Saphira circled over the enormous castle walls, looking down at the soaring stone turrets, towers, and gable-roofed towers. Unsafe, she sent. The Wizard is dangerous.
"To our enemies."
No. To us. To me. Defiler of dragon corpses.
Eragon understood. "Just because his people did that, doesn't mean he will. And he would never do that to you. He certainly wouldn't hurt you. Where did you even hear that, anyway? We need to land"
Saphira's ears lay flat against her skull. Your talks with him. Potions, dragon blood. Dragon 'parts,' she sent disgustedly. I am not chattel.
"Of course," Eragon reassured, rubbing her neck. "He won't think so, either."
If Saphira was going to be uncooperative in saving Garrow, Eragon would just have to ask someone else.
Reluctantly, Saphira banked into a spiraling descent. Harry was not flying out by the Quidditch pitch. Nor was he anywhere else in the grounds that Saphira or Eragon could see.
It is different to see with my eyes than through your memories. Saphira let herself drop to the sandy pitch. Eragon scrambled off her back, allowing himself to unclench his legs. The animalistic fear of falling finally receded.
His pants were wet. Eragon knew he had not lost control of his bladder. His pants were darkening with blood. As the shock ended, the pain of his wounds assaulted him. Eragon cried out, staggering against Saphira.
Concern emanated from her. "My legs," Eragon gritted. "Help me to the doors."
The pair of them limped awkwardly up to the giant doors. A pair of suits of armor saluted him from their alcoves flanking the doors. Saphira's talons clicked off the flagstones of the paved landing in the front of the doors. "We need to speak with Harry. It's urgent."
One of the armor sets shrugged. The doors to the castle creaked open.
"Harry!" Eragon called. The Great Hall was alive with floating candles, each one lit and casting cheery light across the giant stone room. Except, there was no one else inside. "Harry!" he shouted again. Saphira craned her neck in an effort to take in the magnificent building.
Eragon frowned. Though the candles were all lit, the hearths on the sides of the Great Hall were empty. He reached for his magic and muttered "Sonorous" under his breath. "HARRY!"
His voice boomed throughout the castle, echoing off the walls again and again. Eragon clapped his hands over his ears until the riccocheting sound abated. He held his breath and listened for a response that did not come. Saphira let out a roar. That too, went unanswered.
"Where the hell is he?" Eragon despaired. "Saphira, please! We have to go back or they'll-" he swallowed. He didn't want to give voice to the fear, lest it be made real. "Or they might kill Garrow."
Saphira shifted guiltily, but he could tell she was not yet moved.
"Why?" Eragon demanded, suddenly angry. "Why have you done this? Flee, if you must. But why force me to follow you in your cowardice?"
Saphira pulled her lips back and growled. Gleaming rows of teeth and hot, humid breath snarled in his face. You know nothing of them. Garrow may escape their notice. You will not."
Eragon grabbed clumps of his hair, hissing as his legs took his full weight again. "You don't know that! Who knows what Sloan told the strangers? They could kill Garrow out of spite for me not being there!"
Better Garrow alone dies than all three of us.
Cold fury settled over Eragon. He closed his mind to Saphira and turned his back, stalking away.
"I would not fly too low."
Harry grumbled. "Why?"
Morgan crossed her arms and said nothing. Sometimes Harry wished someone would answer the Stone's call who was a little more familiar with the area. Morgan obviously hailed from his world and knew almost nothing of Alagaesia. She had only recently mentioned the massive northern bay a few dozen miles northeast of the castle, and by the way she evaded giving any details, Harry gathered she had only just learned of it herself. Yet she knew Mediterranean and UK history better than he did.
"Why are you out here?"
Harry gestured to the sheaf of parchment he was awkwardly handling against the handle of his broomstick. "Map," he got around the wand he was holding in his mouth. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that Voldemort had held the wand at one point.
The Bay of Fundor was too big to see to the other end. It was easiest to visualize as the actual end of Alagaesia, were the northern tip Spine not hemming in the bay. As it stood, the Spine was the only land west of the Bay of Fundor, a giant and mountainous peninsula that jutted north to form the bay.
She sneered weakly. "Why are you really out here?"
"Map," Harry insisted. He slowed his broom and sat upright, about a dozen feet over the rippling blue water. He knew from personal experience that water this far north was frigid. He clamped his legs around the broom and took the wand from his mouth. "Cartometheus. See?" The parchment filled in some more, the borders of the inked in land and water extending to the horizon.
"It's not healthy to deny who you are." Morgan laid down on thin air next to him, propping her head up against nothing and watching the map as his charms continued inking the shape of the bay and its western coastline.
A flare of irritation tugged his brows together. "I'm not going to jump into this campaign. I just got finished with one."
"Of course. Your purely domestic heart longs for a simple life. That's why you've decided to make increasingly ambitious excursions around the Spine. Not in search of adventure, but for the map you desperately need and couldn't get off the storyteller." Morgan put just the right amount of disdain on each sentence. She had recently begun prodding Harry whenever they spoke, dropping hints and trying to lead him to the conclusion that the King needed to go down, and he should be the one to do it. It did not make sense to him; her stake in it was not obvious and even seemed to run counter to her expressed desire that he learn necromancy.
He just…couldn't do it. It was starting to feel like his choice at King's Cross had been onward, no matter the direction he chose to take. The groundwork for another adventure was being laid at his feet, and he was not stupid enough to miss it happening. Brom was too cagey not to be hiding big secrets, Eragon was avoiding him over something that had happened in the autumn, and Harry, well, he had a castle that could not stay hidden forever.
Why shouldn't he procrastinate? Maybe the King would find out, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would and he'd decide Carvahall was too far away to care. Harry could have years of peace he did not intend to throw away on another fight against tyranny. Never mind that Alagaesia was not his country, he knew way too little to commit to a cause.
Adventures weren't all fun, either. They got people killed, people dear to him. They pushed him in ways he didn't want to be pushed, broke boundaries and set trials and crucibles before him that he had no choice but to endure. Harry did not want to get attached and feel the agony of loss again. He just wanted to play with magic, have fun, and maybe see the castle a bit more full with other wizards and witches.
…didn't he?
Morgan seemed to be waiting for something terrible to leap out of the water and eat him, so Harry was a bit careful to stay a dozen or so feet from the wavy surface. He got bored after a while; one could only stare at a big puddle of water for so long before getting bored. He had a vague idea that there was a city on the east side of the bay, a place called Ceunon that Brom had warned him about when he expressed interest in putting together some kind of boat.
Harry had made it a decent way up the west side of the bay when the sun began to fall behind the snow capped mountains. The Bay of Fundor shimmered orange in the sunset. Harry coasted back to the shoreline and set up a little campsite just off the rocks. At some point, Morgan had departed earlier. Harry shrugged and drew his Cloak around him. He pitched a tent he'd bought off the traders on the surface of a flat, rocky finger that stuck out over the water.
Dusk fell and the treeline turned into rows of ominous sentries guarding the mountains that peeked over them, far behind in the distance. Harry spent some time walking along the shore, listening to the thunder of the surf and the trickling splashes of water getting stuck between the rocks at the waterline. The waves were frigid, but the Cloak was surprisingly warm. Despite feeling as thin as silk, the cold stayed away while it was wrapped around him. He left the hood down to breathe in the salty fresh air coming off the sea spray.
If someone happened by him, Harry was amused by the idea that they'd see a floating head bobbing up and down over the shoreline.
He picked his way back to the campsite on the finger, enjoying the challenge of placing his feet properly on the piles of uneven rock. Some wobbled beneath his shoes, others were slick. With his arms outstretched on either side, Harry walked nearly low enough that his toes were dipping into the bay with each step.
At the finger, Harry tried his hand stacking rocks. Some were too big to lift without magic, others were the size of his head, and some were smaller than his finger. Harry heaved smoothed ones from the waterline and hauled them up to the edge of the finger, looking out on the bay. He was a poor rock stacker, but dish-shaped rocks were not hard to find and were easier to stack. His record was nine. After its collapse attempting to add a tenth stone perched on top, Harry reassembled it and left it there by the tip of the finger.
It appealed to him to leave something behind for the next person. Just so they'd know someone else had been there, camped at the same spot.
The thought struck him that he could leave an even more tangible gift for future travelers than stacked rocks. He scraped together a little fire pit out of branches from the forest fringe, then hemmed it in with little stones. Kneeling on the rock surface of the finger, Harry drew the Elder Wand and whispered. "Gu bràth"
A splotch of the whitish-rainbow fire took to the little fire. Harry fed it until it reached the size he wanted, then ended the spell. The rainbow-tongued flames lapped at the air, issuing no smoke but warming his reddened, cold and wet hands.
He hung up his Cloak over a support inside the tent. He wanted true sleep tonight, free of visions.
He went to sleep and had a nightmare instead.
A beautiful woman screamed. She had ears like Emyl, the elf Rider in his dreams. Her black hair was matted with sweat and blood, her expression a rictus of agony. A man stood over her with an iron implement, its tips glowing orange. His face was papery-white, pulled so tight his skull was clearly visible. His eyes and hair were crimson like blood, and his expression was one of perverted glee.
He put the rod against the woman again, keeping the glowing metal pushed against her bare skin even as she shrieked and writhed away from it. He breathed deeply, and enjoyed her screams.
Eragon hissed. He dabbed the warm rag against the inside of his thighs. His ride on Saphira had torn all the skin away where his legs made contact with her sharp scales. The bathroom lights let him see the oozing wounds clearly. His pants were bloodied and piled up in the bathtub full of warm water.
I am sorry.
He had nothing to say back to Saphira. She could not fit inside the bathroom door. She was curled up just beyond, her head peeking through the doorway. Harry was nowhere to be found in the castle. The candles in the Great Hall suggested he intended to come back soon, but Eragon could not very well afford to wait. Every moment he lingered could be Garrow's last. The Empire was not above punishing his family for his transgressions.
"We need to go back." Eragon left no room for argument. Saphira ducked her head. Eragon decided not to press it until he was clean. He pushed himself up over the ledge of the tub with his arms, hissing as he lowered himself into the hot water. It soothed his leg wounds.
It was a painful process to scrub his legs clean with the washcloth, but it had to be done. Wisps of dull pink came away from his legs, the washcloth coming away with scabs caught in the cloth. Once he was clean, Eragon heaved himself out of the tub and toweled off before wrapping his wounds with gauze bandages. He was lucky Harry had left some laying around; the wizard had a spell called ferula that made them from nothing, and Eragon knew he would die if he tried to cast it. Anything that made something from nothing was lethal to him.
The bandages made walking a bit more bearable, but only just. If the castle weren't so damned huge, Eragon would've dragged himself by his arms instead of enduring the shooting pain in his thighs that every step caused. He washed his bloody clothes in the tub as best he could. Scourgify would get them cleaner, but he hadn't the strength to spare on frivolous magic.
Once he was able to get dressed and limp out to Saphira, she allowed him to use her as a crutch, loping along inside the castle hallways. The building had gotten much bigger since he'd last visited. Eragon had to quash his curiosity, leading Saphira back to the doors of the Great Hall.
"It's time to go back," Eragon stated. The night had passed with him worried sick that Garrow would be dead. Though he could hardly bear to go back and see what terrible things had happened in his absence, not knowing was also unacceptable.
Saphira shied away from him. Eragon growled. "I will not stand by while my uncle is killed. If you insist on hiding in this castle, I shall crawl down the Spine myself."
Saphira sat bitterly and let him place himself on her back once more. "Slowly," Eragon gasped as his legs settled on her scales. "Please."
The doors to the Great Hall swung open for them. Eragon's eyes fell on the suits of armor in their alcoves. "Can I borrow one of your swords?" Eragon asked one, a full set of plate with a short sword that looked light enough for him to use. It exchanged glances with its partner, wielding a halberd. The halberd suit shrugged. The first one offered its sword to Eragon. The naked blade had no sheath. Eragon took it up nonetheless. He risked a bit of magic to summon a towel from the dormitory bathrooms.
At first, the spell cost a staggering amount of energy. Eragon was about ready to end it when the outflow of power slackened. By the time the towel came flapping around the corner of the hallway, the price was negligible. I wonder why, Eragon mused.
Distance? Saphira suggested.
Maybe.
Eragon wrapped the sword in the towel and fit the bundle into his pack. "Alright. We can go now."
Saphira struggled to get back into the air. With a pang of guilt, Eragon remembered that Saphira was new to this as well, and very young, besides. With that in mind, it was not so unforgivable that she feared the strangers.
I do NOT fear anyone, Saphira objected after gleaning the thought from his mind.
Eragon let the denial stand, but the tension in her flying was unmistakable as they glided down. The flight back was mercifully gentler than the way there. It was all downwards from the mountains so Saphira was largely gliding, and she wasn't as panicked so there was no frenetic flapping. Even so, Eragon felt the agony of each wingbeat keenly.
The farm came into view. Eragon cried out when he saw what the strangers had done. The barn was destroyed, its wreckage scattered around as if ripped or blasted apart. The house was in even worse shape, little more than a pile of debris over a hole where the cellar had been. The strangers were not visible.
"Go!" Eragon urged. "Land!"
Saphira thudded to the ground, tongue lolling out and chest heaving with exertion. She had pushed herself hard flying with him while so young. Eragon staggered off her back and stumbled to the wreckage. Hot tears squeezed from the corner of his eyes. It couldn't be true. Garrow had given him so many warnings to not make trouble. Because he didn't listen, now his uncle was dead.
Eragon forced himself to pick through the wreckage, supporting himself more with his arms than his legs on the fallen planks and beams. One beam in particular gave a bit when he pushed on it, drawing a sudden gasp.
He dropped to his knees immediately. Garrow was pinned beneath it. Debris covered almost his entire body. Eragon heaved at the beam. His feet sank into the floorboards, creaking alarmingly and yielding just a tiny bit beneath his boots.
"Saphira, help!"
The dragon growled and ripped the beam away. Eragon's chest was tight. If Garrow had cried out when he pushed on the beam, he had to be alive. But for how much longer was the question. He needed Harry, but if he wasn't in the castle Eragon had no idea where else to look.
He pulled his uncle from the wreckage, suddenly not caring very much how badly it hurt his legs to do so. Garrow was covered in nasty burns and breathing weakly, his eyelids fluttering. He moaned in pain when Eragon dragged him.
"I'll never get Garrow to Carvahall in time," Eragon urged. "You have to help me carry him."
They will see me.
"Damn it all!" Eragon shouted. "I don't care."
This may have far-reaching consequences, Saphira pointed out. Eragon could tell she felt guilty enough to do it anyway. It was that which convinced him otherwise. He managed to fashion a sort of litter from some rope he kept in his hunting bag, some boards, and a blanket. Though the structure was destroyed, most of the stuff inside was intact. Eragon noted that his room had been ransacked most thoroughly, though nothing was missing that was immediately apparent. Eragon grabbed his bow and quiver, too. Unlike the sword stuck in his bag, he actually knew how to use his bow.
With some awkward negotiating, Eragon was able to lash the makeshift litter to Saphira, who dragged him on ahead down the path to the village. She'd stop before she was in view and when Eragon caught up, he'd drag Garrow the rest of the way. It was not long before she was out of sight down the path.
Eragon's heart pounded in his throat with every step. His exertions in the ruined house had reopened the wounds on his legs. They were thumping with agony once again beneath his bandages. He took over from Saphira and watched her glide low to the ground and out of sight in the forest.
For such a short distance, every step dragging Garrow's litter felt like a mile. Eragon did not dare look up at the village to gauge his progress. All that existed was the next step. He hardly noticed when the shouts started, nor when Brom came up to him, saying something urgent that sounded miles away. Woozy, he staggered and collapsed into darkness.
Harry hit his head on the top of his tent. There was a being outside, giant arms crossed and waiting for him at the mouth of his tent. With yellow eyes, grey skin, and massive curling horns sprouting from its head, Harry was sure he was about to be attacked. He scrambled back and bumped into the far side of the tent, entangling himself and dragging the canvas down on him.
A ruk ruk noise came from the humanoid. It took him a moment to piece together the fact that it was laughter. He sliced open the back of the tent with a cutting charm and leapt to his feet. The being had stood as well.
They were treated to an awkward moment of eye contact, both standing over the tangled tent. "Who're you?" Harry demanded. "What are you? What are you doing in my camp?"
The being made that ruk ruk noise again, chest rising and falling with the sound of amusement. "Uvek," he pointed to himself. "Urgal. Spotted fire." he gestured back at the Gubraithian fire, still burning merrily as it would be for the rest of eternity.
Harry palmed his face. His heart pounded in his chest. It was a terribly stressful way to wake up. "You're not going to try to hurt me?" he checked. He had his wand ready.
Uvek waved a spadelike grey hand. "Uvek no little ram. Uvek proved himself long ago. Now, Uvek searches for…for…enlightenment." His English was broken and slow.
"Oh." Harry said. "Then why talk to me?"
Uvek gestured at the fire. "Wanted to know of your fire." He pointed at himself. "Shaman. Learning magic."
"Well you could have sat a bit further back. This was not a nice way to wake up," Harry grumped.
Ruk ruk. "Maybe."
Something nagged Harry. "How did you know the fire was magic?"
Uvek's lips twitched. "Did not burn little wood pile for all Uvek watched. Stayed…bright."
That was a concerning thought. "How long were you watching?"
"Long," Uvek confirmed. "Saw you flying with wood stick."
Harry blinked. "You didn't say anything."
Ruk ruk. "Humans hate Urgals. Magicians very dangerous. Not sure of risk. Then Uvek saw magician make Nahagrazh, meditate on Bay of Fundor, was alone-" Uvek shrugged. "New friend worth risk of fight."
That was kind of touching. Harry began to see the Urgal in a different light. Once he got passed the grey skin and yellow eyes, the Urgal did not seem awfully different compared to goblins and centaurs. "Nagr- Negarash- Nahgesh-?" Harry gave up trying to pronounce the strange word. It was like trying to gargle something with an empty mouth.
"Stacked stones," Uvek indicated the little marker he'd made by the edge of the jutting rock pier. "Why?"
Harry shrugged. "I thought I'd leave something for the next person to pass by, so they know they aren't alone."
Uvek's horns bobbed as he nodded. The gesture was a lot more dangerous looking in Urgals than humans. "Then is Nahagrazh. For the next."
"I guess the fire is, too," Harry mused.
Ruk ruk. "You leave for Uvek?"
"For anyone," Harry corrected. The fire would last forever, after all. And it was easy enough to spot the light it cast on the Bay. Hopefully it would draw travelers. Harry liked the idea that he had done something for everyone to pass by in the future. For a night of travel, undetermined strangers would not need to scavenge for firewood or kindle their own fire. Even though they were separated by time, it would be like they were eating at Harry's hearth. It made him happy.
"How long it lasts?" Uvek held his great big palms over the fire, enjoying the warmth as it drove away the early morning chill.
"Forever."
Uvek cast the fire a suspicious look. "Where it gets energy?"
The question stumped Harry. He put his head on his knee and thought about it. He had never considered that question. Magic just- was. "Dunno. All the other fires I've lit like this are still going."
"You feel no cost?" Uvek raised a brow. Harry shook his head.
"None. Is that remarkable?"
Ruk ruk. "How does magician not know? All magic takes energy. Same as with hands."
And wasn't that something. In a sentence, a stranger who barely spoke English had solved the mystery as to why Eragon struggled so much with a seemingly random selection of spells. Harry glanced back at the horizon over the Bay of Fundor.
The sun was rising again. Something about being outside all the time, having all that time to think, it made Harry a lot more introspective. So many thoughts were lost in the scrum of a routine day. Get up, get dressed, brush teeth, go to class, do homework, do Quidditch practice, it all ran together and pressed any deeper thoughts out of his mind. Alone and outdoors, there was nothing else to do but think.
As he shielded his eyes from the glare and gazed towards the sunrise, Harry found his mind gravitating to the true nature of the glorious spectacle he was witnessing. A unthinkably massive ball, spinning in the void as an even more unthinkably huge ball of plasma bathed it in life-giving warmth and light. He could see it in his mind's eye, the line on the planet where night met day, racing across the globe as it turned.
Everything he knew, every living thing, every place, every person, they had all existed on one ball such as this, just a year ago.
Now he knew there were at least two such balls.
It was like seeing for the first time, in a way. The size of existence had just gotten unfathomably huge. Proof that there was more to it than Earth was a staggering implication. Before, it had not been so unreasonable to assume the planet he lived on was the only one there was, the only place with life in the universe, the only plane of reality that existed. Now that he knew there was another, there was no reason to assume there were only two. There were probably uncountable infinite worlds, lives, people, stuff, that it could not all fit inside his head. He was standing on proof there was life beyond Earth. And it looked almost exactly the same. How many other worlds were there that were truly alien, too bizarre for imagination?
Those were his musings as he gazed upon the rising sun.
"We're very different, aren't we?" Harry murmured to Uvek.
He nodded. "But same, also. Arms, legs, head, eyes." He tapped his forehead. "Magic. Mind."
Harry was struck once more by the desire to keep in contact with this total stranger. "If you want to find me again, I live in the castle to the north of Carvahall. Do you know it?"
Ruk ruk. "Not easy to miss," Uvek smiled. At least Harry thought so. The expression looked different on his rougher features. "But few Urgralgra come far north. Uvek has purpose to be here."
"Enlightenment," Harry remembered.
"Yes." Uvek gazed with him out over the bay. "Alone is best for thinking. Uvek listens to wind, sky, trees, birds. Not talking, duties, friends."
Harry raised a brow.
"But one friend is fine," the Urgal amended. "A quiet friend."
He laughed. "You're welcome to visit."
His ears perked up. A squeaking sound, from far away. As it got closer, the noise grew louder and more clear. It was an unpleasant noise, that of tortured metal twisting against itself.
A little metal bird was flapping its way towards him. It beat its wings and alit on Harry's arm, a scrap of paper clutched in its metal talons. Uvek watched this unfold with some detachment. Harry unfurled the note.
It read:
Eragon + Garrow wounded. Garrow dying. Come quick, if possible.
–Horst
Harry was on his feet in an instant. "I have to go."
Uvek nodded to the bird. "Your magic?"
He frowned. "Yeah."
"A good way to communicate," the Urgal admired. Harry got the hint. He summoned a rock from the shore. He had a lot of practice working with stone by now. With a flick, the misshapen chunk flaked away, revealing a little bluejay carved from the blueish-gray stone. Another whisper and the bird blinked awake.
"Do you know how to write in this language?" Harry wondered.
Uvek shook his head. "No, but Uvek knows some who do. Go, wizard."
"Harry," Harry shook the Urgal's hand. He was obviously unfamiliar with the gesture. "Harry…Evans."
Eragon slept fitfully, the current of time tangled in his mind. Nightmares of Garrow, the wrecked house, the strangers, tangled with the urgent voices of Horst, Elaine, and Gertrude. He beheld a dream, as well.
Twenty people on a ship, led by a man and a blue dragon. The river below was flat and lazy, wending off into an endless expanse of rippling grass. An elf with hair as white as moonlight stood by the man at the prow, holding hands. They both looked out at the endless river with eager anticipation. A green dragon circled overhead. The one on the deck keened with all the sorrow of a broken heart. Then the ship cast off.
Wakefulness came slowly at first, then all at once. Pain and guilt had him wishing he could return to even that tumultuous sleep, where guilt could not follow him. Then, fear for Garrow's condition drove Eragon upright.
He was in Gertrude's home, under a blanket and wrapped with fresh bandages. The village healer was exchanging low, urgent words with another figure. Eragon rubbed his eyes blearily. "Hello?"
Both figures turned towards him. It was Harry speaking with Gertrude. "You're awake," Gertrude noted. "Good. How are you feeling?"
Eragon prodded at his legs. The pain was still there, but dull, like tenderness instead of wounds. "Much better." He checked under the blanket. He was naked underneath, save for clean white bandages like Harry used, rather than the ones he'd seen Gertrude bind wounds with. "Did Harry?" He shot the wizard a questioning look. Harry looked meaningfully at Eragon, eyes flickering to Gertrude, and shook his head ever so slightly. She does't know.
Eragon tried to contact Saphira, but she was out of range. All he could glean was that she was safe and bored, but anxious.
"It was like nothing I've ever seen," Gertrude shook her head. "Harry has been holding out on me. The poultice and potion have seemingly done weeks of healing."
"How long has it been?" Eragon asked nervously. "And is Garrow…?"
Gertrude and Harry turned sympathetic. "It's been two days. The night after you got to Carvahall and the whole next day. It's the afternoon of the day after that," Harry explained, very thoroughly. "I hope that answers your question; I always get annoyed when I get knocked out and people leave me guessing. Garrow's alive, but he's in bad shape."
Eragon's anxiety ratcheted up a few notches. "What exactly happened? Can't you-?" He stared at Harry.
The wizard shook his head. "My best efforts have only helped with his superficial wounds. There's massive-"
"That won't help," Gertrude interrupted. "We've both done our best. It's too early to tell how he'll respond to treatment."
It's not, Harry mouthed over her shoulder. Magic involved.
His heart sank even further. "I want to see him."
"We don't know the condition of your legs beneath the skin-" Gertrude tried to warn.
"I want to see him," Eragon insisted. Gertrude threw up her hands, muttering under her breath about stubbornness, Garrow, and the unfortunate heritability of his frustrating personality trait.
"Fine. I only have one room, he's at Horst's. Harry and I have been running back and forth all day keeping up." She turned to Harry. "Can you take him?"
Harry nodded. "I'll wait outside for you to get dressed."
Gertrude bowed out as well, indicating the washed and folded stack of his clothes. Eragon pushed himself up and donned his clothes. He noted that they had been surreptitiously repaired, and by needle and thread. Harry's repair spell left no marks, so it had to be a villager who'd done it. The counter behind him was covered in glass containers of different substances. Harry's cures were easy to pick out; they were all in the flawless jars, bottles, and flasks, made from perfectly clear glass. Gertrude's were a mix of leather pouches, foggy and bubbly glass, and metal tins. There were dozens of the wizard's brewed remedies, some so overtly vivid in coloration that they nearly betrayed their magical nature from sight alone.
Standing felt much easier than it had in the castle. Eragon wondered again where Harry had been when Saphira had taken him up there. Since he'd met the wizard, he'd almost never been away from the castle.
Outside, Gertrude and Harry were sitting on the porch waiting for him. Harry got up when he came out. "We'll see how it goes with Garrow," he told Gertrude. "There are a couple more things I might be able to try, but I don't want to get your hopes up."
Gertrude made a superstitious gesture. "Pray for good fortune. And that the strangers do not come back."
Harry's gaze darkened. "Yes, well, I think I'd like to meet these strangers face-to-face." Gertrude looked worried, but did not protest. She handed Eragon a pair of crutches and sent them on their way. Once they were out of earshot, Harry reached into a pocket in his coat briefly.
"Nobody will overhear us now," he said. He helped Eragon cross a ditch between a crossroads while he adjusted to walking with the crutches. "I just want to warn you. I know it's not fun to be pressed with questions right when you wake up, but Horst has a lot for you. I'll tell you what they are so you can decide what answers you want to give before he asks." Harry pushed a parked wagon out of the way between two houses, then herded a couple of kids out of his path.
"The villagers found you dragging a litter with Garrow, but the drag marks on the road vanish after about a couple hundred yards. There are gouge marks in the path at that point, like a giant animal ripping up the dirt. Horst supposes you couldn't have dragged Garrow the whole way regardless of how far the tracks went with your legs in that condition." Harry paused. "Er, I'm sorry to break the news to you but your barn and farmhouse are wrecked. Your horse was deliberately killed, the rest of the livestock scattered. Ansil's taking care of them at his farm until you want them back, his farmhands were able to herd most of them back."
Harry gave him an apologetic look. "I can't fix your house without outing myself as a wizard, but you are welcome to live in the castle as long as you want, if you need time to fix it up or anything. Horst thinks the strangers were after some kind of stone?"
Eragon felt awful guilt gnaw at him. If only he had told Harry from the beginning, all of this might have been avoided. Why had he been so convinced to hide it from him? Looking back, Eragon could not explain his own behavior. He pushed the question away.
"How's Garrow, really?" Eragon asked. Horst's home was just up ahead, on top of a hill. The ascent was not particularly easy on crutches. Harry sighed tiredly.
"Not good. Whatever they did to him, it's resisting my ability to heal. Spells like episkey and even vulnera sanentur struggle to mend the actual burns. The bits around the burns are easy enough to fix, but not the real problem. They aren't burns like from heat, but they're similar. The only injuries I've seen that resemble them were from spilled potions, like acid burns." Harry's words painted a grim image in his mind.
"He's been sleeping fitfully. His breathing and heartbeat seem fine, but he's not waking up." Harry explained. "It feels like he's deteriorating. If it was just burn wounds, he'd eventually be fine. I'd give him potions for pain and antibiotics to guard against infections, then wait for him to recover. The wounds aren't deep enough to touch any vital organs. The burns on his neck might have swelled and choked him, but I gave him anti-inflammation potions, too. The parts of the human body that have to be broken to die are all untouched, yet he is deteriorating despite this. None of my spells or weak potions are working. It's like the wounds are cursed."
Eragon felt a cold, certain dread come over him then. That was it, wasn't it? Everything Harry's magic could treat, he had done, and yet Garrow was still dying. It was only a matter of time before he would be alone in the world.
An indistinct sense of comfort flowed across his bond with Saphira. Eragon steeled himself and followed Harry into Horst's house. The smith was away. Elaine welcomed him in. "He's upstairs," she told him. "If you want to see him. I'll give you some privacy." Harry waited with her in the room downstairs while he labored to get to the top of the flight and into the room Garrow was staying in.
From what Harry had said, Eragon half expected Garrow's face to be falling apart, on the threshold of death itself. The reality was less graphic, but no less grim. Despite what Harry had said, Garrow was not breathing easy. Even unconscious, his uncle's face was etched with pain, his body wrapped in bandages and blankets.
He stared at his uncle for a while, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. For several long minutes, he sat by the bedside and wished for Harry to be wrong, for Gertrude to be wrong, and for Garrow to miraculously get better. Harry had said his weak potions did not work.
Suddenly, a desperate spark kindled hope in his chest. Why had Harry said his potions were weak? Because he was using his own blood as the active ingredient. He had needed something stronger to fuel the efficacy of a magical brew. And one of the ingredients he'd mentioned was dragon's blood.
Eragon leapt up from the bed, ignoring the protesting of his legs. He practically fell down the stairs in his hurry to get to Harry. Elaine rushed to the base of the stairs to catch him, but Eragon kept himself upright with the railing.
"Harry," Eragon said urgently. "You said you were missing a strong ingredient to make your p- um, medicine work like it ought to, right?"
Harry, who was sitting at the kitchen table, nodded with an axed expression. "You said there was only one- er, source."
Eragon winced. He glanced at Elaine apologetically. "Can Harry and I have some privacy?" he asked, conscious of how rude it was to drive someone out of their own house.
"I'll go check on Garrow," Elaine decided. "Be quick, I won't let supper burn." She headed up the stairs, passing Eragon with a look of sympathy.
Once she had turned down the hall from the bannister, Harry reached into his coat pocket again. "Yes?" Harry asked quietly.
"You said Horst asked about the stone," Eragon rushed out. Harry nodded.
"It was a dragon egg."
Harry's eyes grew comically wide. "Seriously?"
Eragon nodded. "They had to know it, too. There's no other reason they'd be after it specifically. But-" he took a deep breath. "It hatched months ago."
If anything, Harry's eyes grew even wider. "Dragons are not easy to hide," Harry managed neutrally. Incredulity strained his tone.
"Don't I know it," Eragon admitted. "Saphira ate so much before she could hunt, I thought for sure Garrow or Roran would notice the food I snuck her. She mostly stays in the forests or Spine." Guiltily, he added, "I told her to avoid the castle."
Harry raised a brow, but didn't seem offended. "Where is she now?"
Eragon closed his eyes and felt for her presence. She was far away, but he could still feel a vague direction. He pointed his arm northeast. Harry followed his finger. "And you think she'll let me take some blood to brew a real potion?" He asked.
Eragon winced. Saphira had made her thoughts crystal clear on the way to the castle. No, she would not like this one bit. "I think I have to come with," he said.
Harry rose from the table. "I think so, too," he agreed. "Now we just have to convince Elaine."
The woman pursed her lips when Harry and Eragon announced their intention. Eragon got the sense Elaine did not think Harry was a responsible adult, despite technically being eighteen. Eragon did not disagree; it often felt like Harry was an allied kid on 'his side' against the boring, responsible adults. Despite her misgivings, Elaine could not argue with Harry's expertise as a healer, nor their resolves to go out anyways. Eragon gave her a weak excuse of wanting to check on the destroyed farm. She didn't buy it for a moment, but Eragon could not find it in himself to care. They had a chance, if he could convince Saphira. He had to take it.
The walk out of Carvahall was a bit easier. Eragon had mastered use of the crutches Gertrude provided, and was more motivated and willing to suffer the pain of using his legs perhaps more than he ought to to keep up a good pace. It was not long before the last of the buildings were out of sight and Eragon stretched his mind, straining to reach Saphira and deliver his need.
I am coming, he heard back faintly. They kept walking as she approached, until they reached a hill to sit on the far side of. Harry's eyes were fixed firmly in the sky. Eragon noted that he was wearing a strange contraption on his nose and ears, a metal frame which held glass circles over his eyes.
Despite having the advantage of knowing Saphira's location through their mental link, Harry spotted her first, locking onto a glimmering dot in the sky, back over the treeline. Within a minute, she was diving towards them. Harry's upturned face was writ with awe. Eragon felt a spike of pride at his good fortune to be bonded to such a majestic creature.
Smugness radiated from Saphira. She had gleaned that thought from his mind. With a few powerful flaps and a gust of warm air, Saphira landed on the path before them.
You called.
Eragon gestured Harry to Saphira. "This is Saphira. Saphira, this is Harry."
Saphira's tail flicked back and forth behind her. Like she was reserving judgement. "'Lo, Saphira," Harry said, waving a hand. That made her like him a bit more. Though his unflappable demeanor in the face of a dragon made her like him a bit less. Eragon hoped it balanced out. He winced.
Uncomfortably, Eragon reflected on how much he did not want to have to ask this question. Saphira caught the thought and turned wary. What is it you need?
"Harry thinks Garrow will die if things go the way they are." Eragon shared images of his uncle in the bed in Horst's guest room, the bandages, and the memories of what he'd looked like right after extracting him from the ruined house. Saphira sent him comforting sympathy. I do not know how I can help.
Eragon turned sheepish. "Harry can brew healing potions, but whatever caused the burns it is resisting the weak forms of the cures he can brew with his own blood."
Oh? Saphira stared at Harry, lowering her head to look him in the eyes. Her blue, slitted pupils locked onto him. She was not an enormous dragon, but she was plenty big enough to kill most any human who was not trained, armed, and armored.
…Or a magician.
Harry met her gaze with an admiring one, beholding her shimmering blue scales and sinewy muscles beneath. But he did not fear her.
"He needs a stronger core ingredient to make stronger potions, ones that might save Garrow."
How do you expect me to help? Saphira turned away imperiously.
"We need some of your blood," Eragon said.
No.
"May I ask why?" Eragon tried to look Saphira in the eye, but she was not even pointing her head at him. Eragon felt emotions flow from her, disgust, indignity, irritation, shame, and a bit of anger.
I am a dragon. I am not 'ingredients.' Her disgust was clear.
"It could save Garrow!" Eragon urged. "He's not asking for your heart. Just a bit of blood."
Saphira growled. He could sense her bitter capitulation. I will not be the wizard's chattel, some cow to be milked when he is in need of a miracle. This once, for your uncle, I shall allow it.
Eragon flung his arms around her neck, shoving all of his unending gratitude towards her. Thank you, he pushed to her, ignoring the edges of the scales on her neck scraping against his face. He let the raw, unfiltered emotions he felt go straight to her.
Saphira became uncomfortable at the deluge of thanks. She turned towards Harry and fixed him with a glare, the sort that said get on with it.
Harry was professional about it. He drew his wand and flicked it a few times, conjuring various things in preparation. He created a cloth towel and laid it on the ground, weighing the corners down with pebbles. On top of that went a small glass jar, a washcloth, and a strange device Eragon had not seen before. A clear cylinder the size of his entire thumb, it had a stick on the back end of the tube with a black plunger on the end, pushed to the end of the tube. At the other end, the clear material tapered to a point. From that, a needle sprouted. It was two inches long and gleamed silver like polished metal. It seemed too tiny to be hollow, yet it had to be, for how else would blood get from the needle to the tube? Eragon could not imagine the precision required to make the needle without magic.
Harry spoke to Saphira. "This is a needle, I'm going to use it to draw blood, if that's alright. There's no need to make a cut this way, and the blood I'll get will be perfectly clean. First I'm going to wash your scales at the injection site. There's alcohol on this rag which will help clean away any dirt as well as kill the bacteria that live there. Normally, I'd draw blood from a vein, but I don't know your anatomy well enough to be sure of a safe vein. The only ones I can see are on your neck, and that's too dangerous to use. So we'll have to be patient." He worked as he explained.
Saphira stood stone still as Harry drew the blood from between two ventral scales. It was a long, slow minute as Harry slowly pulled back the plunger on the syringe, letting it fill with dark red blood. When it was full and he extracted the needle, there was no bleeding at all. Just a spot of red Harry wiped away with a second rag.
"Thank you," Harry told Saphira. He put the needle into the little glass jar and squirted the blood back out the tip of the needle, then vanished the whole syringe and packed up. "I need to go back to the castle to use this. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Eragon watched him pull a folded, thin cloth pillowcase from his jacket pocket. He unfolded the pillowcase and reached inside, rummaging around with his arm far too deep in to fit within the dimensions of the cloth bag. From within, he drew out his broomstick and threw a leg over it, hovering off he ground. "I should be back before evening. I'll be back as soon as I can."
And then he flew off, racing away leaned flat against the handle, headed towards the Spine.
"What do you think?"
Morgan gave the vial of blood a calculating look. "I think you need to do whatever you can to stay close to your source of magic."
Harry gave an exasperated groan. "I meant about Garrow." He had never flown so fast. At its top speed, his broomstick was not far off from Firebolt speeds. It had been faster to fly the whole way than wait until he was out of Eragon's line of sight to land, then apparate to the gate before flying the rest of the way to the potion lab. Harry went back and forth on the necessity of anti-apparition wards on the castle: as far as he knew, he was the only one who knew how to apparate on this world, but it was too glaring a weakness to overlook, no matter that it inconvenienced him a bit every time he wanted to come and go. Morgan had thought maybe there was a way to exclude himself from the wards, but he had not figured out how to do it yet. Something about a linked register.
Morgan hovered over the rows of self-stirring cauldrons in the lab. He was in the middle of several batches, and had been when Horst's letter reached him. By pure happenstance, most of them were waiting on their active ingredients. Harry was a bit squeamish about cutting himself to provide the blood, yet it was most effective when drawn fresh from the source. Doing all the batches at once let him avoid having to cut himself more than once per brew cycle.
"A precisely targeted brew yields potent results," Morgan mused. "Yet an error in diagnosis may waste your dragon blood. A broad brew is weaker, yet cannot be mistargeted. Do you trust your diagnosis, Harry? Or do you trust that Garrow is strong enough to survive without the perfect remedy?"
"You won't tell me what the strangers used to hurt him?" Harry fidgeted with the vial. It was so tiny, compared to the rows of cauldrons, tables, stirrers, ingredients, everything else. Yet it was undoubtedly the most precious thing in the room save the Hallows.
"Can't." Morgan put a finger to her lips and winked. "Dead Men Tell No Tales."
He sighed frustratedly. Morgan was irreplaceably useful, but every time he stumbled into this roadblock, Harry was reminded she could not help him like a true, living ally could. She could not tell him the identities of the strangers, could not tell him what they were after until after Eragon had told him himself. She could not give any information of value at all regarding them, and it had been enormously frustrating to work at healing Garrow and Eragon while having no idea what had caused the disaster.
Harry steeled himself. Before he changed his mind again, he added Saphira's blood to the Wiggenweld potion. It was the broadest of generic healing potions, but it was famous for a reason. It worked for almost any injury and had decent strength against cursed wounds. It would not cure Garrow, but it would help enormously.
Meticulously, Harry completed every remaining step in the brew with the utmost care and the most precise measurements he could manage. It was a large cauldron of finished potion that came off the burner, but it was all he could expect to get. The vial of Saphira's blood was nearly clean of blood. Nonetheless, Harry corked it. He might be able to squeeze a final drop off the film on the inside of the glass.
The Wiggenweld potion came out to about a gallon and a half, or some hundred individual minor doses. Harry bottled a few little phials, then sealed and enchanted the large flask with unbreakability.
He sprinted back up the halls, flying over stone blocks and dashing through the shortcuts he'd carved into the castle. Before the Wiggenweld in the vials in his hands were cooled off, Harry was back on his broom. He sped along the grounds, letting his eyes unfocus on the patchy snow banks and dead winter grass as they raced below.
The instant he passed through the main gate, Harry landed and twisted into nothingness. He emerged from apparition behind Eragon's farm, threw caution to the wind, and mounted his broom again.
If the villagers discovered he was a wizard while he was in the process of saving a life, so be it. If they still hated him after that, they were unworthy of Harry's friendship. Nobody saw him land just beyond the village, closer than he'd ever dared display magic. He slung the strap on his broom over his shoulder and jogged the rest of the way to Horst's, drawing many odd looks for the broomstick on his back, and the haste with which he moved.
Horst was surprised to see him when he opened the door. "Gertrude said you headed out with Eragon an hour ago. He just got back and told me you went up to the Spine."
"I did," Harry panted.
"In an hour?"
"Yes," Harry said, with a look that suggested Horst should not press him if he did not want to receive unwanted answers. The smith's face cleared up.
"Well you'd better hurry. Gertrude doesn't think he'll make it through the night." Horst waved him through and up the stairs. Harry's feet pounded on the wooden boards, creaking up the stairs.
Gertrude's eyes bugged when he raced in. "Why did you turn back?" she demanded. Harry chose not to answer. He pulled the first Wiggenweld vial from his pocket, flicked off the cork, and put it to Garrow's mouth. Gertrude shut up and helped massage the man's throat, compelling him to swallow the draft. His face was pale and clammy and his breathing raspy, as if he'd aged twenty years overnight. His bandages were sitting wrong on his wounds, like the flesh beneath had begun weeping.
The difference was immediate. At that moment, Harry truly began to appreciate what potions could do. Within seconds, color returned to Garrow's face. His breathing leveled off with deep, clear breaths. It was then that, for Gertrude at least, the jig was up.
"That was magic," she whispered. "You have magic."
He leveled a challenging look at her. Yeah? So what?
Gertrude swallowed. "Will you keep hiding it?"
Harry turned away. "I've been told by many that it's unsafe. Not unless there's no point anymore."
The healer rustled behind him. "I shan't tell anyone." Her voice was small.
"Good," Harry agreed. "Then I don't have to pretend around you." He closed the guest room door and cast the muffling charm around the room. Gertrude watched wide-eyed as Harry began to help Garrow in many ways he could not before. He vanished the old bandages, conjured a bathtub, and filled it with warm soapy water.
To her credit, Gertrude got over herself quickly. She helped him clean Garrow's wounds (which were already looking a bit better, especially around the edges) and towel him off once they were finished. Harry dried him off and tried his healing spells again. Episkey once again failed to do much of anything, but vulnera sanentur shrank the wounds by a tiny bit each cast. Harry sang the chant over and over again until his throat was scratchy. By the time he could no longer force the incantations through his vocal cords, wounds that had been the size of dinner plates had shrunk about a centimeter in each direction.
Vulnera sanentur had drawn Gertrude's attention like none of his other magic. Even after conjuring bandages to wrap around the much improved wounds, she kept glancing back at Garrow in awe.
"Is this what all magicians can do?" she wondered.
Harry shrugged. "I've seen that spell heal a whole mess of slash wounds all over a guy's chest." A pang of guilt for Draco Malfoy. "Whatever the strangers used on Garrow, it was no joke. The only attack I've seen that resisted healing like this was a streak of purple flame. The guy who liked using it was a magic researcher before he turned evil."
He remembered Hermione had had to take about ten potions a day for the whole summer to recover. With his increasing knowledge of medicine, Harry would guess it did a bunch of internal damage to organs that all had to be healed individually. He knew that there were a whole bunch of spells like that out there, for how else would Moody have gotten so permanently sliced-and-diced? Harry would bet the only reason he wasn't more familiar with them was the ease and effectiveness of the killing curse. Dealing injury was sort of pointless when murder was easier, quicker, and a surer bet – if you were evil enough to do it.
It all made him glad that Garrow's wounds were only skin or muscle deep. Harry did not like the Wiggenweld potion's chances of fixing deeply cursed internal injuries.
Gertrude picked up the empty vial on the nightstand and held it up to the window. A tiny bit of the greenish fluid still clung to the inside of the glass. "What is this? Are all of your cures magical?"
"Wiggenweld potion. Sort of a generic cure for injury. The specific ones can be stronger, but I wasn't sure exactly what injured Garrow, and I only had enough of the secret ingredient for one." Harry gestured at the vial. "Yeah, most of the cures I've given you have some magic. But I've been out of the secret ingredient. And that," he pointed, "was made with it."
Gertrude nodded. "Do you have more, or was this all you had?"
Harry considered the large flask of Wiggenweld he had back at the castle. He reached into his pocket and handed the healer the three spare vials. "Here. I used all of the ingredient, but I had more after brewing than I brought."
Gertrude closed her fingers around the vials. "For desperate cases," Harry told her. She nodded. "Do you think he'll make it now?"
Gertrude raised a brow. "Aren't you the expert?"
He shook his head. "I know the recipes for healing potions, and the incantations for the spells. I never trained as a healer."
The healer considered Garrow. "Well in that case, I think he'll pull through."
"That was poorly done." Morgan stood looking ahead at the Spine beside Harry. "Will you tell everyone with a sob story about your secret?"
Harry frowned. "I couldn't let Garrow die over something so petty as keeping this secret."
Morgan breathed deeply. "You could have told her to leave the room while you worked."
"She would have known."
"She would have suspected. Confirmation is very different."
Frustratedly, Harry ran his fingers over his scalp. "I'm not about to hide who I am forever. I won't tiptoe around magic like that."
Morgan crossed her arms and hummed. "And you say you don't want to get involved," she said mockingly.
"No."
"This is not a choice with three paths." Morgan turned back towards the village. "You can dig your heels in like a child. All it will mean is that when they come for you, you will be unprepared."
Harry's back stiffened. "So be it."
AN: Poor Harry doesn't know the problems his loose lips are getting him into.