When dinner was over, Brom gestured for them to follow him. Garrow went to bed early, intent on a quick recovery. Brom found an empty room on the first floor off the hallways beneath the main tower, next to the potions labs. He requested a series of things from Harry. Three wooden sticks like facsimiles of swords, with round cylindrical blades. Hard-backed gloves, padded helmets, and a modification to the room to make the ground softer than stone. Brom had brought with him the long bundle he'd carried around Harry for the first few months he'd known him.
Harry caught on. Soon the floor was covered in odd, slightly squishy mats. The far wall became a mirror, and the lighting in the room grew bright enough to banish all shadows. The mock swords he conjured did not meet Brom's specifications. Brom had Harry tweak them several times, hefting the weapons each time Harry tweaked the weighting of the hilt.
"Anyone can make a sharp metal stick and call it a sword," Brom lectured. "The difference between a chunk of metal and a decent sword is in the tempering and the balance. The center of balance should be just a few inches above the hilt, or else it's just a club." He turned to Eragon.
"Fortunately for you, Rider's blades are the best in the world." he handed Eragon the bundle. "Take it. It's yours."
Eragon unwrapped the bundle and breathed out. It was beautiful.
The blade was a one-handed sword made from glossy, iridescent crimson. It was clean and flawless, tapering to a gentle point free of rust, scratches, or stains. The pommel held a ruby the size of the end of his thumb in a carved wooden hilt, with a crossguard of the same rosy steel. An inch above the hilt, a black glyph marked the blade. The symbol sat right above the balancing point of the weapon.
"Its name is Zar'roc," Brom said. "And it has a long and tragic history I won't be sharing. But it belongs in the hand of a Rider, and a Rider, I am not."
"Thanks," Eragon said, honored. He sent an image to Saphira and received her grudging admiration. "It's a princely gift, but I don't know how to use a sword."
"Why do you think we're here, boy?" Brom said, in that familiar tone of voice that suggested Eragon had missed something very obvious.
"I understand you're decent with a bow. That will help, but not always, and when it doesn't help, it'll be useless. You need to be able to defend yourself against attack, especially ambush, and the sword is superior for that. It works best against unarmored opponents, though you can find the gaps in any armor with the right skill. It's not unexpected to carry one everywhere, unlike a spear or polearm. City guards won't bother you for carrying a scabbard like they would a spear." Brom wielded his wooden sword with easy familiarity.
"For now," Brom said, tossing Eragon a mock sword, "Defend yourself!"
The storyteller was fast and strong. Eragon had been warily optimistic at first. After all, Brom was past his prime and he'd never seen the man wield a sword before, so he had to be years out of practice.
Sharp raps of wood on the bony parts of his body quickly disabused him of that notion.
Brom was a demon. He smacked and pushed Eragon's sword around, baiting him into making what Eragon had realized with some annoyance to be beginner mistakes. Eragon had started fighting with the mock sword like a club, batting away Brom's probing pokes. Brom contemptuously knocked his counterattacks aside.
But even as Eragon was humiliated by Brom's swordplay, the man was teaching him. After he filleted away Eragon's amateurish guard, he would slow down and give instruction.
"You fight far too close to me," Brom instructed. "Our blades are of equal length. You struggle to fight at full extension." He demonstrated a slow lunge, holding his sword outstretched. "The closer you are to the intersection of blades, the more at risk you are. When you have a shorter weapon, push inside the enemy's guard, make their fighting awkward, leverage the greater dexterity of smaller weapons. When your weapon is of equal or greater length, fight from as far as you can! You can hit them, they cannot!"
Brom demonstrated a low stance, legs wide and planted solidly, stick held nearly at full extension. He kept it in Eragon's face, moving the tip to keep him at swordpoint no matter how he moved.
"You see? This is called forward guard," Brom told him. "You do it."
Eragon put his legs the same way Brom had. He corrected himself in the mirror on the wall, adjusting his stance until it was identical to Brom's demonstration. It was not long before his thighs began burning from the effort. He stood back out of it.
"It's exhausting," Eragon grumbled. "How are you supposed to do this for a whole sword fight?"
Brom closed in and shoved Eragon without warning, crossing his wooden sword in blade lock and lowering his shoulder. Eragon spilled over onto the mat. "Hey!" The soft floor broke his fall, so only his dignity was wounded.
"It may be tiring, but it will save your life," Brom growled. "Despite what the stories may have you believe, sword fights basically never last longer than a few strokes. Even between experts, all it takes is one or two cuts for the fight to be over. Only cautious and evenly matched fighters have bouts that last longer than a few seconds. You will grow stronger, and your muscles will no longer complain when you take your stance. Having your knees bent makes your footwork snappy. Locked knees are sluggish to move, and sluggish will get you killed. Be light on your feet, ready to dance backwards and absorb impacts. Again!"
Brom attacked once more. Eragon listened to his advice. He kept his knees bent and stayed lower to the ground, using his arm length to keep the meeting point of the wooden swords away from his body.
Sure enough, he got hit far less when the fighting was too far for Brom to hit him without stepping in to close the distance. And by staying on the balls of his feet, Eragon was able to dance backwards whenever Brom lunged. When the bout ended, his muscles were burning and he was panting for breath. By contrast, Brom still looked fresh.
The storyteller's eyes fell upon Harry, who had been sitting against the far wall, watching silently. "Take a break," Brom instructed Eragon. "Get some water." Eragon fetched his magical canteen gratefully, gulping the cool water to quench his thirst and letting some slop over his lips and chin, dripping down his neck and cooling his body. Brom grabbed the mock sword from Eragon and tossed it to Harry.
Harry's hand snapped out to catch the training weapon. It was instinctual, for he had hardly been watching keenly after the bout ended, deep in thought.
"Your turn," Brom said, with a grin that promised bruises and bruised pride.
Harry looked at the offered sword.
"Oh no," Harry said, shaking his head. "No thanks. I don't need a sword."
"Oh?" Brom's expression was not angry or irritated, Eragon recognized the eagerness of one who was absolutely certain they were right, and was about to enjoy impressing that upon someone else. "How do you suppose you'll defend yourself on the road?"
"Magic," Harry shrugged.
Without warning, Brom lunged at him.
Harry went for his wand, but his hand got tangled in his pocket, and before he could extricate it, Brom's wooden sword was pointed at his throat.
"Do you really think fighting with magic in the Empire will be an option?" Brom demanded. Harry got his wand pointed at Brom. He flicked it silently. A bolt of red light zipped out of the tip, splashing over Brom's body. The sword in his hand popped out of his grip, flipping end-over-end in the air. Harry caught it with his other hand, which now held two swords between his fingers. Eragon had not seen Harry's offensive magic before. It looked powerful.
Brom growled. "You do that outside these castle walls and within a day, every Empire soldier and magician will know your face. You cannot use magic unless you are willing to kill all witnesses to the act."
Harry swallowed. "I'm not about to get killed fighting with a weapon I don't know how to use because I might get chased for using magic I've studied for years."
"Then you will be helpless," Brom vowed. "I do not know what I can do or say to get you to understand, fool. I have no idea what kind of wizards you fought in Britain, but the ones here are like nothing you have encountered, I promise you that. Did you not hear me when I told you that Galbatorix has killed hundreds of dragons by hand? And at least as many Riders, the strongest and best-trained magicians in Alagaesia? Durza and the Ra'zac are not as lethal as the King himself, but they too have killed many Riders, careless and careful alike."
Brom was getting truly angry. "When we leave together, you will not only be gambling with your own life, but ours as well. This is not a game, Harry Evans. People smarter and stronger and cleverer than you have died or been enslaved."
"Yeah well you tell me how many of them have raised a castle in a year," Harry snapped back.
"None," Brom said flatly. "But they have killed scores of powerful magicians. And if you choose to be careless, you will be added to their numbers."
Harry looked back and forth between Brom and Eragon. Eragon stood by uncomfortably. With a harsh exhalation, Harry got up. He tossed the wooden swords on the ground and left.
Once he was gone, Brom rubbed his forehead. "What a stubborn idiot," he muttered.
"Sorry," Eragon said reflexively.
"What for?" Brom snorted. "It's hardly your fault. If it's anyone's, it's mine. I've been holding back on an important lesson you both need to hear." Brom glanced down at the wooden swords on the ground. "Tomorrow."
Why is he like that? Eragon said mentally. He curled up beneath Saphira's wing. They were sitting out on a high stand around the Quidditch pitch. She purred.
I understand humans less than you will, Saphira pointed out. You have fifteen extra years of experience. And you are one yourself.
Eragon grumbled. Maybe he doesn't want to go from being an expert wizard to an amateur swordsman. Brom is asking him to abandon his greatest skill during moments of life-or-death.
His alternative is death-or-death, Saphira said.
Aye, Eragon sighed. Now we just need to convince him of that.
He had taken to using only mental communication when around Saphira, practicing communicating across their bond instead of using his mouth. Communication was richer that way, for his words were inevitably accompanied by related thoughts and feelings. Saphira was getting bigger. Despite her meatless diet, Harry provided an inexhaustible stream of produce for her to wolf down at every meal, thrice a day.
Despite her reticence, Saphira had allowed Harry to collect her dung for fertilizer. She had still not budged on further blood draws, but Eragon saw that as progress.
You take his side on this. Saphira detached her emotions from their link. Betrayal leaked through despite it.
No! Eragon rejected immediately. But his heart wasn't in it, and he knew Saphira could read that from him. Well, I only think about how it saved Garrow's life. You could save many more. It does not hurt you, does it?
Only my pride and dignity, Saphira sent coldly. Would you dance naked like a monkey in front of all of Carvahall if it meant a better harvest?
No, Eragon admitted. I'm sorry.
Saphira turned her head away from him.
Eragon's thoughts turned back to Harry/. The enchanted gear he'd provided was priceless. He was trying his best to help them. He just didn't want to be made to help in a way he was bad at. Eragon laid back. He could understand that, and in different circumstances, maybe even respect it. But Brom was right. Harry was not taking things seriously enough.
It made him wonder what Britain had been like for Harry to be so trusting, so open, and so blind to danger. Had he been sheltered?
Eragon didn't think so. He'd seen the Hall of Memories. They told the story of a man who knew danger intimately.
Maybe he enjoys the thrill, Saphira suggested.
Eragon perked up. He's said he doesn't want to leap into another campaign. 'Another.' He's done this before.
He's lying, Saphira announced confidently. To himself, too. He was ready to leap at the chance to travel.
I want to know more about his history, Eragon decided. What made him like this?
Saphira gave him the mental equivalent of a shrug. You could ask.
Maybe. Eragon put his chin on his fist. He gazed up at the Quidditch hoops. A spontaneous question came to mind. Do you think he'd make me a broom if I asked?
Saphira growled. You will fly on my back, as is proper for a Rider. I will not be replaced by a stupid stick.
Eragon rubbed the inside of his thighs with phantom pain. That is an experience I am not eager to repeat.
Then we will get a saddle, Saphira announced. The wizard will make us one, if you ask.
Later that day, Eragon put the request to Harry. The wizard had been reserved since his dispute with Brom, and had avoided company since. Quite an easy task, given the size of the castle and the total of five inhabitants, if one counted Saphira, who could not fit through the doors into rooms anymore.
Finding Harry took Eragon through wings of the castle unexplored. There were many, many empty rooms. Corridors that led to seemingly nowhere, empty turrets, secret passages and dead ends, the further he looked, the emptier the castle seemed. What did Harry intend to do with all the extra room?
He found Harry in an attic high in one of the gabled turrets. Sunlight streamed through the wooden rafters from skylights in the roof. The attic was filled with rejected picture frames and canvases, paints, tarps, and easels. Harry was sitting before an easel, wielding his wand like a paintbrush as he labored over a painting.
Eragon watched him for a moment. Harry was touching up an image of a Great Hall that was similar yet distinct from the one in the castle. The shape of the arched roof was a bit different, there were no windows, and banners hung from the rafters. Blue, yellow, green, and red. Bedecked evergreen trees flanked the Hall, large enough to nearly touch the starry ceiling. Baubles, ribbons, and glowing lights festooned the green boughs. Ice sculptures depicted dancers frozen in the air, glittering with the light of a thousand candles. Hundreds of people were frozen in dance. They wore ballgowns and formal suits, as if they were all terribly important people. Yet they were all young, younger even than Harry. They were Eragon's age, or a bit older.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Harry asked without looking. With a touch of his wand, the paint shifted. A girl in a periwinkle dress moved towards the stairs, holding the hand of a serious-looking man with a stubbly beard and thick, dark brows. A ginger Eragon thought might be Ronald Weasley from the Dumbledore's Army mural sat on a bench at a table of food and drink, looking sourly towards the girl. Next to him, a woman with darker skin and exotic features shot him an unhappy look.
Harry touched the painting again, and an image of himself accompanied Ron, slouching with his tie undone and sipping punch, watching the crowd at large.
"Sorry," Eragon apologized. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
"It's fine," Harry waved off. Eragon realized how foolish that sounded. He obviously had meant to disturb Harry, that was why he had searched half the castle for him. "Come to harangue me, or convince me I'm wrong? I already know I am." His posture was very similar to that of his painted self. Tired, a bit resigned, uninterested.
"No," Eragon said. "Saphira and I had a request."
"Yeah?"
"We were out by the Quidditch pitch and wondered if you could help us make Saphira a saddle."
Harry sat back, moderately surprised. "Yeah, I could do that."
Eragon nodded. "Thank you."
Harry ruffled his own hair. He got a smear of periwinkle on his cheek, which seemed impossible since he wasn't painting with an actual brush.
"Brom's not happy with me."
Eragon winced. "He wants the best for all of us. I think. He's just not very polite about it."
"I knew a guy like that." Harry's expression was mixed. "He was a total arsehole. Makes Brom seem like the nicest, most polite guy ever. But it turned out that he also had my best interests at heart. Well-" Harry cut himself off. "Whatever. I should have listened more to Snape, and I should have listened more to Brom. I just thought this place would be different. I thought I'd be free to pursue my own happiness, and now Brom wants me to shut away my magic and try to squeeze into a box I know I don't fit. When am I going to get to live the way I want to?"
He threw a tarp off a covered painting to his left. The canvas beneath was covered in navy black. A vivid green symbol slithered on its face, a ghostly green skull with a serpent's tongue emerging from the jaw. With a slash of his wand, the canvas splintered, sending shreds of black and green paint fluttering to the floor.
"I'll- uh, leave you to it," Eragon said awkwardly, and made to leave. Harry sighed again.
"Sorry. I'll be right behind you."
You were right, it seems, Saphira sent as he headed out to the courtyard where she was waiting.
I guess, Eragon sent back unhappily. It sounds unbearably naive. What did he expect?A perfect world?
Maybe, Saphira guessed. We still do not know how he got here. On the back of those four-legged rats seems unlikely. He uses magic for everything else. Why not travel?
Eragon still had no clue exactly where Harry thought he'd be headed. The only place any reasonable person might expect to be perfect was the afterlife.
He paused.
Shaking his head, Eragon rejected the thought.
Saphira waited for him just beyond the doors. Carefully, Eragon climbed onto Saphira's back. His position on her back was getting increasingly awkward. She was beginning to grow too wide for him to comfortably get his legs on either side of her body. The best way to sit was now to perch on his knees and carefully ensure the spinal spikes on either side of him were seated so they could not stab him, then to hold on for dear life.
Saphira was careful when he was on her back. She let the wind do most of the work keeping them aloft, and flapped gently when she needed the altitude. Eragon still felt fear of falling with no saddle to hold onto, but the spike in front of him made a fair handhold. Since growing larger, Saphira had to flap much less to bear his weight.
Taken together, it all made flying rather pleasant. He was treated to a new perspective on the world, one only Riders and one particular wizard were able to experience. Atop Saphira, Eragon could feel the way the wind bore them aloft. He could see her flight membranes fill with air, and feel her powerful muscles pump her wings, shifting beneath her sapphire scales.
What a privilege it is, Eragon thought to himself, to be bonded with a creature as glorious as her.
He had not intended for Saphira to hear, but she had a knack for knowing when she was being complimented. She purred, driving her wings down and sending them surging higher over the sandy pitch.
Vain, too, Eragon smirked. Any prouder and your wings would be unable to lift your big head.
Saphira flicked her ears. Vanity, is it, to have an accurate assessment of myself? Boastful, perhaps. But I am beautiful, and I know it.
Harry came soaring out from the balcony of his bedroom at the top of the widest tower. He was graceful on his broomstick, flying as easily as a bird born to the sky. But Eragon had to admit Saphira flew better.
He lacks wings, Saphira sniffed. Then, grudgingly, but he is gifted.
The wizard came gliding over to match their speed.
Hold on tight, Saphira advised suddenly. Nervous, Eragon clutched the spike in front of him. Eragon felt her savage delight as she tipped forward on the air, diving for the earth. There was a moment of weightlessness at the apex of her turn, and then gravity began to drag them back down.
Eragon whooped, feeling the wind tear at his hair, surging against his chest and under his arms. His clothes flapped around him, and he felt the wind push him like an invisible hand, slipping around his body.
He glanced over. Harry was matching their dive, flying perfectly level alongside them. The ground raced up at him alarmingly fast. As they drew level with the iron hoops on their posts, Saphira locked her wings outstretched, gliding in a smooth curve back to level. Gravity dragged him down, squeezing him against Saphira's back and rippling his face. Harry wrenched the handle of his broomstick up
She came to a running stop, wings flapping to slow her momentum. Eragon propped himself against the deceleration with his arms. Harry stopped even faster. He turned backwards midair, stopping as if at the end of a powerful elastic cable.
"Who said you needed a saddle?" Harry joked. Eragon tumbled off Saphira. The ground tilted under his dizzy feet.
"Even Saphira thinks you fly well," Eragon complimented.
Tell him to reserve judgement until I can fly without fear of killing you, Saphira sent fiercely.
Eragon relayed the message. Harry laughed. "Of course. Let's figure this out."
It was a nice day out, pleasant enough to work outdoors. Harry conjured a tarp over a square section of sand to work atop. He conjured leather sheets and straps, scissors and tape measures, and an assortment of metal buckles.
It became very clear that neither of them had any skill at tailoring. Harry kept having to use the repair charm to undo erroneous cuts, and none of the three of them agreed on how exactly the saddle ought to sit on Saphira's back, nor where the straps should go to hold it to Saphira's body.
Despite this, flying had put all of them in a good mood, and they took their failures in good humor, laughing and trying out increasingly improbable ways to tie essentially a leather blanket with arm and footholds onto a dragon's back.
Saphira snorted ticklishly as Eragon tried to tie a leather belt beneath her front armpits. "Sit still," Eragon chastised, holding back a laugh. "Or it'll be loose and will slip down your belly when any force is on it."
After half an hour of puttering, Brom came outside to see what they were up to. With his help, the saddle actually began to take form.
Eragon was once again reminded of how incredibly improbable it was that Brom would just happen to know how to make a dragon saddle. He put it down with the rest of the man's inexplicable talents.
Brom gave instructions on how long to cut straps, where to put buckles and where to bore holes, the way the saddle ought to fit together around Saphira both for Eragon's and her comfort.
It came together quickly, and the finished result looked better than expected. It looked like something Gedric would make, a proper, professionally made saddle.
"Did you conjure this leather?" Brom asked Harry. "Will that change the nature of the material?"
Harry nodded. "It will be harder to enchant. I thought to put cushioning charms on it to make it more comfortable, maybe set up some way to let Eragon lock his gloves to the handholds, but we'll need real leather for that. I have plenty of gold; we can just buy it at the first town we pass through."
Brom rubbed his chin. "Fine. I do not like the idea of Eragon trusting his life to defective material, but needs must. Avoid putting great strain on it until we can do it properly."
Eragon agreed to that.
There was a lull in the discussion. Harry shifted on his feet. He looked up at Brom.
"I, er, want to apologize, Brom. You know more than I do about Alagaesia, and I should have listened when you told me to be discrete with my magic, and when you told me to learn swordfighting. It was stupid of me to act like I knew better when I knew nothing, and I'm sorry I ignored you. If you're still willing to teach me swordplay, I will do my best to learn."
Brom accepted the apology gracefully. "It takes courage to admit fault, Harry. I shoulder some of the blame myself. I have been telling you how to live and telling you what danger magicians face, but I have not helped you understand why magicians are so dangerous, on the erroneous assumption that you already knew. I think your magic is perhaps very different from Alagaesia's, and I had poor reasons for withholding this information."
Harry nodded.
They stood around awkwardly for a moment. Saphira broke the tension by flattening herself to the ground, her tail flicking back and forth behind her. Are you going to try out this saddle or not? She sent Eragon.
He looked to Brom, then mounted the saddle. He tightened the straps down on his ankles, gripping the front lip.
"This arena seems built for a game," Brom observed, gazing up at the iron hoops.
"Quidditch," Harry said. "Played on broomsticks. There's two parts to it; one for teamwork, one for dexterity."
Brom made a show of looking around, hand to brow. "There aren't enough of us for teams. How does Quidditch train dexterity?"
Harry explained the rules surrounding the game and the golden snitch. Brom snorted.
"That's stupid," he announced. "Catching the snitch is worth fifteen scores? And the seekers and the rest of the game hardly interact. Are the chasers not angry when two people playing their own game suddenly win or lose the whole thing with a completely unrelated activity?"
Harry shrugged. "In intramural sports, it's more of a problem. At the pro level, the snitches are harder. They fly faster, go invisible, show themselves less often, and so on. It's meant to be a way for the losing team to turn the game around. Games usually go into the mid hundreds to low thousands in pro league."
He scratched the back of his neck. "The one game I saw live was Bulgaria versus Ireland, Ireland smoked Bulgaria 170-10. The Bulgarian seeker, Viktor Krum, caught it even though he knew they'd lose, just to stop the embarrassment. There is some nuance to it. The seeker is not forbidden from participating in the quaffle game, but such a valuable objective usually means seekers are either marking the other seeker to keep them off the snitch, or searching for it themselves because catching it will confirm the win. It's insanely complicated, Quidditch is," he added. "There's books and books on it all. You don't need to know it all to hunt for a snitch."
It was agreed that they would try it out. Harry headed off to a hut a ways behind the pitch and returned with an iron bound trunk. He took out a little golden ball and held it up. "We'll let it go and give it some time to hide, then start looking."
Harry, Eragon, and Saphira all closed their eyes for a count of ten before Harry gave a jaunty wave and shot off into the sky on his broom, immediately setting to circling the pitch. Saphira roared in challenge and took off herself.
Eragon had a wide smile plastered on his face. He suspected he looked like a fool, but he did not care. What a difference it made, to feel secure in his spot upon Saphira's back. His legs were strapped in; he had no need to keep a white-knuckled grip on her spine at all times. He could relax and let Saphira's motions take him up and down, letting his stomach rise and fall as she defied gravity.
You're not paying attention, Saphira accused. He could feel the competitive streak in her. He reassured her and doubled down on searching, letting his eyes sweep from side to side like they did when he was on the hunt, waiting for motion to betray the location of his prey in the woods.
Look! Saphira sent. Harry had begun to dive. Immediately, Saphira was after him, wings folded. Eragon hardly had time to enjoy the thrill before his eyes were darting about, searching the sandy pitch for a glimmer of gold.
I don't see it, Eragon sent.
Nor do I.
Harry peeled away, and the both of them realized they had been duped by the convincing feint. Saphira growled and redoubled her efforts to look for the snitch. Saphira recovered from the dive and cursed herself for falling for it. Search in a different direction, she ordered. We have two sets of eyes.
Eragon began scanning to Saphira's right. She began to circle opposite Harry. Eragon spotted it first. Without reacting, he sent the location to Saphira mentally.
Let our circling take us closer before we go after it.
But it was not to be. Soon after, Harry noticed it himself and charged with his broom. Saphira was only slightly closer, and Harry had both better handling and a higher top speed. Saphira stopped trying to chase the snitch and adjusted her angle to intercept Harry before he reached the snitch.
They drew neck and neck just yards away from the panicking golden ball. It seemed to know pursuers were closing on it, and its movements had grown erratic. Saphira roared, coasting with her belly to Harry, and drove both her wings down as hard as she could, buffeting Harry off course. The turbulent wash of air caused him to lose a bit of speed, broom wobbling in the wake. He curved back straight away, trying to check Saphira by getting between her jaws and the snitch.
This would be very foolish if I was trying to eat him, she noted.
Nevertheless, it was an effective tactic that took both their attention off the snitch long enough for it to be lost to Saphira and Harry. Eragon had not been so distracted. He had followed the snitch's escape and knew that it had passed behind one of the stands up ahead. He relayed the memories to Saphira. She peeled away and dove once more.
Harry followed, but Saphira had wised to some of his tricks. She kept the bulk of her body between him and the inside of the turn, sacrificing some speed to keep her wings outstretched and blocking Harry from diving inwards.
The centrifugal force of her spiral around the stand kept Eragon pressed into the saddle. He caught sight of the snitch as they rounded the back. It was hovering only feet off the ground. Saphira would not be able to maintain her banking turn and get him close enough to catch it, not without her wings running into the ground.
Nevertheless, Saphira's competitive spirit pushed her to try. She dove. Across their bond, Saphira sent him her planned route, and let him know where he ought to expect to be when she drew close to the snitch. Eragon readied himself for the pass.
At the last instant before crashing into the sand, Saphira managed to bring Eragon within arm's reach of the snitch. She flipped upside down with her wings half folded, still extended enough to provide some lift. He flailed his hand out and somehow, he managed to catch it.
The golden ball slapped into his hand with a stinging sensation. He clamped his fingers around it as Saphira righted herself, flapping twice to reach a stable glide.
Harry drew level with them, beaming. "You're both amazing," he complimented. "That's some ridiculously good teamwork."
Eragon leaned against the blue scales of her neck to rub her jaw. He could feel the pride emanating from her. "Again?" He asked Harry.
"Again," Harry agreed. "Just let it go and we'll wait a moment. I won't go easy on you; you don't need it."
Good, Saphira sent fiercely.
Harry wasn't jesting about not going easy on them. From then on, Eragon and Saphira managed to catch the snitch only once out of six further rounds, and that time was only because Saphira's size made it impossible for Harry to get close.
Harry was a demon on his broomstick. He flew as naturally as he breathed, like his broom was as integral to him as Saphira's wings were to her. And he played an outstanding mind game. Eragon and Saphira could never be sure if the dives he made were real or not. Harry even had a way of jolting in place that made it seem like he'd spotted something. Sometimes he spotted the snitch and let his circling take him closer before racing for the catch. Other times, he feinted so much that Saphira began to doubt herself, and thus missed the first few crucial seconds when Harry proved to be sprinting for the snitch for real.
Part of the blame could be laid at Eragon's feet, as well. He had missed his fair share of catches. Even with Saphira sending him a mental map of exactly where she'd be when she closed on the golden ball, Eragon could not help but think that having complete control over his own mobility would be easier than relying on Saphira to taxi him.
Yet if we are to be a useful team of dragon and rider, we must master this, Eragon thought.
Agreed, Saphira returned, and redoubled her efforts.
Brom had climbed his way up into one of the stands while they played.
He is enjoying this, Saphira noted. Her eyesight was sharper than Eragon's. She sent him an image of Brom following them with a wistful smile as they darted through the air, chasing after each other.
Soon after, Harry introduced the quaffle to them, a hollow, reddish wooden ball that had to go through one of the iron hoops on either end to score points. They had only one flier to a team, but Harry was able to make allocations for that with his magic. When the quaffle went through one of the rings, it immediately returned to floating in place over the center of the pitch, available for either team to claim.
Chasing, Saphira and Eragon were far more successful at. Saphira was so much bigger than Harry that once Eragon had possession of the quaffle, it was virtually impossible for Harry to get it back.
That wasn't to say he didn't put up a valiant effort. He was reckless with his broom, and would make blistering passes upside down over Saphira, intent on snatching the quaffle out of Eragon's hands. Saphira learned to tuck her wings and roll to keep Eragon on the other side of her body from Harry. It was uniquely terrifying to be affixed to Saphira only by his ankle straps, dangling upside down over the sand below.
In turn, Harry learned to spiral around her and wait out the roll until Saphira was forced to flare her wings or risk crashing into the sand. Chasing was a game of push and pull, and each side developed new ways to foil the newest strategies of the other side.
Harry sometimes sprinted ahead flat on his broomstick for a chance to guard the rings and block the shot. Other times, he peeled off early and conceded the points so as to be closer to the midpoint where the quaffle would reappear, only to snatch it up and race to their side to score and negate the advantage of their last goal.
When an anti-competitive strategy arose, like puppyguarding the quaffle respawn for a free score trade, both sides agreed not to use it. The game was no fun if Saphira took the quaffle in her jaws and placed it through the ring without giving Harry a chance to snatch it back. Playing fair was more fun than an empty victory won with what Harry called 'cheese strats.'
They were all having so much fun, Eragon hardly noticed the passing time until the sky began to pinken as the sun lowered on the horizon. Harry was the one to call it a day, shouting with the sonorous charm that he conceded victory. Team Saphira won 530-410.
Eragon's arms and legs felt like jelly. He tugged himself from the ankle straps in the saddle and massaged his ankles to restore some feeling to them. Saphira flopped to the sandy ground and let her tongue loll out. Eragon could feel the burning fatigue in her flight muscles across their link. Despite her doing most of the heavy lifting, most all of Eragon's muscles had gotten a thorough workout just by keeping himself upright in the saddle as Saphira executed a variety of acrobatic maneuvers.
Harry landed panting, but with a silly grin on his face. "What a game," he exclaimed, trudging over to them and planting his broomstick handle-first in the sand. "Quidditch with dragons is something else." He wiped dripping sweat from his brow.
Saphira overcame her fatigue long enough to cock her head in acknowledgement.
"You're amazing!" Eragon gushed. "You fly so well, one would think you'd been born with wings!"
Harry shrugged, but Eragon could tell he was pleased by the praise. "I'm a bit out of practice. It's been a couple years since I've played, but I was on the Gryffindor team for six years before that. You held up extremely well for your first time playing."
Brom came walking across the pitch towards them. For a change, he looked very pleased, and maybe even a bit happy.
"Fine flying, both of you," he praised.
Eragon bowed his head. "Saphira appreciates it."
"I imagine you are both too worn out for swordplay?" Brom had the handguards, helmets, and wooden swords with him in a bundle.
Eragon nodded to save Harry the awkwardness of saying no.
"Then there is another crucial lesson I have for both of you which does not require strength of limbs." Brom sniffed delicately. "While we have the facilities, I prefer not to offend my nose."
Eragon blushed. Harry pointed to the hut where he had gotten the crate of balls. "The locker room has showers." He drew his wand and conjured Eragon a set of clean clothes to change into. "You really need a second set," he advised Eragon. "At least then you can do laundry without being naked."
Eragon snorted. He had a second set of clothes at home. Or he'd had them before everything. They might not still be there. In any case, it had not usually been a problem, and somehow his clothes kept getting mysteriously laundered in the night even over the last week or so.
He and Harry both got cleaned up. Eragon found the clothes Harry had given him odd. The underwear was almost silken, yet stretchy. The jerkin was made of a similar yet thicker material, as simple as a pair of short sleeves sewn onto a segment that covered the torso. There was no fastener or belt for the pants Harry had made; the waist was stretchy and held itself up on his hips without a belt or tie.
When he headed back outside, Garrow had shown up pushing a cart laden with dinner. Harry conjured tables and chairs right outside on the grass, along with jars of blue flames that gave off a pleasant warmth in the chilly evening.
"You were able to navigate the kitchen without help?" Eragon asked. "Did you need the crutches?"
Garrow shook his head. "I used the wheelchair and a few pillows on the seat to reach the countertops. It was easy enough."
Eragon was heartened by the answer. "You made vegetable broth!" he realized, breathing in the scent of one of his favored dishes.
"Without meat, you'll have to make do," Garrow apologized, ladling generous servings from the big iron pot. Eragon helped him pour about half of the serving pot into a dish for Saphira, who ate it all in a single gulp, heedless of the scalding heat. Apparently dragons were not much affected by hot food.
Brom and Harry gave their compliments to Garrow for the meal. As the sun set and Eragon rested his sore muscles, eating good food in good company, he reflected that life was good.
Then, of course, Brom broached a topic that brought the mood down.
AN: We'll be on the road soon. No more than three chapters, if everything goes according to plan. Even after that, we are certainly not done with the castle.