A small elevated cushion sat on a short wooden cylinder for meditation. Around the edge, pressed up against the leafy confines of the canopy sat two rows of flowerbeds organised with the most beautiful arrangement of exotic flowers.

"A garden," Eragon said rather lamely. "I don't know if it was Vrael's. Surely the plants would have died by now, whether by weeds or drought…"

"Perhaps," Arya allowed. "But I think not. For a magic user with such skill as Vrael, I find it likely these blossoms were planted by his hand." The flowers gave off a pleasant and peaceful aroma with minor soporific effects. Harry shook them off and retreated down the branch.

The other two pathways led to a storage room and a small library, respectively. Surprisingly humble for a corps who held themselves above kings, Harry thought. Though admittedly grander than his guest quarters in Tialdari Hall, the house's size had to accommodate great dragons. Harry's tent certainly was larger than Vrael's treehouse.

Arya and Harry bade Eragon a good evening and made their way towards Tialdari Hall. "Mother wishes to speak with you," she said as they walked.

"Oh dear," Harry said faintly. "Are you going to stay with us?" She nodded.

"I shall."

The rest of the walk, his nerves were on edge. They drew near the normally cheery building, but to Harry's eyes, it was filled with foreboding. "Chin up," Arya teased. "Even mother wouldn't dare kill a guest." That didn't help his nerves.

They strode through the gaping doors of the hall and swept past the magnificent flowerbeds. Rather than ascending the long curving stairways to Harry's rooms, Arya knocked confidently on the doors at the end of the entrance hall. "Root of stem, leaf of vine, let me pass by this blood of mine."

A rather flowery password, he supposed. Likely keyed to her blood, though. That was interesting enough to warrant further study. The door did not swing open like Harry expected but retreated into the frame like unclenching roots.

Beyond the doorway was a circular antechamber not unlike Eragon's new house. In the center was a small marble fountain which glowed with a strange silver-gold liquid that spouted gently from the top before trickling down an intricate set of tiered and winding pathways into a basin below. Around the circular room several alcoves were set into the wall. In each one stood a regal looking elf. About three-quarters of them wore graceful circlets of silver and gold, diamonds inset in the center over their foreheads. The statues without crowns had beautiful scepters in one hand. Each statue had some form of weapon, though none wielded theirs as if to attack. Many had hands folded over sheathed swords whose tips were planted in their marble pedestals, while others gripped a spear with a single hand as if like a staff. Some even grasped bows.

"Those are monarchs of the elves passed," remarked a familiar voice.

"Queen Islanzadi," Harry greeted politely. She was dressed much more casually, a simple tunic and leggings, though she still wore her girdle and diadem.

"Harry Shadeslayer." Islanzadi turned to the statues. "My predecessors. Those wearing crowns died during their rule. Those with scepters abdicated. Each one wields the weapon they were most familiar, though none as if in battle. A wise ruler must not seek out war without need."

"But there is need, now." Harry said humorlessly. He scrutinized their features more closely.

"Indeed."

"They do not look closely related," he remarked. It was true. Though unfamiliar to Harry, the sharp elven features of each king and queen were different enough that they could not possibly all be related. If Harry assumed the statues were in chronological order, he could pick out small groupings of relation, two or three generations at most. But generally the line of succession clearly was not hereditary.

"Elves are not in the habit of choosing bad rulers merely because they were born to good ones."

"How are they chosen?"

Islanzadi gestured to a break between Evandar and his successor, a tall elf-woman with a kind look on her beautiful face. "Queen Ismira was my mate's predecessor. Though she preferred the company of women and sired no heir, whomever she might have begot might never have ascended to the knotted throne. King Evandar was the daughter of Ismira's predecessor, Queen Dellanir. When a ruler abdicates or is slain, the elf lords and ladies choose their successor. Though we have not been perfect, the elves have never had a true tyrant like Galbatorix, King Hogun Broddring, or indeed even King Palancar." She studied Harry's face.

"You mean that Arya is not guaranteed to rule if you died."

"Aye. My daughter tells me much about you. Come. I would like to take your measure for myself."

Harry followed the queen in bewilderment. He didn't know if Islanzadi was advising or warning him with her answer. He was hardly suited for even the crude politicking of the human races. In Ellesmera, everything had an undercurrent of maneuvering and subtlety. Harry's only experience with negotiations was big-stick diplomacy.

She led him and Arya through an arch at the back of the antechamber and into a rather grand hall. Stairs against the right wall led from an abortive first flight to a square landing, then along the right wall up to a loft and balcony. A sort of catwalk led over recessed floors on either side of the center of the room. One side was a sort of parlor, the other a lounge. Several archways led off from the main area, though they were unmarked so Harry could only guess at their destinations. Grand crystalline light fixtures hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room with bright and cheery light.

Towards the far wall, the recessed floors ended and the catwalk opened into a wide open space which seemed to combine the functions of kitchen, dining room, wine cellar, and pantry. Graceful construction and detailed decoration tied everything together in such a manner that even the unglamorous kitchen appeared fit for a queen. A rectangular dining table stood perpendicular to the catwalk, ten chairs around its sides.

Islanzadi took a seat at the head of the table and gestured to the two chairs closest to her. Arya took up one, Harry the other. The queen gestured with a hand towards the kitchen. Dishes flew through the air and landed in front of them. A fresh loaf of bread, a plate of various cheeses, steaming pasta and tomato sauce, and a bowl of fruits.

"You do not speak when you use magic," Harry observed shrewdly. "I was given the impression this was impossible with native magic."

"A mystery, it shall remain," Islanzadi declared. "I would not deprive Master Oromis of a valuable lesson for his pupils." She began to eat with the same immaculate manners he had seen at the feast the night before. Shrugging, Harry began to eat as well.

Oromis's assessment of his physical skills had left Harry rather hungry, and so he did not speak while they ate. Nor did Islanzadi. Arya seemed content to stay out of their discussion.

"Why do you fight Galbatorix?" the queen asked suddenly. Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Everyone seemed to want to know why he didn't like a genocidal madman. Exterminating an entire race of sentient dragons was so obviously evil that any good person wouldn't serve him.

"He's a genocidal madman," Harry said in irritation. "Why does everyone ask me that?"

Islanzadi studied him. "Before you arrived, Alagaesia balanced on the fulcrum of the three remaining eggs, the Varden, the dwarves, and us. There were some players who could tip the balance if they wished," she allowed. (Harry's mind instantly flitted to Angela and her werecat, Solembum) "But for the most part, the balance of power is relatively stable. There is some urgency since Galbatorix's power continues to grow, but now that Eragon is present, so too does ours. You represent an enormous shift in that balance. You flaunt the established laws of magic, swear no oaths, and are beholden to no faction beyond your own personal whims. Despite Galbatorix's immense power, his alignment is known to us all. You are the most dangerous man in Alagaesia, since your loyalty is assured only by a small group of friends you choose for yourself."

Harry was oddly flattered by Islanzadi's assessment of him. "I chose to come here," he admitted. "I didn't know anything about Alagaesia except that I could help another child of prophecy bear a heavy burden."

"A noble act," Islanzadi said. The lack of inflection in her voice led Harry to believe Islanzadi didn't think too highly of his decision. She asked him more on things of no consequence; how he liked Ellesmera, what he thought of Oromis, his impression of Nasuada, it felt like the queen was a shark, circling him in dark waters.

"Tell me about yourself," she finally came out and said. Perhaps Harry was missing baits or leading questions to that effect, and she finally deigned to say it outright. He responded in the Ancient Language so there could be no doubt as to his truthfulness. It was refreshing to speak in his native tongue once more. Even in private with Arya, when it was both of their mother tongues, the human language surrounded them so often it pervaded even their private moments.

"I am a wizard nearly twenty-two years old. I was born in Godric's Hollow, in Scotland, in Great Britain, on Earth. My parents died when I was a year old, and I was left with my maternal aunt Petunia and her husband Vernon who hated me. I grew up rather miserable in Surrey- which I am now realizing means nothing to you…" Harry trailed off. He paused for a moment before rallying. "I learned I was a wizard when I was eleven and received an invitation to the British school of magic Hogwarts."

He gave a short recounting of his admittedly rather impressive resume, touching on things like slaying the basilisk, winning the Triwizard Tournament, killing the possessed defense teacher in defense of a priceless artifact, and leading an insurrection that he had been told was successful before being spirited away to Alagaesia. When he finished recounting his glory days at Hogwarts, Islanzadi held up a hand to stop him.

"Enough. Your tale leaves me with many more questions than it answers, but I shall hold my tongue in the hopes that Oromis will relay to me anything he deems important since he will surely ask your story of you, himself." Her eyes flitted to her daughter. "I wanted to know if you were going to be good enough for my daughter." Boring into him, she voiced her feelings. "No one ever will be."

"Mother!" Arya protested.

She held up a hand. "But you are far less objectionable than I had initially thought. When she came traveling with a rider I immediately saw was smitten with her, I feared she might fall for Eragon. But you claim to be immortal, and with mine own eyes I see the signs of agelessness within you. So while I shall withhold my blessing for now," she warned, "I have no objection to you courting my daughter."

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Thank you, your majesty." he said "Arya is everything I was worried I would never find. When I learned I was immortal, I despaired ever finding a mate who could live with me for my long life. And," he paused in embarrassment. He took a deep breath. "She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Arya blushed and turned her head away minutely. A rare smile graced Islanzadi's lips. "Indeed. The elves–or Fair Folk, as we are called, nearly always choose to alter themselves to reflect what they find most beautiful. My daughter did very little to change herself from the features she was born with. Why," her eyes sparkled with mirth, "I only seem to remember a change in her hair…" she teased leadingly.

"Mum," Arya groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"Darling, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You had the most beautiful dark red hair. Your father and I were happy to see it."

"I changed it because father had silver hair, and neither of you had red," Arya admitted, her voice muffled in her hands.

Harry laughed happily. "You'd be beautiful even with mud-brown ratty hair, or bald. I am curious, though. Were either of your or your father's direct ancestors redheads?"

Islanzadi frowned. "I am unsure. I did not have red hair, even in my youth. To the best of my knowledge, neither did Evandar. Why do you ask, wizard?"

"Interesting," he mused. "I am trying to puzzle together how your alteration magic affects your DNA. Your body is built up of trillions of tiny cells, little building blocks of life, if you will. In each one is the complete recipe of every living thing's entire body. I could take a minute sample of your saliva, blood, even a flake of dead skin, and with advanced enough technology, recreate a nearly perfect replica of what you look like. To be red-haired–at least in humans who likely share a genome with elves–is a recessive trait. It means you have to receive the gene for it from both your mother and father. That means that likely somewhere in your families, both sides have had a redhead at some point, but apparently it may be impossible to tell if you have a habit of covering that up with alteration magic."

Islanzadi was politely disinterested in the topic, so Harry dropped it. But internally, he had a sneaking suspicion that the singing magic elves used to shape their own bodies did not alter their DNA. Else, Arya would never have been born a redhead. Perhaps if one of her ancestors sang themselves a redhead, conceived her, then reverted themselves before many people formed a new impression of them.

What it might mean for Harry, though, was that his and Arya's children might not be immortal. It inspired in him a new urgency to discover a sustainable and non-evil method of immortality. He'd start by looking into the Philosopher's stone since he was already somewhat familiar with Alchemy and it had uses beyond immortality.

Later in the evening, Islanzadi swept away the dishes from supper and summoned bowls of ice cream and fruit preserves for dessert. Faelnirv accompanied the final course. The liquor finally managed to loosen them all up a bit, and the rest of the evening Harry found much more pleasant. He and Arya laughed and joked, ate and drank. Even Islanzadi wound up smiling and laughing along with them, something which went a long way in assuaging Harry's feelings about her suitability as a mother. Though he had to drink sparingly to avoid making a drunken fool of himself, Harry enjoyed the sweet beverage.

Islanzadi finally stood from the table. "A poor host I would make if I did not offer quarters to my guests when they are in their cups. Come." She turned away and spoke without looking over her shoulder. "Both of you."

Arya followed her mother and Harry back to the antechamber and out a different hallway to another grand room which looked similar if a bit smaller. "Generally these quarters are for the Queen or King consort's family but since I have no intention of replacing Evandar, you and Arya may live there together while you stay in Ellesmera." She pointed out the amenities and gave brief explanations of their functions for Harry's benefit, then made to leave. At the doorway, she turned with a smile. "Be good to each other. Good night, starlight."

And she was gone in a whirl of crimson.