They set a departure day the next morning. Next week they would leave the castle. Eragon had told Brom about his long term goal of discovering who his mother had been, and why she'd died. Brom suggested Teirm.

"It's a port city," he said. "Lots of things and people passing through, yet far enough from the Empire to be fairly safe. And one of my old friends lived there, last I heard. The man is a voracious reader. He was often the key to many of the mysteries I sought to solve when I was younger."

With a date set and fast approaching, each day felt purposeful. Every morning, Eragon and Harry woke for sword fighting practice.

Further lessons heartened Eragon. It was clear that Harry was not taking Brom's lessons as seriously as he was. He treated it like a game. He did not get frustrated, but nor did he devote all of his attention to improvement. He was comfortable with a slower pace. Eragon knew that if he kept his pace and Harry kept his, eventually, he would surpass him.

With magic, it was very much the other way around. All the zeal Harry lacked in martial lessons, he applied to Brom's magic lessons. Without a wand in hand, Eragon was actually better at magic than Harry. The irony of their situation was not lost on him. Despite this, Harry worked hard in every lesson and tried many more times to master whatever material Brom presented. Using magic without a wand was clearly a struggle for him, but he was determined to overcome it.

During the day, they played Quidditch. Harry offered to start working on a broom for Brom, but Brom had refused it. He was content to watch.

Saphira and Eragon learned to work together. They learned how to sense where each of the others' limbs were in space, how to treat each other as extensions of themselves, and how to be a single unit. They learned how to cooperate with how they moved and placed their weight, both in the air and in the saddle. As they improved, Harry introduced more mechanics for the game.

Bludgers were iron balls that zipped around trying to knock Eragon from his seat and Harry from his broom. They mostly ignored Saphira which was good, since she was too large to easily evade them. Eragon had worried they would seriously harm or injure one of them, but impacts were not half as harsh as an iron ball slamming into someone ought to be. Through the bludgers, Saphira learned how to protect her rider during flight. Harry mostly got more dodging practice.

It was inevitable that someone would accrue some minor injuries in such a violent, dangerous sport, but Harry had no trouble fixing them with his wand straight away. Something had been unique about the wounds Garrow had. Not even broken bones fazed Harry. The sandy pitch made a forgiving surface to land on, even from dozens of feet up. More magic, Eragon supposed.

And Quidditch taught more than just flying and teamwork. Harry had it in his head that they all ought to do 'conditioning,' which was a word Eragon had come to hate. It meant jogging a lap around the pitch, doing stretches and strength training like pushups, curls, and burpees. This was all part and parcel of being a Quidditch player. Despite Harry's needling, Brom refused to join in. Eragon engaged in conditioning grudgingly, but the rewards presented themselves in swordplay.

He was lighter on his feet, his body felt more responsive to his commands, and he began to understand where Harry's natural talent at swordplay came from. Harry called it being 'fit.'

Nonetheless, they all went to bed exhausted for the first six days. All except Garrow.

Eragon's uncle had become withdrawn. Like he was trying to avoid drawing out any goodbyes, Garrow found other things to occupy his time. Eragon rarely saw him.

"He helps in the barn," Harry told Eragon, when asked. "You can find him there, or in the greenhouses, sitting with the crops." He thought for a moment. "Finding people around here can be tricky. I've got an idea, I'll see if I can make it work." Then he wandered off, muttering to himself.

Eragon was also conscious of each night he enjoyed in a real, clean, warm bed. The last day, Harry insisted they spend relaxing. After swordfighting lessons and before magic lessons, Harry disappeared to work on secret projects. Either he set even those aside, or he had finished them.

Brom had resisted at first, but Harry managed to move him. "It'll be the last we'll get to rest in total safety for a while," he pointed out.

Reluctantly, Brom conceded. Two days of training were not going to make or break any fight.

And so it was that Eragon, Brom, and Harry were all sitting at the gazebo, looking out over the crescent lake, and enjoying mugs of hot cocoa. Saphira coasted gentle turns over the glittering wavelets. Eragon could feel the wind beneath her wings and the attention she was paying to what his ears heard. She was listening, even if she was not sitting with them.

"Are you going to miss this place?" Eragon asked Harry.

Harry gazed up at the soaring towers, carved masonry, gargoyles, and arching bridges. "I won't miss this building," he said. "I already miss what it's supposed to be. No matter how much I add to this place, I can't capture the spirit of Hogwarts."

"You built the place where you apprenticed?" Eragon asked.

"A school," Harry agreed. Eragon was unfamiliar with the term.

"Imagine an apprenticeship, except a bit like what we're doing. Brom would teach a class of twenty students or so. We'd get a bunch of professors, and have each of them teach to their expertise. That way all the students get the best that all the professors can offer." Harry's eyes were far away. "Hogwarts was like that. Hundreds of students, and not more than a couple dozen professors, along with a handful of staff. It'd be a place for people our age. Well, your age. I suppose I'm too old now."

Eragon looked up at the castle with Harry.

"What was it like?" Brom asked. "The spirit of the castle, the thing you can't manage to capture?"

Harry sighed. "There's a couple things. One is the history. Hogwarts is a thousand years old. There are paintings of medieval knights, fat opera singers, wizards teaching trolls to dance, ten thousand paintings that all move and speak and remember generations of students passing through. There's ghosts who remember even the Founders a thousand years ago, talking hats, secret passages and abandoned rooms full of magical knick-knacks long forgotten. The classrooms have skeletons of ancient magical creatures hanging from the rafters, the history of forgotten adventurers. There are books everywhere, stacked in piles by windows and in storage closets, piled high in the Room of Lost Things, and in endless rows in the library. There are statues and fountains and frescoes and carvings, the names of Hogwarts crushes carved into the underside of desks, the mysterious symbols of groups that formed and disbanded, it's everything."

Harry gestured expansively. "So many new students each year, each with seven years to leave their mark, and a thousand years altogether of collected history. You can really feel it when you walk through the halls, you know? You could spend every day of your seven years there uncovering mysteries, and you wouldn't have scratched the surface." He slumped a bit.

"All that next to my little art projects, suddenly it's not very impressive. I could do this for the rest of my life and it still wouldn't make a difference, since it would only be my work. What it needs is the other thing that's missing; the people."

Harry flopped onto his back and gazed up at the rafters of the gazebo. Brom and Eragon listened quietly, engrossed in the picture the wizard was painting of his home.

"This place is missing a thousand students running around late for class. Couples hiding in closets for a snog. Kids running from Filch and his stupid cat. Professors running late for classes, students exploring, firsties getting lost, the way laughter echoes through the stone hallways. Professors taking or giving points, clubs meeting to play gobstones or wizard's chess or exploding snap or whatever. Quidditch practice and the school-wide turnout for the games. There should be people on the grounds trying to study out in the nice weather, Hagrid should be tending to his pumpkin patch or walking in the forest with Fang."

Harry was dejected. "There's nobody napping in the windowsills here, nobody looking wistfully out onto the grounds, or heading to the owlery to send mail back home. Nobody is excited to go on a date at Hogsmeade or fretting over a homework assignment or upcoming quiz. It's just…empty."

Eragon understood the feeling. Even compared to the farm, where it had been just him, Garrow, and Roran, the castle often felt like a mausoleum. Even while he was going from place to place and knew the route to take, long, empty stone halls and great open spaces devoid of life, or even the echoing sounds of another living being, it did often feel like the castle was abandoned.

And when he had no destination but to let his feet take him where they would, the place was a graveyard. An enormous, opulent, and impressive graveyard, but empty and desolate nonetheless.

"You've become a hermit," Brom said roughly. "What you need is to see other people. More than a couple of visitors can give. Tomorrow we'll set out and you'll see. The cure to this is company."

"And the history?" Harry snorted.

Brom shook his head. "Nostalgia always tastes so bittersweet."

"I'll probably miss it, too," Eragon admitted.

"Just you wait," Brom cackled. "Your farmhouse will never seem so perfect as when looking back. Somehow, you'll forget every wintry draft and creaky floorboard, and all that will remain is your fondest memories."

"Do you remember your childhood home?" Eragon asked curiously.

Brom nodded. "Aye. Not as well as you will; I started traveling young, but I won't ever forget, even when I'm actually old."

It was an odd change of pace, their final day. They spent it by the lake, skipping stones Harry conjured. The grounds in the castle were a bit uncanny like that. It was too perfect. Pebbles only existed where Harry chose to put them. The rest was smooth, sculpted grass hills and slopes. The lake lapped against marshy dirt shores clogged with algae. Eragon had known the lake when it was empty. Nowadays, Harry had managed to get some fish spawning in the spring. They fed on the shore algae and swam around the grass roots the lake's wavelets exposed by cleaning away loose soil.

That, at least, was proof that the castle was slowly coming to life.

Eragon watched the sunset sink behind the gabled turrets, conscious that it would be the last time for a long while he'd get to witness the silhouette of the castle, cast on the pink and orange hued sky.

They went to bed early. Despite that, Eragon found himself lying awake in bed long after Garrow's breathing had leveled off to snores. Moonlight pooled on his pillow and gave volume to motes of dust, whirling in suspension between the edges of the moonbeam.

He peered in on Saphira's thoughts. She was enjoying a hunt of sorts, chasing after some disjointed, dreamlike prey. She knew who she was, Eragon mused.

Now I need only discover who I am, and who I will become.


The morning snuck up on him. Eragon did not recall falling asleep, yet it was bright out without warning. Garrow's bed was empty. Eragon dressed in his traveling clothes. On his way out, Eragon stood in the doorway for nearly a full minute, drinking in the sight of the room he was about to leave. In such a short time, it had grown on him. Garrow was there, he was there, only Roran was missing to make it just like the farmhouse.

He buckled Zar'roc onto his belt and rucked his pack up on his back, then turned away and strode up to the Great Hall.

Garrow greeted him when he arrived. Their end of the table was prepared with eggs, cheese, porridge, toast, and fruit preserves.

"Are Harry and Brom up yet?" Eragon yawned. The Gubraithian candlelight was a bit bright for his sleepy eyes. More than half the candles were hiding in the walls to keep the illumination at a steady, manageable level. Through the enchanted ceiling, a glorious, clear blue sky promised an easy first day of travel.

"I haven't seen Brom." Garrow sat with Eragon. "Nor Saphira. Harry flew out north about an hour ago on some errand.

Eragon enjoyed breakfast. It had Garrow's style about it.

"When shall I expect you back?" Garrow asked.

Eragon's considered it. "I have no idea. How does two years sound? And if we can't make it, Harry will find a way to get you a message."

Garrow nodded. "I shall find a way to occupy myself until then." He spooned porridge into his mouth and kept it busy, as if to keep himself from having to speak further.

Brom made his way into the Great Hall with Saphira soon after. Only Harry was missing.

"He's at the foundry," Brom told Eragon. "This might be the first time I've seen him use it." He had a stuffed pack on his back, and a sword of his own on his hip. Their bags made a pile next to Saphira's spot. Brom scarfed down breakfast.

"I'd like to depart sooner than later," he said. "Yazuac is usually four days' walk from Carvahall, if you're on the right side of the river. We're about half again as far, over challenging terrain. And if we want to avoid being seen by Carvahall, we will have to take a longer route."

Brom took out a map from his bag and unfurled it over the table. Saphira studied it alongside Eragon. Brom traced a finger along the path he had in mind. "The mountains to the east of Carvahall will shield us from unwanted scrutiny. I figure we take the challenging descent to avoid having to cross the Anora River. We cross the mountains here-" he tapped a little pass scratched into the mountain ridge. "Then walk inside the riverbend. Without horses, it'll be easy enough for Saphira or Harry to ferry everything across the Anora, and then it's only a day or two to reach Yazuac, where we can buy horses."

"You have gold?" Garrow raised a brow at Brom.

Brom nodded. "Plenty for this and any other travel expenses. Though I suspect Harry is currently doing his best to eclipse my stockpile."

"What do you mean?" Eragon frowned.

Brom jerked his head towards the doors to the grounds. "He's smelting gold. There was a low rumble earlier this morning to the north. Harry came flying back with a couple of sacks over his shoulder. Almost as if he was summoning gold from the ground."

"Magic can do that?" Eragon asked, awed.

"Magic can do most anything you set your mind to, if you're clever enough," Brom lectured. "It's just not common to do this. If the gold is down deep, it will take enormous strength to lift a pitiable sum to the surface. And it does not go unnoticed, unless you're doing it deep in the northern Spine where the Empire does not dare to tread. Remember that distance affects the price of your spells. Not only would you be reaching hundreds if not thousands of feet down, you would be pulling gold through soil and stone the whole way. Think how hard it is to till a few inches of loamy soil."

"So impractical unless you're somehow immune to the price of magic," Eragon surmised.

"But not useless," Brom added. "If you need coin more than you need that energy, it is possible to gather the trace amounts of a mineral to your hand, rather than ripping the ores from bedrock. A magician is never without resources. You need only be clever enough to use what you have to get what you need."

When he finished scarfing down breakfast, Brom made his excuses and headed out. "I'll give you two a moment alone," Brom nodded at Eragon and Garrow. "But for the love of all that is good, be quick. I want to be in the east mountains by sundown. We've a lot of ground to cover." Saphira followed him out the great double doors.

Once they were gone, it was just Eragon with Garrow.

They finished their meal in silence. Garrow was the one to break the silence.

"It has been a privilege, Eragon, to get to see you grow into the man you've become."

Eragon shifted in his seat. He was uncomfortable with open handed praise from his level headed uncle. Garrow did not say things he did not mean.

"Can you talk to Roran for me, when he gets back?" Eragon asked. "Just- I don't know. I don't want him to hate me."

"He won't hate you," Garrow said surely. "He may be angry for a time, but you have good reason for leaving, and he cannot expect you to spend an unhappy life on the farm when you want more than that, just as he did when he left for Therinsford." He set his utensils down.

"I won't let him hate you," Garrow promised. "Even if I can't tell him exactly why without putting you in danger." His lips twitched into a smile. "Now, aren't there people waiting on you?"

Eragon grinned. "Yes uncle. Goodbye."

"I'll see you in two years," Garrow reminded Eragon. "Or at least hear from you."

Eragon shouldered his pack and waved goodbye on his way out.


"Evello," Harry murmured, stirring his wand over the blazing cauldron of molten ore. Thick, goopy strands of brilliant, white molten gold clung to an invisible point in front of his wand. He transferred the molten gold to another cauldron. He repeated the process with silver, depositing the gleaming precious metal into its own cauldron.

He was building a nest egg. The sacks he'd filled with ore came from deep underground. It had taken several minutes and a lot of quaking for his summoning charm to bring them to the surface.

There had been a lot in whatever seam of material his summoning charm had accessed. Mountain ranges meant geologically active which meant rich deposits, even if they were deep beneath difficult terrain. Not a concern for a wizard. He had simply summoned the gold and silver-bearing rocks from the ground, used the reductor curse to break them into manageable sized rocks, and sent them into the expanded bags. When the stone stopped coming, he headed back.

Now it was clear that the ease of extraction had deceived Harry on just how much of the precious minerals were down below the Spine. He'd been smelting and refining all day with the evello charm to extract the pure metals. After each batch, Harry cleared the slag into brick molds and poured in another full cauldron.

The foundry had a gigantic cauldron and several smaller ones. The big one poured into a series of channels that led to dozens of brick molds. It was large enough that if Saphira curled up, she probably could fit inside. A Gubraithian bonfire burned beneath the enchanted metal cauldron. It was one of the few conjured materials Harry had taken the time and headache to enchant despite the slipperiness of conjured metal.

Tall stacks of gold and silver bullion had begun to pile up, stacked by floating ingot molds fed by the small cauldrons. It all felt very 'Sorcerer's Apprentice,' the way Harry was surrounded by industrious yet inanimate objects, flying through the air and completing their tasks.

"Looking to buy Galbatorix off the throne?" Brom asked dryly from behind him. Harry mopped sweat from his brow, flicking his wand at the cauldron of gold. It tipped forward, pouring the molten metal into the series of molds below. He turned back to the storyteller.

"Better to have gold and not need it than need it and not have it," Harry supposed. "It was easier than expected, and I already have the facilities to turn it into bars. I was actually going to ask you for a gold coin to mint off of." He nodded to the stack of bullion. "I can pay you handsomely."

Brom snorted. He reached into a pocket and tossed Harry a coin. On one side, a crown was stamped into the metal. On the other was a profile of a man wearing a crown. The nose in the profile felt familiar to Harry, like he'd seen it somewhere. It was prominent and aquiline.

"You can pay me back later," Brom said. "How long will all this take?"

Harry shook the sacks of silver and gold ore. "Honestly? I have no idea. These bags are expanded and weightless, so there's no estimating how much is left. But we can stop whenever, and I'll just pack the bags away for later."

"When Eragon comes out," Brom decided. "He's saying his goodbyes."

Harry took a moment to gaze up at the castle. It felt like perhaps he should be saying goodbye too, to his creation. The work of a year's labor and seven more of fond memories.

Brom watched him work. "You don't want to help out?" Harry asked. "Now that your magical secret is out."

He shook his head while Harry poured the slag cauldron out. The pallets of greyish bricks grew by another batch. He was going to have to throw up a warehouse or awning of some sort to fit them all. Harry poured in another bag of gold ore and waved his wand at the cauldron, urging the ore to melt with the help of the reductor spell, turning the fist-sized rocks into sand and stirring the goopy liquid.

The Gubraithian fire danced, licking the underside of the cauldron. It was nearly silent, especially when compared to other flames. No crackling or popping as it burned through fuel, not even the whispery roar of the flames sucking in oxygen and emanating carbon dioxide. It was silent other than the air it heated.

"My magic will sap my energy. I'd rather have it all for the hike," Brom said. Harry shrugged and conjured the man a chair to sit and watch.

He got through four more batches before Saphira landed outside the awning over the foundry. She was already saddled, Eragon's bags tied to the back of her saddle. Eragon's new sword hung at his side. His eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the stacks of gold and silver bullion.

By then, the stacks were about as big as a large dining table each. Four by four by twelve feet of solid, pure gold. It was only then that Harry realized he might have gone overboard. With a flick of his wand and a subvocalized 'pack,' The ingots stacked themselves in a pair of expanded briefcases, which in turn folded themselves down to the size of matchboxes. They had gold and silver leaf designs on their respective faces.

Brom watched with a tersely amused expression.

"What in the name of all above and below do you think you'll need that much gold for?!" Eragon exclaimed.

"I'm sure I have no idea," Harry said, a bit uncomfortable. The last batch, Harry set aside for Garrow or the castle in case of future need. "It's a lot, but it's not that much."

"Britain must have been very wealthy," Brom said with a forced casual voice.

"Yes, very rich," Eragon nodded, snickering.

"Not significantly richer than most developed countries," Harry frowned. "There are plenty of countries ahead of us. And it isn't even fair to compare us to America. That country can buy and sell every other country on Earth. I'm pretty sure Vernon mentioned their percent of the global GDP was 25%."

"Makes me wonder what America's treasury looks like," Brom muttered. Eragon snickered even harder."

"Can someone explain?" Harry asked irritably.

"Oh it's nothing much," Brom waved off. "Only that you've just shown us more refined gold than is likely in circulation in the Empire."

Harry worked his jaw for a moment.

"Well, then we aren't likely to run out," he managed.


They were on their way. Saphira glided overhead, circling back and coasting on ahead, enjoying the novelty of being able to hunt for her own food, real, living meat to kill and eat. She must think they were unbearably slow, Harry mused. He felt the same way. The convenience of flying broomsticks was hard to overstate. No traffic, no following roads or skirting terrain, just point in the right direction and go until he got there.

Harry suspected it was not lost on Brom that he was the one holding the party up. Despite his insistence on covering as much distance as possible, Harry had a broom. Eragon had Saphira. If Brom could fly, they all would. A journey that might have taken two days would now take at least eight, and they would spend the days trudging across difficult terrain, rather than gliding weightlessly over the world.

He resolved to make another broomstick as soon as possible. Even if Brom refused to use it, Harry would dangle it in front of him until he got it through his head how much more ground they could cover if they covered that ground from the sky.

As it was, the first half of the day was not particularly punishing. It felt like a nature walk, with steep and patchy trails. The second half of the day, the endless trees and bushes began to drag.

By lunch, they were out of the Spine. By the evening, the ground had begun sloping up again. Harry's thighs were sore. He wanted to be back in the castle, enjoying a hot bath. Or better yet, back in Britain, doing the whole trip with a twirl on his heel, a few hours on a broom, or a day in a car.

The sun was starting to set, but Brom pushed on.

"It's worth the potential of a few sprained ankles to get around to the other side of these mountains," Brom said. "They will shield Carvahall from seeing our campfire." He directed the next question at Eragon. "Can Saphira see how far we are from the far side of the mountain?"

Eragon nodded. A moment later, "She says we're on the side. In another hour, we'd be behind it."

Harry cleared his throat. "We may not need a campfire."

Brom sighed. "Dare I even ask why?"

Harry patted his backpack. "I have many surprises."

Brom considered it. "My point still stands, I think. There is no harm in being further along, and we will always benefit from the distance. If it gets too dark to go on, we'll see what the wizard has in his bag of tricks."

True to her word, Saphira was proven right when an hour later, they found a clearing that presented them with a view out to an unfamiliar yet breathtaking panorama, the Anora river carving a dark blue line in the grass of the Great Plains. Harry had never seen so far east. Only north and a bit to the west, the mountains of the Spine.

"For those of us who are not Riders, this is the best kind of view we can hope for," Brom sighed.

"I offered to make you a broomstick," Harry pointed out.

"-Or an annoying young wizard. Let's see what mind-bending feats of magic you have for us," Brom grumbled. Saphira came circling down for a landing in their clearing.

Harry fished through a side pocket of his backpack. He tossed a matchbox with a house symbol stamped on it. It fell on a flat bit of ground and popped up like an inflatable bouncy house. He watched the building sequence with a sense of pride. It had taken ages to get that to work. Bowing, Harry held open the flap for Brom and Eragon. Saphira watched from the darkness.

"Is that the tent you bought from the traders?" Eragon asked, following Brom inside.

It was barebones. Harry struggled to get the expansion charm to make much more room than would fit a large bedroom. He could push the absolute size larger, but other parts of the charm broke down. The insides started getting shaken up when he collapsed and moved the tent around, or the inside broke entirely as the folding literally folded the stuff inside.

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "I couldn't get it any larger in here. I know it's possible; there are a few legendary examples of gigantic expanded spaces, but since this is what I had to work with, and what I know how to do,"

He shrugged. "I just put in the most important bits. Three beds, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen with a pantry. Not particularly luxurious, but enough to live on, I hope."

"Not particularly luxurious!?" Eragon exclaimed. "I sleep in a bag on the dirt. Maybe with a fire. This- this is amazing!"

Even Brom, legendary grumpy stickler, was almost unable to find fault in the tent.

Almost.

"We still need to set up a watch," he grunted.

"I've got that covered, too," Harry said. Brom followed him back outside as he recited the list of wards Hermione used to protect their campsite over a year ago. "I wouldn't rely on them to save us from being chased, but they were able to stop a friend of mine from finding his way back to our campsite just feet from the edge of the wards."

Brom growled in exasperation. "Fine. If we're all going to get a good night's sleep in true beds, we may as well wear ourselves out training. Find yourself a sword-shaped stick, both of you."

Harry grinned and held up a finger, rummaging through his pack. He tossed the three mock swords and the squishy helmets out.

Brom threw up his hands and stalked outside.

Sword training was rough on everyone, but Harry especially felt the brunt of the walking they'd been doing all day as he fended off Eragon's attacks. He had expected his higher baseline for athletics to give him an easier time until Eragon finished growing and began reaping the benefits of all their training.

Instead, he felt like the most battered of the three humans. His thighs burned with every lunge and sidestep. Even Brom was having less trouble than Harry, a fact that annoyed him quite a bit. Brom never participated in conditioning or Quidditch. The only physically demanding thing he did was train them in swordplay. According to Eragon, he'd just sat in his house all day for the past decade, and somehow he was in better shape than Harry, while being at least in his mid forties.

And Eragon was adapting to the sword (or rather, the stick) better than Harry was. Harry knew he was starting from a way higher baseline. He was practiced with holding a stick-like implement, doing odd motions with it, and he already had excellent hand-eye coordination from seeking. He had actual practice with fighting, both the DA and when fighting for his life. Yet Eragon soaked up Brom's instructions like a sponge and seemed naturally gifted with the sword, besides.

During the first lessons, Harry could keep Eragon off him with ease, and only conceded touches to carelessness. As Eragon began figuring things out, their bouts became 90% in his favor, 10% in Eragon's. Tonight, it felt like fifty-fifty. Harry knew the writing was on the wall. If against so many disadvantages, he was already beating Harry, Eragon would grow to be a monstrous swordsman.

"Less telegraphing," Brom called to Harry. "If you draw back your sword for a strike, only the greatest idiot in the world would fail to block it. I taught you those forms for a reason. They are designed to allow you to strike in different places while maintaining the momentum of your sword."

Harry sighed and adjusted. Eragon had 'stabbed' him while Brom distracted him. In their next round, Harry managed to squeak by a win by overpowering Eragon and forcing his mock sword into the kid's bicep. The victory felt hollow; Harry knew that if Eragon was as strong as him, he'd never have won that fight.

Some time later, Brom called it quits. "You're both improving. But there's no substitute for actual fighting. Don't think because you can beat each other up with sticks, that you can compete with actual soldiers or guards."

Harry heartily agreed with that statement. DA fighting was playful and constructive. Fighting with your friends while you knew you were safe was a very different beast to the real thing. Real fighting looked like sprinting away from Death Eaters, dodging terrifying spells and chucking whatever attacks you could muster over your shoulder. It was doing anything you could to keep hold of any advantage you had, and grasping for others as you ran. Brom was right. Sparring was nothing like fighting.

Magic lessons that evening were lax. Brom spent most of their time going over vocabulary, teaching words like go, thrust, hit, break, and other such violent verbs. It raised some questions for Harry.

"Is the Ancient Language a complete language?" he asked Brom. "I mean, grammatically correct and capable of full conversations? Or is it just a list of commands."

Brom nodded. "Aye. It is a full language. Of course, with it being so precious and so powerful, words and such are jealously hoarded. Plenty of words are lost. But yes, anyone fluent enough in the Ancient Language can speak it as you or I do the common tongue. The elves use it as their main language. Being unable to lie and being bound by your word makes for a very interesting and extremely complicated society. Why?"

Eragon cottoned on to Harry's implications. "It's just that you've only been teaching us-" he grasped for the term.
"Verbs," Harry supplied. "Violent verbs. And some simple nouns."

Brom nodded. "You will need the full understanding of the language to work complex and deep magic. Right now, I am giving you the tools you need to use magic as a weapon, as well as broad words you will be able to apply to many problems. Learning a new language is not easy. If we all live long enough for me to exhaust my list of attack words, we will move on to grammar and articles."

Harry accepted Brom's reasoning and worked to master the word of the evening, letta. Stop.

Magic without a wand was much, much harder than the normal variety. Harry had never been conscious of how much wands did for him than when trying to work magic without one. Wands drew his magic up for him, helped him mold it to his will and the guidance of the incantation he used, and kept it on target even after it had been cast.

Without it, he had to dredge up the magic for his spells himself. Brom and Eragon both suggested envisioning the source of his power as being in some part of the back of his skull, but Harry found it easiest to envision drawing that warm, homelike power from his heart.

"Letta," he murmured. The word felt powerful. Harry felt it take hold of the magic he offered, racing out to keep the leaf he dropped frozen in the air.

Without a wand, the Ancient Language offered a similar role in keeping his spells on track. Harry played with the word a while longer before joining Brom and Eragon in the tent and falling asleep. Saphira cracked open a large blue eye as he passed.

His bed was soft and cool. Gratefully, Harry rested his weary muscles and shut his eyes. For the first time since casting the Fidelius, he dreamed.


AN: After Teirm, the points of departure start to REALLY snowball. Unfortunately, Brom wants a horse and thinks his first opportunity to get one is from Yazuac, so they have to go there. Give the differences time to grow. The butterfly has already flapped its wings. Garrow is alive, Eragon and Saphira are starting out better trained, they are pursuing a different goal, and the timeline is moved up by a month. The starting point is the same, but the differences will compound.

There's no getting around the fact that an Urgal army is headed to the Varden, and there's no way around the fact that Yazuac is the closest village to Carvahall besides Therinsford, which is in the wrong direction. A lot of people seem to fear that I'll just retread canon, but I promise I'm heading in a different direction. Some things simply are part of the story, and I can't get around that.