He should have known it would not be so easy.
When had it ever been easy? When had he ever had the luxury of simple? He had known the cold bite of deadlines, the judging stares of those with expectations who had bet the lives of thousands - perhaps uncounted billions if Zoe's warnings about other worlds were correct - on his and Saphira's ability.
Defeated at the entrance to the place he had come so far to find all because he could not speak his true name. Not even Saphira, who could be so insufferably know-it-all, had been able to speak her own true name.
They could have warned us, he thought. We had a whole damn flight across half the continent and an ocean to think.
What now?
A lot can happen between now and never.
Not helpful.
The dragon huffed hot air. She was exhausted by the flight and in no mood to listen to his whining. He, stretched thin by too many cares and feeling the pressure of the upcoming battle that they could not miss, wanted answers right then. None came, just gnawing anxiety and frustration.
What more could be asked of them? They had done everything and more. Why make this apparently critical last task impossible to accomplish? To know one's true name would take weeks of careful study if not years and even then…Eragon knew such knowledge could maim a mind as surely as a sword could cut.
And all around him he felt the press of time, the onward march of seconds to minutes to hours. Counting down to the fight he had to be present for, the battle that a century of planning and desperate hope had gone into bringing about.
Come, said Saphira.
A sudden shadow made him and Saphira suddenly halt. Without realizing it, both so overcome by their own disappointment and anger, they had come to the edge of the ruined city. Broken stone lay before them, vegetation growing through the cracks, making the ground uneven and treacherous to incautious feet. Neither wished to venture into the ruins right then, to walk among the ghosts of this haunted city. There was an overgrown apple orchard, however, growing close by. The trees gnarled and ancient, their fruit long gone. chunks of masonry dotted the ground. But it was peaceful enough and provided a quiet shelter, one that reminded both Rider and dragon of their time in Du Weldenvarden. That time which had been too short and too long.
Would there ever have been enough time with their Masters? Or had they spent too long studying the wrong things?
Time. Time.
He could not rest. He undid his light traveling armour, inspected it, ran through forms with his sword…and his attempts at mediating made his head spin. It was useless.
Saphira?
You go. The dragon said wearily. I need to sleep.
Eragon also needed to sleep, but he was too strung out. He left his armour and cloak, taking only his bow and a knife. It reminded him of his hunting trips into the Spine for a brief moment. But the bow he carried now was a splendid thing, far stronger than the one his uncle had made for him, and even the knife was ornate, set with a precious gem.
He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, both in himself and not. Restless, angry, resentful…he paused only for a moment at the entrance to the ruined city before he plunged into them.
These ruins were their legacy, the remnant of the Order that Rider and dragon were sworn to uphold. What was it in the end, wondered the Rider, they were upholding? The Order of Riders lay around him, shattered and beyond repair. There was nothing here to save, all was poisoned and decaying.
Oromis and Gleadr had been nothing but a fading memory of this. The sapphire Rider was becoming painfully aware of how little they had been able to teach him in the brief months he had lingered in Du Weldenvarden. And even if they had had more time, the sapphire Rider wondered if they could have prepared him for this. He had been named leader of this failed Order that had gone down in flames and blood, issued commands under that seal as if it still had power.
He kept moving until he found himself in an empty courtyard surrounded by crumbling marble. A single pillar was all that remained standing in the centre of the square, a smashed statute of a dragon scattered about. Vines had grown up around the column and Eragon took the measure of it with a glance. His restless energy needing to be spent, he did not hesitate. The climb was not hard, but it was challenging enough. He knew it was reckless of him, a ridiculous thing to do. But still he did it, no wards or ropes or spells. Just his own body and half remembered memories of being a young man by himself on the cliffs of the Spine, testing himself and the boundaries of his world.
There was a wide piece of stone at the top of the pillar hat had once held a statute and Eragon sat himself down on it, not even winded by the exertion, something that still unsettled him. He felt like a stranger in his own body still even after months of intense physical activity.
Before him stretched the darkening city, a wind was blowing out of the east. He could smell the ocean, the salty tang foreign to him. In the darkening twilight which softened the jagged ruins, it was almost possible to imagine that the city was still intact, dream of what it had once looked like. He could almost imagine the beat of dragon wings above.
I am alone, he thought. In a city that was sacked by the man I must kill, the newest and last recruit of an Order he burnt to ashes. And if I kill him? What then? But just as terrifying to contemplate is what happens if I kill him. This city shows me what that might look like if I fail as a Rider, as a leader of the Order. How can it even be an Order if it is just me and my brother? A brother that most of the world will hate for his tie to the Empire. His thoughts spiralled downward, deeper and darker as all the misgivings he had felt stirring since Feinster and then that speech he gave to the gathered forces of men, dwarves, Urgals, and elves came to the fore. It was not enough to be a Rider like there had been in past. It was not enough to be the Rider Brom or Nasuada or Arya or…
Zoe shrugged.
We all lose, Eragon. There comes a time in your life when you lose everything that matters. You fight and you lose. But what really matters isn't the war you're waging but that you don't lose the person you are in the midst of the battle.
Have you lost yourself?
Yes.
What did you do?
She looked away, not answering directly, Just remember that if you want something you can have it, but only if you want everything that goes along with it, including the despair and the pain, and only if you are willing to risk failure.
And he understood then that some old wounds never truly healed, and that they would bleed again at the slightest word.
Alone.
He had grown up on the frontier of the Empire, in a harsh and unforgiving climate, a place where every day was a battle against the elements, against the scarcity of basic necessities. It was a place where nature still held sway and test its would-be challengers on a daily basis, weeding out those that were slow or weak. That honed sense of survival, the stubborn stamina ground into from early childhood by nature and Garrow's chores, had had more of an impact than he realized. It had left him willing to pit himself without hesitation or conscious question against any environment, throwing himself into the fight, giving every last iota to survive, to prevail sometimes from day to day or hour to hour. Whatever necessary, whatever it took, he would give.
It was not, he realized, in him to hold back, to stand away and allow others to take up the fight. It may no longer be nature he was pitted against but it felt every bit as driven and dangerous.
Eragon plucked at a loose thread in his tunic. The fabric of his traveling clothes was still finer than anything he had worn as a boy, but it way beginning to show signs. He supposed he could have repaired it using magic but he resisted the urge. Magic was no carnival trick, no casual thing to be used. It pulled at the very fabric of his world, each spell that was cast had a consequence. It was not a sword, not a hammer, a tool that could be used and then set aside. He hadn't understood that really until he had been stripped of it in the tunnels under Dras'Leona and seen Zoe step forward and bring her own magic to the fight, that twist of foreign power pulling at the foundations of his world.
He understood now that the fight had gone beyond control of the Empire and vengeance for the fall of the Riders. It was now about restoring the balance. His world was dying, magic was fading. If it was possible to raise the stakes higher, they had been.
Who was he now? What was he?
I'm not the same, he thought.
He would make no concession, would give no ground. Truth for truth, blow for blow, thought the Rider. This was too important. The future was too important to allow himself to be pulled into petty games.
Zoe had told him before he took flight, her eyes distant as she recalled her own past, that you either played the game or the game played you.
Like many of her words he understood them only later when his perspective of the world shifted and what had once been hidden from his understanding was revealed. The game had played him for a long time as he struggled through his first few steps as an adult, a Rider, a brother…a son. He hadn't known what he was doing because he hadn't known who he was or what he needed to become. He had been reacting, always reacting, struggling to plan for a future. Saphira's life had been counted as more valuable than his own. He had been a necessary accessory that had to be trained and moulded into a useful item. Few, he knew, truly believed he had the skill and the cunning to complete the task before him…let alone control what came after.
He closed his eyes tightly. Zoe had told him once of a philosopher who said that knowing others was intelligence; knowing yourself was true wisdom.
I don't understand, he had said, too tired and strung out. The pain from Durza's cursed wound radiating through his mind, numbing him.
But Zoe had shook her head and said that she wasn't finished. The philosopher, she explained, had said that mastering others was strength; mastering yourself was true power.
The Rider now reflected on her words.
The hardest truths, he had come to learn, were the ones it was hardest to hold onto. They were like memories which, even when they were precious beyond belief, faded quickly. He could barely remember his aunt and the edges of Garrow's face was fading from his mind, leaving nothing more but impressions. He tried not to go along with it but slowly, as the pressure mounted and his cares grew, the ghosts of his childhood slipped further away.
The wind which ruffled his hair reminded him of the wind which had swept across Palancar Valley as he worked the fields. A cold, melancholy feeling gripped him.
Once he had been the person who meant everything he said. He had been earnest and determined. He had been idealistic. And he had thought that everyone else meant what they said. More recently it had seemed easier after he realized that so very few people meant what they said to turn inwards. The man who had no conscience, no thought of goodness, not only did not suffer, but did not care. It was easier not to care. It was easier not to suffer, but it was a poor life. He was beginning to see that now.
Life is hard. But it was the only thing guaranteed.
He closed his eyes, remembering those long nights in Du Weldenvarden. It seemed so long ago…
That is the journey, said the princess from his memory. The journey which brings us into contact with others…we are all wayfarers, each searching for the answers to the unspoken questions of our hearts.
I am afraid.
We are always more afraid, said the memory of the princess, than we want to be, but we can also be braver than we expect to.
He opened his eyes, cold. He would not find his name that night, alone on the column. With a sigh and shiver, the Rider climbed down the vines and walked slowly back to where Saphira rested among the trees. The dragon did not glance at him, her eyes half closed as she thought, lost in her own mind just as he had been.
Settling down beside her warm bulk, one hand on her hard scaly side, the sapphire Rider thought. He thought about how there was won and there was lost, there was victory and defeat. There were absolutes. Everything in between was still left to fight for.
Hours slipped by before the dragon roused herself. She let out a low grumble, frustrated and weary.
Are you alright? he asked.
This is about you, said Saphira. This is about me. This is about everything it took to come here, everything it has cost. I chose you, Eragon, but you chose to fight.
He smiled affectionally at her. Thank you.
Saphira lowered her massive head and stared straight at him with her great sapphire eyes, reading in an instant where his thoughts had wandered and the problems he now mulled over. What is it that you want, Eragon? No one can hit their target if they do not know what the target is.
He looked away from her. They could have gone. They could have left this land and fled for the open sea and whatever lands lay beyond it. It had crossed his mind more than once and he did not feel any shame for thinking it like he should have…like he knew he should for thinking of it again now. It would be easier than staying…easier to leave.
But was that what he wanted?
No, he thought. This land was his home no matter what Angela's prophecy said. And flying away just meant dragging all his problems with him and Saphira.
What did he want? He wanted places like Palancar Valley to be safe. He wanted the elves to respect mortals and for mortals not to fear elves. He did not want magic to be bandied about or to be misused in the ways he had seen since leaving Palancar Valley. He wanted the dwarves to leave their tunnels, to set aside the grievances they had towards the other inhabitants of this world and become active participants. He wanted Urgals to have land to live on in peace and for dragons to once again rule the skies. He wanted the balance that Zoe had hinted at…no matter how impossible it might be to achieve that balance.
But who was he to impose his will? Who was he to say these were the rules, the goals?
You are the Rider, said Saphira. Who else can?
He thought about what it was to give hope. To motivate change. What it meant to turn from a path and walk a new one. To quicken one's step along unfamiliar terrain. Because when one choose then all the choices one had had before were snuffed out like candles, as if they had never existed. The only option was to go on.
I am not enough, he said. We are not enough, alone. We need help, Saphira.
Who?
He looked up at the starry sky. That was the question. He closed his eyes, mulling it over. Some names came to mind, the obvious ones like Orik and Nasuada. But you needed more than just Kings and rebel leaders, thought Eragon. You needed Jeod with his books and lore. You needed men like Horst of Carvahall whose simple, direct manner gave him a voice able to reach out to those whose days were spent working hard to put bread on the table. You did not need many, he thought, but you needed the best people — able to organize others, and willing to work hard for a common vision. You needed them to believe in your vision.
How?
He smiled, Asking all the hard questions, aren't you?
They must be asked.
The Rider shrugged, Oromis said that in the old days the Riders had many contacts, they had networks of people across Alagaesia gathering information, putting plans into action and ensuring that any potential conflict was resolved before it had a chance to begin…we must build that network, we must begin to create the narrative not be shaped by it.
Bold words, said the dragon. How do you intend to that with Nasuada? Orrin? Islanzardi? They could choose to interpret your efforts as an act of aggression.
Perhaps, said the Rider, but I am playing for the long term, Saphira. I am beginning to understand that. Compromise, negotiation, cooperation…and force, if necessary. I will do whatever I have to. The balance needs to be restored. This is beyond any single king or queen. It is beyond us. But we have to try.
I know, she said.
They fell back into silence, the two lost in thought. Confronting the future, thought the Rider, and attempting to define what they might want as partners of mind and soul as well as leaders of the Order was untested ground for their relatively new partnership.
Saphira's flames danced in the worn golden lantern that he had pulled from the shattered masonry at one end of the massive hall. The gold looked warm, the fires dancing merrily in the smooth, round bottom.
How many had seen Saphira's flames and perished?
Many, he thought, and many more would die the same way before the end of this. Dragon fire was remembered for its destruction, for the sheer raw power of it and the fury that it unleashed. Dragon fire had stolen many lives, turned the bodies to ash that was blown away. That was how many thought of Saphira…fire and fury and death.
It had been necessary and there hadn't been any other way. But that was not what he wanted in the future. The Rider's had not been associated with destruction and death, the burning of cities and the slaughter of armies. Yes, they had gone to war occasionally and they had killed but that had not defined them.
We need, he said quietly, to be more than the warrior Rider and the city-destroying dragon.
First, reminded the dragon, we need to defeat Galbatorix. Only then can we turn to softer forms of power.
First, he corrected, we need to figure out our names.
Any ideas?
No, said the Rider. I can't focus on it.
And you can't blame it on Arya being around.
The Rider coloured, swatting uselessly at the massive sapphire scaled shoulder.
Almost unwillingly he thought of Arya and he thought about their last conversation. When he had seen her emerging out the misty dawn, turned to face her on that rocky shore, he had realized something: he wanted her to understand. He wanted Arya to look at him, really look, and see Eragon. He wanted something warm and sheltering, something he could turn to, regardless of what he did, regardless of what he became. Something that would just be there always, like the sky.
Maybe he should have anticipated her inability to do that. Arya had been raised to think first of her duty to her people; a duty that had been hammered home with fire and blood by the Fall and the death of her father, the King. But he seemed to be the victim of his own wishes where she was concerned.
And he had thought they were on the edge of that. He had thought that her attitude toward him had changed since that night they had shared together on their return to the Varden and even before that, in Du Weldenvarden. He had thought she saw him as something more than a tool, a necessary part of securing the future of the elves and righting a terrible, world shattering wrong. But he was young and inexperienced. Perhaps what he had thought was between them was not what he had hoped it was.
Do you love Arya?
I…
He had not understood the softness in his half-brother's eyes when he looked at Zoe or the way Zoe's capable hands would still when Murtagh drew near. He understood a little better now. He understood how it had crept up on two of the most independent, stubborn and practical people he knew.
Fire.
Not wild, uncontrolled fire like that which could ignite in a tinder dry forest during high summer. Not ice white dragon fire which could shape solid rock. It was the glow of an ember, something warm and comforting that was somewhere deep inside. It didn't fade, it didn't go out, it was a warm heat that made him smile even as the cold doubts closed in. It had grown and changed, sustaining him when the world seemed to be closing in.
I think I do, he said to Saphira. I think I have loved her for a long time.
You need to tell her.
It is impossible.
The dragon did not deign to answer that.
The Rider glanced at her, annoyed but decided there was no point arguing with her when he already knew her opinion and her answer. Instead he said, We should focus on the matter at hand.
We are, said Saphira. This is part of discovering who we are.
It seems, said the Rider edgily, that both my brother and I share similar ill-fated loves.
You don't. Arya can stay. She can't stay. Zoe, that is.
How do you know that for sure? Surely she would try for Murtagh…
I've known since I met her, said the dragon simply, although I could not tell you how I knew or why it is so clear to me. I knew when I first set eyes on her. She is not of this world, Eragon. She doesn't fit. It pushes rules that are not meant to tested. It made Glaedr's scales itch. When she used her magic it was like all the world bent to her.
Does Murtagh know?
I do not think Zoe knew, said the Saphira, or at least she did not know for a long time. I think she knows now…after Dras'Leona.
The sapphire Rider winced at the memory of that wild rush of power, that undeniably foreign explosion of energy which had rent the world in two for a brief moment. It made sense but that did not lessen the twist of sadness he felt inside.
It will be hard for them both.
It will be hardest for Murtagh, said Saphira. He relies on her for guidance, for her belief in his ability to step free of both his father's legacy and Galbatorix's control.
We have all relied on her, pointed out the Rider.
Yes, said the dragon, but Zoe knows who she is and she has stood on her own before. Murtagh is young and he still does not know who he is, what he is when he isn't angry at something or someone. He does not know how to define himself without being in opposition with something.
Murtagh has not defined himself against Zoe, said the Rider. He knows —
She was the reassuring simile, said the dragon before he could continue. She was the anchor that kept him grounded, the warm touch that soothed fears and doubt he could never share with anyone else.
Was that why she was so determined to retrieve the egg?
Of course, said Saphira.
They were silent for a time.
I am so young.
Perhaps that is for the best, said Saphira. Perhaps if you were older you would have declared that this was all impossible and foolish.
Perhaps, he said with a smile.
Do you wish to go home? asked Saphira quietly.
No, said the Rider without conviction.
They were silent, comfortable in each-others presence without needing to fill the silence, watching the sun slowly sink behind the distant, shattered remains of the buildings, red sky settling out to velvet night. Saphira waited him out, knowing that he would eventually explain.
It isn't going back to Palancar Valley, Saphira. It isn't going back to the farm. I wish I could go back to the person who used to live there. Sometimes…not always but sometimes I wish I could be that Eragon again.
His world had been neatly bounded by the farm and Garrow's expectations. But that little world was lost to him. In little over a year those boundaries and expectations had been blown apart. It had been a period of ending and beginning, a year of loss and finding…and all through it had been Saphira. He had not been alone since he had stretched out a hand and touched the tiny, scaly head.
I love you. I just…
I know, said the dragon. Can you forgive me for what loving me has done to you?
Of course, he said. I never blamed you. Ever. He lifted his eyes to the great blue orbs of the dragon who had chosen him above all others and he felt his heart swell with love and joy. You made a place in my heart…Remember this, Saphira, if you die, I will not survive you long.
The full weight of her love for him, their shared companionship flowed through their bond. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket, a sense of complete peace and acceptance. There was grief and sadness, but that was right. They each had their own skills, but neither one of them was more or less valuable. Together, he realized. Regret, resolve…but also hope and love.
He had come full circle.
The name came to him then, slipping out of the dark recesses of his mind as if it had been there all along, just waiting for the right moment to show itself to him. He had known it all along, he realized. He just hadn't been ready to face himself or Saphira.
He wanted to tear himself from this place, from the reality that was his name, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into the slowly coming dawn and dissolve somewhere very far away, over the ocean. But he was here, his legs frozen and his lungs empty of air, his throat burning.
Ignorance of himself and the consequences of his actions would have been kinder. It would have enabled him to stand beside the warriors of the Varden, the Urgals, the dwarves, and the elves and feel that shared call to stand against the Empire. Would have enabled him to cast spells without thought, see the path cut across the Empire with something akin to pride. Now he stood alone with his deeds and that growing awareness of all that he was, could be, had to be, must be.
It did not matter what he thought of his true name or what it implied about his character, he suddenly realized. It was his name. It would change as he grew. It had already changed. Knowing it meant that he could move forward with purpose, the knowledge simply another tool he could make use of as he forged a path.
But now?
Now it was time to act. Time to set aside his personal desires and wishes.
Together, said Saphira.
And she told him her name. It echoed with fire and fierce love. It rang like thunder across an open night sky, defiant.
Always.
They rose as one, walking with quiet resolve and purpose through the ruins of the once magnificent city as the first rays of dawn lit the eastern sky.
You what—
Maybe it was because they had somehow, against all odds, answered all the tests and gained access to the hidden vault filled with the hearts of dragons who had been secretly nudging them along, that he managed to keep his calm. Managed, somehow, to rein in the impulse to shatter the crystals which illuminated the vaulted ceiling of the cave and the neat rows of dragon hearts and the precious jewel-like eggs. He felt the low rumble of Saphira's own anger.
We cannot come with you.
Why? he was too shocked to be angry, to surprised to be hurt.
The words sounded like acid. We know what you have seen. And what you have not. You do not hate yet young dragonling. Hate gnaws at you. It coils around you with every breath. It whispers in the dark; it clouds the brightest day and, for every beat of your heart, is the knowledge that you cannot forgive. Our hatred runs deep and it walks beside us in every battle; it stalks us in our every dream. But it is ours, Eragon, Rider of Saphira, and Saphira Brightscales. We hate, and we know we do. We will live hating and, if the world is unkind, we will die hating. But it is ours.
A snap of teeth. A blaze of hot fire.
I understand, said the Rider. He was resolute, unafraid and completely committed. He stood in this wondrous cavern and he found he knew much more than these eldunari thought he did.
Do you? snarled the eldunari as one.
Yes, said the Rider, and I think it is time to turn that hatred into strength.
He thought of his father and Brom's relentless drive which had sustained him when all his world had burned to ashes and then of Murtagh who knew hatred intimately and yet had stepped free of it. He thought of Zoe who had honed her anger and her pain into a razor sharp edge of lethal action.
And he thought about the burning rage that had consumed him when Garrow had died and when the people of that tiny village had been slaughtered by Urgals. That burning rage had chilled him to the bone, it had been pressed down and compressed into a cold, hard feeling inside of him propelling him forward. It came back to him then, that white cold rage.
And then he thought of Arya, of Brom, of Zoe, of the revelations which had swept over him these past few days. He thought of the truth revealed by his name. He was stubborn, sometimes impulsive. But he was capable of change and he had never quite lost that spark of idealistic hope that everything would turn out all right in the end if he just believed hard enough.
Do not let the world break you, he said into the silence of hundreds of dragon hearts waiting it seemed for an explosion of rage. Because the world has a way of breaking everyone.
Zoe had taught him that. She had told him that the world had a way of breaking the good and the gentle, the kind and the brave. It was easy to be angry and to feel that all consuming rage which coloured the world in dark, ugly red and use it to push yourself beyond all sane boundaries. But that anger could just as quickly paralyze a person. It was helplessness and the absence of control. He had felt that way before. He would not feel that way again.
Prince Eomund had told him to keep moving, to keep trying. To not let himself be caught in a spiralling wave of indecision, regrets, and old hurts.
Believe, said the Rider to the eldunari. Believe in the things you think you cannot. Hope for the things you have dreamed of.
There is a reason—
There is no good reason, said the Rider firmly, confident in his convictions, to hide away down here. Not now when so much has been sacrificed to bring us to this moment.
There were the personal sacrifices which had cut him deep and left him bleeding in the dirt: the loss of the farm, the death of Garrow…his mother. Then there were the things whose impacts rippled outward, shattering and destroying the lives and hopes of many others. His pain was just a drop in an ocean of pain. The wars which had killed so many soldiers of the Varden and the Empire forces. The shattered remains of cities like Feinster…the once fertile fields that had been turned to muddy wastes of blood and guts. It was a rippling storm wave, a wave of pain that had cascaded outward until no one was left unaffected.
The Rider knew he had barely scrapped the surface of all the pain and destruction which had been unleashed. How needless…how wantonly wasteful it had all been and would keep on being if the world wasn't set on a new course. So many had died and suffered because of Fall…it didn't have to keep going like this. They had to try. Had to for the sake of those who had died because of the conflict Galbatorix's grief over his dragon had unleashed. Had to for the untold billions upon billions in other worlds who would suffer. When he thought of it like this, he realized, he felt nothing but cold, iron hard determination.
And he thought he had spent too long talking with lords and generals and Kings. He had begun to think as they did. It was the faith of the people and the place that had raised him. He thought of his Uncle and his Father…of his cousin and those who had followed him. Poor men of a poor village they would die to defend.
Duty, he said, is a heavy burden. Death is easy. I choose duty. You, he said with steel in his voice, need to choose now.
Silence. Then: You are both more and less than what we expected.
You know exactly what I am, said the sapphire Rider, truth for truth. It is because of you that I found Saphira. It is because of you that Zoe came to this world.
No, said the dragons, the girl came because of other forces. She was not something we…expected.
You see, said the Rider, fighting hard to keep the triumphant note out of his voice, you can't control everything. You cannot see all that will happen. Zoe is proof of that. And now it is time to fight. Time to secure the victory you have hungered for since the Fall.
At last he had silenced them. At last they saw him, not as a boy or a pawn or a fledgling, but as a Rider. And he felt the weight of that settle on his shoulders, realized that now what awaited him was the battle that he had known would come but had somehow thought would never come to.
Come with us, he said.
If he could do this now, despite every obstacle and every doubt, if he could do this…then perhaps he could the next hard thing. Because that was who he was. That was who he wanted to be. His actions define you, he knew.
Take responsibility. Own them, or they'll own you.
"Do you know that doubt can be a good thing if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism. Ask it, whenever it wants to make you hesitate, why something makes you feel that cold spark of doubt, demand proofs from it, test it."
She listened, intense grey-blue eyes fixed on the grizzled captain.
"Insist on arguments, be attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when, instead of being the thing that stops you when you should act, it becomes one of you best qualities — the thing that men trust about you."
Murtagh had been in battle before. He had fought with clear eyed focus and skill honed under the demanding and regimented military upbringing he had been given in the Empire.
But this was different.
He had never fought alongside elves, but most importantly he had never fought from dragon back. Murtagh had been assigned elven spell casters and they had been cooly polite, efficient in their description of the various wards and defences they would maintain for the Rider and ruby dragon. But he could not trust them, not with Thorn's safety. He knew it made him vulnerable, made him question the effectiveness of the wards they said they had set.
The ruby dragon rolled in the air, staying high enough to be out of reach of any arrow or spell, but close enough for his Rider to watch the deadly and efficient elves sweep across the battle field. Empire soldiers were either being overwhelmed or breaking ranks. It was a tad depressing to watch how easily the elves overcame any opposition and alarming to. This would fuel a thousand stories and most of them would be terrifying, doing little to smooth relations between races should victory over Galbatorix be secured.
He thinks they are alone. Until they aren't and then—
Thorn!
The ruby dragon dived down as, out of the cloud, another dragon swept in. It was a dragon, but it also wasn't a dragon. It was like the one that Eragon had engaged above the Burning Plains. A horribly huge, terrifyingly solid dragon of some dark grey colour with black, lifeless eyes. It flew on silent wings, the entire form created and held aloft by magic and the memories of dragons.
Thorn roared. Murtagh swallowed hard.
He had read texts on aerial combat, been given general pointers from his masters, and seen Eragon and Saphira drilling skills in the sky above the Varden…but this was combat. He was hopelessly unprepared for it and Thorn even less so. An experienced enough warrior, Murtagh knew two greenies did not equal prepared.
I am with you, said the golden dragon. Do not let it pin you, Thorn. Keep climbing, moving, exhaust it. They cannot hold it forever and the elves will be trying to find the eldunari which are sustaining it.
Which was all fine and good until the shadow dragon belched very real flames at them which sent Thorn into a steep dive.
Murtagh threw up a shield, knowing it was weak, and cursing his lack of magical training. Still, it was working; panic could do wonders for any focused magician. And Murtagh was definitely half a breath away from panic. He drew in a deep breath, reaching for the magic he had only recently discovered. Deflecting the magical blast of fire harmlessly into the sky left him panting hard, pressed against the saddle and Thorn's warm neck as the dragon climbed back up into the sky to evade the other.
Next time, said Glaedr, stay focused on where you want to direct the fire. You nearly lost control.
For a time, it almost seemed their strategy of simply evading and using Thorn's more nimble and smaller body to stay out of range might work. Until it didn't and Thorn came too close, not reading the situation in time to realize the danger and Murtagh, too inexperienced in aerial combat, also failed to see the trap. The larger magically created dragon struck fast, his talons renting Thorn's shoulder and pulling the wing back with an unnatural snap. The force of the collision sent Murtagh into the front of his saddle, driving the air from his lungs.
Thorn roared in agony, reflexively kicking with his back legs at the briefly exposed underbelly even as he began to plummet downward.
Murtagh, barely able to see from the rush of pain, grabbed for his sword hilt, battle honed instincts taking over. Why not? There was nothing to lose. For a moment he had a brief, unimpeded view of the other dragon's soft underbelly and then his ruby blade was lodged in it, right about where the anatomy drawings he had memorized suggested a dragon's heart was. The other dragon roared, not so much in pain but almost surprise and then it was gone.
But Murtagh was more distracted by the uncomfortably fast descent of Thorn whose breath was coming in rushed, desperate gasps. One hand firmly
Thorn tumbled to the ground, barely managing to spread his wings and slow their descent before they crashed into the soft loam of a field torn by the hastily retreating Empire forces. The sun was descending to the horizon, shadows lengthening, and in the dusky afternoon light, Murtagh was not sure how far from the elven camp they were.
Three of the seven spell casters assigned to guard them were waiting, but Murtagh had no eyes for sprung from his saddle and slid down Thorn's rusty scales, his own breath coming in ragged breaths as a sharp stabbing pain from his right side made itself known. The wing was clearly broken and there was a deep laceration to the left forelimb.
The King had made his point.
One of the spell casters walked closer, "Your blade."
Murtagh turned and realized the elf was holding out his sword. It had fallen from the sky, he realized, when the dragon had vanished. The elf in question was holding the blade with a barely concealed grimace.
He took it from him with a nod.
But before he could voice his thanks both for the sword and the assistance that he knew they had provided to Thorn, a new elf appeared out of the deepening gloom. This elf was, however, different from the others that Murtagh had met. His manner was direct and to the point. He wasted no time on etiquette.
"Move aside," he said. Murtagh leapt to obey although he desperately wanted to stay beside Thorn. The young dragon was mewling in pain, trying to keep still as the elf examined the edges of the deep, jagged wound from the dragon-that-was-not-a-dragon. The force of the collision had damaged some of the bones in the wing joint and Murtagh was not entirely sure how Thorn had managed to guide them safely down to the ground.
I am your partner of heart and mind, said the dragon. I am stubborn. I could not let us fall.
The elf inspected the wound, hands ghosting over the ragged edges. The ruby Rider glanced away, focusing his mind on soothing Thorn.
It hurts.
I know, he reassured. But it will be over soon. The pain is worst when the adrenalin fades. It won't hurt like this for long.
You would know, said the dragon.
Shush, said Murtagh
The elf Queen had come up beside him without him realizing. He controlled the urge to spin, sword drawn and said, instead, "Thank you." His voice was too curt, his manner to abrupt, but he found he could not care.
The elf Queen raised an eyebrow but her voice lacked its familiar, cold cadence when she spoke, "You are welcome." She inspected him for a brief moment, "We do not require your assistance in dealing with the last of the Empire forces. We have failed to find the source of the dragon you fought," she continued in a low voice, "but we will continue to search."
The ruby Rider dipped his head, grateful to be shunted aside in the moment even as it sent a bolt of cold shame through him. The elves did not want them and so far they had done little to change their perspective. He watched the healer work, weaving together spells of healing and mending in a low chant that Murtagh could only just hear.
Finally, the elf stepped back, his smooth face betraying nothing. Thorn was asleep. His breathing regular and quiet. The ruby scales gleaming in the fading afternoon sun.
"Is he going to be alright?"
The elf nodded, "The wound looked more serious than it was, Rider. He will need to rest tonight, but should be able to fly come morning. I recommend that he keep things quiet for the next day or two and that rest as much as he can." The healer turned his silver eyes on him, analyzing the tense, emotionally strung out ruby Rider with a quick once over. "You are injured."
"It's nothing," said the Rider with a quick shake of his head. "I've had worse."
His gaze was fixed on the sleeping Thorn, his mind replaying endlessly the terrifying free fall and blinding pain…
You are not alright, snapped Glaedr. You are acting like a hatchling when you are supposed to be the responsible one. A moment of silence, Oromis agrees with me.
"Really," said Murtagh out loud, "I am fine." But his breath was coming too short. Past experience had taught him what broken ribs felt like.
The healer arched one perfect brow and studied him with a mix of disapproval and resignation. He had clearly heard the same thing a million or more times before and apparently Murtagh's attempt was no different and rather lacking in creativity.
"I used to be called upon to heal Riders and their dragons when they came back to the Order injured," said the elf with a shrug. "Apparently," he continued, "some things never change."
The elf lifted one elegant hand and pointed said, "Come with me. Your dragon will be guarded well." Murtagh found himself being ushered away, across the field and into an open pavilion set some distance from the main camp of the elves. "In there, Rider."
The tent was spacious and quiet, the sides lifted so that the air could flow through it. Any elves which had been injured during the conflict had already had their wounds healed, if any of them had been injured. The tent was, in Murtagh's opinion, a formality in a camp full of gifted spell weavers quite capable of healing the minor wounds which were all the Empire troops could inflict on the elves and their magic shields. Directed toward a pristine cot, the Rider sat down uneasily, slowly undoing his armour and shedding his grimy outer tunic. With great reluctance, as the elf was busy closing the long flap of the tent, Murtagh quietly pulled off his armour, trying to breath slowly through the pain. Unsure if it was needed, he shed his tunic and then the shirt beneath.
The elf moved back toward him, eyes unreadable as he efficiently healed Murtagh's ribs.
"When did you get these scars?"
The healer's voice was nonjudgemental, containing a mix of clinical efficiency and professionalism. But Murtagh froze at the question, a million evasions whirring through his mind along with a desperate urge to shut this down, to evade and escape.
Not all scars are alike, he wants to say. There are the ones he picks up and forgets about. The scrawling white lines from sparring and the occasional close scrape. Those scars he touches once in a while, and then ponders mortality.
The others…the one that cross his back, for example, are different. He never has to strain to remember their origin. He only wishes he could forget, and he tries, so hard. And that was what destroyed a person in the end, he thought, the longing for something you could never have: a cessation from pain, from darkness, from duty.
The healer's hand on his shoulder was firm — preventing any attempt to escape — and gazed at him with serious eyes — eyes that stopped those evasions before the ruby Rider could voice a single one.
"I can tell they are old," said the healer and there was a note of gentleness there that was somehow worse than any scorn. "And they are grouped in such a way as to make me think these are not the injuries of warrior wounded in combat although there are plenty of those scars. You do not seem like an incautious warrior. Inexperienced, perhaps, in the air, but that is to be expected for a newly bonded Rider and dragon."
Murtagh shifted his gaze away, his defences instantly rising. His eyes hardening, his shoulders tensing still further as his mouth pressed into a thin line.
The elf sighed and said, "I know little of the ways of Riders and dragons." Murtagh didn't believe him for a second. "But," continued the elf, "I know that the old Order taught that dragon fire wants to burn. To hurt, to kill, to destroy is easier. But as a Rider bonded to a dragon, people count on you, they look to you. You have to care. Fire is life, the old Rider's taught. It is love. It is I will not let them die. And it is what binds you and your dragon, your Thorn." The elf paused, eyes ancient and far seeing, "And that is why Rider's and dragons stood apart. They balanced our world, held it together."
Glaedr hummed. Close by, Thorn was asleep.
The elf was still looking at him, intently and without blinking, "It is easy to be a failure. It is easy to allow fire to burn. It is easy to misuse power. You know this. You have seen the destruction wrought by misuse. And you know the pain and anger of failure. Failure like that hurts all the time and eventually you become numb to it, you expect it."
"I understand," said Murtagh.
"Do you, Rider?" The elf remained motionless, "Because I think you don't. You became a Rider a scant few months ago. You just got started. Which means," said the elf, "you don't get to be a failure at this."
Zoe had not found a spear or a sword.
She had not found anything of material value that she could wave about and use to declare that her seemingly random trip to Feinster was worth the trouble. Zoe didn't much care. The discovery of the lost royal bloodline and the crown was enough to mollify her elvish companion who agreed with Zoe on the importance of keeping such a thing hidden. Such secrets had a nasty way of rearing their head and Nasuada would already been seen as gaining her throne through dragon fire, elvish magic, and the slaughter of armies. Adding the execution of an old woman and her descendants to the list would only stoke the flames.
Zoe was glad to see the back of the place. She would not return. One way or the other, Zoe knew her time in this world was coming to an end.
She had remembered how to spy in this city. Had been captured and escaped…had made a friend or two and watched one of them die. It was an old city with secrets to hide. She hoped it would continue to hide the one she had uncovered.
As her lovely little mare pushed herself out from under trees and went at a swift canter away from Feinster, she felt the press of duty in a way she hadn't since that life when her titles meant something and she commanded armies.
The journey back would be quicker than the one there.
Zoe fingered the small black stone, the light winking in her fingers as she stared out at the untouched coast line drifting slowly by. The dusky light of early evening was fading into a deep dark night and the only sounds were the ever constant creak of the ship and the sounds of water lapping at the hull.
She was on her way back to Caer Dathyl. She had shaken the hands, endured the last trade conference, dodged the last marriage proposal, gritted out the last verbal digs from the wife of her last host; in less than a week she would be back, rendezvousing with an escort, and in less than two weeks she would once again be in her office trying to figure out how to hold this kingdom together. Provided, of course, that the whole things didn't fall victim to some catastrophe before her ship docked. She wondered idly whether she could get off lightly by docking in early morning and leaving before anyone had a chance to pull out a greeting carpet.
Her eyes refocused on water passing quietly by.
The hurricanes and the storm surges were dangerous, yes, her Uncle told her, but it is the still and silent sea that kills a person.