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

37. Secret Courier Service

Edited: 8/19/2022

Chapter 44: Secret Courier Service

"How is Orik doing in your leafy cities, master elf?" Ogrivar asked. The dwarf was a stout, black haired guy with a shaven face marred by a fearsome scar that stretched from the bottom of his right ear to just above his chin. Harry thought that perhaps the dwarf had chosen not to grow the stereotypical beard so that he might show off his facial disfigurement. He didn't have a lot of sympathy for people who actually wanted facial scars.

They passed through grand hallway after grand hallway, walls covered in nordic patterns and knotwork, great carvings, and alcoves filled with enormous statues of dwarves, gods, and animals, intimidating in their realism. "I must apologize, Ogrivar, for not inviting Orik on our trip through his homeland. Harry wanted to go out and acquire material for his experiments, and suggested we deliver missives on our way. Queen Islanzadi agreed. I confess, I do not think Orik would have enjoyed the methods of travel we employed," Arya admitted.

Harry grinned. "No, he would not. You did not enjoy it, and you have at least some experience flying." Arya shot him a glare.

"Rest assured, master dwarf; the moment Eragon finishes his training, or is drawn towards these parts of Alagaesia, nothing would keep Orik away," reassured Arya. "We do not expect to linger here for a moment after Hrothgar receives us."

Ogrivar grumbled good-naturedly. "Fine. Let us hope Hrothgar receives us, so you tarry not, reminding me of mine brother in arms." They turned down a long hallway which ended in the colossal set of doors that Harry knew opened into the throne room.

"You know Orik well?" He asked curiously. The dwarf's assignment to the Varden made Harry assume he was somewhat disconnected from the rest of the dwarves, perhaps as a consequence of his close relation to King Hrothgar.

"Aye," the dwarf grinned. "He is well-known and well-liked amongst Durgrimst Ingeitum. When Hrothgar passes–long may he reign–Orik will very likely become the next Grimstborith of clan Ingeitum. He is courting Grimstcarvlorss Hvedra, as well. Here we are." A group of armed dwarves stood at attention on either side of the door. One stepped forwards.

"Why do you seek an audience with King Hrothgar?"

Arya stepped forwards, producing a scroll of vellum tied with a blue ribbon, and sealed with red wax. "I come to deliver a missive from Queen Islanzadi." The dwarf made a gesture to one of his compatriots, who nodded and strode into a small alcove in the wall. A couple minutes later, he returned.

"King Hrothgar will see you." The incredibly high, narrow doors split open to reveal the throne room; every bit as grand as Harry remembered. Two hundred yards of flat, unadorned stone, flanked by enormous alcoves, each filled by a massive statue of a past dwarf king. And at its end, a throne with a high back just as tall as the enormous doors. It was flat, squared, carved deliberately to be uncomfortable. King Hrothgar wore no crown, but at his feet rested the ancestral warhammer Volund, its haft sticking straight up with its leather wrapped grip and the loop that sprouted from its butt.

His and Islanzadi's thrones were so different, it was hard for Harry to really see them the same. Islanzadi had a beautiful throne room, yes, but it was as different as night and day to Hrothgar's hall. Hrothgar was kind, if stern, but not so far removed from the dwarves as to be unapproachable. His de jure power came from his political station, the traditions that governed the dwarves since their first king. Islanzadi felt the exact opposite; she ruled through machinations and political maneuvering, her royal bearing virtually flawless. Harry suspected that he had only seen Islanzadi as often as he had because of his abilities and proximity to Eragon and Arya. Hrothgar was a dwarf to be seen, talked to.

"I come bearing a missive from Queen Islanzadi to the King Hrothgar," Arya bowed her head slightly, presenting the sealed scroll to Hrothgar." He reached forwards and took it from her. Popping the seal, Hrothgar's bushy eyebrows met as he scanned the letters, humming.

"Do you know what this says, Arya?" He asked curiously.

"I do not."

"Nothing! It prevails upon me to send my dwarves to aid Nasuada in her campaign against the Empire–which I would have done anyway–and promises her aid–which we expected of her. I am pleased that Islanzadi has rethought her policy of disengaging with the rest of Alagaesia following your presumed death, but I did expect more substance to her letter. Dwarves have no use for courtly manner and royal protocol; we are a practical people. When you return to your queen, please tell her not to waste her messengers' time." Hrothgar narrowed his eyes.

"Why is my nephew not present with you? Orik is in good health, is he not?"

"He is," Arya agreed. "It did not cross my mind to bring him, especially since, as you say, we have nothing of substance for you. In all honesty, we did not expect to linger here beyond whatever audience you granted us, and have many stops before we rest tonight. I do not expect Orik would enjoy being dragged across the breadth of the continent for ten minutes with his people." Hrothgar ruminated.

"I suppose you're right. Unless I am mistaken, you will return to Ellesmera soon?" Arya nodded. "Then it would please me if you bore my own missive to your queen. Do you consent?"

"Sure," Harry shrugged. "If you have mail for Nasuada or Orrin, we're headed there next."

"I see," the dwarf king laughed. "I apologize, Arya, for impugning your queen's missive. Still, while you are here and I send for my stationary, I would ask a few questions of you." Hrothgar called in a dwarf runner who hustled out of the room, presumably to find the king's stationary.

"How is Orik? How is Eragon? What sorts of capabilities and powers can we expect from our rider when he returns? What enemy movements do your spies report?" Hrothgar had many questions.

"Orik is in good health and spirits, and I would not guess at Eragon's abilities, especially as his training is not complete-" the king interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

"I meant more personally. And if you're going to evade a question, please just tell me you have nothing to report."

Harry grinned. "Right. Well, Orik's fine, but dreadfully bored. All the elves are magic users and centuries old, in any case, so their crafts tend to be far superior to any other race's. There's a celebration coming up where everyone who comes presents a gift of sorts, a work of art that shows everyone your skills. I am interested to see what Orik comes up with. I see him sparring with his axe on the training grounds, but he's not there every day. He's sat in on a couple of Eragon's lessons so that he can report that he's witnessed him learning from a credible teacher. Eragon's told me–in Orik's own words–that if Orik doesn't watch himself, he's going to become a fat scholar."

Hrothgar laughed boomingly. "It seems his leafy exile has not dulled his tongue. Thank you, Ascudaruna, for your candid words. Now I must ask, what intelligence can you report from the Empire and your spies?"

"If it was not included in the missive, I am unsure what I can relay to you, King Hrothgar," Arya apologized. "There were disturbances in the northern part of the Empire, some level of troop mobilization, and the Ra'zac were spotted heading towards Ceunon. The one who scries for Islanzadi reports remarkably little movement within the Empire, which leads us to believe Galbatorix is employing magic to hide his troops. If you want a more comprehensive report, I advise you ask Nasuada. The Varden has ever had better spies since they do not need to hide their species in the Empire."

Harry glanced in surprise at Arya. "Is this what you were doing when you disappeared every night?" She glared at him.

"Among other things. I was told to keep this from Eragon, so that he may focus entirely on his lessons. It is expected for the ambassador to know some measure of information about their nation."

"Oromis knows?" Arya shot Harry a furious glare.

"That is supposed to be secret! Wait- how did you? Silence." She turned to Harry. "How did you break an oath in the Ancient Language?!" She must have included Hrothgar in her spell, because his features showed great alarm and intrigue.

"You can do that? All my advisors gave me the impression it was completely impossible, hence the efficacy of Galbatorix's agents being incapable of disobeying him."

"No, you can't," Arya said irritably. "It is impossible. Hrothgar, who would have heard us speaking? This secret is of the utmost importance. We must know who knows."

"There is a squadron of guards behind my throne who can hear me speak, but are sworn to keep my secrets in the Ancient Language. As is a magician, and the runner you saw me send for."

Harry rolled his eyes and jabbed the Elder wand in the air, pronouncing a strange latin phrase. A jet of white light shot from the tip and into the air, splitting into a dome that encompassed the entire throne room, extending even beyond the stone walls. He spoke another phrase, and fourteen dwarves appeared in front of him. "These are all those who could possibly have heard what I said. Should I just obliviate them, d'you reckon?" he glanced at Arya.

The dwarves scrambled for weapons at their hips. Harry sucked in a breath between his teeth. He didn't want to fight the warriors, but it didn't look like they were going to give him a choice.

"Etzil nithgech!" Hrothgar shouted, hand raised. The warriors froze, swords, axes, and hammers halfway out of their scabbards and loops. Addressing Harry and Arya, "I will defer to you in this matter. Only know that I will not tolerate these dwarves be harmed."

Harry turned to Arya and jabbed a thumb at Hrothgar. "Should we obliviate him?" in a very obvious stage whisper. She elbowed him.

"We are not messing with the minds of our allies, much less their king!"

"Please, don't," Hrothgar said dryly. Harry grumbled. It was stupid to leave a secret as important as this in the minds of anyone who did not absolutely, completely, and certainly need to know. Since Hrothgar wasn't even a magic user, knowing the name of the Ancient Language was useless to him. The way he saw it, Harry ought to wipe the minds of the lot. It's not like the old dwarf would know what he was missing.

He worked through the line of dwarves, carefully considering the memories to be removed and replacing them with the story that Hrothgar had shared information about his spies so crucial he considered it necessary to have the memories of each dwarf removed. Fourteen obliviations later, Harry stowed his wand. "That's that. While I could compel you to keep what you learned to yourself, I understand diplomacy takes a dim view on magically compelling foreign monarchs to keep their mouths shut. Instead, I'll try to really help you understand what a terrible thing it would be for Galbatorix to know this; he could set up wards to twist or nullify the behavior of all spellcasting, forbid all but himself from using the Ancient Language at all, or strip away even the most paranoid of wards with a word."

Hrothgar leaned back on his throne. "I understand. Rest assured that you have impressed upon me the absolute gravity of this revelation. I must know, do you intend to share this information around with the elves and Eragon? Will I need to share this with my advisors or Nasuada and King Orrin?"

"It would be for the best that you speak to no one about this," Arya said uncomfortably. "I do not intend to share this with my queen, but Eragon must know." Harry snatched a flat wooden box from the dwarf runner who had run off to fetch stationary for Hrothgar, pushing it into the dwarf king's lap.

"Eager to be off?" Hrothgar asked bemusedly. "Would you bear missives to Nasuada and King Orrin as well as Islanzadi?" Harry waved his hand lazily.

"Sure. But write fast, please. I want to make all my stops today, and playing carrier pigeon isn't really my calling."

"Of course." The old dwarf scrawled away on vellum, scratching hasty characters onto the finest parchment, splattering bits of incredibly fine expensive ink. "I hope you will defend my handwriting in front of the other monarchs," Hrothgar wondered, signing his letter with a flourish. The snap-hiss of a match came from the box, a candle of sealing wax.

"I think only King Orrin might even mention it," Arya predicted. "Nasuada is a practical woman, and Islanzadi knows we didn't mean to stop at any one place for more than a few minutes."

"True," Harry grinned. "We should just pop in on the rest of 'em, dump the scrolls in their laps, and leave."

Arya rolled her eyes. "You were the one to demand an alliance with the Urgals, then leave before it could be formalized. I hope Nasuada is as open-minded as you, for discrimination against Urgals is rampant among the sentient races."

Hrothgar sighed as he finished his third letter. "I do not like the idea, but only a fool would turn away willing allies, especially willing allies as strong as the Urgals. I may only hope that my foolish notions of their race, and my uncharitable actions during their attempted invasion has not soured the prospects of an alliance overly much."

In Harry's opinion, Hrothgar was doing pretty well for a reformed racist. To change his convictions so soundly and in such a short amount of time spoke volumes about the open-mindedness the king possessed. God knows Draco Malfoy didn't decide to stop calling people mudbloods just because he didn't want to be a murderous racist anymore. And unlike Draco who had only ever been beaten academically by 'mudbloods,' Hrothgar had a damn good reason for hating Urgals: they'd killed his sister.

The dwarf king handed Harry three scrolls. "The one with the green ribbon goes to Nasuada, yellow to King Orrin, and blue to Queen Islanzadi." He took them and stuffed them gracelessly into his backpack.

"You're going to crush them," Arya warned.

"Words look just as good folded as flat. I swear, I'm going to set up proper communication between you lot. I'm pretty sure that you said elves could talk mind-to-mind from opposite corners of the earth. Homing birds, two-way scrying, radio, email, really anything except people physically carrying letters."

Hrothgar laughed. "You have a great many good ideas! The problem is, what is secure and what is not? Neither Nasuada nor King Orrin nor I can cast the spells to scry, or touch each others' minds directly. Messenger birds can be intercepted. Many lives are at stake, and the information in those scrolls could do tremendous damage in the wrong hands. By using you as an intermediary, I am betting the danger of the information against the risk that you'll be captured. Since you evidently do not need to actually move across Alagaesia to bear the message, I feel pretty good about my chances."

Harry considered. Something which only the monarchs could access, ideally something only they could even know of. Practically an advertisement for the fidelius charm. The other bit was easy. "I'll get back to you on that," he decided. "There's a spell I want to use that will make it impossible for anyone except you to read what's on a bit of parchment, but I can't cast it yet. I also have to ask; how is the next dwarf king chosen? If you die in battle or are assassinated, whatever I make must be made available to the next guy."

"The situation is precarious," the king admitted. "Our race is not a dynastic monarchy, but an elected one. I won my throne when I was scarce into my second century, and have held it now for another. This affords me certain leeway in making unpopular decisions. My people are more willing to listen since I have led them well for one-hundred-and-seventeen years. But it was during a time of turmoil like these coming years that I was given Volund, and the fealty of my grimstborithn. The way we choose our kings is by voting between the clan chiefs. It is a convoluted process, oft taking months of votes before even the vote for a vote passes. In the event of my death, the dwarvish military will effectively be frozen for at least a month, and my successor could be any of the clan chiefs."

"Would they probably be sympathetic and lend fighters for the war?"

"Depends on who becomes king. There are several clans vehemently against participating in this war. They shut up because they know what's good for them, but only my position keeps them in line."

"Let's hope this is all hypothetical and you never die," Harry said airily. "Do dwarves die of old age?"

Hrothgar laughed. "I'm no spring flower, but I have plenty of years left in me. The situation at hand will long be resolved either way, by the time I die of old age."

---

Arya heaved a few deep breaths. "Have you considered other methods of teleportation?" It would be nice to get around without being sucked through a long, rubbery tube.

Harry put a finger to his chin. "When my time room is finished," he decided. "Depending on the level of distortion, we can probably indulge in every time-wasting whim that comes to mind."

The Varden's encampment stretched out in front of her, just like it had been in Dathedr's scrying mirror. It was still the middle of the day, and the army was on the move, a massive gaggle of men carrying packs, filled with personal affects. Some of the men wore armor, some of them lugged it on their backs. All of them had their weapons within reach. The whole of the scrum chattered among each other, a dull roar punctuated by the bellow of some commanding officer or other.

Some great crowd of horses, oxen, and mules tugged carts or bore riders high enough in the army to merit a mount. The sloped and craggy terrain funneled the army into a narrow, wending stripe of grey and brown that seethed with the movement of the thousands of men and animals it encompassed. And at the rear and with a bit of an empty space between, nearly half-again as many Urgals and Kull marched along, tall poles bearing disparate standards flew above different sections of the horde. The black iron, horns, and grey skin had turned the whole section of urgralgra black.

Arya cast a resigned eye at the terrain behind the Varden. In front, green summer foliage and sparse trees, virgin wilderness stretched onwards. Behind, the army left trampled, muddy ground. What trees could be found had been consumed by the Varden's cookfires and for boiling rags for the medics. The smell of sweat and waste seemed to circulate the narrow valley, picked up by her sensitive nose.

"We just need to find someone important enough to know you and where Nasuada is," Harry suggested. "I don't really want to pick through this muddy, sweaty, shitty mess." He offered her a broom.

"If flying is not endorsement enough," she agreed. She flew alongside Harry. Flying on a broomstick to the Crags each morning had familiarized Arya with the broomsticks. It was undoubtedly a queer method of transport, but highly enjoyable. Something in her sung at the act of flying, free of the earthly tether that none but dragon riders had been able to shuck. To be chosen by an egg was still her dearest, most private wish, but no longer was flying the first reason. She wanted to share a heart and mind with one of those majestic beasts.

The stench of the army grew ten times stronger, directly above the army. Someone had spotted them, shouts ringing out. Elvish hearing was not only more sensitive, but better at picking voices out of a crowd and understanding voices amongst dozens of other people talking. Arya was able to gauge the Varden's reaction easily.

"-could be Galbatorix's magicians-"

"-you idiot, it's the ambassador!"

"-carried Saphira's egg for years!"

"-I bet the wizard's with her-"

"-sent for some nefarious purpose-"

"-do not fire! If I see any arrows fly, you lot will wish-"

Cautiously, Arya descended towards a man in gleaming armor wearing the white-and-purple standard of the Varden on a short cape. Harry followed her. The man was in the front third of the column, and wore mail over thick white cloth kept miraculously clean somehow. The ground beneath her was heavily trampled grass, not yet completely torn into a field of mud.

"How can I be of service, My lady?" The man asked. "Commander Hauben, at your service." Arya tried not to roll her eyes at the way he blatantly eyed her. Only months back in Ellesmera and she'd forgotten what ridiculous hangups the humans had about clothing and modesty. She'd taken up wearing the style of clothing Harry favored: simple short-sleeve shirts of cotton and comfortable pants made of some stretchy, soft cloth Harry himself didn't know the name of. They revealed more of her form than the traditional 'male' clothing she wore before, but the comfort far outweighed the need to ignore the scandalized looks she was practiced at tuning out, anyway.

"We're here to deliver missives from Queen Islanzadi and King Hrothgar to the Lady Nasuada," she said officiously. Humans liked things done officiously.

"She'll be at the front of the column, then. Can't miss her. She's got these guards, see? Pair of dwarves, pair of humans, pair of Urgals." his face screwed up in distaste. Casual racism, then. Good to see nothing had changed. "They've got great big hawks all over their gear, and the Lady Nasuada wears this breastplate, only with no other armor. Enormous green gem in the middle, y'see?"

"Thank you for your assistance, Commander Hauben. I shall put in a good word with your liege."

"Much obliged, m'lady." Arya beckoned Harry over and threw a leg over her broom. He had been chatting amiably with a couple of men wearing boiled leather armor with bows slung across their backs. They took off.

"We're looking for a group of Urgals, dwarves, and men wearing armor with hawks painted on them, somewhere at the front of the column," she filled in. They found the men in question easily enough, a bunch of the meanest-looking examples of their respective race. Arya wondered where the dwarves came from given Hrothgar was still mustering his people for war.

"Name and business?" one of the Urgals rumbled, over seven feet tall without the horns, which curled up to add another foot. He wore black armor plate that covered most of his chest, and greaves that seemed to strain against the massive, bulging grey muscles of his arms and shoulders. The pair of humans had raised their pikes threateningly, as if to jab up at her from where she floated a dozen feet off the ground.

"Arya and Harry to see Lady Nasuada and deliver missives, from Queen Islanzadi and King Hrothgar." Arya tried not to sigh too obviously. She could literally see Nasuada not ten feet ahead, riding a white mare in her armor and a purple and white gown. The guard corps she had put together surrounded her on all sides, each on a black horse and wearing the same blackened steel armor. A packhorse ran along just behind the last guard, its saddle curiously empty. Arya noticed her attention sliding away from the beast, and frowned. She peered at it more intently, brushing aside the influence trying to divert her focus. There looked to be a heat haze atop the empty saddle.

Not an assassin, she decided. The zealous guards would not have allowed a packhorse so close to them if they didn't know why it was there. Likely a hidden guard of Nasuada's.

"Thank you, Boruslav," Nasuada said. "Let them unburden themselves. I am eager to know what my colleagues wish to tell me." She regarded Arya. "We'll not stop the march just for me to read my mail, so you'll have to go on without a reply or wait until the evening, or else return later."

"Of course, Lady Nasuada." Arya landed next to her, offering Islanzadi's missive. She suppressed a smile when Harry simply dangled Hrothgar's squished and creased scroll off his broom, without bothering to land.

Nasuada asked politely about Eragon's training, to which Arya equally politely obfuscated and prevaricated around anything of substance. Nasuada definitely knew what she was doing, but made no remark but a knowing smile. It was a boring, dull bit of verbal sparring, dull enough that Arya couldn't really call it sparring, more like verbal rock-paper-scissors, another game Harry had foisted upon her and demanded to play whenever there were disputes to be settled.

She drifted along above the convoy, lounging lazily on the comfortable broomstick. Harry never stopped inventing and refining, and would not accept a finished product not comfortable enough to sleep on. He had placed spells all over the thing that acted like invisible cushions and supports, so that she could lay face down on the thin stick of wood and be unable to roll off either way.

"I'm going to figure out flying carpets," Harry announced suddenly. He had laid back on the broom, steering it with his thighs and ankles so that it followed her at a sedate pace. "Imagine actually being able to sleep in transit. I've been spoiled by trains and cars, I think. I mean really, how hard can it be to enchant a bit of rug to fly?"

"Would you not be worried of rolling off?" Nasuada inquired. Arya had caught her glancing enviously at the flying brooms a couple of times, but doubted Harry had cottoned on. He could be remarkably obtuse at times.

"I'm flattered you think I can balance on a tiny stick of wood like this, Nasuada. There are plenty of enchantments to prevent people from falling off stuff they shouldn't. Why, at Hogwarts, all the stairs move about unpredictably. Without those enchantments, I imagine the graduating class would be half the size of the starting one!" Harry rolled onto his side, his center of gravity so far over the broom that it would be impossible to stay upright. "Of course, if I do make flying carpets, they're going to be the best damn carpets anyone's ever seen."

"The bar is low," Nasuada assured him. "Any flying at all would break the record."

"Anyone can slap a levitation charm on a dusty old rug. I want to make something grander than the flying carpets of legend. They say one of the old Chinese emperors had a carpet so massive, he held court over the clouds, and used it to fly between provinces to more closely rule over his people." Harry's eyes looked far away. Likely conjuring up some ideas for enormous flying carpet-nations, Arya thought.

"I look forward to seeing your work," Lady Nasuada smiled. "Can we expect Islanzadi to keep in contact like this? I must admit, seeing you so soon after your departure is a surprise."

Harry grumbled. "Probably not very often. In fact, Hrothgar inspired me to put together a secure form of communication between the four of you. I don't mind doing deliveries since I can get to all of you within a day, and it would be stupid for me to force some peasant to walk across the continent to save me a day's work, but I also have stuff to do that I can't get done like this," he gestured at himself, floating on his broom above her.

"Getting in and out of Ellesmera to apparate takes long enough to demand I spend at least the day out and about, so I haven't wasted my time traveling through the wards. It's not like I can just nip in and drop today's mail in your lap every morning."

"I would not ask such a thing of you," Nasuada denied. "I merely wonder if we can expect to learn crucial information from the allied monarchs with some expediency."

"In a few weeks or so, probably." Harry confirmed. "I could just give you all linked scrolls to write to each other on, but that's not necessarily secure from theft, and everything any of you had ever written would be on the whole thing. There's a spell I want to cast that will render anyone not explicitly read in on the nature of the scroll from even perceiving it. Unfortunately, it's widely considered the most difficult charm, like, ever. So I have to learn to cast it, first."

"What can this spell be cast on? Du Vrangr Gata has explained and cast some wards over our entire convoy, but this sounds like a step up from that."

"Muffliato. It's called the Fidelius charm. Please keep this quiet. If Galbatorix doesn't know the vulnerability of the charm, he won't even be able to begin to look for the way to get in on it." Nasuada nodded. Arya noted that while Harry had included him in his mufling charm, he had excluded her guards, who suddenly looked uneasy. One of the men's hands hovered over his scabbard warily.

"The Fidelius charm is one of the most powerful protections I know of, and it grants absolute protection to a piece of information. If you cast it on a house, Galbatorix himself could stand with his nose to the windows and never see it. If you cast it on a piece of paper, you could beat hm over the head with it and he'd never notice." Harry leaned forward.

"The special bit is, the information kept secret cannot spread. When the charm is cast, the caster must designate a secret-keeper to be responsible for the information, and they are the only one able to tell others the secret. If you were to be the secret keeper for some incredibly important knowledge, like, say, "The Varden found a second dragon egg," you could tell that information directly to one of Galbatorix's spies, and they'd be unable to report back."

"Can you prevent him from discovering something on his own?"

Harry's eyes grew wide as saucers. "Oh my god. You can. Arya!" The implications were staggering. Cast it on the name of the Ancient Language, and Galbatorix could never learn it. Cast it on Oromis and Glaedr, and the secret could never leak.

"What are the restrictions?" she demanded.

"Hang on." Harry slung off his backpack and stuffed an arm in to the shoulder. He withdrew one of his glass tablets from inside and poked at it. His fingers became a frenzy of typing and tapping, eyes darting back and forth across the screen. He had stopped in the air. Nasuada, sensing something of great import happening, had frozen as well. The guards around her were forced to halt, more agitated at being unable to hear what had happened. The army seemed to flow around them, like a river flowing around a stone.

"Aha! Secret-keeper may not keep their own Secret. No additional magic may bind the keeper to keep the Secret. Keeper must know the Secret they are keeping, Only one Keeper per Secret." Harry listed.

"What about the nature of the Secret?" Arya pressed.

Harry refocused. "Difficulty of casting increases with the number of people who already know the Secret. Difficulty increases with each person actively guarding a secret. Difficulty increases the more esoteric the Secret. Difficulty increases with volume, import, or obviousness. Secret may be any single idea which the caster and the Keeper both understand- I think this will work!"

"I am missing some context," Nasuada narrowed her eyes. "This has further implications than secure communication, does it not?"

"It does," Harry admitted. "But I certainly can't tell you, at the very least until I cast the spell on the bit of information I have in mind. If Galbatorix found out–well, disastrous would be wholly inefficient for describing how bad it would be. Conversely, it would give us perhaps the single most powerful tool to defeating him conceivable."

Nasuada grinned wolfishly. "Then I wish you the best of luck in your work. How many swords and armors have you completed? I am hesitant to march the Varden out of the Beors more or less unarmed."

Harry grinned. "Your order is finished. I'll drop them off wherever the armory is before we leave."

"Excellent." Nasuada looked pleased. Arya was glad of it, too. Despite dealing Galbatorix a crushing blow in the form of slaying his most powerful servant, and gaining the allegiance of the warrior-like Urgals in the process, they had not seen a single human soldier in the Battle of Farthen Dur. Wherever Galbatorix kept his army, it was untouched by fighting, and at full strength. The Varden's dedicated soldiers numbered some twenty thousand men, Arya knew. They were to augment their forces with whatever Surda could muster, though she would be surprised if King Orrin managed to scrounge together more than thirty thousand.

Harry peeled off from his position above the formation, flying along above a runner Nasuada had called to show him the way to the armory, leaving Arya alone with Nasuada and her guards.

"Is there anything you can tell me that you couldn't with Harry?" Nasuada asked politely. Arya laughed at the idea.

"If you wanted secret information, you'd have been better served prevailing upon him, instead of me. He already let something monumental slip to Hrothgar, which is part of the urgency he feels in mastering the fidelius charm. Keeping secrets is not in his nature. His formative years were dominated by his own civil war, and the leader of his side was so tight-lipped it nearly spelled disaster for their side, and had lasting, personal impact on him. I don't think Harry wants to keep anything secret from his allies, unless he absolutely has to."

"Very well. Would you recommend I hold my tongue around him, as well?" Arya shook her head.

"He understands operational security perfectly well, and keeps important secrets of the elves with zeal. He is mostly opposed to compartmentalization among allies. In all honesty, you will never have half the important secrets he already knows. And in his case, if he truly does let something of great import slip, he knows magic to remove someone's memories." Nasuada looked nervous at the prospect of having her memories stolen.

"I suppose it's a reasonable stance to take. Were there not mind-readers on the other side, even more so. Trust is foundational to strong allies and friendships, and freedom of information, foundational to trust. What information can you share with us?"

Arya considered. Whatever she told Nasuada was at risk of getting to Galbatorix, but whatever she didn't, Nasuada couldn't take into account when making decisions. "Islanzadi has assigned elves to keep an eye on your army with scrying, watching its progress and keeping track of obstacles to put together a reasonable estimate for when you'll reach Aberon. I'm reliably informed that you can expect to be snowed in for the winter around the time you'd be crossing the Petrovya river. It does not freeze even in the coldest months, so you will have to cross it in Petrovya itself, skirting the Tudosten lake, or else construct your own bridge further south. Either one will significantly delay your travel. And because Surda has high precipitation, we believe it will be infeasible to continue your march during the winter."

"Then Galbatorix knows the same?" Arya was glad Nasuada caught on quickly. They needed a sharp woman to fight as wily an enemy as the Mad King.

"He does. We are fortunate that the Beors are well outside his effective range. You are highly unlikely to be attacked, at least until you exit the range. Our intelligence officer believes Galbatorix is hiding his troops from scrying, which is concerning since they could be mustering virtually anywhere in the Empire. I am glad Harry brought his metalwork now, for I fear you will have need of it soon." She made a note to mention the need to keep Lord Dathedr's name secret. Though it was unlikely, if Galbatorix was familiar with the elf's travels, he could plot routes through whatever blindspots existed in Dathedr's vision.

Nasuada digested the information. "I thank you for the warning. That is concerning news, indeed, that we may have no warning before Galbatorix's host is upon us."

"Of course. You may also be happy to know that Harry and I are also learning from Eragon's teacher. We will, of course, lack dragons and be similarly diminished in combat. I plan to return at some point after you have reached Aberon, and Harry will likely follow."

She sighed in relief. "That is very good. I worry about Eragon's chances against Galbatorix. He is but one rider, and a young one, against a man who has built his reputation on the wholesale slaughter of master riders."

"Islanzadi would not allow him to fight alone, either. I am sure he shall have adequate assistance. It is a matter of the highest import that he succeed in all his fights, for losing means capture and likely the end of our campaign at that moment." Because Harry will finish it, she wanted to say. Arya suspected Harry had ideas for assassination. She wasn't sure how she felt that he wasn't willing to go through with them. It could potentially save dozens of thousands of lives. But she would admit it had the potential to cause more problems than it solved. Just knowing that they had a safety net was reassuring to her.

When Harry returned, Nasuada exchanged polite farewells with them and bade them good luck with King Orrin, promising to draft letters for her colleagues. Arya assured her that they would return, the next morning at the latest. She was irritated that the wildlife around the Varden would change over their travels: she had wanted to Imperius something to keep an eye on the situation more closely than scrying allowed.

Aberon was a vision to Harry, the most advanced city he had yet seen in Alagaesia. It had aqueducts running through the city which fed public fountains and ran into more affluent and grand homes. That alone was not so surprising, since the dwarven city of Tarnag also had them. It was clean. There were undoubtedly sewers and such. The buildings were made of limestone and marble, making the whole place light and airy. He spotted buildings he had not seen anywhere else. A great lens stuck out of a marble-domed building that sprawled across a greater area than even the citadel, presumably a university of sorts.

The citizens strode about every which way on wide roads in good repair, parting around carriages and wagons tugged by horses and oxen and mules. The cobbled roads were slightly raked to either side so rainfall slid right into the sewers. Colorful awnings extended from walls or roofs over doorways, or else covered vendors' carts. The people themselves were clean and happy, interacting with each other in a way that suggested strangers were much more trusted than in the Empire.

High walls stretched sixty feet up from the grass around the city, gates set at each cardinal point. The men patrolling atop the wall wore white and blue underneath a variety of armors from mail to full articulated plate. Outside the city, only the grandeur reduced in scale. Houses around a network of roads that connected squares of commerce. Beyond the dense roads, the houses became sparser as they transitioned into farmland and pasture. The cobbled roads became worn dirt paths that spidered across the countryside, winding around the rolling hills of staple crops and grass for pasture.

Harry followed Arya to the citadel. It was a sturdy building, much more given to practicality than form. Enormous stone blocks tightly mortared formed the basic structure, an additional set of walls within the city. Within, the keep rose slightly higher than the walls. It had few windows beyond what was necessary for lighting without constantly having to burn candles or torches. A single doorway led inside, guarded by a portcullis in front of thick oak doors that swung inwards.

The sun had begun to set already. Harry estimated that Surda would be in a different timezone, one hour earlier as compared to Ellesmera and Farthen Dur. Once again, Arya's reputation as the elven ambassador opened doors for them, and Harry was on his way to see the King Orrin.

"The elven ambassador Arya, and her companion Harry the wizard," A man announced, ushering them into the council room. Orrin's court had left for the night already, leaving a much smaller, more informal council to receive them.

In the center of the room, a long wooden table had fifteen seats about it, and a throne at the head. The table was solid, but roughly carved and the interior of the room looked unfinished, lacking the splendor of gold leaf inlays and mosaics and tapestries and paintings. The roof of the council room was domed, with windows around its circumference to let in daylight. At present, a dozen candles were lit down the length of the table, and a hearth blazed behind the throne.

Six seats and the throne itself were occupied, the chairs taken by seneschals, advisors, and administrators, piles of documents and quills and ink pots strewn about in front of them. Atop the modest throne sat King Orrin.

He was built like a warrior, with the muscle definition that must come from consistent exercise. He was not large, nor was he as graceful and lithe as the elves. Rather, he looked somewhat average. His face was aristocratic and somewhat haughty-looking, but by no effort from Orrin himself. He was reading a thick tome whose spine was obscured by the open covers so that Harry could not know the title, scribbling down notes. He seemed enraptured by whatever was written, and scribbled notes down on a sheet of parchment on the table.

"Your Majesty, the budget for blacksmith subsidies needs approval," one of the men mentioned.

"Confer with Lord Haughes, would you? I would have his opinion on the proposal and if the treasury can handle the strain. And his estimates on the impact of opportunity cost. I worry that stretching the armory to outfit any able-bodied man will impact the productivity of non-military smithing." Orrin did not glance up from his book.

"I have, your Majesty. The estimation was that we should be fine for two years of campaign, before we will need to reduce the labor force on the production of arms. You agreed to this proposal earlier today," he reminded.

"Very well then. Give it here and I'll affix my seal." Orrin set down his book.

The herald glanced between the king and his visitors helplessly, terrified that Harry and Arya would be offended and take it out on him.

The man on Orrin's right hand glanced up from some report and made eye contact with Arya. He coughed. "Ahem. Your Majesty, you have visitors."

"They couldn't wait for me to hold court?" Orrin wondered, a bit of sealing wax in one hand, his fist poised to impress the signet ring into the proposal.

"'They' are the elves' ambassador and the Varden's wizard, with missives from Hrothgar and Islanzadi." The man's beard seemed to twitch with amusement, his lips hidden behind a mass of white hair from which a pipe poked out.

Orrin glanced at the man on his right. "Shit, we'd better send them in."

He coughed again. "Already done, your Majesty."

The King looked up. "Oh dear. Apologies. I'm told I can be a bit absent minded when focused."

"If that servant hadn't noticed you spill phosphorus all over yourself when you were leaning over that burner…" the man trailed off.

"Yes, well, I certainly learned from that one!" Orrin beckoned them over. "I confess I am surprised Islanzadi has sent a message directly to me. I was under the impression she did not think much of me, and this is the first news I've gotten of the elves since Nasuada mentioned she had sent Eragon to Ellesmera for training."

Arya winced. "She was- distressed when the impression that I had been captured or killed by Durza reached her. I would not presume to speak for her, but I imagine this will clear up a great deal of your questions." she offered the scroll to him.

He took it, eyes flickering across the page. "Excellent news! Word of your skill at arms, Arya, has reached even me from under those dusty mountains. If your people are all so skilled, Islanzadi's support shall prove a great boon indeed."

"Thank you, your majesty," Arya gave a little half-bow. Harry plopped Hrothgar's squished roll on the table.

"This is from Hrothgar, written right after receiving his own missive from Islanzadi. We're going to pop in on Nasuada before returning to Ellesmera, so if you have letters for her or Islanzadi, we can deliver them."

"You have my thanks," King Orrin smiled, reaching for a bit of blank parchment and a quill. "Finding trusted messengers is a bit of a chore, and ones that can reach Nasuada on the march, even harder. If you wish for a place to stay tonight, I can have my staff prepare rooms for you in the keep."

Arya declined politely, and took a chair at Orrin's insistence while he drafted his letters. He chatted amiably about the university and his recent breakthroughs, making Harry like him more than Arya's description of him suggested. He passed the time browsing through his tablet, reading up on the fidelius charm. Orrin wrote well past sundown, muttering to himself, crossing phrases out. He went through seven sheets of parchment before he seemed happy with what he'd drafted, transcribing it by hand.

King Orrin signed the last one with a flourish. Harry pounced. "Excellent! We'll deliver these ASAP. We're very busy men. Keep an eye out for Nasuada and the Varden at Petrovya around when winter begins. We'll probably be back sometime relatively soon with an instant, secure method of communication. Until then!" He tipped an imaginary hat, and before Arya could protest, hugged her and apparated out.

Arya struggled against the squeezing darkness enveloping her. The instant the apparition ended, she heaved an enormous breath. Being caught with empty lungs before apparition was immensely unpleasant, your body screaming at you for air while being crushed by the void. She shoved Harry angrily.

"A little warning next time!" Arya glanced around. The biome where Harry had taken her was a desolate place, miles upon miles of flat, cracked salt. She threw open her senses to find not a single living thing beside her and the idiot wizard who'd brought her there. "Where are we?"

Harry picked himself off the ground gingerly. "The salt flats, on the other side of the endless plains."

She was grudgingly impressed. No one from Alagaesia had come out here in recorded history. There were rumors of strange monks or ambitious travelers venturing into the Endless Plains, but they never spoke of anything beyond the plains. It was assumed that they were just that: endless. Arya knew that there was something across the western ocean, for her people had recorded the land of Alalea from where they came. The simple length of wood she kept in her expanded bag made travel to such exotic places easy. For the first time in thousands of years, they were within her reach.

Exploration like that had been restricted to dragon riders, restricted for them by how long the dragon could go before needing to find food. Even if the broom could not reach her destination in a few days, Arya could carry as much food as she wanted in those expanded bags Harry made. And if he managed to safely teach her apparition, she would no longer be tethered to him for instant travel. She twisted an old ring on her finger, from years back which Harry had enchanted to portkey her to where his cabin had once stood in the Spine.

Would activating it work across the countless leagues between her and her destination? The Spine was the furthest bit of land from where she was, barring the island of Vroengard. She voiced the thought.

"You know? I think it would. I didn't realize you still had the old thing, since I moved the building from the spot it is set to."

Arya gave him a strange look. "People don't just throw away silver rings because the enchantment on them merely leads to the wilderness. That alone is priceless for escaping dangerous situations."

"Hmm." Harry rubbed his chin. "Where else should I make it go, then? The salt flats are probably less hospitable than the Spine, even in winter. I could set it to the border between the flats and the plains. Or right to the edge of Ellesmera's wards. Ooh, I could make a palace or something and set it there." He hopped up and offered his arm. "I'll take you to the eastern edge of the plains, we can start now!"

"Perhaps after you cast the fidelius on the Name of the Ancient Language," Arya reminded. She couldn't fathom forgetting such a monumental secret that he figured out earlier that day. Arya would swear Harry would forget that his hands were attached to his arms if he couldn't see them.

"Right." Harry fished out his tablet and engorged it to the size of a whiteboard before casting a truly paranoid quantity of wards and scrying protections. "Anything you can add? Galbatorix might not be able to scry the land around us, but we'll still show up on a white background if he's gotten images of us from his servants." Arya racked her brain for wards Harry hadn't cast and put them up.

"This is as safe as we can get without being underneath Ellesmera's wards."

Harry gnawed on his lip. "Is it worth- nah. Then we could be overheard by elves and I really don't want more people available for him to torture it out of. Even if it's literally impossible, Galbatorix doesn't seem like the kinda guy to just give up." He prodded at the board, tapping on his bookmarks and pulling up the guide to the Fidelius.

"This- blimey, this is seriously complicated. Now, the secret-keeper has to be present, so it's you or me. The name of a language is ambiguous enough that neither of us is clearly the owner of the information. The problem is, whoever the secret-keeper is, whenever they say the Name, whoever overhears counts as being 'told' the secret. Out of the two of us you're better at keeping secrets and less likely to let it slip, but I am less reliant on the advantage it grants with Word magic. Thoughts?"

Arya mulled it over. Harry letting it slip to Galbatorix would be a class A disaster. And it was very possible considering the name of a language was hardly restricted information, at least to Harry where the Name was common knowledge. She was honestly surprised it had taken so long for her to find out he knew it. Conversely, the prospect of casually using the Name without fear of her enemies learning: stripping wards and creating absolute protections to nullify magic was an attractive prospect.

The risk outweighed the reward, she decided. Was she not responsible for carrying something equally as precious in the form of Saphira's egg? "I'll be secret-keeper," she announced. "You are too casual with your choice of words. If the Name of the Ancient Language is so common, it is much easier to slip. I have been alive for a century, and learned the danger of the Ancient Language for all that time. If use of the Name is necessary, you or Eragon or Oromis or whoever you choose to share it with will be able to use it."

Harry nodded. "Right. Maybe we should practice first. I don't know the consequences of failure, but I bet we shouldn't try it on the secret first."

"Sensible," Arya agreed. Harry conjured a red rubber ball, and a bowl to put it in. Another twitch of his wand created a slip of paper and a pencil.

"Please write "The red ball is in the stone bowl."" Arya obliged easily. When Harry straightened and drew his wand, she snapped to attention. By the way he described it, casting the fidelius was somewhat spectacular magic.

He raised his wand and began to chant, tracing a septagon on the cracked salt, golden light pouring into fiery lines as he walked. "Hoc, quod cupio omnia celari, celetur anima crediti. Ab omni magia celetur, omnes que sciant, nisi ad nutum creditorum. Nulla tormentum secreta de ore coercet, nulla mentis incursio secretum inveniat, nulla substantia cogat arcanum, nulla loquax cogat crediti. Secretum discat nemo qui secreta noverit. Nemo nisi creditus secretum loquatur. Abscondat."

Blue glyphs and runes filled themselves in, lines spidering across the septagon, transforming the simple geometric shape into some great arcane symbol. Arya became aware of a charge in the atmosphere, not unlike the feeling of the deep wilderness during the Dagshelgr celebration where magic hung heady in the air.

The chant continued, the ritual intensifying. The strange glyphs and unfamiliar letters leapt off the ground. Around them, another golden septagram pulled away from the one on the ground, and another, and another. Soon they were surrounded by whirling golden lines that blurred into circles, each spinning in a different direction. Inside the circle, the blue glyphs revolved in odd orbits, each connected to the other by silken blue threads.

The wind picked up, a powerful breeze that strewed Arya's hair across her face and in her mouth. A ball of blue fractal triangles surrounded the bowl and the red ball within. Harry looked up.

"Arya!" he called over the sound of the wind whipping at them. "I trust you with this secret: The red rubber ball is in the stone bowl."

Lightning seemed to strike the blue dome. It glowed for a moment, brighter than the sun in daytime. The dim blue sky seemed to turn black from her eyes adjusting to the brilliant light. A clap of thunder rolled outwards. And by the time her eyes and ears had refocused, all the evidence of the ritual had vanished.

Harry stood with ruffled hair and clothes, looking confused at the stone bowl. Arya glanced at the focal point of the ritual. The rubber ball sat there innocently, as if completely unaffected by all the power which had made it its focal point.

"Did it work?"

"I don't know. I think so. What were we trying to hide?"

"The red rubber ball." Harry frowned at her.

"What did you say?"

A smile crept onto her face. "The red rubber ball is in the stone bowl."

Harry glanced down. "Ha! If I had known it was that easy, I'd have been abusing this spell for ever."

"It sounded challenging from where I watched it."

"It's easier than it looks. Once I really got started with the chant, the ritual sort of…took over. Something guided my tongue so I wouldn't stumble over the words, and helped me draw the septagon. I reckon you could do it pretty easily, too. Most of what it demanded boiled down to power. That was by far the most draining bit of magic I've cast." Harry prodded the ball. "Really, we need a third person to properly explore the spell."

"Who would you trust with these secrets?" Arya asked. "I can think only of Eragon and Oromis and Glaedr that I would trust unconditionally."

"Not your mother?"

She smiled bitterly. "Her over Nasuada or Orrin, but not Hrothgar. She has an agenda and is not afraid to leverage it. Hrothgar is too honorable to betray our trust even obliquely." Did that make her a horrible daughter? Since her return to Ellesmera and reconciliation with Islanzadi, she found herself wanting more of the softer side of her mother, which she had been seeing more often recently. What did it say about her that she didn't trust her own mother with the Name?

Harry's proposal surprised her, and she found herself seriously considering the idea.

"What about Angela?" A reckless impulse seized Arya. If she was going to betray her mother so, she might as well do it rightly.

"How will we reach her? Do you even think she'll come?"

Harry smiled mischievously. "Angela has a knack for seizing the opportunity to be present during important events. She wouldn't miss this, not even if she was already occupied."

In fact, it was even easier to fetch Angela than Harry had suggested. Scarcely had they returned to the Varden's nighttime encampment when the witch cornered them, wearing her typical cheery smile. "Looking for little old me?" She tugged her shawl about her and offered an arm. "I must thank you for teaching me such a marvellous way to travel. It creates opportunities, you know. Travel is such a dreary thing at the speed of walking, especially if it's through a particularly dull bit of land."

"How did you know we were going to come for you?" Arya demanded. If Galbatorix could do the same, and had done so…

"Trianna managed to cast some useful wards upon the Varden which alert her to your arrival. I simply listen carefully to her reactions to know when you'd come. And when someone returns in the night and sneaks directly for my tent, I suppose I assumed you'd want to have an undercover knitting party! I suppose interesting magical experiments are as good as any other reason. So let us be off!" She shook her outstretched arm at Harry insistently.

"I like the enthusiasm," Harry announced, taking the both of them arm-in-arm. Urgently, Arya sucked in a full breath just before the sensation of apparition enveloped her.

"So, here's the problem-" Arya tuned out Harry reading Angela in on the fidelius charm. She prepared herself a bowl of ice cream while she waited, more to entertain herself than out of any sense of hunger. The moment she popped the plastic-cardboard top off the container which Harry insisted was 'traditional,' Harry's head snapped towards her, eyes locked on the container in her hands. Arya would swear he was more bloodhound than human when it came to ice cream.

"Angela!" He exclaimed. "You absolutely have to try this stuff. Probably the best food my entire homeworld ever produced. Rhunon helped me perfect the recipe." He dashed over and conjured two bowls, one for Angela and another for himself which was simply massive. "Let me tell you: reconfiguring the refilling charm to work on ice cream was a challenge, but well worth it. Ice cream is close enough to a liquid that I could fudge it a bit. I suspect Jell-O would work, too."

"How in the name of Eragon the First did you manage to lure Rhunon into working with you on food, of all things?" Angela wondered, accepting a stainless steel spoon pressed into her hand and taking a bite. Her eyes widened.

"Like that," Harry said smugly.

Arya ate another spoonful pensively. It really kind of was that good. She'd have to make sure future meals in Ellesmera included the stuff.

Angela pointed her spoon at Harry accusatorily. "Alright. What is the secret that's so important to keep that you are learning the Ultimate Secret Keeping Spell to protect?"

"Aren't you supposed to be nice to a girl before you try to get at the goods?" Harry wondered. "For all you know, my interest in this spell could be entirely academic. Whatever secrets we may have would be entirely coincidental, I assure you."

She laughed delightedly. "Very well. I do love a clandestine meeting. Shall I don my balaclava? I knitted one in a fetching orange and green." Angela went to fish about in her bag.

Arya interjected hastily, lest she be forced to wear a balaclava. "Harry and I have both cast exhaustive lists of even the most paranoid wards we can think of. If you wish to lend your expertise, we could forgo the balaclavas." Angela pouted and put away her bag.

"And now, I shall have to engineer a situation to employ my new knitwear."

She ignored the madwoman, pulling the stone bowl to herself and setting it between the three of them, sitting in a circle around a tub of everful ice cream and now also a powerfully hidden red rubber ball. "Can you find anything within this bowl?" Arya asked.

Angela peered inside. "It's pretty clean, but I bet a good scrubbing with a rag might reveal something. Did you lose something?" She rubbed the surface. "I retract my earlier statement. This is very clean, and scrubbing it would reveal nothing. Maybe. Perhaps I ought to try." She reached for her bag again.

"No! It's not necessary." Arya rubbed her temples. "There is something in there, but it's hidden. I want to see if you can find or move it."

She grabbed the bowl and pushed it a handsbreadth across the ground. "I win."

She nearly tore her hair out at the roots. "Please."

Angela looked affronted. "Shouldn't you be happy that I did you this favor which required me to trek across all of Alagaesia for you? Admittedly, it was a rather trivial task. Whatever floats your boat, I suppose."

Harry looked an inch away from exploding with laughter. Arya quelled such nonsense with a withering glare learned from her mother, the undisputed master of the tactic. "We are here to be productive, are we not? If you wish to sleep before we meet with Nasuada, we need to get started. I do not want to spend another day waiting for the army to finish marching again."

"Oh phooey," Angela sniffed. "Yours will be a dull, ordinary life, if you cannot enjoy moments like these. I see an empty stone bowl. All of my rather keen senses agree that bowl is empty. Except taste." She glanced at the bowl, contemplating licking it just to be sure. "Presumably you want to see if my magic can find it. Remember that I am far from the strongest spellcaster you will find. If you really want to test this, give it to those fuddies back in Ellesmera. I tend to approach magic with a more practical, crafty view."

"That's the kind of view we want!" Harry smiled brightly. "As for power," he produced a fiery diamond, "I imagine this will help."

Angela hummed and began her spells. Many words, Arya did not recognize. She would say long strings of words with an odd tone, as if she was speaking nothing more extraordinary than her remarks on the weather, or asking the universe with the language of power. She glanced at Harry to see if he was following.

"I never thought to use the term 'disambiguate' in spellcasting," he said, bemused.

"That's because you're still rather dull, comparatively," Angela confided.

"Compared to who?"

"Me, of course."

"Oh. That might be too interesting even for me."

Angela returned to the bowl contemplatively. "If you have actually put something in the bowl, it is very well hidden, indeed. Though this would make for an excellent practical joke, if you hadn't."

"Could you tell her, Arya?"

"The red rubber ball is in the stone bowl."

"The magic you used to hide this is very powerful. There was no indication whatsoever that something existed in that space. Stranger still, I can now remember seeing it, and my spells reporting its presence as if nothing were done to it at all."

"You simply ignored the idea that a red rubber ball was inside the bowl?" Harry clarified.

Angela nodded. "It feels like perceptual alteration of a sort. I wonder if area-effect spells would touch the ball, even if I didn't know it was there?"

"I'll just recast it. It only takes a few minutes." Angela sat back and watched curiously as Harry produced a new bowl and a blue ball before casting the very dramatic bit of magic. When Harry spoke the secret to her, Arya paid attention to how it felt. A very subtle sense of something settled into some intangible part of her that she associated with her magic.

"How odd," Angela remarked. "I've just witnessed an overly flashy ritual which I know is supposed to hide something, yet I have no inkling of what you intended. It is not as if I forgot, but never knew in the first place."

"There's something in the marble bowl which you must try to destroy, despite being unable to target it directly."

"I can remember that much, thank you." Angela placed her hand over the bowl. "Heat."

Immediately, the air in the bowl wavered with incredible heat. The marble of the second bowl quickly blackened with soot from the stone itself being scorched. But the blue ball was untouched. Further, there was a shadow of untouched clean marble directly beneath the ball. After a moment, the herbalist withdrew her hand.

"Can you describe the surface of the bowl for me?"

"Evenly blackened across the entire surface."

Arya frowned. "The spell is preventing you from seeing it. Beneath the item is a shadow of untouched marble." Bushy blonde hair hung over the bowl as Angela peered inside.

"Fascinating. I must have subconsciously avoided striking the item. Blast." she pointed an authoritative finger towards the bowl. A small explosion rang out with a powerful crack. Harry yelped and leaped back. The bowl shattered, revealing the blue ball.

"Why has it been revealed?"

Harry glanced up from his tablet. "The statement was invalidated. The blue rubber ball is no longer in the bowl. The phrasing of the secret is really important, I reckon. I've only seen this used three times, and each one was cast on a property. Each one said that the inhabitants of the property lived on the property, which was enough to completely occlude the entire houses."

Well into the night, they experimented with the fidelius. Angela delighted in thinking up convoluted phrases and terms which managed to contort around some statement in a way that made it impossible to invalidate without penetrating the protection, while still hiding her target. Arya became practiced at holding Secrets, and how to reveal parts of it without giving the whole thing away. And Harry excelled at finding loopholes and nosing into even Angela's phrasing. All three of them had become practiced at casting the charm. Arya imagined that anyone who lived on the salt flats would quickly become irritated at the intermittent claps of thunder that went well into the early morning.

Ending the charm came to them just as easily. Arya found the sensation of returning the Secret odd. It was like some intangible weight had been lifted from her, the tiniest sense of relief like she was unburdening herself after a hard day of running. Similarly with transferring the Secret to another. Both actions required a verbal ritual of sorts, which was just as thrilling as the casting ritual to its participants. The magic behind their words lent them a very real weight, a powerful feeling of something important falling from her lips, like speaking the Ancient Language with a voice infused with power.

The three of them escalated the difficulty of the Secrets they hid. Obscure trivia and vocabulary were much harder than secrets which only they held. Casting the ritual felt like pushing something immensely heavy, the metaphysical weight of however many sentient beings knew whatever they were trying to occlude. By the time they reached reasonably rare yet still known facts, it was completely impossible. Not even Arya and Harry working in tandem with Angela as the Secret-Keeper could overcome those who knew the information already.

Likewise, the more abstract the secret, the more difficult it was to cast. In order to occlude something, you really had to understand it, to hold the whole concept of the idea in your mind, else the magic would not take. Angela was far better than either of them at that, able to occlude bizarre concepts like the relation green shared with orange.

"The benefits of a flexible mind, you know," she'd remarked, after Harry had revealed the Secret to Arya.

Finally, they were ready to try hiding the Name. Angela sat a few paces outside the edge of the ritual while Harry spoke. "Arya, I trust you with this Secret: The Name of the language of Power and Truth is English." Harry felt the awesome power behind the Word, the weight of its meaning bearing down on him like a leaden blanket. The instant the last syllable escaped his lips, the very universe seemed to shiver.

Without a physical item to hide, the transparent blue dome of tessellated triangles formed all around them, stretching hundreds of yards into the sky. The moment he spoke the Name, Harry felt a heavy gaze fall upon them. In the same manner that one responds to their Name even without paying attention, Harry had invoked the Name of the world itself. In an instant, dozens of multicolored balls of light seemed to appear out of nowhere, racing towards them and joining the ritual.

Reality itself seemed to warp around the little balls of light, which Harry supposed were spirits. Arya and Angela both glanced warily around at them, which in turn concerned Harry. Angela was a bit crazy, and if she thought something was dangerous, you probably ought to run screaming.

He was also growing increasingly concerned that the fidelius had not yet completed. He'd given Arya the Secret, which was supposed to be the end of the casting. But something about the spirits stalled the magic. He felt a presence enter the ritual, prodding at the shape of it minutely. As quickly as they came, the spirits sped away, moving so fast they seemed to simply blink out of existence. They moved so fast he could barely perceive the motion before they were gone.

Overhead, the dome grew brighter and brighter, a conflagration of blue and gold light that seared at his eyes. It collapsed abruptly, fading into Arya's body and taking with it any evidence that the ritual had taken place.

"That will be noticed," Angela warned. "I imagine Galbatorix, the elves, and even the werecats have felt whatever you just wrought."

"Harry, what is the Name of the Ancient Language." Arya asked with bated breath. Angela choked. Harry considered.

"What an odd feeling. I can distinctly remember knowing, yet it's been wiped from my vocabulary."

"The Name of the language of Power and Truth is English." The world shivered under the weight of the Name's power. Harry grinned eagerly. They had just been handed an automatic win. He glanced over to where Angela was staring at them with eyes as wide as saucers.

"Where in the world did you find the Name?" she demanded.

"I told you it was my native language," Harry shrugged. "It was common knowledge. Magic there isn't bound to English the way it is here." Angela twitched.

"It seems almost blasphemous to use such a Word so casually. And to think that the most coveted piece of knowledge in Alagaesia is so common that you thought nothing of it. Until it slipped out in front of an elf, if I guess rightly?"

"You do," Arya grinned. "Rhunon first, then Hrothgar and I at the same time during our audience with him earlier today. He could probably have a dragon egg fall into his hands and think it a shiny rock until it hatched in his lap!"

"Well, I am honored that you have trusted me with it. I would not have thought a mysterious witch with no formal allegiance to your side of the war would merit being given the most dangerous piece of information in the world." Angela reached again for the tub of ice cream which had been pushed to the side. "Would you produce a bowl for me?"

It was three in the morning, and Harry had produced a circular table and three chairs which they now lounged on with their bowls of ice cream. By some consensus, each of them had decided to share some fun memory of incredible magic. Harry had chosen his recollection of the Quidditch World Cup.

"-It was a right sight, really. A hundred thousand wizards all sat at this enormous stadium, a dozen levels that stretched right round the entire pitch."

"A hundred thousand?" Angela echoed. "Did they invite half the population?"

"Felt like it, at least for the wizards," Harry admitted. "Mind, I have no clue how many witches and wizards there actually are in Britain. A lot less than muggles, and there's a good few dozen million of them. Anyway, it was Ireland vs. Bulgaria, and each of them brought their mascots to hype up the crowd, I guess. It was bloody awesome, Ireland had dozens of these leprechauns, short little men who can create fake gold coins, flying around overhead and raining galleons into the crowd-"

"Gold coins falling from the sky?" Arya laughed. "A sure recipe for revelry among men or dwarves."

"They vanish after a few hours, caused a fair bit of trouble, later. Ludo Bagman, the announcer, had bet himself into a pit of debt and tried to pay off Fred and George with the stuff. But at least they weren't Veela, like the Bulgarians. The referee kept making muscles at 'em, and trying to brawl with the leprechauns to woo the Veela, or something."

"Veela?" Arya wondered.

"A sort of human-adjacent race, more like you elves, really. They're a race of superhumanly beautiful women with this allure, a sort of magical field of attraction that makes everyone near them lust after them. And if they get really angry, they can turn into giant eagle-women with wings and talons. That part's not so much like you," Harry said sheepishly.

"I forgot that I had monopolized your time so, during Dagshelgr," Arya waved her hand dismissively. "You would not think so if you had really looked. We tend to let that which we find beautiful influence our forms."

"I remember an elf with features such as you described," Angela lent cheerfully. "Wyrdea, wasn't it? Her wings couldn't fly, though. We're too heavy to fly by wings alone, nor are we blessed with the dragons' power to reject the earth's tether."

"You flew with us to Farthen Dur on those flying broomsticks, did you not?" Arya reminded. "I would like to see the floating crystals of Eaom. Perhaps some secret to flight lies there. My time as an ambassador never took me so far, and ferrying Saphira's egg required that I take the safest route possible."

"You must go. I had to very nearly drag Solembum across Alagaesia to see them, but it was worth traveling with those traders. I'd bet even those dullards without any sense beyond the normal five would be able to feel the magic there. It hangs thick around the place like an intangible curtain. Intangible." Angela rolled the word around in her mouth.

"Great big crystals in every color imaginable, bobbing in the air like bits of ice in water. And the way the sun strikes it is simply marvelous. The whole thing looks completely different every hour of the day, from the angle of the sun on the crystals."

"And I suppose you have gazed into the dreamwell in the caverns of Mani?"

Angela beamed. "Very astute. I made a business of traveling to every place of interest in Alagaesia."

"Walking?" Harry snickered.

"Or riding horses, if they are available. I have no dragon to ferry me."

"You must be old as dirt," he grinned.

"A lady never tells her age. It's rude to ask, you know."

"Can I ask if your eternal youth is a result of born gifts, or something you've done deliberately?"

Angela smiled impishly. "What would be the fun in just telling you. Being mysterious is my thing. You'll have to figure that out on your own."

---

Roran strode with purpose towards Horst's forge. At his side, the sword he had made a fool of himself with was buckled. It was a loud building to the side of the dense houses that formed the center of the village. Normally, it was all clanging and intermittent shouts. The forge was built open to the elements, so that the temperature inside never became unbearable for Horst. As a consequence, whatever sounds he made rolled over the village even from its more remote location.

Today, the gusty breaths of the bellows were quiet, the peal of hammers on steel, conspicuously absent. Instead, there was a greater than normal allotment of shouting.

"Dump it in there!" Horst called to his sons, wielding big bags of charcoal in front of a bloomery. Baldor shook the sack of charcoal, while Albreich kept the opening over the open top of the contraption. It was an ugly thing, a stout mass of brick that formed a sort of misshapen and lumpy cone. The top had an open circle which ran straight down to the ceramic shelf, upon which sat a pile of broken slag and cooked iron ore. A large hole at the very bottom opened under the shelf. On either side, little tubes led into the core which were fitted with bellows.

The Horst family held their breath as a plume of black charcoal dust spilled from the top. Baldor tied the neck of the sack closed and propped it against the wall of the forge in the back. Horst turned away from the cloud, waving his hand in front of his face and coughing. He spotted Roran.

"Roran! Done with your errands already?"

"Brigid only needed barley fetched from Sigurd's farm, and Gedric's delivery, I finished last night. Do you need a hand?"

Horst laughed boomingly. "I'm afraid not for today. Steelmaking is dull business. We've simply to mind the bloomery for hours, and Baldor and Albreich are already on the bellows. Why don't you think about rebuilding the farmstead?"

Roran nodded. "I'll do that. I just thought I'd ask since you're doing so much for me. I came by to return this." He unbuckled the sword from his belt and offered it to Horst. The smith accepted it with a frown.

"Something wrong with it?"

"Nay, it is a fine weapon. But I am no swordsman, and I haven't the time to learn." Roran panned his eyes across the forge, casting his gaze over the multitude of tools and weapons hung on the wall above the counter.

"Got your eye on something else, lad?" Roran's eyes caught on something. A hammer. He walked over and reached up for it before pausing, and glanced back at Horst. He nodded. "Go on, then." Roran took it down and hefted the tool.

It felt good. Solid in his hand, with a respectable weight to it. He swung it a couple times. There was something satisfying to the way it tugged on his arm even after swinging, and Roran could easily envision the black-hearted strangers' skulls caving in under the head of the hammer. If they were even human enough to have skulls. One side was a blunt, flat circle. The other side was a rounded ball. The whole head was made of steel, and affixed sturdily to a thick wooden handle. "I like it," he announced.

Horst nodded. "Not traditional, but then it's perfect if you don't want to devote time to learning fancy forms. It's yours, Roran."

He nodded and stuck the haft through a loop in his belt. "Thank you. I suppose I'll go see what needs to be rebuilt and maybe get a start." He rummaged in his money bag to pay for the hammer, but Horst stopped him.

"If it saves your life, you'll have more than paid for it," he said firmly. "And if it doesn't, you won't be paying, anyway." Roran put his hand away mulishly. He didn't like the idea of accepting charity, and the way the villagers must perceive him smarted. He left the forge in a bitter mood, striding purposefully down familiar paths as he'd done a hundred times, headed to the smoking wreck that was his livelihood. The new hammer at his belt weighed just enough to remind him of its presence, a comforting weight that reassured him he'd not be unarmed if the strangers returned, again.

He'd planned to raise a farmstead of his own for Katrina, not to rebuild his father's after his untimely death. And now he was faced with the possibility that he might not get to do either. Whoever that stranger was that confronted him last night, they didn't seem the sort to give up after one try.

Roran glanced down at his legs, bearing him along the faint dirt path that led out of Carvahall one step at a time. It was morning yet, and the warm summer air smelled fresh and earthy. He closed his eyes and let the sunlight warm the back of his neck. By the time the farmstead came in sight, the sun hung above the trees by the width of Roran's hand. He might have continued walking straight between the fields, but something caught his attention.

The square of rubble that had been his home was no more than a bump on the horizon between the fields of weeds, yet he could see a couple banners of red and black over the waist-high buckweed. If he squinted, Roran could just make out the twisting red flame, outlined in gold that represented Galbatorix's army.

Why have they come here? The Ra'zac claim to be servants of the King, does that mean they are here for me? Roran crept closer, heart pounding. He was keenly aware that out of all the villagers in Carvahall, he was in the most danger from these men. Who knew what Galbatorix wanted from him? The villagers didn't much like the King, but did Roran really believe the stories Brom told about him, that he slew all the dragon riders in a fit of madness, and consorted with a Shade? Could he afford to take the risk that he was evil? So many questions flitted through Roran's mind. He might not know the answer right away, but he knew that if he went with the soldiers, any choice he might have in the matter would be taken from him.

The chatter of voices ahead drifted through the weeds he'd hidden in. Roran bit his lip to keep from hissing when the thorny weeds poked at his bare arms and face, crouched below the top of them as he was. He crept closer and strained his ears.

"-didn't know a tiny square of weeds counted as a farm, even among the barely civilized villages this far from the Empire," one of them sneered.

"Ha! Harken thinks anything beyond the walls of Dras-Leona is uncivilized," one of them laughed. "Methinks the slums and slavers of the Dirty City are less civilized than a farm abandoned after the farmhouse was obliterated." The sound of dry, broken wood skittering off a metal-shod boot reached Roran's ear.

"Aye, I wonder what did that," another mused. "It looks like naught but a dragon could do it, and the King has left the citadel only to keep Governor Tabor in line for the past decade."

"A dragon it may have been," the first one, named Harken, announced. "Surely you have all heard the news? There's a new rider around, one who gallivanted across the Empire before joining with those evil dogs in the Varden. They say it's blue as the sky, and the rider wields a blood-red sword."

"Aye, Eragon, his name is," one of them muttered. Roran's heart skipped a beat, and he nearly gasped. He bit down on his tongue, hard. His cousin was a rider!? "Wouldn't want to be the poor sod to cross paths with him. He left a path of bodies on his way to the Varden. Bardrick knows, he was with me when we were sent out to Yazuac. Eragon left a great pile of bodies in the middle of the square, topped by a spear impaled through the body of a babe." He shuddered.

"And the Varden will surely stamp the last of his morals out of him–if he had any to begin with." Roran shuddered. What happened, cousin?

A thought occurred to Roran. Blue dragon, blue stone- could that strange gem have been a dragon's egg? And he only found fragments because it had hatched! No wonder Eragon left. Of all the selfish, stoneheaded decisions his cousin had made, raising a dragon in secret was surely the dumbest. And now the King has come for me to force his compliance, Roran fumed.

A snort drew Roran's attention back to the men. "I doubt we'll need a hundred men to take his cousin. Especially not with our…unnatural allies." A shiver seemed to ripple through the group.

"Don't let them hear you say that," one of them warned quaveringly. "Mackson insulted them too. Screams and horrible slurping, crunching noises came from their tent for days after he disappeared." They fell silent.

"Hopefully, we won't have to stay with them for long," one of them said finally. "We're to send an envoy this afternoon, and if they refuse, we'll take 'em anyways. Orders are clear: we should be done with this mess before the week is out."

The back of Roran's neck grew hot with fear. A hundred men! And they had virtually no time to prepare. If Carvahall even fights, he thought dully. They may simply hand me over.

He had heard enough. Roran carefully made his way back out the field of weeds, and set out back to the village. On his way back, the weight of the hammer at his side seemed to grow ten times heavier, like the anticipation of its use weighed a dozen times its physical heft.

---

Sweat dripped into Eragon's face. He was stood with straight legs, bent over and flattening his palms upon the ground. The third level of the Rimgar was a significant step up from the second, and he found his muscles burning with the effort of it. Beside him, Oromis labored through the fourth. The idea of reaching that level of flexibility and strength was daunting to the young rider. Oromis stood balanced on a single flattened palm, his other arm folded across his chest and both his legs straight upward, toes pointed like fingers reaching for the cloudless blue sky.

He continued to shift through the arduous forms, feeling a twinge of embarrassment every time he failed to reach the designated stances and forms. "Breathe deeply," Oromis reminded. "Holding your breath will only make your muscles burn faster. Overcome your body's desire to heave shallow breaths. You must learn to take full breaths even while holding strange poses, so that you may take full breaths, even in the heart of battle."

The old rider was the image of composure, even when twisted into bizarre knots and upside down. His every breath was deep, measured, and level. When they finished their respective exercises, the two of them went to the stream to bathe. Eragon found that his mind worked best right after the morning's exercises. He would be fresh from whatever sleep he chose to indulge, his blood would sing with the excitement of the morning's spars, and then he would calm himself with the slow, deliberate motions of the Rimgar. The result was a hyperfocus that lasted until hunger began to distract him, some time after noon."

"Today we shall have only a single lesson between the two of you, for it is an important one. Saphira must take you and fly with us, for we are visiting the Stone of Broken Eggs."

The place in question was a monolithic pile of stone, terraced and pockmarked with caves and alcoves. The entire stone was incongruous with the forest, a finger of rock which jutted from the ground in a great clearing, between the lush trees around it. It rose perhaps seventy meters from the ground, so it was still dwarfed by the enormous arbors that rose at the edge of the clearing.

Eragon and Oromis both stepped off their dragons. He glanced around his ankles, and blanched in horror. Scattered about were countless shards of egg, no larger than his fist and no smaller than his thumb. Bits of every color were strewn across the uneven surface, along with scorch marks and bones of both the enormous, draconic variety and slimmer ones which must have been from elves.

"Why did this happen?" Eragon whispered.

"It was the place of a devastating elven ambush during the elf/dragon war. Many nesting dragons chose to lay their clutches here, and were discovered by the elves." Glaedr rumbled sorrowfully.

"Accordingly, the elves ambushed and slayed the eleven dragons who were watching over their eggs and slew them in the night. Seven of them died immediately by ambush while sleeping, though in that time dragons took no names for themselves which we humans and elves would understand. The remaining four woke then, and fought furiously, but were overcome by the power of the Dauthdaertya, elvish lances forged of hate and fury to kill dragons in the time of Du Fyrn Skulblaka.

"The elves not slain were overcome with grief and fury at the deaths of their comrades, and after felling the last adult, they used magic to shatter the many eggs present, and murder the infant hatchlings." Oromis led Eragon to blackened starbursts on the ground, and gestured for him to look closer. With numb horror, he realized that among the eggshells were tiny dragon skeletons.

"Who would murder the innocent in such a way?" Eragon wondered faintly.

"There is no enemy more dangerous than a desperate one," Oromis reminded. "We are governed by what we stand to gain, and what we risk losing. One who has everything and nothing may make any choice, take any action no matter how distasteful, if he is cornered. Because of this, I caution you to avoid making enemies of that sort. Being gracious in victory can save you more heartache than you could imagine."

"Why tell us only when Harry and Arya are gone?"

Oromis smiled sadly. "Who but a rider could understand the true scope of the tragedy here? Where beings who live as one today, committed the worst acts against each other then. Could you imagine doing to Saphira what was done to those eleven wild dragon mothers and their children?"

Eragon swallowed convulsively at the thought. "No, master."

"Good. Now that we are here, the two of you must listen closely to how this came to be. And when you return home tonight, I want you to think on Du Fyrn Skulblaka, the Fall, and today's war so far. Draw parallels between them, and tell me what conclusions and predictions you can make with the information. I expect you both to bring me your insights.

"After the night of broken eggs, the dragons were furious beyond comprehension. The next week was among the darkest of the war for the elves, for their actions had spurred the dragons to fight together. In that time, wild dragons were fiercely territorial, and rarely shared their space with any other dragon save their mates. They fought alone or in small groups. So to see a thunder of dragons bearing down on the elven city of Nadindel was completely unexpected. There were many instances of draconic magic in the attack, which you will know is among the most powerful, and most unpredictable of all magics.

"Accounts of the first day vary, but it is said that it was as hell on earth. Fire rained from the sky as the dragons put miles of forest to the torch. Were it not for rains both before and after the event, The fire may have spread to choke out the entire forest. Great plumes of fire, enormous trees collapsing atop houses and buildings, nowhere was safe."

Oromis continued to elucidate on the tragedy. Until late afternoon, Eragon and Saphira spent their day listening to Oromis and Glaedr as they outlined the terrible crimes both the dragons and the elves did to each other, what escalations each side committed, and the effects their actions had on themselves and each other. The lessons had a grim impact which was greatly multiplied by the horrifying surrounding of the Stone of Broken Eggs.

"Elves then had no hope of the war ending, then. How could they, when they had done such terrible things to the dragons, that they could never hope for the dragons to stop fighting? And in turn, such terrible things they did to them? The dragons thought much the same."

"We were both mighty races with blood that ran hot. The elves had their trickery and deft magic, while we, the dragons, possessed unmatched strength and ferocity. Like an endurance hunter who has ran for days after its prey, we were both too invested in the conflict, too maddened by grief and rage to consider turning back. Had the war not ended when it did, we would have destroyed each other." Glaedr turned a solemn eye on Saphira, then Eragon. "Were it not for your namesake, Eragon."

"Amidst the fighting, he alone thought to see a dragon as a friend. He found a white dragon egg abandoned beneath the body of its slain mother, missed and forgotten amongst the carnage, and took it for his own to raise. He named the dragon Bid'Daum. And in time, they both grew strong enough to challenge elves or dragons. When he appeared on the field of battle for the first time, both sides realized the folly of their war." Oromis sat cross legged on the stone, the tip of his sword Naegling scraping gently.

"The fighting did not stop overnight, for wars do not simply end at the behest of a single person, not when both sides are truly invested. But no battle was done that day, nor at any place where Eragon I and Bid'Daum showed up. The horrific atrocities ceased, and the vitriol with which we fought drained more each day, until an armistice was called. Queen Tarmunoa and the foremost dragon, whose name does not translate to any language, met outside the city of Ilirea and agreed to end hostilities."

"Except-" Here Eragon received impressions from Glaedr, sharp claws, chipped tooth, fierce, dark red scales, battles won and lost. "-was wise, and knew that dragons would not respect signed paper like they should, and feared another war. The first Eragon then proposed to link their two races in such a manner as he had through selflessness achieved with Bid'Daum."

"For nine years, the best of Queen Tarmunoa's spellcasters worked to create the spell which formed the rider pact. When it was cast. it became day zero for our calendar. Every century, we hold the centennial event called Agaeti Blodhren to celebrate the pact."

Eragon met Oromis's eyes. "It is the year of 2699, is it not, master?"

He inclined his head. "The event draws nigh. It was cast on the last day of winter, which is six months off from today."

Late in the night, Eragon scratched away with a ballpoint pen on a sheet of lined paper, trying futilely to put his words into thought. He felt his limited vocabulary chafe at him, both in his native language and the one he used for magic. The idea of war was such a complex, yet simple idea that he struggled to verbalize what it meant to him.

War was when two groups of people tried to force each other to do what they wanted, usually over a resource. Be it land, gold, religion, or merely the extinction of the enemy, there are as many reasons for war as there are reasons for man to do anything.

Eragon lifted his pen pensively. Why did the elves and dragons start fighting? It was territorial, surely. Oromis had not explicitly stated. He had claimed that a foolish elf of their proud race hunted and killed an adolescent dragon and presented it to the elves in pride, which provoked the entire dragon race to call an extinction war against a powerful enemy. But that hardly seemed proportionate. Was it? He made a note to ask Oromis.

He could draw some parallels to Galbatorix. His first dragon Jarnunvosk was slain by Urgals after he foolishly ventured into dangerous territory to prove himself. Eragon knew the Mad King had kindled a fiery rage in his heart against them ever since. He had heard the legend of Galbatorix losing half his army to the Spine–as had everyone. And the only reason for half his army to venture into that treacherous landscape was the Urgals who lived there. Galbatorix had just recently tried again to wipe out the Urgals by sending them against the Varden under Durza's bewitchment.

Eragon wrote down those thoughts, as well as a conclusion he reluctantly drew from them. The Urgals will easily ally with Galbatorix's enemies, for he has proven he will never stop trying to exterminate them.

He was not like Harry, who could somehow see the good in Urgals, those beasts whose forms reflected their nature. They were the stuff of nightmares, right next to Shades. The villains of the stories his Aunt Miriam had told him and his cousin when they were children. Eragon stared at the flickering shadows cast by the candlelight. If he squinted, he could make out writhing, beastly shapes with curved horns and grey skin. He scarcely needed to close his eyes to see the shapes of his nightmares: Twelve Kull surrounding the four of them in Yazuac, attacking with maddened yellow eyes and nearly killing his father, Brom. A column of Urgals in black armor wielding cruel weapons, marching towards them over the Spine's snowy ridge. A ceaseless tide of them pouring forth from the tunnels under Farthen Dur. And worst of all, the surprised expression on his father's face as he was ran through by Urgal blades.

He did not want to even entertain the notion of allying with those creatures. How could they claim the moral high ground in a conflict with Galbatorix, if they allied themselves with the worst of Alagaesia. He wanted to leave the page blank, or else replace the admission with a scathing passage about what a dreadful idea it was to consider Urgals anything other than enemies. But Oromis would not accept that from him.

Besides, he thought bitterly, that ship has sailed. Harry managed to broker an alliance between the two unlikely allies, while they were still fighting. Eragon thought that perhaps it was his immense power which drew them behind him. Well, if the Urgals thought that was impressive, then their loyalties could hardly be counted upon when Galbatorix was so many many times stronger.

He wrenched his attention from the spiral the Urgals had sucked it into, staring mindlessly at the blank paper beneath what he'd written. He felt like his mind was spinning aimlessly, but there was nothing to catch. Eragon fleetingly wished Saphira was awake to lend her opinion, but discarded the notion just as soon as it came. She would not like his opinions on the Urgals, and even if she was unlikely to mention it, he would feel her judgement through their bond.

It was so different, he marveled, the battles of the mind from those of the body. When his head was blank, Eragon felt helpless. There was no enemy to fight, no Vanir sneering at him, no sword interposed between himself and the problem. It was naught but his own wits which determined if he succeeded or failed. Determination had no bearing. Eragon felt that even if he sat unmoving at Vrael's desk for the next thousand years, he would have nothing more to show for it.

Eragon threw down his pen in resignation and crawled into Vrael's bed, ever the intruder. He would revisit the paper in the morning before he was due to get beaten up by Vanir. The luxurious bedding beneath him only made him feel worse. It was a reminder of his incredibly high station, one which he had blundered into when he'd touched Saphira's egg. So many people were counting on him to succeed, every failure felt like a crisis he was personally culpable for.

For a fleeting moment, Eragon wished for the simple satisfaction of the farm. But immediately, he rejected the notion. Perhaps he felt inadequate as the figurehead which all the Varden and its allies pinned their hopes on, but he knew that he would never be happy returning to the farm now that he had had a taste of the world beyond. Without having left Carvahall, he'd never have met characters like Orik, Nasuada, or Murtagh. And he would never have understood his father, shared in his life like he had if Saphira had hatched for someone else. If Brom even revealed his identity at all.

Eragon couldn't imagine a world where the most he ever hoped for was a great harvest, or the hand of a beautiful woman in marriage. He wanted so much now, longed for the downfall of Galbatorix and the death of the Ra'zac, desired the attention of Niduen and the respect of his teachers and friends, and skills with magic and swordplay. He wanted them so much he felt like his heart might burst with the strain of it. He wanted to be a better man than he could have ever hoped to be as a simple farmer.

He had nearly drifted off to sleep when he felt it. Something intangible raced through him, like a shockwave that passed through him without ever touching him, yet he felt it all the same. Something had happened, though it was unknown to him exactly what. For a moment he worried it was some devilish spell cast by the Mad King, but only a moment of rumination discounted the idea. It was no mere coincidence that the evening after Harry left, something big happened. He only hoped it wasn't some disaster.

---

Harry's meeting with Nasuada was quick, which was just as well since he'd about reached his limit for wading through the formalities of four monarchs, playing post owl when he'd rather go out and gather materials for interesting experiments or tour some of the more exotic locations of rumor in Alagaesia. Angela had begged off meeting with Nasuada, and expressed her disinterest in interacting with Du Vrangr Gata.

"I'd do something interesting, and instantly everyone would hound me over some trifle of a spell," she'd claimed. "Then I'd be forced to kill them, and the rest of them would want to kill me for that, and soon enough I'd be spending all my time running or killing, and I'm afraid the Varden rather needs what few spellcasters they have. Though I'll admit I've seen a rather drastic upturn in their competence."

So they went without her. Harry was gratified to know that the meeting he'd just had with Nasuada would be his last as a messenger, for the creation of his secure communication turned out to be rather simple once the fidelius charm was introduced. It was a product he was rather disappointed in, if only because he didn't have the time to cram all the bells and whistles he had wanted into it.

"These are scrolls enchanted with the protean charm," he'd claimed. One of the five scrolls he'd prepared clattered onto her desk. It was made of the finest vellum he'd managed to produce, duplicated directly off the original sample. The sheet was wrapped around two sticks of jade. The craftsmanship was still somewhat rudimentary given Harry's inexperience, but it was not for want of effort or money. Gold filigree traced meaningless designs across the endcaps. "The protean charm is like user-friendly quantum entanglement. To the uninitiated; what you do to one happens to the others."

Nasuada's face brightened with understanding. "So what one writes in one, appears in the others."

"Just so. On its own, that's not very impressive. Hermione managed it before her O.W.L.'s, though she is rather brilliant, so maybe it is impressive," he mused. "Anyway. What makes this special is this." He put his fingers on the gap between the rolls of the scroll, and flicked the bottom half. It rolled all the way across the desk, fell off the edge, and continued to unfurl until the wall of the tent blocked its progress. "Special features!"

He grabbed the scroll and violently twisted it, trying to tear it in half. The scroll was perfectly intact. He grabbed a fistful of parchment and crumpled it into his fist. Nasuada and Arya winced. Harry cackled evilly. "I hope you don't have OCD. Else this will hurt." He produced a mug of coffee from somewhere, and drizzled it all over the immaculate white surface. The moment his fist released the clump of parchment, the folds and creases flattened out to their original, pristine condition. The coffee was repelled like it was laminated, except the drops of liquid raced over the edges without any prompting.

"Incendio!" A gout of flames washed over the surface, leaving it completely untouched. Harry produced a knife and slashed at it fruitlessly.

"Perhaps we ought to use this as armor," Nasuada joked.

"Nah," Harry glanced up from where he was jumping up and down on the sheet. "It's no good against magic swords, I'm afraid. Basic protection against most forms of damaging magic, but your average rider sword or Dauthdaert will go straight through. And it'd only be good against knives, anyways, since the blunt force of a strike will just crush your body beneath it." He paused. "Actually, maybe on a tabard or gambeson could work. The spells to do this are difficult, but not prohibitively so. Something to fob off on Trianna, probably."

Nasuada hid a smile behind her hand. If the prideful sorceress heard the dismissive way Harry spoke of delegating boring tasks, she'd be furious. Meanwhile, Harry had gone back to chiseling demonstratively at the jade rods with a comically large mallet. "I shall assume the scroll is indestructible to means available to me," she averred. "If you would continue to elucidate on its features?"

Harry put away the mallet and chisel and dusted his hands. "Right. Well, the big thing is the fidelius charm. Arya, if you would?"

Arya stepped forward and focused for a moment, her eyebrows meeting in concentration before she reached to her temple and drew something invisible from it. "I give you this secret, Nasuada." The secret transfer went very smoothly in Harry's opinion, unsurprising since they'd practiced with it in various forms all night.

"What- what is this?" Nasuada marveled. She glanced at the scroll, surprise evident in her expression. Harry knew what she would see. A stripe of gold on either side of the page that stretched up and down its entire length.

"That is the fidelius charm," Harry explained. "It is the ultimate protection of secrecy, unimpeachable by any efforts of any enemy, no matter how strong. It is quite literally perfect, except for a single deliberate flaw. No protection may be absolute, but the fidelius is exceptional because whoever designed the ritual was cunning, and focused all the spell's weaknesses on a single point: trust. The Secret chosen is protected from all but a single person, the Secret Keeper." Harry pronounced the title in such a way that there was no doubt of the capital letters. "The caster must choose someone to trust absolutely with the Secret. No additional measures may be taken to compel the Keeper's silence."

"So Galbatorix himself may have this scroll, and be unable to open it?" Nasuada wondered, impressed.

"More like, he'll see a blank page. The fidelius has funny rules regarding ownership. Strictly speaking, you're not supposed to be able to Keep your own Secret, but inheritances and gifts muddy the waters, especially if the original Keeper is dead. In this case, I am the 'owner' of the Secret in question." Harry made air quotes, a gesture which Nasuada stared at blankly. It seemed the written form of the common tongue in Alagaesia did not feature quotation marks.

"Arya's holding all five–four, now–Secrets. Each one pertains to the contents of the scrolls in question. She gave you the Secret, which means you can choose who can see the contents of the scroll by explicitly stating it to someone. This is so if any of the monarchs are killed, they may choose their successors and let them in on the Secret. You don't have to worry about accidentally revealing it, the fidelius will not count you as sharing it unless you deliberately intend to. But I would caution you against being careless with it in any case, since there are ways to destroy the scrolls, and it can still be stolen from you, even if the thief can't read what's on it."

Harry snapped his fingers, causing the long roll to suck itself up like an extended tape measure. He snatched it out of the air. "Let's get back to the Bonus Features," he added a bit of reverb to his voice. "You can tell the scroll 'rigid,' and it will behave like a clipboard." he held up the open scroll obligingly, showing the paper miraculously staying planar like an infomercial host. "Flacid is the opposite command word. Angela's contribution, if you believe it." Nasuada grinned.

"When you roll it up, the scroll won't ever flop open unless you want it to. You can search for previous lines or words by saying 'search,' then some criterion to filter by. You can add bookmarks by dragging a finger from the side, like so." Harry demonstrated obligingly. "If you tap it in the middle twice rapidly, it will automatically scroll to the bottom, wherever the last line of writing was. You can activate text-to-speech by saying 'dictate' then the contents of your dictation, which will end when you say 'end dictation.' Naturally, you should be pretty careful with that feature since the scroll will transcribe everything you say until you end it, even if the scroll is a million miles away and you're just muttering to yourself or some servant. It would be unfortunate if you forgot dictation was activated while you were, say, venting to an underling about how obnoxious you find King Orrin or something."

Harry thought that would be hilarious, and rather hoped Nasuada forgot about it. Or King Orrin. He'd like to read whatever ramblings went through the man's head when he was doing his chemistry and physics experiments.

"The scroll is impossible to lose or be stolen, since you can simply summon it back to you by saying 'Give me back my scroll, yeet.' I had to make it something you'd not say on accident, since it literally drops the thing into your hand."

"I promise to be very careful," Nasuada assured.

"Excellent!" Harry clapped his hands. "If you have feedback, please do write it down. I'm always looking for ways to improve my stuff."

"I must ask, who exactly will have these?"

He grinned. "You, Orrin, Hrothgar, Islanzadi, and me."

Nasuada raised an eyebrow. "Yourself?"

"Limitations of the fidelius charm. I have to have some claim to ownership on the Secret. Since I wanted you all to be able to choose who could read your scrolls, I couldn't give them to you since you'd be unable to hold the Secret. Thus, I cast it on the information contained in the scrolls, and gave you the Secret. I would never deliberately spy on such important people, of course, as I am a paragon of integrity and completely uncurious."

Arya scoffed very loudly. Harry ignored her with practiced ease. "Anyway. I thought I'd have a little chat with Trianna, and Garzhvog if he's around. Do you know where either of them are?"

Nasuada gave them directions to both. Harry chose to visit Garzhvog first, since Trianna was sure to give him a headache and he foolishly decided to postpone the suffering. The Urgal section of camp was very obviously segregated from the rest of the Varden, nearly a hundred yards of open space between the last line of human tents and the Urgals.

The Urgals did not bother with tents, simply laying down atop bedrolls around the firepits they'd built. Overtop of each open fire was a makeshift pot made from a treated stomach of some huge beast, the rim reinforced with a metal band which had brackets to suspend it. The smell of mouth-watering stew seemed to billow outwards, a delicious aroma that spilled out from the border of the camp and attracted the wildlife of the Beors from the steep slopes that hemmed them into the valley. Hidden sentries spread out in dugouts and listening posts had evidently lured a couple Nagra to their deaths at the hands of their friends.

A pile of viscera had been rendered down, the offal left to carrion birds some ways back. Apparently Urgals did not believe in relying on raiding settlements or the mercy of the Varden to feed themselves, and chose to hunt as they went.

Harry found that the Urgal camp was actually far cleaner than the Varden's. They were less organized, but the Urgals were not the sort to fight in neat lines like humans and dwarves. Each one was strong and tough enough to fight on their own without being overwhelmed. The only organization Harry saw was the clumps of rams clustered around the respective banners of each clan. He scanned for and located the Bolvek tribe's standard easily, and made his way over.

Several Urgals eyed him and Arya distrustfully, but they were unchallenged. He wondered if his status as Urgal-friend was well-known enough that not even the other clans would bother him. It probably had to do with being unarmed to the casual observer. Arya wore her sword at her hip, but kept her armor retracted into its bracelet.

He found Garzhvog sharing the remainder of his stew with the rams around his fire, eating out of a massive pot which undoubtedly came from the mountain bear they had killed together when they'd met. "Nar Garzhvog!" he called cheerily, bending his head back to show his throat. Oromis's bizarre etiquette lessons were finally coming in handy.

"Harry!" he called back enthusiastically, baring his throat. "I would bellow at you, but I fear the Varden would have to stop for the day to clean out their trousers." The Urgalish language came roughly from his throat, since he was out of practice for nearly a year. Harry coughed to clear his throat from the guttural noises that composed the harsh language. "Whoever taught you proper manners? I must congratulate them for a job well done."

"Top secret, I'm afraid," Harry lamented. "If my teachers choose to reveal themselves, I'm sure you'd get on rather well. They're thinkers like you. If King Orrin wasn't a massive racist, you might enjoy meeting him, too. He's rumored to be a bit crazy, spends half his time in a lab trying to ferret out the secrets of the universe."

Garzhvog snorted. "It is nothing new. The Lady Nasuada has afforded us every courtesy, but her underlings snarl and chafe at her orders. She repeatedly answers challenges to her position as chief, and punishes transgressors most harshly, yet the hatred humans hold towards us will not be undone in mere months."

"I hope that Galbatorix's death changes that. Pointless wars are stupid. We have enough on our hands as it is."

"Aye. Two shallow cuts may hurt as much as one deep one. And we are already much diminished from the evil flame-haired shaman's cursed magic. Durza dragged every Urgal, ram or dam across the Hornless One's land and forced us to fight an emplaced enemy in their home territory. Even as we have sent our mates and children back home, they will be hard pressed to even survive with the pillaging Durza did to our homes." Garzhvog bared his teeth. Around him, his clanmates jeered and hissed angrily.

"If there is anything to be happy of, it is that the most bloodthirsty and violent chieftains were sent first against the dwarves, and were trampled underfoot. Your cure for the sleeping death did not revive the dead."

Harry frowned. "That sucks. I put a lot of effort into fortifications that would incapacitate instead of kill. The dwarves are even worse than the humans for their hatred of your race, and subverting their cruelty was a long effort."

"We do not blame you," Garzhvog assured. "Even the most foolish chieftain could see that your efforts in stopping the fighting prevented the battle from devolving into riotous infighting between traditionally warring clans who had been forced to fight side-by-side when Durza's magic lifted."

Harry glanced back at Arya, who was glancing between them with a blank expression. "My mate, Arya Shadeslayer, does not speak your tongue. We ought to speak so she can understand."

Garzhvog laughed, a deep rumbling sound within his chest. "Ruk-ruk-ruk. Of course." he switched languages easily, speaking English with a deep accent that sounded like a cross between German and Old Norse. "I am honored to meet the one who freed us from Durza's control," he said, baring his throat to Arya. Around him, Garzhvog's rams displayed their own gestures of thanks and respect.

"I did only what any good person should. Shades are an abomination, and no creature deserves to be forced into slavery." Arya tilted her head back in turn.

"Nevertheless, so long as you want it, you shall have the allegiance of the Bolvek tribe in your battles. And you will be welcome in our halls, and at our hearths."

Harry exchanged a couple of stories with his friend, and Arya interjected with details he left out, usually the ones less flattering towards him. Garzhvog laughed in all the right places, and told some of his own stories about the more amusing incidents he'd seen while traveling with the Varden. He was offered some of the broth which had been kept warm over the embers all night, and gratefully accepted.

It had been a half an hour and when the other tribes around began breaking camp, Harry made his excuses to go and visit Trianna before the Varden began their march. Arya followed silently behind like a breathtakingly beautiful shadow.

Du Vrangr Gata, naturally chose to employ their magic for maximum comfort and utility while traveling, using a mobile headquarters inside a covered wagon. Harry was rather impressed at how it looked. Someone had expanded the space to fifteen meters a side, which made the interior look somewhat similar to one of those white canvas winter sport domes he'd seen at muggle highschools. There was a lounge area with couches and low tables with books and scrolls strewn about. A couple of bookshelves stood along the edge of the wall near a row of tables, familiar titles on the spines. They were most of the books he'd lent Du Vrangr Gata, though the few that were missing were easily found among the workplaces.

Arcane glyphs and ritual circles dominated another quarter of the room, surrounded by unlit candles and bowls full of strange materials like incense or entrails. Sheets of slate stood on stands like primitive blackboards, sticks of chalk in bowls near them.

The final quarter was set up like an infirmary, four beds backed up against the wall. Atop the leftmost one laid a man, he looked to be napping rather than convalescing. His hands were crossed over his chest like a mummy, and a steaming drink stood on the bedside table. Opposite him on the right, a woman who was sleeping deeply. Her face was mashed against the pillow, utterly dead to the world around her.

Harry wandered around, picking up bits of parchment or reading passages in the books, wherever their pages laid open. The common theme was charms and curses, with the rest of the branches nearly entirely ignored. He supposed someone used to casting magic with their will alone would avoid potions, and transfiguration wasn't near as useful to an army as charms were.

The flaps to the opening were brushed aside as Trianna entered. Harry had to admit, she looked every inch the powerful witch. Her dark hair was done up in some elaborate knot, unnaturally smooth and dark like ink. Her face was free of any blemish, her lips cherry red and her eyes a deep hazel underneath black eyeliner. Beyond the cuffs of her fine robe, her snake bracelet slithered around her wrist.

"Trianna," Arya said politely. The sorceress spared her a polite greeting before refocusing on Harry.

"I was informed that you were looking for me here. To what do I owe the honor, Harry?"

Harry gestured to her and sat in a plush armchair. "I wanted to check in. I have been gone for months, and I see you have made great strides for one without a teacher. I want to know how you found the books I lent you, if you need more, what problems you've had. Give me an update, please."

Trianna regarded him haughtily. "The books you left are excellent, though we have all read through each. More material would be welcome, though I fear our small numbers reduce the time we may spend delving into the arcane mysteries. Nasuada seems determined to employ our skills as menial labor."

Harry laughed. "That's her prerogative, I guess. You are the de facto leader, to an extent even when I am around and was given the title of leader by Ajihad. I suppose you can't foist enough on your underlings to have time to yourself?"

Her lip curled. "Nasuada calls for me by name each time she has a fanciful idea. It would seem my reputation as the best works against me."

Arya rolled her eyes behind Trianna's back, and left to go read a book someone had left open. "She has many fanciful ideas, then?"

"When she has a problem, she turns first to me before attempting to solve it herself. I have spent months enchanting axles, magicking mud off of banners, modifying terrain and cutting down trees so that the Varden may pass. I am sure I could cast the unbreakability charm upside down, in my sleep. It may not have been such a problem if your magic wasn't so infuriatingly versatile. Every time she asks, I tell Carn or Hagalaz to read through your books. Without fail, there is some piddly charm that will do exactly what she wanted, and then we are forced to apply it ten thousand times before it begins again."

"Sounds like you need to go on a recruiting drive," Harry suggested innocently.

Trianna nearly snarled at him. "You know as well as I that the King forces every magician into his service the moment they make themselves known. To find a magician who is not shattered by paranoia or crippled by superstition is nigh impossible. I have found two more recruits, hidden amongst the Varden's populace. I do not hold out hope that we will find any more in the middle of the Beor wilderness."

"I'd be annoyed by that, too," Harry commiserated. "Still, I bet having sole guardianship of the entire Varden's food supply makes you feel important."

Trianna waved a hand. "It is the least onerous part of my day to sit and read for an hour at the mess tents while the cooks retrieve their ingredients. And I appreciate the leverage I have over Nasuada by controlling the food source."

Harry briefly considered giving Trianna one of his tablets to read directly from the library, but discarded the idea as soon as it came to him. The information in some of those books was occasionally more dangerous than the Name, and he had nothing set up to discriminate access between Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells Grade 3 and Magicke Moste Evile. That was something he'd use time compression to do. Giving a magician with little scruples access to the acquired knowledge of two immensely powerful families was just not on. And to a magician, the maxim 'knowledge is power' took on a very literal definition.

"Read these books," he decided, summoning a bundle of hardcover textbooks which outlined some of the more advanced legal charms. "They're a step up from the charms you've been using, which mostly consist of a mundane effect like sticking or floating or growing. More esoteric ideas are harder to cast because you need to understand the theory behind them or risk your spell going awry. Right now most estimates based on rate of travel put the Varden just at Petrovya river when Surda's heavy snows set in. I want to see if you can speed up the march enough to reach Aberon before winter."

Trianna accepted the books greedily. "Nothing on curses?"

Harry shook his head. "I want you all to put all reasonable effort into avoiding using this brand of magic for combat. Against massed soldiers, they're rather inefficient anyways, and I want several decks worth of aces up my sleeves for when we encounter Galbatorix. If you use a spell, he can take the memory from his servants and devise a counter. Use them to save your life, if it is in jeopardy, but do not go throwing them around. Tell the rest, too."

She looked disappointed, but accepted that. "Are you here to stay?"

"No. I got roped into delivery duty between Queen Islanzadi and her colleagues. I just wanted to make the most of my visit. I do not think I will return here for at least until the onset of winter." Harry sighed and kneaded his temples. He wanted Trianna to be able to contact him, but he didn't want to be bothered all the time. Nor was he even sure anything but the protean charm would penetrate Ellesmera's wards. Shrugging, he withdrew a mirror.

"This is a magic mirror, very similar to the two-way scrying spells you may be familiar with. It operates based on a sort of twisted protean charm where each respective reflection emerges from its brother mirror. I don't know if it will work while I'm in Ellesmera, but we may try, anyways. Please exercise discretion in using it. I am extraordinarily busy right now.

Trianna agreed easily before he and Arya left. He felt a fleeting impulse to investigate what Trianna had done with his wand magic. He dismissed it. While he wasn't necessarily pressed for time at that very moment, Harry was very conscious that a single week was not much time when he might need all of it for every task he couldn't do in Ellesmera, every resource he needed to fetch that Du Weldenvarden lacked.

He turned to Arya. "Let's get going." He looped an arm around her waist and twisted out of existence.

---

AN: There it is. Some of you may think I've completely forgot about Hedwig and how a phoenix is pretty much the most secure form of messaging out there. I have not forgotten about Hedwig, but I think Harry has. There will be more Hedwig.

Regarding a comment about turning lead into gold: yes, there are elements closer to gold than lead, but that's not the point. For an element as (relatively) scarce as mercury, economics would probably work out to put a similar value on mercury, treating it like unrefined crude oil vs. gasoline. The other elements near to gold are actually rarer than gold: osmium, iridium, and platinum. They're already worth more than gold. The point of doing it from lead is that in comparison, lead is incredibly common and cheap. Also, remember that traditional legends around alchemy revolve around turning lead into gold. Marcellus Pye from the Magyk series being one such example of modern fantasy. That isn't to say that the Philosopher's stone won't be able to do better, after all, Rowling claims it can turn any metal into gold. I've only just started exploring alchemy in this story, mostly concerning homunculi, organs, and other biological products.

I really do want to explore magic more deeply than I have, but I'm leaving that all for the sequel where Harry returns to his homeworld. Hogwarts would be pretty dull if he learned nothing, after all. It's unfortunate that Inheritance magic is so simple, there's not a lot to do as far as experimentation when the only limit is the magical strength it takes to accomplish something.