"Why are you flying so high up?"
Emyl grinned. Aupho flicked back her ears beneath them pridefully. A rumble went through her chest. "You only get to see this place for the first time once."
The boy nodded and sat forward, eager to peer through the clouds they flew over.
Without warning Aupho dove. The boy laughed with thrill, wind whistling through his hair. The sky turned chilly and damp as they plunged through the fluffy white cloud. Aupho coasted on stretched orange wings, then tipped the rest of the way beneath the white cover.
The boy gasped.
It was miraculous. A city too big to be real, yet there it was. The buildings were enormous, sized for dragons. The great, glittering gemstone beasts soared between huge arches and enormous doors, drinking at grand marble fountains and lounging on sunning beds attached to more human-sized houses. Mountains sloped up from every angle, forming a bowl of crags around the grand city. From the caves set high in the mountains, the glittering of differently colored scales marked the lairs of wild dragons.
"Welcome to Vroengard," Emyl beamed. Her smile was infectious, and the boy could not help but mirror her grin. How different this was from home! So many people, so many buildings in one place, each one grander than the last, and all finer than any he'd ever seen. He rubbed the back of his purple dragon.
Harry threw off the Cloak. He awoke with a sudden urge to fly. He needed to take to the sky again, to mount a broomstick and head west over the sea until that magnificent place came into view. The urge to be borne on air once more was overpowering.
He shrugged on a bathrobe and walked to the balcony. Throwing the doors open wide, autumn air filled his bedroom atop the tallest tower. Below, the Quidditch pitch beckoned to him.
For a minute, the restless energy in him raced. Then it dwindled and left him tired from being woken so early. Harry kicked back in the lounge chair. The stars were so much clearer in Alagaesia than on Earth. And they were all wrong. Harry wondered what stories they told about them, in Carvahall and further beyond. Yawning, he let his eyes unfocus, further consigning the night sky to blurry points of light.
What would it be like, to go up among those stars? He had never heard it mentioned among the wizards, but it seemed too big an event for even them to have missed. Did they not know of the Apollo missions, when muggles walked on the Moon, before wizards even thought it was possible? Harry tried to imagine what that feeling must have been like.
Stuck in a tiny capsule with three others for days on end, smelly and cramped, like a rat in a can surrounded by the merciless vacuum. But then to step out onto the lunar surface, where no living thing had ever set foot before, and to know that the best of the human race was behind you. Entire new branches of science had been invented, just to get you to the point where you could leave the very first human footprints on a body other than Earth.
Harry wondered if anyone in Alagaesia dreamed of walking on the Moon. They had one too, as big and bright in the sky as Earth's. Perhaps they still did not know the nature of space, that the Earth was a sphere and so was the moon, the Sun, and nearly every other planet and moon. If he was to live forever, Harry thought one day, he would like to.
For now, he would settle for flying again.
"We will need you home for the harvest." Garrow ladled soup into his mouth. "It would be better if you did not take a hunting trip this month."
"The, uh, game will miss me," Eragon mentioned. Since Harry's magic grew them two harvests in a day, they had been eating well all summer, and were poised to be able to feast through the winter, too. The cellar was already full to bursting, and Eragon frankly did not know what they were going to do with their harvest.
"Nevertheless," Garrow said. "This year has been bountiful. We are well stocked, so much of this can be sold when the traders arrive. It is never bad to have savings for unexpected hardship."
"If the Empire's tax collectors leave us anything," Eragon grumbled.
Roran snorted into his soup.
Eragon stretched. "Wish we could ask Harry to do it for us."
Roran's face darkened. "I don't want him around."
"What's your problem with him?" Eragon demanded, suddenly incensed by the unfairness of Roran's mindless ire. "He has been nothing but kind and generous to us."
"He's dangerous," Roran insisted.
"Boys," Garrow warned.
"No, he's not. No more than any other man." If Roran was so determined to make an enemy of him, maybe Harry would be dangerous to him. Why was he so pigheaded about this?
"Boys!"
"No, no!" Roran snapped. "I want to hear this. You think we don't know where you're going every time you disappear into the Spine? You dump all your chores and duties into my lap to go fawn over the wizard!" he made a mocking wiggle of his arms as if mimicking Harry's wandwork.
"Like you don't disappear into Carvahall to make kissy faces at Katrina," Eragon snapped back. "Neither of us have been diligent little farmhands all summer."
"A state of affairs which cannot go on," Garrow said severely.
"We have a surplus." Roran and Eragon's bowls were both forgotten. "We weren't needed. And I only ever left for the day. I don't disappear for a week at a time."
"Who do you think is responsible for our surplus," Eragon asked sarcastically.
Roran reddened.
"Boys!" Garrow cut over both of them. "We will discuss this respectfully, or not at all."
Eragon forced himself to calm down. Levelly, he bit out his piece to Roran. "I would like to know why Roran thinks magic makes a perfectly kind person suddenly evil."
Garrow sat back in his seat with a little 'ah.' Roran went back to his bowl, scraping the edges with his spoon, eyes down at his food. "It's just not- right," he said haltingly. "You've heard the stories. Magicians can do what they want to you, and no skill, strength, or luck is going to save you. It's not right that- that anyone should have such power over another."
"You should know better than to take to heart everything the Empire says," Garrow frowned.
Roran shook his head. "Why shouldn't they be right? I don't believe each and every one of them is evil, but by the very nature of magic being poorly understood, they are right. I have no idea how to defend myself against one. If Harry decided to attack us, that would be that."
Eragon did not like what Roran had said. Harry wouldn't attack them. But more than that, Roran was right.
Garrow picked up his and their bowls. Eragon blinked. Garrow never cleared; that was their chore since Marian passed. "You both can be right. Magicians are dangerous, but they are still people, and nothing about being able to use magic changes a person's identity. Now let us lay this argument to rest and plan our harvest. This is our chance to buy things from the traders we might not otherwise afford. New steel tools, a full barn, and if we are lucky, perhaps a new workhorse."
The business of harvest was never new to Eragon, but always wound up catching him by surprise just how much had to be done. He had a whole year to forget about it every time, after all. As the weeks turned on and the days grew cooler, they checked the different crops, assessing which ones ought to be harvested first, and which ones might benefit from just a few days more growing. They rooted out the weeds for the last time before the winter.
Finally, a week before the first frost, the real work began. All three of them spent dawn until dusk scything the wheat and tying it into bales, pulling up the potatoes and beets, harvesting the oats and barley, and tamping down the dirt for the winter.
When nobody was looking, Eragon got his licks in during the tedious task. A whispered levitation charm to pull a stubborn potato up, a quiet herbivicus to plump up a sad-looking turnip, a warming charm when his hands got chilly, Eragon found ways to keep practicing his skills even though Harry had not visited since Brom pulled him into his house.
They moved through the fields with orderly efficiency, turning the bountiful field into bare tamped soil and piles of saleable produce. Despite his mind being elsewhere, up north in the Spine at the giant castle, Eragon got just as excited as Roran at the pile of food they'd be selling. Always, they had to keep some half of it back to eat themselves over the winter. A full harvest in gold would buy them things they never had the opportunity to get before.
When the fields were empty and Garrow had turned them on less urgent tasks, Eragon decided it was time to make his plea known. The three of them were bundled up in the barn, threshing the wheat from the hay in the barn. The smell of grain filled the air, the swish of beaten hay marked by Birka's quiet nickers from her stall.
Roran and Garrow were chatting about what things they might get from the traders, whether they'd be able to make excuses for their surplus, and when the traders might arrive when Eragon blurted out. "Can you spare me for a week?"
Garrow blinked.
"To go 'hunting,' right?" Roran asked dryly.
Eragon blushed. "I actually would, I swear."
"You hardly bring back food one in four times," Roran pointed out.
"I'm fifteen." Eragon swept the grain into the bucket and got back to his seat. "And that's not unreasonable for a hunter."
Roran shook his head, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips. Since their fight, Roran had been more reasonable about magic. It gave Eragon hope that if his secret got out, his cousin wouldn't suddenly hate him. "All I'm saying is, it would be nice if the hunter actually brought home fresh meat one time."
"Is there a particularly pressing need?" Garrow asked.
Eragon did not have anything urgent, not some spell he really needed to know or a piece of magic he needed the wizard to cast. But… "I haven't seen him since Brom grabbed him and dragged him to his house."
Garrow shook his head. "That storyteller can give a verbal thrashing like none other. You think Brom berated him to stay in the Spine?"
Well, that, or convinced him to leave Carvahall altogether. That was the worst case. Eragon just wanted to check, and he didn't want to be snowed out of the Spine and unable to find out for the rest of winter. If he went now, before the snows, he could make it there and back in plenty of time for the traders. He didn't need to stay a week, he just needed to check in.
"Aye. And I'll bring home food, too," Eragon added on. "Promise. I'll just bring supplies for five days. One each way, three in the Spine."
"We still need to finish the thrashing," Garrow mentioned, but in a tone that suggested it was a problem to be solved, not forbiddance to go to the Spine. "Thrashed wheat sells for much more than the whole bale."
"We can sell some of the stuff in the cellar and thrash this all later after the snows," Roran suggested. Garrow thought for a moment.
"We'll take some of what we have to the village and sell to Carvahall first. I'd rather give business to our neighbors than the traders. Then Eragon will be free to visit the Spine, you'll get to visit your sweetheart, and we'll better know what we need to buy and sell when they come."
Eragon wondered if Birka was awed by Carvahall every time. They almost never took the draft horse to the village, except when they needed her to haul the harvest into town. "You two are always away doing your own things," Garrow remarked, walking with Birka's lead. "It's nice for the three of us to do this together."
An excuse leapt to Eragon's tongue, and he could see that Roran was the same, but he swallowed it and nodded. It was nice. Working on the farm was just that – work. But going into the village as a family was fun.
They passed Baldor delivering a wrapped bundle to Uma's house on the north side of town. The boy whistled when he caught sight of the laden wagon. They'd brought about half their harvest into town. "A good year, then!"
Roran grinned. "Very good."
"Are you hoping to sell today?"
"We're worried about being snowed in when winter comes," Garrow agreed.
He took over from there. Eragon lingered only long enough to know that he was no longer needed, and to leave Garrow to his business. The other farmers caught wind that Garrow was selling, and eager not to be undercut, lit a fire under their farmhands and sons to get their harvest to the square. Before long, an impromptu market had sprung up. Villagers came and went, buying fresh food for autumn feasts and yet more for their winter stores.
Soon money was flowing and with it, good spirit. Morn was press ganged into loaning his great big tables out. The women with reputations as the best cooks were called out to set up cookfires and begin preparing a feast. Even miserly Sloan put forth a few good cuts to the potluck feast.
"Has Harry been around recently?" Eragon asked Baldor. He nodded.
"Aye, briefly. Only Fisk actually saw him, you'd have to ask him."
Eragon thanked him and ran off to find the carpenter. On the way, he passed by Brom. They locked gazes, and the storyteller nodded. What was that about?
Fisk's shop smelled like sawdust. The man had calloused hands and flecks of wood on his trousers and boots. He always smelled like wood, and had a friendly smile.
"Looking for Harry, huh? He was here a few days ago." Fisk set down the handle he was turning on his pedal lathe. "Odd, now that I think of it. He was here hardly ten minutes in all, and no one else saw him. I can't imagine coming all the way down from the Spine for lacquer."
"Lacquer?" Eragon asked.
Fisk brushed the sawdust from his beard. "Aye. He wanted something to seal his woodworking project. If he doesn't have experience in carpentry, I'll eat my beard. It was a broomstick." Fisk frowned. "Fit for a palace. I've never seen a broom so fine."
Harry was a mystery best uncovered at the source. "And then he left?"
Fisk shrugged. "I asked a couple guys. Nobody else had seen him. I'd have thought you of all people would have spotted the man. He had to walk past your farm, didn't he?"
Eragon shook his head. Nobody had been past in the past couple weeks. He would know; he'd been out there for the harvest the whole time, dawn 'till dusk, every day.
"Tell him he's welcome to come back if you see him," Fisk grinned. "He paid very well."
Eragon rolled his eyes. He said his farewells and returned to the town square where the feast was in full swing. Woodsmoke, roasting meat, and baking bread filled the evening air. The day was cool but not cold. Anywhere near a fire was pleasant enough. Laughter and good cheer spread with the wine and good food.
Roran had found a spot away from most others and was eating with Katrina. The butcher's daughter smiled and laughed. Eragon put a few more pieces together. Roran was getting serious about her.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Garrow set down his plate next to him. Eragon sawed through his venison and inserted it in his mouth. Rich seasoning leaked from the soft meat in his mouth, a divine taste he was determined to savor.
"Harry was here," Eragon said around his mouthful. "Briefly, last week."
"He hasn't left, then," Garrow mused.
Eragon snorted. Not likely. "He would not leave," Eragon promised. "Not unless he was chased out." As quickly as his magic could work, he had still spent half a year on it. Harry would not be in a hurry to abandon that over hurt feelings.
"You still plan to visit?" Garrow took a deep breath through his nose, holding a slice of fresh bread beneath. "Mmh. I always forget the pleasure of fresh bread."
Eragon nodded. "As soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, if I can." He gazed back at Roran and Katrina. Sloan had shown up, and the two of them were now trying to look disinterested in each other, just friends.
Garrow hummed. He followed Eragon's gaze, a wry smile on his face. "He's getting serious about her, isn't he?"
Eragon kept quiet, determined not to break Roran's confidence.
He sighed. "Well, he's about that age, isn't he. You are too, I suppose. Anyone you have your eye on, Eragon?"
Eragon blushed and shook his head. He was not lying, either. After Katrina, the next oldest girl in Carvahall was only twelve, and most of the women older than her were spoken for. He could appreciate her beauty, but he was not interested. Maybe when he was older, another girl would catch his eye.
"You're not bothered?" Eragon nodded at Roran. Sloan sat far from him, with a table of sad drunks who were tipsy before the feast started, and had only grown morose since the drink began to flow.
"It's life," Garrow murmured. "As long as he doesn't do anything foolish. And I raised him better than that. I fear what Sloan will say if Roran asks for her hand, though. Mayhaps that is part of why he did not like Harry, and was eager to reap the rewards of this harvest."
His uncle turned to him. "Have you given much thought to the future?"
Eragon had. He had come to the conclusion that he was not interested in living as a farmer for the rest of his life. It was an answer he did not want to give, and he knew Garrow would not want to hear. "I was hoping to apprentice with Harry, actually," he winced.
Garrow ate and drank for a long minute before giving an answer. "Do you understand what that might cost you?" he asked quietly. Eragon looked to him. "If you are found out, you will have no choice but to flee."
A smile crept across his face. "Maybe you should come with me to visit one time. You might get a better understanding of things."
"What, that you wouldn't get found out, or that you wouldn't have to flee?" Garrow pushed. "It only takes a slip, a rumor, a misheard sentence. And while there are places the Empire does not yet reach, they are far from here."
"You should come," Eragon insisted.
"I'm not as spry as I used to be," Garrow avoided.
Eragon shook his head. "Brom's definitely older than you, and he made it just fine."
"Brom is a mysterious man of many talents. I am a farmer."
"It's a memory you'd be glad to have," Eragon grinned.
"Mind your uncle, boy," Garrow said, but he was smiling fondly. "Maybe."
When it began to grow dark and the feast had petered out, Eragon fetched Roran and made for the wagon where Garrow was already astride Birka. They had changed their harvest for coin which jingled at Garrow's belt. Since the wagon was otherwise empty, Roran and Eragon hopped on for the trip back.
The wagon wheels rolled over the rough path to the farm. Birka's hooves crunched on the gravelly surface. Everyone's bellies were full, and with them came the torpidity of a good meal. "Katrina, huh," Garrow remarked.
Roran blushed. "Aye. Katrina."
"Good for you, son."
"Thanks."
Then, after a long pause. "I meant to wait until we got home to mention it. I had hoped you could spare me next spring, after the planting."
"Oh?" Garrow's back rose and fell with Birka's gait, but Eragon sensed he'd raised an eyebrow.
"Dempton was here to order sockets from Horst," Roran explained. "For his mill in Therinsford. He mentioned his last worker left to start a family, and he needs a new one. I thought I would ask him when he comes to pick the sockets up. Save money, put up a homestead for Katrina and I."
"This year's harvest is not enough?" Garrow wondered, patting his purse.
Roran looked at Eragon for agreement. "You know I can't accept that, not for this."
"Aye," Garrow agreed. "Eragon, you are determined to-?"
"We could reverse the arrangement," Eragon offered. "A week here, three there. If you're willing to accept his help with the farmstead. It could be subtle."
Garrow sighed. Roran looked between him and Garrow, confused. "What? Why would you want to leave the farm to go live in a hut in the Spine with a wizard?"
Eragon had to hold in a laugh. If only they knew. He studied Roran's face. He quashed his nerves. Roran would accept him, he knew it. He had to. He breathed out. "I was hoping for an apprenticeship."
"What?" Roran's face contorted in confusion. "Why would you want to apprentice under- a…wizard." It dawned on him then. "Really?"
Eragon craned his head to look out the back of the wagon towards Carvahall. Nobody was in sight. He scraped up a strand of hay from the wooden wagon bed. "Wingardium leviosa."
Roran's eyes were transfixed by the golden thread, twirling in circles in the air. Eragon made it dance around his wrist and over his palm, circling like some writhing snake. It corkscrewed up to his hand where he caught it, looking to Roran.
"Is this- he?" Roran struggled for words. Eragon nodded.
His cousin studied his face. The two of them were getting too old to be riding in the wagon together. They both had the gangly legs of teenagers, though Roran's were starting to look like a man's. Soon the wagon would not fit the both of them so comfortably. "I didn't know. Are you…are you happy?" he asked tentatively.
Eragon nodded.
"Well then I am, too." Roran offered a smile. Eragon grinned.
Eragon hiked his pack up on his back. He would hunt first this time, and he would not leave until he bagged a kill. Garrow waved him goodbye.
He made it up the trail with practiced ease. At the crest of the east side of the Igualda Falls, he took a right and headed deeper into the range, following game trails less disturbed than the one he and Harry took every time, which was now worn into the dirt.
The great stone walls quickly fell back between the trees and Eragon was left alone with his thoughts. It was not long before he was on the trail of a herd of deer. He stalked them, watching through the trees for a suitable target. There was a doe with a broken hind leg; she was doomed either way. Eragon strung his bow and fitted an arrow, two more readied in his boot. Though if he missed the first shot, he was unlikely to get the chance to fire again.
He crept up next to the bush he was using as cover. The oiled bow drew silently, kept in pristine condition. He touched the fletching to his cheek sighting down the arrow. The herd noticed nothing amiss.
A great bang split the forest, accompanied by a flash of light and a searing wave of heat. The herd bolted. Eragon cursed and loosed his shot. The arrow nearly hit. It hissed through the empty space between the neck and chin of his quarry. He'd led his shot too far. He nocked another shot and sent it flying after the herd, but that too struck nothing.
Grumpily, Eragon summoned his arrows to his hand with a muttered incantation. One of the most useful things Harry had taught him was accio.
Striding into the clearing, Eragon went to investigate the source of the blast.
At the center of a sooty starburst lay a pristine blue gemstone.