Expelliarmus.
The jet of red light leapt from beneath the invisibility cloak. Arya seemed to twitch an instant before it hit her. The Elder Wand went spinning out of her hand. Harry's hand darted out and snatched it, casting off the Cloak.
"No fanfare," Arya observed. Harry, feeling a bit stupid, handed her back the wand, wrapping up the Cloak and stuffing it in his pocket.
"Did you know you were going to get hit before it happened?"
Arya hesitated. "I saw the red light."
Harry scowled. "You weren't genuinely trying to avoid it, so it didn't count as a true victory."
"Let us try other ways," Arya suggested. Harry was open to ideas. "You said you had some experience with swordplay." She retrieved her sword and held it in her left hand. "I shall fight with my off hand only.
Harry was convinced this would not work. Like how his disarming spell hadn't worked, the Elder Wand would know Arya was giving herself a handicap to give him a chance at winning. It would not be a true victory. Nevertheless, he went into the tent and emerged with a blade of his own. The one he'd stolen from Durza.
Oromis entered Lord Dathedr's office. The elf twisted his hand and greeted him first.
"Oromis-elda. Your missives have been alarming as of late. And Arya came in person to deliver news of the warded anomaly in the Spine. Please, have a seat."
Oromis sat across from his desk and withdrew a bundle of scrolls.
"Shall I ask for Queen Islanzadi?" Dathedr asked.
Oromis nodded. "If you do not wish to have to relay this separately to her."
Dathedr's gaze unfocused for a moment. "She will be here in five minutes."
"Good." Oromis smoothed out a scroll with a large, detailed map of the Spine. There were many more details on it than any human or elven map contained. In the center, just above Teirm, a small area had been blotted out with black, a warning tracing the border in ominous, spiky lettering. Puffy areas had been circled on it down the central ridge from about the level of Palancar Valley down to the border of Surda. At that point, the puffy blobs began trailing east, skirting around Feinster, running north of Lake Tudosten.
Lord Dathedr sat back, suddenly illuminated.
"And the pattern becomes clear," he said with a bit of gallows humor.
"I thought the same," Oromis agreed.
Dathedr glanced at the spot that was blotted out. "What's that?"
"If we are lucky, nothing of concern until this war is over." Oromis grasped for a thin strand of magic and muttered "stay" to pin the edges of the scroll unfurled on Lord Dathedr's desk.
At that moment, the Queen swept in with billowing raven hair and her sweeping feather cape. Oromis rose immediately to issue a greeting, but Islanzadi had a headstart and managed the first verse early. Her eyes fell upon the map for long seconds.
"I see," she said finally.
Nobody needed to elaborate. "How quickly do they move?" Islanzadi asked.
Lord Dathedr produced a bowl from his desk and filled it with a bottle of oil. He waved a hand over the surface, casting the scrying spell. No matter where he looked, the images of the Spine he produced were all devoid of any presence.
"I discovered these with our guest and your daughter," Oromis said. The Queen's expression grew more severe at the mention.
"As of yet," he continued, "we do not know. We do not know what is within those areas, only that someone is hiding them from scrying. The wizard discovered there was anything out of the ordinary at all only three days ago. We have only now finished surveying the Spine for the entirety of the warded areas. However, Harry had an alarming story that all but confirmed the truth of the matter."
Oromis unfurled a map of Alagaesia and tapped Yazuac, a tiny human village. "Yazuac had been completely annihilated by Urgals when they visited, perhaps twelve weeks ago."
"Evidence of who is hiding beneath those wards, at least," Queen Islanzadi agreed.
"They cluster at the Surdan border," Lord Dathedr observed. "An invasion? But Yazuac is not on the way. Perhaps a rogue detachment?"
"They search for the egg," the Queen opined. "Arya told me she sent it to Brom. He was among the humans. Suppose he fled there and Galbatorix seeks to hem him in and push to retrieve it."
"With Urgals?" Dathedr doubted. "Galbatorix should be wary of entering the Spine. Let alone winning their allegiance."
The legend resurfaced in everyone's minds. He'd lost half his army in the Spine. And his hatred of Urgals was well known.
"Durza, perhaps," Oromis supposed. For reasons beyond the ordinary.
"My daughter can testify to his whereabouts for a long while," Islanzadi said tightly.
"A Shade may have allies unseen," Oromis reminded her. "His influence may be felt far away." Misleading, but then the Queen could be blind when she chose, and this was not the time to dive into Eoam's Well.
"Do you think the Urgals do Galbatorix's bidding?" Islanzadi put to Oromis directly.
Oromis tipped his hand back and forth. "His or Durza's." He could see that Islanzadi dismissed the difference as negligible. Frustrating. "Urgals do not cooperate so broadly, nor do they so thoroughly ignore the Empire in favor of marching towards Galbatorix's enemies."
"As you say, Durza could have made a pact with them," Lord Dathedr pointed out. Oromis acknowledged the possibility.
Yazuac seemed in violation of any pact's terms. Then again, Durza may not have cared to keep so tight a leash as his master tended to.
A pregnant pause stretched as they considered.
"Surda must be warned," Islanzadi said finally. "And the Varden."
"Are we to resume giving aid?" Lord Dathedr asked.
Islanzadi paused, and for a moment Oromis feared she would be so foolish as to refuse. "Very well."
Another uncomfortable silence stretched as Lord Dathedr and Oromis let Islanzadi come to the realization that the elves had only one ambassador to send with the warning.
The Queen took nearly a minute to come to that realization. Oromis was concerned for her. The perceived loss of her daughter had cut her deep, and Arya had still not reconciled with her.
"Would the wizard swear an oath not to speak of you to anyone?" Islanzadi asked Oromis, her composure slipping.
Oromis tilted his head. "He would barter with you for conditions and escape clauses at the least. Arya tells me he was nearly unwilling to swear not to reveal the location of Ellesmera when she guided him to take her here for healing without conditions that she and you be able to release him from his oath. He has said he is very wary of the binding nature of the Ancient Language, and dislikes using it even for magic."
"You want me to send my daughter away only weeks after she has returned to me?" Islanzadi's composure slipped further.
Oromis said nothing. Lord Dathedr was also wise enough to keep his peace. The Queen had never looked so fragile. The truth weighed heavy on Islanzadi's shoulders.
"How is she?" Islanzadi asked, almost desperately.
Uncomfortable, Dathedr rose. "I'll give you some privacy," he offered, bowing out.
Islanzadi took the other seat in front of the empty desk as Lord Dathedr passed her on the way out. "She no longer seeks the comfort of her mother. What have I done so wrong to deserve this?"
"Your daughter is headstrong and independent," Oromis said, not without sympathy. "It is natural that she formed a bond with Harry when he rescued her from Durza and remained committed to saving her across weeks and over a thousand miles. I suspect she is showing support for her friend now over your edict that Harry remain in Ellesmera."
"You disagree with the necessity of remaining secret?" Islanzadi challenged.
"I do not." Oromis wished the Queen had not blinded herself so. "Nevertheless, you have set yourself in opposition to one she holds as a friend."
Islanzadi supported her head on her knuckles and the arm of her chair. It was more undignified than she'd allow herself to be seen by perhaps anyone but Oromis.
"Is she happy?"
Oromis nodded without thinking. "Restless, perhaps. Harry initially came to blame me for his being stuck here, which it undoubtedly is. He was poised to needle me, annoy me for being responsible for his situation. He is too kindhearted to torment me. I believe he was looking for a rival. Your daughter has stepped up."
Islanzadi raised a brow.
"They are fiercely competitive. Harry makes everything into a game, Arya steps up to compete every time. Wholeheartedly. Arya is teaching him swordplay and their bouts are violent."
Oromis would have been concerned if Harry did not possess an inexplicably powerful series of healing spells that mended bruises and broken bones. They wore helmets and dulled their blades, but otherwise fought in earnest.
"Naturally, Arya defeats him in all physical endeavors. Harry is a remarkable scholar for a fit young male, and they debate with spirit over politics, morality, magic, history," Oromis remembered fondly. Usually men his age with an aptitude for athletics had to be bludgeoned into academics. If the two of them were only Riders, Oromis thought they would be a delight to teach. What Morzan and Brom should have been.
"They challenge each other, yet they respect each other. Arya helps Harry with his engineering projects."
"I heard the rumors," Islanzadi inserted. "The flying machine."
"A plane, Harry calls it," Oromis agreed. "Remarkable. More than remarkable. It is astonishing. He uses magic to propel it, but only for lack of a compact energy source, he says. It stays aloft on the wind without magic. He is already working on a second plane, one which he tells me will burn oil to fly. The number 600 miles per hour has been discussed."
Islanzadi seemed to want to scoff, but was forestalled by the truth that the wizard's previous machine flew, and that was already supposed to be beyond possibility.
"I prepare meals for them," Oromis continued. "Harry has a mysteriously inexhaustible supply of his own food. Food draws them to my table and they share with me what they will. Arya laughs and jokes as much as Harry. She works on revising Heslant the Monk's section on elves in Domina Abr Wyrda. They join me for the Rimgar in the morning, scry with me during breakfast, debate while I moderate during lunch, and make plans during dinner."
"You have learned of the wizard's history?"
"Harry has asked that I keep his confidence," Oromis said. "He insists on bringing food to the table as well. Fruits even we no longer have access to since closing our borders. He is generous and soft hearted. As angry as he should be with me, he cannot help but be kind."
"They are merely friends?" Islanzadi checked.
Oromis thought about how they slept in the same tent.
"...yes."
"For the Elder Wand."
"For the Elder Wand."
Arya leapt at him with her sword. Harry barely managed to get Durza's sword up in time. Despite all of his enchantments, he couldn't react any faster than biology allowed. Magic let him meet the force of Arya's inhumanly strong blows and deal strikes of his own strong enough to break through her guard, but she was still quicker than him in a way magic seemed poorly suited to compensate for.
Harry ducked under a slice and darted forward, intending to get under her guard. Arya kneed him in the nose. Harry gasped as he felt it break, stabbing towards her armpit.
She danced backwards. Harry ignored the blood dripping from his nose. He deflected her next strike only to find it was a feint when the dulled edge of her blade slammed into his side like a baseball bat.
Harry gasped, swinging to cordon her sword arm off to the side long enough to dive at her. His enchanted boots boosted his dive, sending him hurtling towards him like a black-haired missile. She oofed as he knocked her down and grappled to keep her sword arm pinned to the grass. She tried to strike him in the head but his squishy helmet absorbed the blow.
Harry dug his elbow into her chest. Arya crunched up her legs and kicked him between his legs. Harry cried out, biting her forearm before she ripped it away from him and struck his shoulder with the pommel of her sword.
Arya got to her feet ignoring his weight as he tried to drag her down. She reached down and tore Durza's sword from Harry's grip, winning the spar.
"Merlin," Harry swore, healing himself with wandless spells, starting between his legs. He sent a few after Arya, erasing the bruises (far fewer and far smaller than his own) and closing the skin where it had been broken.
"You fight like a starving dog," Arya huffed, brushing the grass and dirt out of her tangled hair.
Harry bowed. "I try."
"When you try to grapple, you lose the strength your sword's enchantments give," Arya pointed out.
"I know," Harry scowled. "I need enchanted gloves or something. I'm not fast enough."
"Was the biting necessary?" Arya wondered.
Harry shrugged. "You should be too. It's not going to work if we're holding back. Episkey."
He sighed in pleasure as his nose cracked back into place. Harry siphoned the blood out of his clothes, then gestured and did the same for Arya. "What feedback?"
Arya frowned. "Grappling only works in a one-versus-one. If I had any allies, they'd stab you in the back while you struggled to pin down my sword arm."
Harry shrugged again. "Whatever works, right? Hopefully I wouldn't be alone either, and my friends would cover me while we wrestled."
Oromis watched from his table, bemused as he glanced between their spars, his scrying bowl, and a scroll of parchment he kept adding names to. His sword was laid across the table as well, a yellow-gold blade with a citrine diamond set in the pommel.
"If you wish to improve at swordplay, you will have to actually practice it, rather than abandoning your blade the moment you have an opening. You are not even trying to win with your blade. You immediately seek to force an opening to grapple."
Harry felt embarrassed. "I know I can't beat you with a sword. I would never fight a master swordelf with a sword, unless I wanted to die."
Arya rolled her eyes. Harry's heart fluttered as she shook her hair out and rebound it in a ponytail. "I am trying to help you get to the point where you can. Again. And this time, do not try to twrestle. Again, spar ends when one loses their sword."
Harry readied himself. It had been months since he'd practiced with Brom. He needed to refresh those lessons, retrain his muscle memory.
They had another go. Harry tried to stay in the fight just by exchanging blows with swords. Despite his magic working to close the gulf between their physical abilities, Arya was a superior swordelf and smacked his blade away after about a minute.
"Move your feet," Arya suggested. "We're in an open field. Give room when you need it, take space when you have it. Follow the push and pull of the spar."
"It was just a push," Harry said dryly. "If I did that I'd be running away."
Arya fought a grin. "You know what I mean. Again."
The next couple of hours saw a good deal of muscle memory return as Harry dusted off his lessons. They also saw plenty of injuries come and go. It wasn't pleasant to sprain his ankles, break his arms, dislocate his shoulder, or break his nose, but it gave Harry practice with his new healing spells. He just wished the target of those spells didn't always have to be him.
"I'm starving," Harry admitted after a sixth bout. No matter how much better he thought he fought, he didn't get any closer to winning. Arya just fought better and better, like she was hiding just how far Harry had to go before he had a chance to beat her. "Do you want to wash up first? I'm going to check on the arc furnace."
Arya waved him off and headed to the tent to shower while Harry extracted the next batch of steel and put in more pig iron for a fresh batch. Harry headed in a moment later. The frame of the big plane was done, the airframe was nearly so. Despite the distinctly plane-shaped thing in the now more hangar than garage, there was a lot left to do.
"Majaia found an elf who knew where an oil seep was," Arya told Harry, moving her bishop. Harry took it and revealed a check that should have let his knight escape his attack. "She said she'd get a barrel to us."
Harry grumbled as Arya moved her king, revealing a counterpin that meant death for his knight. She'd figured out the game alarmingly quickly. Nevertheless, Harry still had an experiential advantage over her and as the board moved into the endgame, Harry was on track for a win.
"The ideal fan blades would be carbon fiber." So said Chuck Yeager, a brilliant and boisterous man still in the honeymoon phase of seeing his loved ones again in the afterlife. The recently dead apparently did not like returning to the living for long. "Honestly, it sounds like more work than it's worth. Aluminum is supposed to creep at the temperatures the blades will reach, but I could enchant them to stay cold and to be unbreakable."
"How far does that put us from a test flight?" Arya asked.
Harry considered. "I have an idea that might let us skip wiring up the control surfaces to actual pedals.
He moved his final piece into place, checkmating Arya in a web of pawns and a queen. "I win."
Arya handed over the Elder Wand. Harry waved it in an arc over his head, but there was no fanfare.
"We'll try again tomorrow."
"Lord Dathedr's efforts to pierce the scrying ward proceed," Oromis announced. "There is no obvious progress to point to, but such is the nature of defeating wards. When he succeeds it will be instant, and it could happen at any moment. I am trying my own avenues of attack."
Harry handed him a smoothie. Strawberry. Easy enough to freeze ice cubes and fruit, put them in a glass, use the reductor charm, then stir the result up. "That could just as easily mean he fumbles in the dark for ages and never finds out how to get through."
It was frustrating to wait with nothing to go on. He felt so far from the news in Ellesmera. Someone else might have appreciated it as a haven from the war. Harry hated feeling stuck in the middle of nowhere. It reminded him of Privet Drive, and the infuriating isolation of being too far from the Wizarding World and his friends to do anything but skim the paper and sit around waiting for time to pass.
Oromis inclined his head. "It is possible. The mere fact that we know where to look and that we know there is something there at all is already a great advantage."
"We could know for certain," Harry offered, giving Oromis a meaningful look.
"Finish your plane," Oromis prevaricated.
"A tiny bit up." Harry hovered with the Elder Wand at the ready. Arya grunted, moving the giant turbine fan up an inch. Harry pushed it backwards. "Got it, watch your hands, hang on, hang on–"
The fan slid onto the shaft. Arya yanked her fingers away from the edge of the blades.
"Let's test it before we bolt them onto the airframe," Harry suggested. Arya wiped the oil off her hands and onto her jeans.
Harry levitated the assembly out and conjured a frame and bolted the engine to it. The frame was stuck into the dirt by thick pilings and weighed down by massive steel blocks. Every part had been enchanted unbreakable, heat resistant, self-repairing. The fan and turbine blades were made from steel laced with every durability charm Harry could coax out of Morgan and weave into the metal, enchanted featherlight, and transfigured into perfect aerodynamic optimization.
He summoned a flask of clear straw-colored liquid off the counter. His one and only sample of JP-A1, produced with much coaching from Donna Auzenne, a petrochemical engineer who'd died only days before Harry after a career with Chevron in the United States.
With a pipette, Harry extracted a tiny drop-sized sample and injected it into the lead tank. The refill charm took the droplet and refilled the entire tank with JP-A1. The lines flushed with fuel and lubricant.
Harry retreated back to a control panel. "Stay away from the front and back," he called to Arya and behind her watching with interest, Oromis. He flicked the breaker on the igniter plugs, shrugging on his ear protection. Next to it, Harry had a toy replica of the main fuel valve. It was linked by protean charm to the fuel line of the turbofan engine.
He turned it slowly at first. The starter motor pushed the fan, drawing in oxygen and compressing it into the combustion chamber. The igniter plugs lit the fuel mixture and out the back, the first hot air began to issue out.
The fan spun up to speed, the compressor working with it to suck in more air to burn the fuel in a feedback loop. Harry began easing up on the valve, letting more and more fuel through. The turbofan grew louder and louder, the smell of petrol fumes washing over the Crags. The grass behind the engine whipped about, the closest grass blackening from the heat of the exhaust. In the front, grass bent towards the turbine intake.
He reached what was supposed to be cruising speed fuel throughput. Without earplugs, the noise would have been deafening. The turbine screamed as it sucked in thousands of pounds of air per second, blasting them out the other end. The engine strained and strained against the unbreakable enchanted bolts holding into the assembly. The whole frame of the anchor struggled against its pilings, 60,000 pounds of force trying to rip free of the earth and drag a hundred tons of steel blocks into the sky. All the way on the other side of the Crags, the trees bent and whipped in the backwash. Grass began being ripped up off the ground and sucked into the intake. No obvious remnants of the plant matter emerged from the exhaust.
Harry flicked his wand and all at once, the jet went silent. Abruptly, the screaming sound of its operation ended.
Silently, the turbine continued to operate. It was a force of nature.
It was a force of man.
Harry's hand hovered over the last valve. The frame was already about to fly away.
Fuck it.
He slammed the afterburners to the max. A streak of blueish purple blasted from the exhaust. The turbine's scream was still muffled. All Harry heard through his ear protection was the draconic roar of the afterburner's fire plume, shock diamonds running through the core of the exhaust.
A mad grin stretched ear to ear on his face. The stakes holding the frame down lifted a foot off the ground. Harry hit the fuel cutoff and the jet engine shut down.
He flipped the breaker back off and shrugged off his ear protection. The afterburners had left a streak of soot and scorched earth twenty feet long behind it, the grass uprooted in front. Harry shot a scourgify in through the front to clean out the soot, dirt, and burnt grass.
"It works," he announced.
Arya coughed. "I noticed."
Harry tossed an herbivicus charm onto the field, regrowing the grass in an instant. Over by Arya, Oromis's composure was strained by the awe trying to peek through beneath. Arya wore hers openly, staring at the gigantic turbine with respect.
"I am impressed," Oromis admitted. He waved his hand in front of his nose. "Though I would ask you not to pollute the air here like that again."
"Just wait," Harry promised. "I thought of that."
And sure enough, an hour later, there was not a hint of the scent of petrol anywhere on the Crags of Tel'naer. It was as if the fumes had vanished.
"Stay over Du Weldenvarden," Arya instructed. Harry nodded, taxiing the newly christened Hedwig out of the hangar. The building's exterior had to grow bigger just so Harry could install doors large enough for Hedwig to fit out of.
The cockpit was a good deal less cramped than the Grasshopper. Harry had a vague sense that plane cockpits were supposed to bristle with instruments and sensors and buttons and levers, but he had not installed as many bits and bobs as were usually in a plane.
What few instruments he did have were mimicked with magic. A compass was easy enough, but the altimeter was just a ranging charm tied to an analogue number readout. A couple of tubes with bubbles in them showed Harry the plane's level, and of course he had to make the traditional horizon ball.
What he lacked was the seat belt lights, the tail and wingtip lights, the radio, the radar, the maintenance lights, and so on and so forth. The engines spun at low speed, pushing the levitating craft to the end of the field. Though they were silent, Harry could feel them resonating through the body of the craft.
Outside near Oromis's hut, the old Rider stood against the wall of his hut, a slate in hand.
Harry turned the plane about and buckled in. He toggled the flaps, tested the control surfaces, wiggling the stick, prodding at the rudder pedals. Rather than linking with pulleys all the way through the back of the craft to the control surfaces, the controls were linked to a tiny model plane linked in turn to Hedwig's own control surfaces.
"Everything feels good. Ready to make history?"
Arya pulled her seatbelt across her chest. "Dragons won't be alone in the sky anymore."
Harry pushed the throttle forwards. Hedwig began to trundle across the field, picking up speed. He pushed it further, the acceleration pressing him back into his seat. Arya did not seem alarmed to be dragged back by g-forces, she seemed thrilled.
When half the field had gone by and Harry was moving much faster than highway speed, he pulled up on the yoke. The wind caught the aluminum wings and in a heartstopping moment, he felt the craft rest solely on air.
"What do you think?"
The sun had gone down and Oromis's table was lit with a jar of bluebell flames. Oromis had produced drinks from somewhere, Faelnirv, which was strong enough to pucker Harry's whole face yet sweet enough to enjoy the experience.
Back at the hangar, Hedwig had been pushed backwards into the building following an unqualified success of a test flight. They had not been able to max out her speed simply for the cramped size of Ellesmera's wards. The magical dome was gargantuan on foot, but became very small at hundreds of miles per hour, and seemed short when cruising altitude was 35,000 feet.
"Your craft is very impressive," Oromis said, without a hint of irony.
Harry snorted. "I meant a bit of recon. Just a quick mission, there and back, one day. Dathedr hasn't figured it out yet, has he?"
"No, he has not," Oromis admitted.
"You can come with us," Harry lured.
"I cannot," the Rider refused.
"Why not? We aren't even going to land. Surely it's been ages since you've last flown."
Oromis shook his head. "Aside from the risk of being identified, which is low but never zero, I cannot risk my life on any machine as untested as yours."
"Why?" Harry was bewildered. Oromis did not seem nervous.
"What do you suppose I've hidden all this time for?" Oromis asked. It wasn't a rhetorical question.
"Your injury," Harry thought. "Right? Arya avoided using the last dose of Wiggenweld so you could have it to cure you."
Oromis drummed his fingers. "That was part of it, I suppose. There is a greater reason. I am the only Rider left of the old Order. Brom was never an Elder, he never mastered every one of our arts, nor learned all our most dangerous secrets. The only other person who might possibly know is Galbatorix. Additionally, I am the only survivor who might know things Galbatorix doesn't. Weaknesses, unusual sources of power, spells, words in the Ancient Language, things the Rider Order kept close to their chest which Galbatorix may not have managed to pry into."
He cupped his hands around the bluebell flame, blue shadows dancing over his solemn expression. Arya sat slouched in her chair, faelnirv clasped loosely in one hand.
"Should I die, whatever I have not taught Eragon will be lost forever. As callous as it may sound, I cannot even go with you to ensure his survival for even if Eragon dies, two more eggs yet remain, even if they are in Galbatorix's clutches."
Harry understood. Oromis was the Last Rider. The only survivor of the purge, the one who survived and hid to teach his successors so his whole Order didn't disappear. If he died, there was nobody left to carry on the torch. The Riders of old would die with him, unless he survived to teach Eragon.
"You can't risk it."
Oromis inclined his head. "As much as I enjoyed your presence at the Crags of Tel'naer – both of you–" Arya raised her glass lazily. "I cannot accompany you outside of Ellesmera.
Harry swigged his drink, swallowing as much as he could in one gulp and feeling his face twist into knots as he bore the alcohol burning down his throat.
"You're acting like this is goodbye," Harry said, frowning. "We're coming back. The same day. It should take four or five hours to get there. We'll be back in time for dinner."
Oromis took his warmed knuckles and touched them to his cheeks. A faint smile played on his lips, the line between blue and black dancing as the bluebell flames flickered. "You both have the air about you of students about to spread their wings. I hope you continue to push each other to grow. I look forward to seeing who you become whenever I may see you again."
Rule breaking sounded incredibly out of character for the old Rider. "You're not going to snitch, are you?" Harry asked suspiciously. "You can't be condoning this 'treason.'"
Oromis shook his head. "Of course not," he said, suddenly stern. "But if you did, you would need to get your intelligence back to us."
Harry considered. "I've got a plan for that. Put a mailbox just beyond the wards and I'll find a way to get everything where it needs to go. Hypothetically, of course."
Oromis raised his glass. "Hypothetically. Of course."
"Hypothetically," Arya slurred. Harry recognized that she'd drunk quite a lot more than either of them.
"I'll get her to bed," he promised Oromis. "Sorry for being a pillock when we first met. I'll move the hangar somehow, I shouldn't have put it right in the middle of your home."
"Your actions were understandable," Oromis said politely. "I was not offended. I owe you an apology. I thought perhaps it would have been ill-received before now. I am sorry. It was unfair that you were trapped here for my negligence and carelessness. I hope to see you again on better terms. You are a remarkable man, Harry Evans."
"Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," Oromis echoed.
Harry helped Arya back to the tent. Alcohol was heavy on her breath, and she walked unsteadily. It was weird to see her lacking her usual perfect poise.
"I always wanted to fly," Arya confided. Harry held up the flap of the tent for her.
"It's loads of fun," Harry agreed.
Arya rolled her eyes. "Mother always told stories about the Riders. Heroes."
"Mmh." Arya stumbled and caught herself on her doorframe. The guest room still looked a bit unfinished with boxes of copies of Jeod's books stacked against the far wall.
Harry straightened up to bid her goodnight, but Arya caught his wrist and pulled him inside. His heart beat faster.
"Arya, you're drunk," he said gently.
"Not too drunk."
"Pretty drunk," Harry insisted. He considered conjuring her a backpack and setting her on her side so she wouldn't choke on her sick if she threw up in her sleep.
Arya shook her head, her dark hair swirling around her shoulders. She fell unsteadily into her bed, fumbling with her legs to straighten the covers. Harry sighed and helped her straighten out the blanket.
"You're in for a miserable morning," Harry muttered under his breath. "Goodnight, Arya."
"Sleep well," she whispered. Then, after a pause, "...Fäolin."
Harry's heart clenched, missing a few beats. He shut the door and breathed out.
Too tired to shower, Harry hit himself with a scourgify, wincing as it scoured his skin. Half asleep already, he fished out the medkit and found a hangover cure to set out near Arya's door.
It had been a while since he'd dreamed of Galbatorix. When he drifted off, the streets of Doru Araeba were the last thing he expected to see.
Galbatorix entered the massive library. For as long as he had called Doru Araeba his home, the size never struck him so much with Jarnunvosk at his side.
There had to be something here. Dragons and their magic defied understanding. Riders guarded millenia of accumulated knowledge on them. There had to be something there.
Cloaking himself with a long invisibility spell, Galbatorix crept towards the sections reserved for the Elders. Old dragonlore, old magic, the sort that had a chance to help.
"Galbatorix."
He froze in place as he felt that familiar mental touch and heard that familiar voice.
"Ebrithil."
Galbatorix did not resist Emyl's gentle magic brushing away the cloak of light that hid him.
"I was sorry to hear what happened," Emyl said. Galbatorix noticed the dampness beneath her eyes. He had not given his teacher much consideration. He had lost Jarnunvosk, she had lost all of her students at once.
All save one.
"Thanks." The word came out stilted. The Ancient Language had almost prevented him from voicing it.
"Where are you headed?"
"The Dragonlore section," Galbatorix admitted. There was no point in dancing around the point when they were conversing in the language of truth.
Emyl's face fell. "You know it's for Elders only."
Galbatorix turned on the charm. "You know I am responsible. That I was forbidden from accessing them sooner was pedantry of rank. I am at least as experienced as the least of the Elders with gramarye. I hoped to continue to be an asset to the Order even without–"
"You can't use your tricks on the one who taught them to you," Emyl scolded. "Whether or not I thought you should be allowed in that section, My duty is to bar your entry. Go appeal to the Council. Take your silver tongue to the audience chamber and I shall help you."
And Galbatorix knew betrayal.
It was a horrible, gnawing emptiness, a void in his heart, a sinkhole at his feet, a sudden and devastating shift in his perception of the world that left it bleaker than he had known it.
He spun on his heel and stalked away. Emyl called after him, but her empty words fell on deaf ears. The Order had nothing left to offer him.
"Hello."
Durza sat on a log honing the edge of a long, thin sword. Galbatorix had thought to meet him on superior footing, properly supplied, dressed, and prepared.
The Shade was a different creature to the beast he'd seen. He had the trappings of a rich and powerful man. He was calm, composed, and as patient as any cunning man. He gave Galbatorix a sharp smile, but didn't speak. I won't play any word games, he seemed to be saying.
Or maybe, Your move.
"Time has been good to you since we last met," he settled on.
Durza inclined his head. The scraping noise got on his nerves as he rubbed the whetstone up the blade.
"Not so for me."
Durza made a faintly surprised expression, glancing at Galbatorix's apparel. Really?
He ground his teeth. "You were right."
Durza breathed in deep, smiling as if smelling an intoxicating fragrance.
"No three words sound sweeter. Are you prepared to walk a different path, Galbatorix? There is no turning back."
"The Order has nothing left to offer me," Galbatorix gave voice to his thoughts.
Durza's sharp teeth glinted. "There is more than one path to power," the Shade said. He sounded dangerous and self-assured. What had happened in the last month? "Opportunities come and go. Are you prepared to seize this one?"
Galbatorix gazed over Durza's shoulder at the Spine, and the world beyond it. "Aye."
AN: Shorter, but this is the 2nd chapter in one week. I'm writing this on 10/20/2024, we'll see when it gets posted. I don't like sitting on chapters.