As Eragon and Arya returned to the treehouse, they wasted no time in ensuring the privacy of their conversation. After carefully warding the room against any potential eavesdroppers, they settled themselves and reached out to Umaroth through the link of the Eldunarí.
Umaroth's voice came through, warm but tinged with curiosity. "I sensed a great magic today. What happened?"
Eragon and Arya took turns explaining the events of the day—the unexpected return of Oromis, the powerful magic that had brought him back, and the emotional reunion between him and Glaedr.
Eragon's tone carried excitement but also guilt, and once their explanation ended, he asked, "Do you have any guidance, any precedent for something like this?"
After a long moment of silence, Umaroth responded, his voice thoughtful. "There is only one other instance I know of when something similar occurred, though it was not a human, but a dragon who was brought back."
Eragon and Arya leaned forward, listening intently as Umaroth began his tale.
"Many, many years ago, in the age before the Riders, there was a wild dragon named Drundor. He lived in the northern reaches of Alagaësia and was known for his cunning and fiery nature. Drundor was not bonded but had developed a deep friendship with a young elf maiden named Naelith. They would often explore the forests together, sharing a kind of bond that, while not sealed by magic, was nonetheless profound. Without words, the two understood and cared for each other. Naelith had saved Drundor when he was young, and the two had been inseparable since. They spent ten years exploring and protecting one another.
"One day, Drundor engaged in a battle with another dragon—one far larger and more powerful than he. Naelith was too far away to reach him. Though he fought fiercely, his wounds were mortal, and he died in the mountains. When Naelith found his body, she was overcome with such a flood of grief that she released an immense surge of wordless magic, one she could not control. In her grief, she sacrificed her own life force to restore Drundor, bringing him back from the void. The magic was too much for her, and it drained her energy completely.
Arya's breath caught as Umaroth told the tale, her mind turning over the implications. Eragon could have died. She had heard this story long ago, but she barely remembered bits and pieces. She knew that Naelith had been exceptionally gifted magically, and that she was well over 500 when she died.
"And what became of Drundor after that?" Arya asked softly.
Umaroth sighed. "Drundor lived, but his spirit was never the same. Though his body was whole, something deep within him had shifted. He was tied to the memory of Naelith and carried her sacrifice for the rest of his days. Though his life was restored, there was a sorrow in him that could never fully be undone. Many songs and poems have made it into the elf histories over the years, but only because of the tragic ending. There is no mention of Drundor past that. No one knows for sure what happened to him after that. Some say he left Alagaesia. Others say his sorrow eventually led him to give up on life, intentionally passing into the void."
The room was silent for a few moments as the story ended.
Eragon broke it first, his voice low. "Does that mean Oromis is carrying a similar burden? Is there something lost in his return?"
Umaroth's response was gentle but uncertain. "I do not know, Eragon. The nature of the magic that restored Oromis is different. But I tell you this story to show that such acts, while rare, have happened before. Whether there is a deeper cost or not, only time will tell."
"Thank you," Arya whispered. "For the story and your wisdom."
After a few more exchanges with Umaroth, they thanked him and released the link. The day had been long, full of revelations, and both of them felt the need for rest.
Without speaking, Arya curled up beside Eragon, and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. They lay there, the warmth of each other's presence a comfort after the emotional turbulence of the day. Though neither spoke, they both allowed their thoughts to intertwine. Their hopes, fears, and wonder of Oromis' return swirled and morphed into a waking dream.
Uncontrolled thoughts can be a dangerous temptation. The pair both dreamed of others they had lost to the void. Eragon thought of his mother, Brom, Ajihad, and Hrothgar. Arya thought of her mother, her father, Faolin and Glenwing. What if everyone could come back? What if Glaedr's body could be brought back? The questions were endless and their musings took on a fantastical hope they both knew could never be. This magic was dangerous. The power uncontrollable. It would be the ruin of them if they continued. These thoughts and more flitted through their minds as the pair rested, and when they finally rose, neither of them felt rested.
Eragon turned to Arya and remorse coursed through him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know neither of us would be wishing for what cannot be if not for my lack of control yesterday."
"Shh," Arya replied. "There's no need to apologize. It was just a dream."
"I've often dreamt of them still alive," she continued. "This is no different. We just feel it more because where there was no possibility before, now there could be one. But there should not be one. The dead are at peace in the void, and that's where we shall leave them."
"I doubt I could replicate it anyways," Eragon said with a sigh. "Although I can't say I haven't thought about it. We have enough trouble with one person returning from the dead."
He got up then and began his exercises. Arya joined him, and they settled into a comfortable silence as they cleared their minds.
Eragon and Arya made their way to the sparring fields, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the training grounds. Haroldun and Dorzada were already waiting for them. Haroldun's stocky form presented confidently, though a hint of nervousness showed in his eyes.
Eragon greeted him with a nod. "Ready to try a few weapons?"
Haroldun grunted affirmatively, adjusting his grip on the small axe he carried. "Aye, though the axe has always been my favored tool."
Arya, standing beside Eragon, gave a small smile. "We thought it might help if you tried out a few different ones today. Some might suit you better for the variety of tasks you'll face as a Rider."
At that moment, Rhunon appeared, the elf-smith's presence drawing attention from the other elves sparring. Rhunon rarely left her forge, so when she did, it meant something important was happening.
She approached with her usual calm authority, though there was a glint in her eye as she surveyed Haroldun. Arya greeted her with the traditional elvin greeting out of habit, and Eragon simply nodded. Haroldun fumbled through the greeting, and Rhunon watched him appraisingly for a moment before speaking.
"Haroldun, is it?" she said, her voice cool and direct. "Don't bother with those silly traditions around me. Now let's see what you're capable of with something other than that axe of yours."
Haroldun nodded, clearly feeling all of the eyes watching them.
Eragon passed him a hammer, its head heavy but balanced for combat. "Try this first. It's similar in weight and handling to your axe."
Haroldun swung the hammer a few times, getting a feel for its heft before engaging in mock combat with Eragon. His movements were precise, but the hammer didn't seem to sit as comfortably in his grip as his axe.
"Too cumbersome," Rhunon noted. "He's built for something with more versatility, perhaps a short sword."
She handed Haroldun a blade that gleamed in the sunlight. As he tested its weight and balance, his movements became smoother, more controlled.
Arya watched intently. "It gives him more reach, but does it have the power he needs?"
Haroldun swung the sword in a series of strikes, but the lack of force behind each swing was noticeable. He shook his head. "Feels light. Not quite right."
Rhunon tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps a mace or flail, then. Something that combines the weight and striking power of the axe but with the flexibility of movement."
She handed him a flail, its spiked head swinging from a short chain. Haroldun hesitated at first but soon found his rhythm, delivering crushing blows with a deftness neither Eragon nor Arya had expected. The satisfaction on his face was evident as he tested its reach and destructive capability.
"Better," Rhunon said, watching him with sharp eyes. "It's something that could complement your strength and stature. But your journey as a Rider will demand more than brute force."
Arya crossed her arms, watching Haroldun's performance closely. "The flail seems promising. But you must practice with all these weapons. The more versatile you are, the better you'll adapt to the unpredictable situations you'll face."
Haroldun nodded, though his grip lingered on the flail. "This one feels like home. But you're right, I'll try them all."
Rhunon gave a satisfied nod. "I'll craft you something that combines the best features of these. It will be one of the finest in Alagaesia, if not the finest."
Rhunon had agreed to allow Arya to remove her oath with the word a few years after the war was over. Many of the Riders were having difficulties as their weapons kept breaking due to the immense strength they gained in a short period of time. The swords of the Riders of old except a select few were melted down for their brightsteel, and Rhunon had been central in outfitting the new Riders ever since.
Her only requirement was that all the Riders swear a carefully worded oath once a year that prevented her creations from being used for evil or corruption. The frequency of the oath ensured that a change in one's true name would not release them. She also devised a singing spell that would not allow anyone who hasn't sworn this oath to wield her creations.
With Rhunon's expertise and Haroldun's diligence, the dwarf would soon have the tools to fulfill his role.
"Use the rest of the day to bond with Dorzada," Eragon said to Haroldun. "I want you to merge with him completely as you fly. Try to maintain your focus not only on the new sensations but also on everything else around you. Keep your mind open while simultaneously protecting yourself from attack. See if you can accomplish balance in that state."
"Yes Ebrithil," Haroldun replied respectfully.
Eragon and Arya thanked Rhunon for her help and made their way to Arya's ancestral home.
The Council of Elders gathered in the ornately adorned Tialdari hall, their voices hushed as they prepared to make a crucial decision about the next ruler of the elven people. Eragon and Arya were already seated, watching intently as the elders filed in, their faces were serious with the anticipation of the choice ahead. Tension lingered in the air, and murmurs filled the room as the council awaited the presentations from the candidates.
Dathedr, a seasoned warrior and leader of Ellesméra's defenses, was the first to speak. He rose from his seat, tall and commanding, and addressed the council with calm authority. "For decades, I have served as the leader of our forces. I have stood at the side of Queen Islanzadí and led our warriors through war and peace. I know the strength of our people, and I understand the delicate balance we must maintain with our allies." He paused, allowing his words to settle. "The future demands wisdom and the ability to work with the leaders of other races—Nasuada, Orik, Orin, Gharzvog—all of whom I have worked with personally to maintain peace. I offer my experience in ensuring Ellesméra thrives in this new world."
Arya rose next, offering her support for Dathedr. "I have spoken with the various rulers of the other races," she said, her voice clear and strong. "They have expressed their concerns about the elven succession, worried that a misstep could weaken our alliance and cause disharmony. Dathedr's steady leadership, his relationships with the monarchs of Alagaësia, and his ability to balance tradition with diplomacy make him the best candidate for this role. He understands the complexity of our place in the world, and his experience is unmatched."
After Arya's statement, Fiolr stepped forward to make his case. His eyes were sharp, and his voice carried conviction. "We are the eldest race," he declared, "and we should not forget the strength that lies within our traditions. I do not seek to bend to the will of others or rely on the alliances of the lesser races. I seek to restore the elves to their rightful place of dominance, where our people are strong, independent, and unmatched." His words echoed through the hall, sparking murmurs among the council members. Fiolr had long been a divisive figure, but his passion was undeniable. He truly believed in his words. He believed unity was the wrong path, and it was apparent that his argument held sway over many of the members.
For the rest of the day, the council debated. Elders like Maedra, a respected healer, voiced their support for Dathedr's balanced approach. "We need stability and cooperation with our allies, not isolation," she said. Others, like Eldrin, leaned toward Fiolr's views, arguing, "The elves must not rely on the whims of humans and urgals to maintain our well-being."
As the hours wore on, it became clear that the decision would be close. Each candidate had garnered significant support. In the end, just a handful of votes separated Dathedr and Fiolr. But after the final tally, Dathedr was chosen to take up the mantle of leadership. His experience, diplomacy, and measured approach had narrowly won over the council.
Fiolr's face remained impassive as the decision was announced, though the tension in his posture was unmistakable. Before the meeting could adjourn, he rose once more. "If Dathedr is to lead us, then I propose a motion," he said, his voice cold but calculated. "Dathedr's current position as the leader of Ellesméra's warriors will need to be filled. I nominate myself for this role."
A murmur rippled through the council chambers. Fiolr's proposition was shrewd—by taking on Dathedr's old position, he would still gain significant power and influence within elven society. The council, eager to avoid further divisions, reluctantly agreed as no one else wanted the position. Dathedr's appointment was confirmed, and Fiolr was named as his successor in leading Ellesméra's warriors.
Though it wasn't the outcome Arya had hoped for, it was the best possible compromise. Dathedr was chosen as the elven leader, but Fiolr's role ensured that tensions within the council would continue to simmer. Dathedr would need to find another to help him navigate the court without her. Perhaps Maedra could be the right fit. She made a mental note to speak with the elder before they left for Carvahall.