"They're here."
"Who? The Traders?" Eragon sat up. Had winter always been so mind-numbingly boring? It was too cold to be comfortable exploring the forest, picking berries, or walking to the village every day in search of something to do. Eragon found himself actually looking for chores to do, if only to excuse himself from going out and chopping firewood for the hearth so that Roran would do it. He'd threshed every last bit of wheat, sorted and boxed the vegetables in the cellar, swept the house, made his bed, and banked the fire whenever it was low. Of late, the most interesting thing he could do was trace the facets of the strange blue stone he'd found and wonder at its mysterious nature.
"No," Roran said sourly. "The tax collectors. They are at Morn's tavern, eager to insult us by spending our own coin on drink."
Garrow sighed. "We will avoid antagonizing them. They will come and go as they always have. Our harvest was good this year. We can live without what they will take."
Eragon grunted. "Fine."
He headed into the village with Roran later that day. Even if he wasn't going to antagonize them, he at least wanted to see the men who'd be taking the fruits of his labor from him before they made off with half the harvest.
The village was awake with their presence. Eragon counted a dozen men as he walked to Morn's. They were spread out across the village, taking notes and doing sums. They had brought empty wagons with them that were steadily filling as they made their way up and down the rows of houses.
Eragon squeezed past a pair of guards by a full wagon. They wore the black and red of the Empire, its twisted golden flame emblem sewn on their uniforms in gold thread. The door to Morn's tavern opened and shut, letting a gust of warm air wash over Eragon's chapped cheeks. Everyone glanced back to see who had let in the cold for a moment, then dismissed him and went back to their drinking.
"Eragon," Morn greeted from behind the counter. The bartender was never still, moving back and forth behind the bar, pouring drinks taking coin, filling plates. Katrina was acting as his server, smiling at the guests and dodging the hands of the Empire soldiers with grace. When she was facing away from them, her face was writ with disgust. Roran followed on his heels, sending murderous glares at the men doing the groping. "Roran."
Morn's tavern was a place of merriment and warmth. Hearths on both sides of the tavern crackled. Over one hearth hung a painting of a marshy river and a bank of cattails. Mounted atop the other was the stuffed, horned head of an Urgal from years ago. The wood floors and walls were very 'well loved,' and the building smelled like woodsmoke, cooked meat, and alcohol. It was a place of fondness for most of Carvahall.
The bartender poured him a drink without asking for coin. "I didn't bring gold," Eragon forestalled him. Morn shook his head, jerking a thumb. "These fools will be paying your tab. Yours, and everyone else from Carvahall. Hopefully you'll get back some of the coin they take through me."
Eragon accepted the watered beer with a face.
"You're not sixteen yet," Morn laughed. "Soon though. What day?"
Eragon gave him the mid-spring date. "Come by then," he suggested. "You can have some of the good stuff. And the next morning, you'll learn a lesson everybody gets."
He rolled his eyes. "I was mostly here to eavesdrop on the tax people."
Morn nodded. "They have stories to tell. If you can stomach all the self-aggrandizement and Empire propaganda."
Hatred of the Empire was practically a requirement for citizenship around Carvahall. No one had much fondness for the King. They were too far away to see any of their taxes come back to benefit them. What they paid went back to Uru'baen and was never seen again.
"No no! You don't understand. It is only the King's boundless strength and mercy by which civilization stands at all!" One of the two men at the big communal table insisted. He was so fat the chair he sat upon seemed like a little stool, rolls drooping below his backside on either side. The other was reedy and rail-thin, with a lumpy face like chunks of frozen fat had been petrified just beneath his skin. Eragon could well blame the fat one for eating too much, but he felt a pang of sympathy for the skinny one. He hoped he had a glowing personality. That, or a lot of gold.
"If in his infinite wisdom, he should choose to withdraw his support, the thieves and murderers from the Varden would sweep this village away."
Grady snorted into his cup. "The only men from the Empire we see each year are you," he said. "The Varden could come and go and you'd only notice when you came to tax a pile of ashes and bones."
The fat man tried in vain to pull his girth into a coherent, man-shaped form. The second he stopped supporting himself with his arms, he went back to looking like a pile of dung contained only by his shirt, from which a man poked out the sides. "The King has too many tasks to see to to pay such close attention to far-flung settlements as we may like, but his presence alone and the might of his army keeps those cowardly dogs hidden away. The Varden do not dare attack you, for it would mean their annihilation."
Eragon wanted to challenge him. He wanted to throw the treatment of magicians in his face and see how the obese tax collector responded, fat off the hard work of Carvahall. But it would only draw suspicion. To him, and maybe to Harry as well.
"You ask for a lot of food and gold for a threat that has failed to materialize," Fisk suggested. The carpenter scooped mashed potatoes into his mouth. "We have never had problems with- well, anyone. No dastardly Varden attacks, no secret sabotage, the last Urgal to attack the village died decades ago." he gestured up at the stuffed, horned Urgal head hanging over the heart. "By the hands of Morn here."
"It was a group effort," Morn ducked his head. "And the beast gave me a nasty scar. Though it's in a rather unseemly place. I'd show it, otherwise."
Fisk laughed. "Mighty and Modest Morn." he raised his tankard.
"The Urgals fear to crawl from whatever dark holes they live in for the presence of the Empire and its army," the thin man tried. "They do not dare tread in these western lands." Eragon snorted loudly. The thin one honed in on the noise. "Have you something to say, boy?"
"The Empire lost half its army in the Spine," Eragon said, clear enough to make his voice carry. "And never went into the Spine again. I'd say it was the other way around."
The thin one ducked his head. The fat one reddened. "You allow your children to speak to their elders without permission?!" he blustered.
Eragon rolled his eyes at him, and made sure he saw. "Your friend asked me. And I think folks of any age can contribute to a conversation. I am not afraid of what others have to say."
That made him even more furious. "What's your name, boy? Where do you live." Eragon kept his mouth shut. "I am ordering you to tell me," he snarled. The other villagers in the tavern stilled. Eragon rose from his chair. "Teimon, grab him."
Eragon dashed around the two of them before either could disentangle themselves from their chairs. He reached the door well before either of them had even left the table. He opened it and composed himself. Running would only draw the attention of the other men. He walked briskly and beneath the notice of everyone else, turning twice into the alley between the tavern and the inn, then again to dash between the backs of two houses while nobody could see him. He emerged on the other side of the row of buildings, headed briskly for the outskirts of town.
There was some cursing and a couple of Empire men halfheartedly looking, but Eragon always ensured he looked supremely uninterested in them when they walked past. He passed near Gertrude's house on the way out, planning to make for the nearest edge, head into the hills and forests, and get back home while out of sight of any path the tax men might take.
A young man was at Gertrude's, talking with her on the porch, peering inside. "I don't see why I can't just give you all coin like last year," Gertrude grumped.
The young man gave an apologetic smile. "Not all herbal remedies grow everywhere in the Empire. I'm instructed to look for uncommon medicinal plants, such that gold might not buy elsewhere." The man walked into Gertrude's home without invitation. The healer spluttered.
"A great glass flask," the young man wondered, holding up Harry's magic cure for sickness. "What is so precious to keep inside?"
"The Hermit's cure," Gertrude crabbed. "Harry made it. I gave him some mint, valerian, and lemongrass. He lives in the Spine, only comes down every other month or so to buy necessities. It helps with the cold."
"Then this shall be his tax burden," the young man decided. "You may instruct him to replace it free of cost." he collected a few other packets from Gertrude's home. "Thank you for your cooperation. Would you say this Hermit's Cure is efficacious?"
Gertrude eyed him suspiciously. "It works, I suppose. Why?"
"Nothing," he dismissed. "I merely wondered if it had any value."
He headed back to the middle of town leaving Eragon a bit bothered. He could not nail down exactly why. Once he was out of sight, Eragon stepped from his hiding place between two houses.
"Eragon," Gertrude noted. "Why were you hiding?"
He winced. "I put some rude questions to one of the Empire's men in Morn's. They're looking for me, but not that hard."
She sighed and pulled the door to her home closed, grousing frustratedly. "It is foolish to antagonize them. We can curse their names once they're gone. Please don't cause trouble."
Eragon gave an empty promise that he wouldn't and set out for home.
He took a long and circuitous route that he was sure would keep him away from any watchful eyes. Something about being chased made him a lot more worried than he ought to have been. Now that he had something to hide, extra caution seemed prudent. If they caught him and somehow found out he was a magician, well… Eragon tried not to think about it. It was nearly evening when he emerged from the forest behind the farm.
The sun was setting when he crossed the field to the house. The deadbolt on the door was latched. Eragon knocked.
"Who's there?" Garrow asked harshly. The door remained shut.
"Eragon."
Garrow peered through the shutters. "Thank the gods," he sagged. He unfastened the deadbolt and hurried Eragon inside. "What foolish thought possessed you to antagonize the tax collectors?"
Eragon growled. "He asked me. He said without them, Urgals and the Varden would overrun Carvahall. His friend asked me if I had something to say when I laughed. I told him the Empire was more scared of the Spine than it was of them."
Garrow rubbed his face with an open palm. "Eragon, you know why you shouldn't speak. We are very fortunate they put you down to being a disobedient child. You're old enough now that I worried… But you are safe now."
Eragon sensed there was more. Garrow was still frustrated, but not at him. "What happened?"
Garrow gestured at the cellar bitterly. Eragon went down the steps into the cool underground room. He gasped in outrage.
The storage room had nearly been picked clean. It had been full to bursting when he left, boxes and bags of food from the harvest. Now, only a single crate stood mockingly in the middle of the dirt floor. Eragon growled. It would have been less insulting if they'd just taken everything. What was inside was less than what they might find in a pantry.
"The Empire appreciates our contribution to the war," Garrow chewed out.
"Those flea-bitten dogs," Eragon swore. "What a bunch of pathetic sacks of shit. Thieving curs. This can't be legal!"
"Mind yourself," Garrow barked.
Eragon held his tongue. It took great force of will to keep the many foul things he wanted to say about them between his lips. "Can we not report them?"
"To whom?" Garrow asked humorlessly. "And who would do it? You cannot risk it. I'm no traveler."
Eragon cursed again.
"It's not as bad as you think," Garrow calmed him. "I managed to hide your stone. We can sell it and be well off for the winter. This will be enough to make it until the traders come."
"The villagers will think us fools, selling all our food and then begging for more." Eragon felt the embarrassment already. Sloan would never let them hear the end of it. "We could ask Harry."
"That is the one thing we cannot do," Garrow shook his head. "Hiding coin from the tax collectors may be overlooked. Those men will expect us to gnash our teeth and beg. They will notice if we suddenly find a third harvest worth of food for the winter. And we have naught to pay him with."
"The stone," Eragon pointed out.
Garrow shook his head again. "We can buy our food from the traders."
The traders did not come the next week. It snowed for the first time, the first inch that turned the world to winter. Eragon watched hawkishly out the window until Roran or Garrow bugged him to close the shutters. He saw the tax collectors leave with their extorted bounty.
They did not come the next week, either. At the end of that week, a blizzard came through and dumped a foot of snow over Palancar Valley. Eragon had to climb through the window and shovel out the snow on the porch so they could even leave the house for firewood. The wind had driven it into a thick embankment right up against the doorjamb, where the heat of the hearth escaping through the crack had thawed it into water. The night's plummeting temperature froze the slush solid, freezing the door to the frame. Once Eragon had scraped away all the snow he could, Roran gave the door several powerful kicks to get the thing open.
"What if they don't come this year?" Roran wondered. "I would not like slogging through that blizzard for miles, just to trade with a far-flung village."
"They will come," Garrow murmured.
They began to ration their food anyways. They ate small meals and went to bed hungry each night. Garrow counted their coins several times, laying each metal disc out and tallying them all up meticulously. There was a lot of gold there. But the hunger gnawing at Eragon's belly told the old adage; you can't eat money.
The whole time, the beautiful stone weighed on his mind. All he had to do was take it into the village. Someone would be willing to buy it. As much as he hated the idea, it was easier to survive on meat than wheat, and Sloan always had extra on hand.
He could not wait forever for traders that may never arrive this year. If nothing changed, they were going to run out of food, and Garrow refused to even consider letting Eragon go to Harry for food. So one morning, Eragon packed the stone and set out without saying a word.
Sloan's doorbell chimed as he pushed inside.
"The mighty hunter returns," Sloan sneered. Ouch. He was already in a bad mood. "What great kills have you deigned to grace us with?"
"Nothing," Eragon bit out.
"Then get out," Sloan snapped without looking.
Eragon ignored him and set down his pack. "I don't have meat, but I can trade for it." He withdrew the lustrous blue gem. It was a deep sapphire, its facets flashing in the light that came through the windows. Shot through with veins of whitish blue, even if it was not a gem, its beauty alone would fetch a high price.
Sloan's demeanor flipped in an instant. "Where did you get this?" Greed shone in his eyes. He picked it up and hefted it.
"It doesn't matter," Eragon said. "I found it." Did Roran really know what he was getting into? He would loathe to be bound to this man by familial ties. Even the minute they'd been speaking was too much Sloan for him. "How much will you give me for it."
"Stole it, more likely," Sloan muttered under his breath. Eragon clenched a fist.
The butcher straightened up. "I can offer you three crowns for it."
"What?" Eragon demanded. "You and I both know it's worth way more than that!"
Sloan sneered. "I need money. I do not need a shiny stone. If you want more for it, wait for the traders. Otherwise, get out of my sight."
Fuming, he stuffed the stone back into his pack. "Out of curiosity, where did you…'find' it?"
"The Spine," Eragon answered without thinking.
"Get. Out."
Eragon hurried away, thinking all sorts of uncharitable things about the butcher. The door to his shop slammed behind him. Horst crossed his path soon after. He should have known better than to mention the Spine. All the time he spent there and the familiarity he had with its trails and trees made him forget; Sloan's wife had died in the Spine. Fallen over Igualda Falls. Since then, he vehemently hated anything to do with or with its origin in the Spine.
"What happened? I heard slamming." Horst had a bundle of cloth between his arms. The heads of metal implements stuck out one side.
"Sloan," Eragon said shortly. "Doesn't want to sell to me because I brought this to trade from the spooky scary Spine," he mocked.
Horst palmed his beard. "He's not had a problem accepting your kills before, has he?"
"No." Eragon withdrew the stone to show Horst. "It wasn't an animal. I found this in a clearing."
Horst's eyes widened. "I see. Now you'll wait for the traders?"
Eragon nodded.
"Why were you trading with him in the first place?" Horst wondered. "If I'm not prying. I thought you all did very well this harvest," he winked.
A spike of shame came over him. "The tax collectors took out their anger at me on our cellars."
"Ah," Horst said. "The Empire are not people to toy with. Do you still want to buy from Sloan? I can be persuasive, if need be."
Eragon grinned. As much as he wanted to see that, he shook his head. "We'll be fine to wait for the traders. Thanks though."
"Of course."
If they ever get here. Eragon decided he would wait one more week. If the traders didn't arrive in the next week, he would go up to the castle, Garrow be damned. He would not starve to death over pride, not when it cost Harry nothing to help them through the winter. And he could pay him back, too. He was a magician. He could work for the wizard over the summer. And if that was what Eragon wanted for himself too, well, all for the better.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," the woman snapped. Harry had taken to calling her Morgan, but the spirit never answered to the name, and only gave her attention when he used a pronoun that ascribed her no identity at all. "What are they teaching you that you do not know this?"
"Pretty sure they expect us to just buy a book with this stuff in it if we need it." Harry floated high over the mountains on his broomstick. In the daytime, Morgan was hard to see. Harry knew Brom could be watching from somewhere in the Castle, but Morgan had sworn that he could not see her. Not unless she chose to make herself known to him.
"I just don't understand why I need a big chunk of rock to cast spells on. Why can't I just throw them over the castle itself?"
"You can. There are advantages and disadvantages to this. Anchored wards provide a single point where they can be modified, and can be more easily empowered. They also represent a single point of failure, but this is immaterial since you are casting it over a castle and can hide it in your latrine pit."
"Chamber of Secrets," Harry corrected. "What about not doing it that way?"
"Ephemeral wards are weaker in specific points, but stronger as a whole. The distinction hardly ever matters. And if you intend to be able to adjust your magic after it's cast – as I would recommend if you are protecting something as public as a castle – then you will have to tear them all down to recast them each time you want to change something. I should point out that someone as squeamish as you might not enjoy that."
"I told you, I am not killing anyone for this." Morgan was all too comfortable with the prospect. It hadn't even occurred to her that Harry would need a victim; that was a technicality to her, and Harry suspected she would be totally comfortable with murdering the next person to cross her path if she felt like sacrificing their life would benefit her.
Morgan sighed. "The most powerful necromancer in existence and he won't kill one repugnant person to empower defenses that will last a millenia. You are going to be a useless necromancer if you cling to this."
"That's okay, because I don't intend to become a necromancer," Harry said airily.
Morgan laughed. It sounded wicked and mocking. "Too late. You took that title when you summoned your parents in the other universe."
Harry wasn't sure Morgan was a very safe person to call, but she was the only one who ever answered when he turned over the Resurrection Stone. Of course, he never spoke any names when he did so. Only she seemed to not need to be called to cross over.
He dove. The wintry air whistled in his hair. The top of the mountain raced towards him. He yanked the broomstick up and jumped into the snow. It was fluffy and his boots sank to his knees in it. Harry kicked around for a minute, enjoying winter's gifts. A silly grin stretched his lips. He packed up a snowball and chucked it through Morgan's transparent form.
"Are you done playing like a child in the snow?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "You're dead, what do you care? And what do I care? What's wrong with having a bit of fun?"
Morgan crossed her legs and sat on the air a few feet off the ground. "Wasted time always gets its revenge."
Harry scoffed. "Enjoying myself when there's no pressure doesn't translate to a future time crunch."
She tilted her head. "The opportunity cost of playing in the snow may mean the discovery of your castle before it is protected. However small the chance, it is never zero, and fate likes to mock the flippant."
Harry shook his head. What was the point of being a mighty necromancer if all his life consisted of grasping for more power? He had his independence. He could enjoy himself, and so he would. Without Voldemort looming over his head, Harry had no devoted enemies. Well, none except for the King, who didn't even know he existed. It was liberating to not be looking over his shoulder for Death Eaters, wary that some random person might be a Snatcher. It made it much easier to trust people when danger was far away, out of sight and out of mind.
He got back onto his broom and floated back a few feet, then jabbed the Elder Wand at the snowy mountaintop. "Ventus!"
A blast of wind stripped the snow away in an instant. The gust howled like a thousand wolves. Harry sustained the spell, forcing the driving wind to erode away the ice crusted over the tip of the mountain.
When it was clear of debris, Harry floated down and made a vertical slash. His cutting charm sheared off the top five feet of the mountaintop, a rocky pyramid a bit shorter than he was.
"Should I shrink it?" Harry asked.
"Superstition," Morgan scoffed. "Working minor magic on it will not make it as unsuitable as conjuring it. The shrinking charm is superficial."
They flew back to the castle. Harry floated through the window he'd left open and navigated through the halls to the first-floor bathroom. He floated over the sinks and plunged down the tunnel to the Secret Chamber. Morgan's ghostly form illuminated the stone tunnel with Patronus-light. Harry wondered if Brom would be able to see the illumination she casted, even if she was invisible to him.
The sloping tunnel ended in a vast stone room. Harry was rather proud of it. Morgan thought it was cool too, even if she refused to say it. He could see it in her grudging respect. Harry hadn't gone in for the snakes and giant statue of himself. He hadn't even put up dozens of gaudy lion statues. His Chamber was an enormous circle with pillars around the outer edge. The stone ceiling had the same enchantment as he'd been trying to get on the Great Hall, except Harry had managed to tweak it to always show a nighttime view, even in the daylight.
The velvety purple ceiling was speckled with countless tiny points of light. Beneath it, a scaled-down replica of the castle covered a great circle in the floor. Harry unshrunk the sheared mountaintop and carefully levitated it into place, completing the model. With a bit of tweaking, it looked just like the real mountain outside, scaled down.
"Now what, the protean charm?" Harry wondered.
"If you must use an incantation," Morgan wrinkled her nose. "The protean charm was stolen from Byzantium during the time when the Greeks and Egyptians mixed. Your romanized form of magic adapted the Egyptians' sympathetic magic for binding two similar things together. Do it right, and this model should change as you change the castle."
Harry stood for a while, fixing the exact details of what he wanted the spell to do in his mind. The replica had been built in the exact image of the castle above. This spell would only extend that. Two identical things were linked on more than a superficial level. All he was doing was formalizing the link, backing it up with magic, and letting the spell hold the two castles together.
"Proteus!"
Harry felt his strength surge through the wand like a hose, sucking power through the straw in his hand. The effort ended a moment later.
"Did it work?" Harry asked. "There was no flash or anything."
Morgan rolled her eyes. "True magic does not need to be adorned with bangs and sparkles. It does not need to be admired by the uneducated. It is beautiful for what it does, and that is enough."
Harry peered closer. His current iteration of glasses weren't perfect, but they were getting better. He grinned. It worked.
The rough details he'd sculpted with magic (and no conjuration) had filled out. The oversized tufts of real grass he'd transplanted had shrank to the right scale. The smooth stone he'd stenciled in had changed into real bricks to mirror the ones outside. The crude model had become an exact, live duplicate of the castle above.
"Do you think there's a model of the model inside?" Harry wondered. "And a model inside that one, too? If it's perfect, shouldn't it go on forever?"
"If you want to ponder useless questions all day, you have no further need of me." Morgan unfolded her legs and stood on the ground.
"Killjoy," Harry muttered. "Which wards were we going to do?"
Morgan smirked. "If you make a habit of letting me think for you, you will have only yourself to blame for whatever happens next."
Harry scowled. "I meant to use Protego Totalum, Salvio Hexia, and Cave Imicum."
"Do you know what those spells actually do, or are you parroting the ones your witch friend used?" Morgan raised a brow.
"Parroting," Harry admitted shamelessly. "What's the problem with that? They worked for her."
"They are individual spells, designed to be cast over a campsite or residential home," Morgan corrected. "And they cannot accept empowerment by sacrifice. Not without ritualization, at which point you may as well use the proper rituals."
"Will you teach me them?"
Morgan smiled.
"Why?"
"Why does it matter?" Morgan traced the gummy chalk circles. Harry was still sour about having to give so much blood to make it. But since he was the only magical reagent he had, his blood was the only option.
"I'm not about to do a ritual I don't understand that a dead person who won't share her name told me to do." Harry said hotly.
Morgan smiled. "You're learning. Rituals are much less cut and dry than Roman magic." She made a face. "A wand is to stencils as a ritual is to calligraphy. This is art, and the best way to proceed is the way you feel is right. The chalk is just a way to tell your magic what to take. You know what you want the magic to do. All the rest can be things you associate with what you intend to do, symbols to reinforce your desires; there are few wrong answers in ritual magic."
"But this exact layout and these exact ingredients are just better?" Harry wondered. The way she had him place everything and draw all the symbols, it felt pretty rigid.
"It's the best casting I ever got out of this ritual, and you already know what you want it to do."
"So what do they all mean?" Harry pointed at the piles of stuff around the circle.
"The shield should be explanatory. Blackthorn for protection, boxwood for stoicism, oak for sturdiness. And of course, the pig for sacrifice." Morgan bared her teeth in a savage grin. "The runes are for protection, defense, safety, and the like."
Harry shifted. He was uncomfortable with the idea of killing anything, and by his hands, too. Using magic to do rituals was a big no-no. Harry was lucky he'd been able to get his hands on a real set of clothes from Carvahall, else he'd be doing this naked. His crudely-forged dagger was prepared, and the pig was tied to its spot in the circle with rope from the village.
"Fine."
Harry went back over the long incantation. It was unnecessary, but vocally spelling out exactly what the ritual ought to do was yet another way to ensure he got exactly the result he expected out of it. "Protego Totalum," he started, feeding a bit of magic into the linked model. The first spell was just to get the magic flowing, a generic protection ward. Rather than the spell finishing over the model, the bloody chalk lit up a fierce white. Morgan hovered outside the circle and waited.
He began reading the words to the incantation aloud, spelling out the protections the walls, castle, and grounds would enjoy. He detailed aloud that the castle walls should be protected against siege engines, curses, and magic from the outside. He laid out spells for the upkeep of the castle, that the stone should be warded against breaking, wearing, and crumbling. That enemies should find no purchase climbing the walls, storming the gates, or flying over the top, no matter the mount. He forbade anyone from scrying the interior, from mapping its location, and from spying with magic from outside.
This and more, he spelled out in exacting detail until his voice went hoarse, walking through clauses and exceptions, leaving himself loopholes and granting exceptions for residents. At the end, he approached the pig. He'd known it for months, fed it in the barn enough times to be attached, and very much did not want to kill it.
According to Morgan, this was ideal. The more it hurt to sacrifice, the stronger it would be. The pig must have seen something in Harry's eyes, because the normally docile animal began to struggle against its leash. Harry clamped it between his knees and drew the dagger across its neck.
Its panicked squeals turned quickly into gurgles and before long, the pig was dead. Before his eyes, the corpse turned to ashes and dissolved. The glowing blood-chalk glowed even brighter, glaring brilliantly and forcing Harry to cover his eyes. He felt a rising surge of power. The chalk grew so bright through his eyelids that he was sure if he'd had them open, he'd be blinded.
Some indescribable thing rushed past, like a gale of wind that passed right through him.
He opened his eyes.
"Wow."
Morgan was smiling. For the first time, Harry didn't think it was a mean-spirited or cruel one. He'd seen it on his teachers' face, right after he mastered something incredibly challenging. Remus wore it when he first managed the Patronus charm. Dumbledore had had it a few times as well.
The air around the mini-castle glittered. A translucent dome covered the entire thing, starting at the walls. Like a giant soap bubble. The model had sharpened even further. The grounds were now covered in snow, and tiny flakes drifted down from the sky like a snowglobe.
The inside of the Secret Chamber had also been…upgraded. There was no other word for it. It was like something had come along and perfected all the stone, pillars, and arches he'd put together. If art was an unending attempt to refine reality to fit with his vision, the Secret Chamber had been finished. The stone was more lustrous, shot through with veins of glittering silver and shaped together in a way that flowed, better than he could capture with his amateurish architecture skills.
"Does this usually happen?" Harry managed.
Morgan nodded. "The magic you cast is aligned with your desires. When so much of it is in one place, it tends to spill out and make things better. However you define the term."
"That magic seemed rather adorned with sparkles and bangs."
"You are insufferable."
"They're here!" Roran nearly knocked the front door off its hinges in his enthusiasm. He brushed the snow off himself. Eragon and Garrow were playing the finger game to pass the time. "The traders. In town."
Eragon leapt to his feet, stretching. "Finally," he exclaimed. "I win. Thirty-seven to thirty-five." Garrow grumbled but conceded defeat and stood from the table.
Eragon went to hitch Birka to the wagon while Garrow prepared everything. When he got back, Garrow offered him a swaddled bundle. "Keep it hidden," he ordered. They set off straight away.
Birka struggled with the snow-covered path. It was visible only by the shadows in the snow the indented road left. Garrow had her go slow, and Roran and Eragon walked behind her. Despite the slog, they were all in good spirits.
The village felt the same way. It was more full than any other time of year. The traders had set up their stalls and kiosks along the main square. Children of both the traders and Carvahall played with the kids they only saw once a year. Gold and goods changed hands at a spirited pace.
Garrow handed the both of them some coins with instructions to have fun. "I shall find you when I'm finished, and we'll speak to Merlock."
Eragon nodded and went among the traders. They were different from last year. Warier. Everyone kept weapons close to hand. Even the women carried dirks or rapiers at their sides, and kept a sharp eye out for their children.
Nonetheless with money to burn, there was always fun to be had. Eragon bought himself sticks of maple candy the traders made in front of him with hot syrup and a panful of snow. He sat and listened to a fiddler making merry music, sat for the new tales the traders' storyteller had, got a warm lunch from Morn's tavern, and chatted with the other villagers his age. The stone in his pack never left his mind.
Eragon saw Horst haggling with another metalworker at his forge. The trader kept expressing interest in a metal sculpture of a bird that Horst was unwilling to part with.
Garrow came to get him while he was looking at some beautifully crafted arrows that looked about the right size for his bow. "I sent Roran home with the food. We should be quick."
Eragon got up and followed him down the rows of tents, horses and wagons. Woodsmoke from their campfires cast a pleasant aroma over the temporary market.
Merlock was a man on the cusp of being old. Except rather than embracing it as Brom had, he seemed to be locked in a fight with it, and did everything else he could to appear as a dashing young man. There was a small crowd in front of his tent, where he was showing off his wares with flourishes of showmanship Eragon thought were a bit cheesy.
"A trinket for your little lady?" Merlock suggested to Loring, the cobbler. He grinned but shook his head. The gold merchant tucked away the wrought golden brooch. "Too much, perhaps. You've a subtler taste. This comes all the way from Belatona. It's true, a little known jeweler. Got it for a song, one of his best pieces." He drew out a pair of earrings in the likeness of little birds, clutching tiny gems between their feet.
The villagers ooh'ed and aah'ed over a rose made from hammered rose gold with rubies nestled in the center of its blossom. Merlock fed off their enthusiasm, attempting to woo Loring into parting with a large sum of coins.
Garrow stood on the fringe of the group with Eragon until Merlock was done and his purse, a fair bit heavier, Loring's the lighter. The merchant had been resting after closing a deal. The moment he caught sight of them, he was ready to go again, all big smiles and flourishes. "Trinket for a lady? Perhaps a curio for your home?"
"We're looking to sell," Garrow said firmly. The salesman vanished from Merlock.
"Of course," he said. He placed his wares in a heavy ironbound chest and locked it tight. A mischievous part of Eragon was tempted to practice alohomora on the lock. Merlock beckoned them back to his tent, which was rather finely appointed. The man was certainly successful at his job. Dyed rugs with gold tassels told half the story, the other half from the way all of his things were craftsman pieces, not the cheap stuff from a local tradesman.
"May I see the piece?" Merlock sorted through another chest for jeweler's glasses and a handful of other tools.
Garrow nodded to Eragon. He withdrew the wrapped bundle and handed it to Merlock. The trader unwrapped the stone, breathing out softly. He examined it from every angle, peering through his lens at the facets, tracing the veins, hefting it in his hand. He tapped it with a few different tools, weighed it, then sat upright.
"I have never seen something like this. Where did you say you got it?" Merlock asked.
"The Spine," Eragon answered.
Merlock muttered under his breath. "Like this? Nature never polishes a stone so smoothly. And it's hollow. Odder still, this is the hardest stone I have ever encountered. Harder even than diamond."
"People say the Spine is weird and unlucky," Eragon shrugged.
Merlock fixed him with a stare. "Do you know why we were so late this year? The roads have been dogged with misfortune. Banditry is on the rise, most towns are taxed to the breaking point, and the smallest settlements are vanishing off the face of Alagaesia. Traveling is not safe right now."
"Do you intend to wait out the winter?" Garrow asked.
Merlock huffed. "No. We're too big a group to bother. But certainly, not everyone who was here last year is here now." He tapped the stone. "What were you hoping for out of this stone? I would be willing to trade for some of my pieces."
"Just gold," Garrow insisted.
Merlock quirked his lips. "I've got plenty of gold. Most of it's in pretty shapes, though." Eragon rolled his eyes. The merchant sighed. "You won't like my answer."
"You won't buy it?" Garrow asked.
Merlock waggled a finger. "I didn't say that. Only that if you are expecting a windfall before you head home tonight, you'll be disappointed. I have never seen something like this, and it is beautiful. Those two things together always mean that somewhere, there is a rich idiot who'd pay piles of gold for it. I could pay you a paltry sum and try to sell it later, or I could take it with me and bring back the gold it fetches next year, minus my cut."
Eragon sagged a bit.
"Thank you for your expertise," Garrow said. "We'll consider it."
Merlock bowed. "My pleasure. And if you need other fancy baubles-"
"We'll find you," Eragon agreed.
They headed back out into the market. Garrow patted his shoulder. "We got plenty of food for the winter, and plenty of seed for the spring. We can afford to be patient. Go have fun. I saw Harry here earlier, you might still be able to find him."
"You didn't tell me?" Eragon demanded.
Garrow crossed his arms. "I'm telling you now, aren't I?" But he was smiling. Eragon squeezed out a quick goodbye before dashing off to go find Harry.
He danced on his tip-toes to see over everybody, craning his neck to see between people. "Where are you going?" Brom grumped. Eragon flailed to stop himself from running into the man.
"Looking for Harry. Have you seen him?"
Brom puffed a bit of smoke from his pipe. "Gertrude's," he grunted. "Selling, last I saw. That was ten minutes ago. If you're quick, you might still catch him. He was trying to convince her to vouch for his cures to the traders. And he had beeswax. Fancy that." The storyteller winked.
Eragon rolled his eyes in exasperation, running off once more to find the healer's house. Gertrude and Harry weren't there, but he got a villager to point him yet again in the right direction. He caught up with Harry and Gertrude back at the lane of tents, speaking with a withered old woman with frazzled grey hair.
"You'll vouch for this?" the trader asked, holding a flask up to the light. Eragon recognized it as the blood replenishing potion Harry had developed.
"I can tell you that all the rest of his cures have worked," Gertrude explained. "The cough cure, the cold cure, the burn ointment, they all worked very well. I haven't had cause to give this one as often, but the one man I offered it to said it made him feel much better after losing a lot of blood to a deep cut."
The trader popped the cork and sniffed the fluid. "What's in here?"
"A bit of this and that," Harry evaded. "There's a lot of stuff in the Spine if you're willing to look. I test these on mice and cows, then myself before I sell them. Give this after a lot of blood loss and it will make them feel stronger. It's good for vitality."
The medicine woman gave him a calculating look. "I'd be the queen of fools to buy this on your word at full price. I can offer half."
"Ninety percent," Harry countered. They haggled for a bit before Harry collected a handful of coins.
"Eragon," he exclaimed when he caught sight of him. "I couldn't find you when I got here an hour ago."
"We were with Merlock," Eragon agreed. "Selling in his tent."
"Isn't he the jeweler?"
"He doesn't make them, just trades them," Eragon explained. Harry nodded. He turned back to Gertrude.
"Thank you for vouching for me. I appreciate it."
Gertrude waved him off. "You do good work. I just told the truth." Harry grinned and beckoned Eragon to follow him.
"I don't even know what to buy," he told him lowly. "A lot of this stuff, I can conjure or otherwise get my hands on for free. I was actually thinking of buying some carpets, if I could find any. And maybe some clothing. It's a lot harder to enchant stuff conjured from nothing. I minted a load of silver coins, but I'm wary of spreading them around too much and drawing attention."
Eragon pointed him back down the row of tents. "I can help you find the right traders. Maybe only spend a reasonable amount per trader, so no one person notices how much you have."
Eragon helped Harry get his hands on some very nice leather gloves and boots. The gloves had velvet linings and sewn gold thread in celtic knots. Eragon thought the gloves were maybe a bit too big for Harry, but the wizard was completely unconcerned. He paid the most gold to that trader. He bought three rugs from another merchant, two simple ones and one expensive one. He bought a tiny amount of a variety of different spices for an eye-watering sum. Eragon winced at the price the merchant had quoted. It seemed ridiculous how expensive it was for such a tiny amount of food.
"Why buy spices when you told me you can get any plant?" Eragon wondered under his breath while Harry arranged his purchases in his backpack.
"They are the biggest pain in the arse you've ever seen," Harry told him. "I did it with peppers. That was enough for me. You have to separate the peppercorns from the plant, dry them, and grind them up. And that's one of the simplest ones. Most spices are impossible to farm mechanically. It's hard to get the spells to work, harder still to automate the processing."
"Shh," Eragon hushed him. "Not so loudly."
Harry frowned. "They can't hear us. Remember muffliato?"
Eragon breathed out. "Right. I had a disagreement with one of the tax collectors. I don't want to draw any attention."
"Did you move up a tax bracket or something?" Harry asked.
"What does that mean?" Eragon knit his brows. "No. They were just angry at me for pointing out the time when the Empire lost half its army in the Spine-"
"-What!?"
"-and so they went to the farm while I was hiding and 'taxed' basically all the food we stockpiled."
Harry's expression darkened. "That's not tax, Eragon. That's theft."
Eragon snorted. "Then they are 'thieving' from everyone, all over the Empire. Ask the traders how people as far as Belatona feel about the Empire's taxes. They take everyone's food and gold, and then they come back and conscript their sons, too."
"For what?" Harry demanded. "There's no war."
Eragon shrugged. "The King thinks there will be, clearly. Everybody's heard about the Varden, no matter how flattering or unflattering they speak of them. But nobody ever sees any of them."
"They don't conscript from Carvahall?"
"No," Eragon laughed. "We're way too small. We can't spare anyone, and we're so far away, the recruiters probably think it's not worth their time to come out here when they can scrape some street urchins off the ground in Teirm or Dras Leona."
Harry grumbled. "This Galbatorix is sounding more and more evil, the more I hear about him."
The levity of their discussion fell away. "Aye," Eragon said quietly. "Brom's going to tell stories tonight. He knows more than I do. We should make sure to be there."
Harry nodded. "He told me that, too. He was just up at the castle, pestering me for more stories. I kept trying to squeeze the big one from him, but he told me tonight. So here I am."
They killed time wandering through the aisles of tents, browsing the wares the traders had on display outside. Harry bought several more things that caught his eye; a cast iron pan, a pot of the same, some gardening tools, and a stuffed stag. They had dinner at Morn's, which was crammed wall-to-wall with people, and sat around a bonfire in the square while the sun set, waiting for Brom to step up.
Roran had gotten back from the farm at some point and was dancing with Katrina to the tunes of the fiddler and a few of his friends. The villagers and traders alike stomped and clapped with the beat, singing along and laughing at the lyrics, the dancers, and the wonderful night. Harry had a strange smile on his face. Eragon examined it when the wizard wasn't watching. He realized what it was with a start. He was beginning to see Carvahall as home.
When the sun was gone and the sky a velvet black, the dancers had sore feet and sore legs, and the fiddler's fingers were red from playing, Brom stepped up to the campfire. A hush fell over the crowd as he began to speak.
"Time marches on, heedless of our petty wishes. What has passed is gone, except in the words and memories of man. Tonight I shall share with you a tale which defines Alagaesia as it is today, yet is all but forgotten by the zealous, censorious efforts of King Galbatorix. So listen closely, and remember well. Tonight, I shall tell you a tale I learned through great hardship and the sacrifice of many things dear to me. Tonight, I shall tell you all of the Riders."
Brom was a fabulous orator. His voice and cadence rose and fell with the story, wistful in some places, angry in others, inspiring in yet more. He never stumbled, paused, or corrected himself. And the story he told stole the show.
"The Dragon Riders were formed thousands of years ago, the resolution to a bloody, vicious war between the dragons and the elves. Their formation is a story longer by far than this one, and thus not one for tonight. But know this; while Dragon Riders watched over Alagaesia, it thrived."
The storyteller's face was illuminated by the flickering tongues of the bonfire, burned low in the night. Its waning heat brought everyone closer to the heat, and closer to the story.
"The Dragon Riders were empowered beyond the ken of petty lords and rulers. They kept the peace. When Shades terrorized the lands, they came to slay them. When war threatened to break out among the races of Alagaesia, they sat at the highest negotiating tables and mediated for peace. They were not just warriors, either. They were explorers, scholars, innovators, and more. And their demise can be laid squarely at the feet of a single man. King Galbatorix."
Brom's voice rose and fell as he described it; a tormented man losing the most important thing to him, his dragon. At the hands of Urgals on a sheet of ice in the frigid north, Galbatorix unmoored from sanity with grief. Returning to Vroengard on a punishing journey on foot, demanding another egg from the Elders to replace the gaping wound in his heart. Spurned, Galbatorix seduced another Rider who helped him murder an Elder and his dragon, steal an egg, and escape the citadel.
"He slew that Rider then too, betrayed without warning," Brom said lowly. "And fled with the egg. He met a Shade then. There has been speculation that Galbatorix first met the Shade after the death of his first dragon. In any case, what happened next is well known. Through blighted and evil magic, Durza and Galbatorix forced the stolen egg to hatch and enslaved it to Galbatorix in a mockery of the mutual bond Riders enjoyed."
"Galbatorix and Durza were not heard from again for a year. He reappeared to seduce another Rider to his side, a young human named Morzan."
A ripple of recognition spread across the crowd.
"Morzan and Galbatorix were subtle at first; they snuck up on and murdered weaker Riders, set ambushes and isolated lone dragons, murdering them and disappearing into the wilderness when the larger Order gave chase. They seduced others to their service, Morzan and twelve other dragon Riders, whom together became known as the Forsworn, chief among Galbatorix's servants."
"They fought like cowards at first, striking out from hiding and vanishing just as quickly. Overpowering individual Riders or small groups, retreating, and attacking elsewhere. But as time went on, their strength grew and them, bolder with it. They took down the mightiest of the Order, Riders who had been alive when the pact was made thousands of years ago, Elders with centuries of experience, and many of the greatest wild dragons to ever live."
Eragon felt some echo of fear grip him as he imagined young, inexperienced Riders mysteriously growing strong enough to challenge the best of the Riders. He imagined his fellows being slaughtered by a group of implacable enemies who gave no reason for their actions, asked for nothing, and merely wanted them dead.
Harry was feeling something similar. He wore a dark, pained look.
"None could stall Galbatorix's murderous rampage. He killed a bloody path across Alagaesia, emboldened and empowered by every victory. The mighty elves fled before him, the dwarves hid in their mountains, the Urgals feared the sight of Shruikan, his black mount." Brom said these things flatly, statements of grim fact. He left no room for challenges, errors, or disbelief.
"Only the humans were spared. Galbatorix seized Uru'baen from the weak human king who made it his seat, only in those days it was called Ilirea. He slew that man and plucked his crown off his corpse. And then he rode with the rest of his Forsworn to Vroengard, the Riders' stronghold."
"What happened there is not well known, for news arrived only on dragonback during a time when dragons themselves feared to be found. What we do know is this; on that day, as far east as anyone in Alagaesia says, a great blast came from Vroengard, loud enough to be heard across the whole of Alagaesia. And after that, no dragons nor Riders returned from the island. None save the Forsworn and Galbatorix himself."
"Those dragons and Riders which were not on Vroengard at the time were hunted, one and all, dragon and Rider, until today. The Forsworn all died out. Morzan was the last of them, and he died all the same. Only a single Rider and a single Dragon still live. Galbatorix and Shruikan in their citadel in Uru'baen. That was one hundred years ago, and to this day he remains."
Eragon laid in bed that night pondering Brom's story. Accepting what anyone told him at face value was foolish. But he trusted Brom, and it answered questions the Empire was not willing to answer themselves. How Galbatorix became King wasn't known. He just was. And where dragons went was also unknown. Until tonight.
He wondered what it would be like to be so pivotal to history. He had no doubt that Galbatorix alone had been responsible for utterly rewriting Alagaesia. Few men could hope to leave deeper marks on the world.
He was grateful to Brom for sharing the story. If the Empire was trying to stamp out that knowledge, Brom had just given the knowledge hundreds of new bearers, none of whom would forget.
Yawning, Eragon glanced up at the stone. The traders were due to leave in the next few days, and with them, Merlock. The merchant would take with him any chance of selling it for some price approaching its true value.
The stone was back on its shelf, twinkling in the moonlight. If it was hollow, what if there was something inside? Would he even be able to get to it, if the stone was harder than diamond?
Was it even worth the trouble?
If Eragon apprenticed to Harry, he would have no need of stones like it. He had a hard time thinking of things Harry might actually need to buy. If nothing else, he could build castles for mountains of gold. Food was not a concern of his.
Nor was it one of theirs anymore, either. Garrow had been able to buy enough food to make it through the winter. No matter how proud his uncle was, Eragon would not be swayed from inviting Harry over and explaining what the Empire had done. He had no doubt Harry would help, even if he wasn't asked. And Eragon could help, too.
Eragon was jolted awake by a loud thud. The stone had fallen off the shelf. He groaned and turned over in his bed, pulling the covers tighter around him to ward off the cold. He had nearly dozed off again when a loud crack came from the foot of his bed.
He pushed his hair back and mashed his face harder into the pillow.
Another crack jolted him back to wakefulness. Eragon growled and got up. If his weird rock couldn't shut up, he was going to stick it outside where he didn't have to hear it. He dragged his quilt around his shoulders like a cape and rolled off his bed.
Eragon groaned aloud when he saw the stone. Cracks spiderwebbed across the blue surface. Merlock probably wouldn't want it now. How the hell did it even happen? It was supposed to be harder than diamond.
The stone gave another crack, like a sheet of ice splitting apart. The cracks grew. Eragon picked up the stone ever so gingerly, praying to avoid the whole thing shattering.
Except once he got it into his hands, it became apparent that there was something inside, and that something was moving.
A shard of the stone gave way at the top, a tiny snout poking through, covered in a translucent film that glimmered in the moonlight from his window. Eragon set the thing back on the ground and let it continue hatching. The snout inside poked away a sizeable chip from the shell and stuck its tiny head out, working with its jaw to widen the hole. It pushed through the opening with the sound of slithering shards being pushed apart.
Eragon breathed in awe.
A baby dragon emerged from the egg.
AN: Long chapter here. I'm getting a bunch of reviews about how this story is following canon, Eragon or Harry won't have a place in the story, x is too strong or y is too weak, Harry needs a dragon, etc. I understand some of you guys want the story to go a certain way, or have worries about its current direction. I want to remind you all that we are not yet out of Carvahall and the story has barely begun.
There's some level of trust required in being invested in a fanfic, especially since it's not complete and you can't skip ahead and see if you still like the direction it takes. All I can say is that no matter how much this adventure changes with Harry's presence, it still has to begin at the start. I have plans for most everything I've introduced so far. You've just gotta wait until we're out in Alagaesia and facing down real problems.
I will reiterate because I don't want readers to go through this fic expecting something that will never happen:
Harry Will Not Have A Dragon.
If you can only enjoy a story if he has one, you might as well leave now. This is going to be the start of a series that involves traveling between dimensions. A dragon is a huge inconvenience to inconspicuous travel, and the only way to part a dragon from its rider is to kill one of them. I do not want to do this, therefore Harry will have no dragon.
It doesn't mean that Harry will never have a companion like a dragon, a deep personal bond like the Rider Bond, or even that he won't have a different mythical pet. But dragons are just too big to bring with you to, say, Coruscant without drawing a lot of attention.
But I do appreciate your reviews all the same. They feed my motivation to write, even if you give me feedback that you didn't like something.