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Chapter Text

"Still intending to head north, then?" the innkeeper asks, and you nod, frowning as the man grimaces.

"It's damn late in the season for that," he says.

"I'm not worried about the cold," you say, running your hand over the fur coat you bought only a few weeks past. It's draped over your chair for now, the inside of the inn more than warm enough on its own.

But the innkeeper shakes his head and says, "Southerners. Being prepared for the cold is all well and good, but it's far from the only thing that kills a man in the north. We only get a few days of Evernight here, but it's more than enough that I don't care to venture further north."

"Evernight?" you repeat, for an explanation, for clarity - this far from the main part of Alagaesia, it can be difficult to understand the accents of the people with clarity, when they speak your language at all. You've been reduced once or twice to gestures alone to communicate, and the fact that this innkeeper speaks your language was a significant reason why you decided upon a room here.

"Evernight," the man repeats with a nod. "Far enough to the north, the sun doesn't rise in winter, nor set during summer. Summer is fine enough, but in winter, spirits travel the endless night, and any man with a grain of sense stays safely at home, lest he come back an Aezhai - a Shade, you southerners call them - if he comes back at all."

You shiver, though it's hardly because of the cold. You know more about Shades than the average person does - you've survived battle with one, and as nothing more than a regular human, and that is hardly something just anyone can claim - but you've never heard of them just happening like that. All the Shades you know of were the result of human sorcerers specifically creating them.

"Does that really happen?" you ask.

"Aye," the innkeeper says. "To the animals, too. If you ever hear stories of a Shlajra from the locals, avoid that area. That's an animal Shade made of resentful spirits."

"Thank you for the warning," you say, completely earnestly.

"I've seen plenty of southerners head out into the night thinking it's not a big deal," the innkeeper replies. He regards you seriously for a moment and then says, "But I see that you don't intend on stopping."

"There's someone in the north I have to find," you say. "If they're holing themselves up because of the spirits, then that's time I can use to catch up to them."

And if not - at least the gap won't grow further. Whoever the witch 'Bachel' is, about all that you've been able to confirm is that she travels from place to place, never stopping for longer than a few days. She headed north, and so you follow.

If a witch such as that can protect herself from spirits in the long night, then surely you can do likewise.

The innkeeper sighs, leaning forward and dipping a long, wax-tipped match in the flame of the candle lantern next to him so that he can light his pipe from it. "Can't say I didn't warn you," he says, shaking his head as he puts the tiny flame into the pipe bowl and shakes the match out. "Look. There's a man I know - a guide to the northlands - he might still be in town. Stay another night - I won't even charge you. Just give me the chance to see if he'd be willing to talk to you."

You roll the idea around in your mind - you don't much like the idea of traveling alongside a stranger, but it costs you nothing to stay another day and soothe this man's soul. Perhaps he lost someone to the Shades that occur here in the north.

"Another night, then," you say. "And I'll meet with this guide of yours. But there's no need to expend charity on my account; I can pay for the room."

"I'll take half and no more," the innkeeper says, leaving no opening for further negotiation. You nod, shift into your belt pouch to count out the coins, and accept a last mug of fire-warmed mead to accompany you upstairs to your room.

On the staircase, Thorn presses his mind against yours, a sensation not unlike having his nose investigatively press against your back. That was interesting, he says. Do you think there truly are Shades in these wilds?

I don't think it's a possibility we can afford to ignore, you send back, settling into the room's chair and taking a sip of your mead. If it turns out to be a scam, we can always leave on our own.

And if it isn't? Thorn probes.

You grimace into the mug, watching the ripples in the surface of the drink for a moment, the inside too dark to offer even distorted images of your own face. Then it depends on what kind of person this guide of his is, you say. If he's trustworthy enough, I might not object to having the help of an expert.

Thorn chuckles, warmer than the mead or the fire. Good, he sends. You need to get used to the company of two-legs again if you intend to rejoin Eragon.

You huff into the mug, and drain the rest of the mead. Not yet, you say, setting it down. Not until I have something to show for it.

Thorn's thoughts give a quiet acknowledgement with only a touch of fond eyeroll, which you ignore. You feel him settle down into the snow outside of town, hidden safely away in the trees, and send, I wish there was room enough for you to be warm as well.

Hmph. As though snow would be enough to harm me. A snort, a vision of white crystals blown up by Thorn's breath, already melting from the heat. A dragon who died in the snow would be unworthy of the name.

You say that, but it's only going to get colder as we go further north, you say. Thorn doesn't reply further, and you wish him a silent goodnight before you curl up into the blankets yourself.

One way or another, you'll be on the road again in the morning.

----

It's still dark when you wake, not entirely surprisingly. You've been in the north for long enough to be aware of how short the days grow up here; although it's still some weeks until the solstice, the daylight will be visible for only a few short hours. When you started your journey northward in the summer, the days were so long that you barely saw night at all. You've come a great deal further northward since then.

And yet you still encounter people living their lives, even this far north. There are still towns even here, where the ground is frostbound six months out of the year, and that in a good year. For now, the sky is just beginning to lighten when you come down the stairs, packed and bundled up save for the thick coat slung over your arm, to occupy a corner of the common room until the innkeeper returns, with or without that guide of his.

The man's eldest daughter is minding the counters, and she nods at you as you settle in, and when there's next a gap in her work she brings you by the same breakfast as yesterday, porridge with an egg cooked directly into the top of it, and you nod your thanks and settle in to eat after surreptitiously checking the meal for poison or drugs. None of them make themselves known, and so you eat while you wait, keeping half a mind on the intentions of the other patrons.

You prefer not to go rifling through thoughts unless you must, but it never hurts to keep a wary eye out, so to speak, especially here, where those who do speak your language do so in a heavy accent, and just as many don't speak it at all. Even among those who do, it's not the tongue they use in their day-to-day lives.

You've picked up a handful of words, mostly curses, but you haven't tried to study the language in depth. For today, you just focus on the words for Shads that you heard last night, keeping an ear open to hear if you hear them in the snatches of conversation and thoughts around the room.

It's properly dawn out, albeit a dawn that will last nearly two hours before the wan sun finally pokes over the horizon, by the time the innkeeper returns. Accompanying him is another man, you think, though it's hard to tell with the both of them bundled in coats. The guide is smaller than the innkeeper in every way, short and not as nearly round, though not exactly slim even when you mentally calculate out the volume of his coat. The combination of traits still gives you the impression of a stretched-out dwarf, not quite long enough to be a human but too tall to live under the mountains.

He nods at you as the innkeeper hangs his coat, making no move to remove his own, though he does undo the high collar that protects the lower half of his face from snow-and-wind. You're expecting to see a beard - every other man you've seen for the last several months has one - but there's only the hint of stubble along his jaw. He rubs one gloved hand against his cheek before pushing the slit snow goggles he's wearing up to the flap of hat that hangs over his forehead. His eyebrows are a rusty color over eyes that are a light enough brown to look almost gold, and his skin is pale enough to be notable, when you've noticed that the people began to grow darker again after a certain point as you went north.

He exchanges a few quick words with the innkeeper, who laughs, and the guide nods with a small smile as the larger man ducks behind the inn counter to relieve his daughter for the day. Then he turns and crosses the room towards your table in quick strides.

"So, you're the one who wants to brave the winter night?"

The accent isn't as strong on his words as it is on those of most natives to the town. You feel certain in saying that he is, in fact, from further south, and you wonder what it is that brought him out to the wilds of the north. You can't help but feel a certain kinship with that, considering the circumstances.

"'Tis I," you agree. "I hear that there are dangerous spirits in it, and that you are a man who can guide travelers safely through."

"You've heard right," the guide says, swinging a bundle off his back before pulling out the other chair at your table. The fur cover of the top of the bundle slips, revealing a trio of bone spearpoints attached to wooden hafts; you've seen the like quite often as you've traveled further north. There isn't much metal up here, nor many forges, and you're glad that you've stopped carrying your sword. It made you stick out too much.

"The question," the guide continues, as he settles in, "is if you're an idiot, or just that desperate."

You frown, though that is quite likely an accurate description of most who seek this man's services. "Desperate enough," you admit. "There's someone I'm seeking to find - a 'witch-woman' by the name of Bachel."

Before you can continue, the guide interrupts, "Ah. Fae yokh."

"You know of her, then," you say.

"And I wish I didn't," the guide agrees. "You're the desperate kind, all right. I've neer met anyone seeking her who isn't."

"Do you know how to find her?' you ask.

"I don't know where she is at the moment," he replies, "but I know where she'll be come Zaelverevi." At your confused expression, he clarifies, "Middlenight. The solstice."

"That's still weeks from now," you say.

"She goes to the same place every year," the guide says. "It's one of the only predictable things she does."

That, at least, is in line with what it's been like, trying to follow her northward so far. The path you've followed feels random, moving from settlement to settlement unpredictably but steadily northward. Sometimes, you're quite sure, your quarry followed no road at all.

"You certainly seem to know what you're talking about," you say, sending out a probing thought to see how his mind reacts to the words. Even a vague idea of the emotions you get in response has, thus far, been enough for you to gauge whether someone is lying about their knowledge or not.

Instead of open thoughts, you hit the edge of a blizzard, swirling and obscuring the thoughts beneath as effectively as any wall you've ever seen. The only clue to what lies beneath that you get is a suggestion of something as much bigger than you as the real storm would be, and a blast of snowflakes in your 'face' that feels a bit like a warning and a bit chiding. You withdraw immediately.

The guide's posture shifts, something more open in his shoulders and something approaching a smile on his face.

"Let's speak truly, then," he says in the Ancient Language, still accented in a way that sound somehow more foreign to your ears. You've heard all sorts of accents in your own tongue, but never in the Ancient Language, which all the races pronounce so carefully.

You grimace down at the table, but you have managed to catch yourself out - for the most part, only magicians are capable of reaching out to other minds. "Let's, then," you grudgingly agree. "I suppose it makes sense that a guide in a land full of spirits would be capable of magic."

The guide chuckles. "That is something of a requirement to move freely around the Thaejrazraellve," he agrees. The sudden intrusion of the foreign word makes you blink, but he's already continuing, "You can call me Erzhal."

"Tornac," you offer in return, grateful that you can carefully dodge the question of whether or not it's your actual name. You don't know how much rumor reached here of what happened in the Empire, but you would still rather avoid being recognized if you are able.

Erzhal raises his eyebrows and says, "I see. And you wouldn't have anything to do with the glittering drop of blood flying in the sunrise, would you?"

You freeze, which is unfortunately telling, because he continues, still smiling and relaxed, "From what I've heard of what happened to the south, I can't blame you for hiding behind another name, and I'm happy to call you whatever you desire. But there are dangers particular to the cold that can affect even dragons as we go further north, and I cannot guide effectively if I don't know how many people I'm guiding."

You relax only a little, and instead tug at your connection. Thorn? What do you think?

Thorn catches up on the conversation from your thoughts quickly, and then says, I would meet him in person before I make my decision. If he's untrustworthy, I can always eat him.

You should perhaps not eat someone known for the ability to survive in the wild, you send back. It would raise questions.

Maul him like a bear, then. If animals can become Shades here, surely it would be reasonable for even someone who knows what they're doing to die fighting one of those.

A terrifying thought, thank you. Out loud, you say, "He'd like to meet with you in person."

Erzhal tips his head in acknowledgement. "I would be honored," he says, and then adds, switching back to the common tongue, "I have no more errands in town, so we can leave whenever you're ready."

You nod, bending to pick up your pack from where you had stashed it under the table. "Then let's be off," you say.

Erzhal stands also, grabbing his bundle of spears, and then says, "If you don't have some yet, we should get you a set of skis and something to cover your face."

"I have the latter, but not ... skis?" you say, trying the word out.

Erzhal nods, and says, "Well, you'll be wanting them once we're out where the snow only falls and doesn't melt this time of year. We can grab those on our way out of town."

You nod, and follow him out the door. Outside, he pauses to pick up two pieces of wood, with leather straps, from a stand just outside the door. "These are skis," he says. "They're originally an Urgal invention, but people of all races use them in the north to avoid sinking in the deep snow." After a moment, he adds in the Ancient Language, in an undertone, "Unfortunately, we won't find any sized for dragons here."

It startles a laugh out of you that you mostly cut off by biting down on your lips, but apparently that's enough to please Erzhal, who bundles the skis onto his back with a grin, not even bothering to cover the bottom half of his face against the cold, only pulling his slit goggles down over his eyes. You cannot blame him for that, because even as dim as the sun is, weakly peeking through clouds, it is still blinding against the snow.

You follow Erzhal down to the markets - a few people wave or hail him on the way, more often in the language of the north than not, but it doesn't seem to be anything more than cursory greetings. One woman forces a leather sack into his arms, and they argue for a moment in a way that's clearly Erzhal trying to refuse the gift before giving up, sighing, and slinging the sack over his shoulder with the rest of his pack.

At your raised eyebrow as the two of you walk away, he just shrugs and says, "Snacks for the road, I suppose."

Well, you're hardly about to turn that down. You say, "How long do you expect we'll be traveling before the next settlement?"

"That depends on how you feel about Urgals," Erzhal returns.

You grimace, but say, "As long as they aren't attacking me, I don't bear them any grudge."

"Then four or five days, depending on how quickly you master skiing," Erzhal says. "There are a few lodges in between, so we won't be completely exposed to the cold."

You mull that over, poking Thorn with your mind, and after you get his consent, add, "And on dragonback?"

"...Two at most," Erzhal says, "but we're entering the season where we would have to dump most of our energy into warming wards to keep his wing membranes from getting frostbitten. The solstice is far enough away that I'm not altogether sure it would be worth it."

"Fair enough," you say. "If we're in no great rush, then the safer road may be for the better."

Erzhal nods. "Unfortunately, there's only one dragonhold in all of the north that's still habitable," he says. "Which is our intended destination after Ghralthek, and another two days beyond it, but I have enough business there that we would need to stay for two or three days, if you're interested in having me guide you the rest of the way."

"You are the one doing me a service," you say carefully. "If you have usual business with the Urgals, it's not my place to interfere."

The smile Erzhal throws your way is a little warmer. He says, "Plenty of southerners would just throw more coin at me to avoid it."

"If you think it's the best place to stop, then I'm not going to argue," you say. "Though I do plan to, as you say, throw coin at you."

"A price to be negotiated after I meet your partner," Erzhal says, before ducking into a tent with its front flap partially open. You follow after him, and are met with a variety of lengths of wood, all similar to the pair Erzhal has strapped to his back.

"Thuxheye, Kutsokh," Erzhal says to the merchant sitting behind the counter. He then gestures at you, and says, "A set for a beginner, for sae pikoubraz."

Kutsokh appraises you for a moment, before going to a rack of medium-length skis and starting to sort through them. He says something in the tongue of the north to Erzhal, who snorts and replies in kind. The merchant then gestures you to step forward, and you obligingly do so.

"Stand like this," Kutsokh says, widening his arms at the elbows and holding his fists a bit forward. You do, and the man tsks under his breath before pulling a set of wooden poles with leather grips from another rack and pressing them into your hands. The grips have leather loops coming from the top, which Kutsokh flicks with one finger. "Hands go through," he says.

You slide your hands through the loops so that they rest around your wrists, and he nods approval. He makes a series of gestures with his hands that seem like climbing stairs, and you imitate them with the poles, careful not to actually dig them into the floor of the tent. Kutsokh nods approval. Erzhal rolls his eyes, and says something in the northern tongue to the man that draws a laugh.

You're going to have to learn at least some of the language, you think. Something to fill the hours you're camping with your guide, perhaps.

"Boot up," Kutsokh orders, and you obligingly lift a foot for him to examine. He makes a few measurements using his hands as guides, which takes long enough that holding the position grows awkward and requires you to put your weight on the poles, which hold up surprisingly well considering how thin they are. Kutsokh returns to the racks and finally pulls out a set of skis with leather straps woven through the middle.

Then he pauses and pulls another pair of poles from the rack, the same length as the ones you're holding, and says, "Southerners. Always lose poles," which sends Erzhal into another barely-restrained bout of chuckling.

"Thank you," you say, freeing one hand from the pole to accept the rest of the gear. "What do I owe you?"

Kutsokh names a price, which seems a bit higher than is fair, but then says, "Half back if you return them when you go back south," which seems worthwhile enough. You still barter a bit, but the idea that you can return them sits a little easier with you.

"If he dies, you return skis for half," Kutsokh says to Erzhal, clearly intended for you to hear, and the guide just shakes his head and sighs. "Won't do him any good, will it?" Kutsokh says in response.

"I guess not," Erzhal agrees, and while you attempt to figure out a way to stow the skis without interfering too much with your pack, the two exchange goodbyes. After leaving the tent, Erzhal says, "He actually gave you a bit of a discount. Good wood for skis is harder to find than you might think, and his wife is a master of the craft."

"His wife?" you ask.

"She makes the skis," Erzhal confirms. "Kutsokh just makes the poles and minds the shop. Her family has been in this business for as long as anyone can remember. A ski-maker up here is more important than a smith."

When he puts it that way, the price seems a bit more fair. You say, "Then let's get moving."

"There's a frozen pond around a mile north of town," Erzhal says, "which should be visible from the air, if your partner would like to meet us there."

You pass the information to Thorn, and say, "He's amenable to that."

Erzhal nods, and says, "The road should be clear enough to walk that far, so you can learn to ski after."

----

There's a light dusting of snow on the road, but it's not even thick enough to stand over your boots, which you suppose counts enough for 'clear' around here. You've made your way through places where the snow is knee-deep or higher, and you aren't ashamed to admit that you did so primarily through the use of magic. It's less of a bother for Thorn because of his size, but it's made landing in the featureless-from-above snow a dangerous endeavor.

Which likely explains why he chooses to land on the frozen pond instead, after you've tested it with magic and found it to be nearly solid, wide but shallow. The sound of his claws skating across the ice is still enough to make you wince.

Still, you're unbearably warmed to see him. The vividness of his color is all the more stark against the white and grey of the forest, the green of the trees so dark as to appear black by contrast. Once he's found his footing, Thorn slides across the pond over to you, his extended head nearly knocking you over as he fails to come to a complete stop at the shore.

I missed you, he sends, thoughts soft against yours as he nudges the tip of his snout into your chest.

"It was only two nights," you say, reaching up to rub under his jaw. The scales there are warm to the touch, unlike many of the ones that are more functional as armor, which have taken on a chill that never seems entirely to leave. Thorn leans into the touch with a grumbling noise of approval.

A night longer than planned.

If we've found a guide who can deliver on his promises, it will be worthwhile, you send back to him, the words private. It could save us many months of wandering the wilderness.

I suppose I will allow it, if it means leaving this cold sooner. With a shiver of his wings, Thorn lifts his head out of your reach to look at the man standing behind you.

Erzhal has politely averted his gaze, to all appearances observing the road coming from the town, but he glances back at the sound of Thorn's shifting weight crunching in the snow. There's a certain wary intensity to his shoulders before he sweeps into a bow - a bow in a style that's old even by the standards of Galbatorix's court. You would know. You saw the king himself bow in that style, when he wanted to be particularly flattering to a lady of the court that he had his eye on, or, when he was in one of his better moods, particularly sarcastic to someone who had simply done their assigned duty and expected accolades for it.

It's an odd thing, seeing it here. Seeing it delivered with apparent complete sincerity, Erzhal's head and shoulders bent low enough that he must be keeping his fur cap on his head by means of magic, one arm over his chest. It's a sincerity you don't know what to do with.

In the Ancient Language, he says, "It is my unexpected joy to be the one to welcome a dragon and Rider to the north." Only then does Erzhal straighten and appraise Thorn more directly.

After a moment, Thorn says to you, His mind is impenetrable, but there is something old about his power. He is no simple traveling magician, that much is certain.

You send back, I suspected as much. Do you think he's trustworthy?

Thorn appraises Erzhal, raising his head on his neck before swinging it in close to the man, who doesn't flinch even when Thorn expels a great cloud of smoke-scented steam from his nostrils.

There is a great sorrow there, and many secrets, Thorn says at length, but I do not think he wishes us harm.

Good enough for me. Out loud, you say, "Thorn has decided you meet with his approval."

Erzhal inclines his head slightly to Thorn in acknowledgement, and then says to him, "We'll see how much you still approve when it comes time to throw a blanket over your wings. Even folded, they lose too much heat."

Thorn snorts lightly, a bit more smoke than steam, and pulls his head away from his careful inspection. I had already noticed that the chill sets in there first. It is no different from the dangers of frostbite for humans, then?

You repeat the question, and Erzhal nods without looking at you. It's another point of strangeness - not that you have had much chance to speak on Thorn's behalf in this way, but you recall well enough that only a few people looked at Saphira when Eragon repeated her words for her in the Varden. To not look at the person who seems to be speaking is a conscious decision.

He's familiar with dragons, you observe.

Perhaps, Thorn says. Though I would question how, seeing as he does not appear to be much older than you.

Out loud, you say, "I have a question of my own. It's clear that you have some idea of who we are." There are only three dragons old enough to be flightworthy; if any have hatched for the new Riders of Eragon's order, you haven't heard tell of them yet. "Is our history going to be a problem?"

Erzhal turns to you, and he draws in a deep breath. You almost aren't surprised that he replies in the Ancient Language, because that is the tongue used for things such as this, portentous and serious as oaths.

"You are not your father, and you didn't choose to grow up in his shadow. Who you choose to be is what will determine if we have problems."

It's not words that deserve such solemnity, you think.

(You also think that as many times as you've heard the first part - this is the first time in a long time that you've heard it in a way that wasn't begging you to do things you couldn't do.)

(You don't remember ever hearing the second part at all.)

(How many times, after all, has anyone offered you a choice on who to be?)

"Then we go north," you say. If there are any problems, you don't intend for them to be of your making.

"Then we go north," Erzhal agrees, and the deal is sealed.

Chapter Text

Sunset comes all too quickly, and by the time it does, the skis have left your legs burning in new and unfamiliar ways. Thorn has not been particularly helpful, his progress leaving deep troughs in the snow while Erzhal passes almost cleanly over it and you spend the few couple of miles inching along in an unfamiliar shuffle.

You're not afraid of the hard work, though, and even at your slow speeds it's still faster and less full of hassle than attempting to melt your way through the snow with magic. Occasionally Erzhal will dig into the bag the woman in town gave him and toss you some snack, smoked meat or hard cheese or roasted nuts you don't recognize. You're getting adept at catching them without tangling yourself in your own poles.

Other than instruction on how to use the skis, for the first few hours, there's not a lot of talking, at least not out loud. You fill Thorn in on the rest of what happened in town, and eventually he pauses to snort a few sparks into the snow before continuing on.

It's a good sign that he's well-liked, Thorn observes.

Unless the entire town is in on it, you say. There's still too much we don't know.

He knows his way around a dragon, Thorn reminds you. I assume that also means that he's wise enough to fear our anger.

That's a fair enough point. You huff a little breath into the scarf wound around your cheeks, unwilling to concede it directly, and drop the subject. Another few quiet minutes pass.

The sun takes an eternity to actually set, this far north, but you can tell when it's fully set because Erzhal comes to a stop. You shuffle your way up beside him and also pause.

He glances at you, then up at the sky - scattered with sparse clouds - and says, "While I don't think it will storm, if there's too many clouds tomorrow, we might not see the sun at all, which means the Evernight will be starting a bit early this year."

"I didn't realize it was that close," you say.

"We're still going north," Erzhal says, "and tomorrow we'll pass over the Thu'oivor - that ridge there." He lifts one hand from his poles to point out a shape on the horizon, through the trees. You can only pick out the swell of it because it's too dark against the lighting of the twilight sky. "It's the first of two, and the border between human lands and the true north-dwellers."

"The Urgals?" you ask.

"Among others," Erzhal says. "Between the ridges is a place we don't want to spend long in if we can help it. That valley is a spiritground, and it will have already been a week since sun touched it."

You can guess what he means by spiritground, in that context. "How long will it take to cross?"

"On the road we're taking, two days." He glances at Thorn, then at you, and says, "And it will have to be on foot. Using as little magic as possible - I don't know what wards you keep, but I would advise you to drop all but the most critical for your lives once we cross the crest of the ridge. The first thing to know about spirits is that many of them are attracted to magic."

"That makes an unfortunate amount of sense," you admit.

"Damned if you do and damned if you don't," Erzhal agrees. "Without magic, you can't hope to make use of the voi'u - the warded sanctuaries in the valley - and if you run into any Shlajra, you're as good as dead."

"Is that likely?" you ask.

"Less likely than in the spring," Erzhal says, "but - if you'll forgive me - you were born with rotten luck."

Rather than offending you, the blunt comment startles a laugh from you, and draws a chuffing dragon's laugh from Thorn as well. "You're far from wrong about that," you say.

Erzhal just nods, going silent for a moment, and then he says, "No dragon has passed over the Thu'oivor in close to two centuries; little news of the south reaches that far north, either. Few people speak the language of the south, so even though there are plenty who make the crossing to trade in the summer, when the way is not nearly so hazardous, few rumors manage to cross that ridge."

"So beyond it..."

"As far as Alagaesia is concerned, it's the edge of the world," Erzhal says. "Who you decide to be once you cross over is up to you."

And without further ado, he digs his poles into the snow and pushes forward, over the last crest of the low hill you're on to glide down it effortlessly on his skis.

Thorn takes a step closer to you, pressing his snout against the back of your coat. Murtagh?

"I'm fine," you say, and push yourself forward as well. Your slide to the bottom isn't nearly as effortless, but you don't get your skis tangled in each other and wind up face-first in the snow, so you'll count it as a victory.

----

The Thu'oivor only grow closer as you continue to travel, long enough into the twilit afternoon that true night falls. The temperature falls with it, prompting Thorn to pull his wings tight over his back, where his saddle and your packed supplies remain. You pause at a bend in the road to free your cloak from your pack and throw it over his back, to Erzhal's approval.

"It will help," he says. "Unfortunately, there's nowhere we can pick up anything large enough to completely cover your wings until Ghralthek."

There's still something odd, in the way he addresses Thorn directly, unfamiliar and too familiar all at once. But after so long in Galbatorix's court - where the only dragons anyone had been exposed to were mad, mad, mad, too mad to even comprehend being directly addressed - you cannot bring yourself to tell him to stop. It's only the second time in his life Thorn has been treated as his own person by anyone other than you, and you can tell already that he's flourishing under it. He holds his head higher and looks brighter, in spite of the cold and the dark, and how could you deny him that?

It makes you more wary of Erzhal, but as many questions as you have about how he know so much of dragons, if none have been this far north since before Galbatorix was even born, you do not think the way he treats Thorn is any attempt to manipulate him. It simply... is, as though it never occured to Erzhal to treat him any differently, even if you're still required to interpret.

I find it hard to believe that the Urgals would be accepting of a dragon, Thorn observes, and you repeat.

"Unless you go picking off too much of their uutur herds, it won't be a problem," Erzhal says. "You may have a number of their children trying to catch your tail, though - rubbing a great warrior's scars is supposed to bring good luck for the next generation of warriors."

You feel keenly aware, suddenly, of the scar across your back. Thorn lashes his tail through the snow, a ring of scar near the end where you were never able to entirely heal the damage from it getting bitten off, and says, Hatchlings are much the same everywhere. I suppose as long as they ask permission first.

When you relay this, Erzhal chuckles, and pushes off again with one pole. "That's going to be quite a chain of translation," he says.

"We can learn the language," you say. "If you're willing to teach."

"You'll find it less intuitive than the Ancient Language," Erzhal says. "The word order is quite a bit different from southern tongues."

Trust two-legs to make everything more complicated than it needs to be, Thorn says. If they simply communicated mind-to-mind like the dragons of old, this wouldn't be an issue.

You don't repeat his words, but instead say, "I won't know if it's too difficult until I try."

"Panoukh," Erzhal says, heavily and grudgingly. After a pause, he says, "That's yes, or at least one form of it. First lesson."

"Panoukh," you say, or try to. The sound in the end, in the back of your throat, doesn't come out quite right, more like a simple k. You try again. "Panoukh."

Panoukh, Thorn repeats into your mind, because he cheats.

"For lesson two," you say, "how do I call someone an arse?" This sets Thorn off into another wave of chuffing laughter.

Erzhal's posture shifts, a friendly challenge in his shoulders that makes you think of days gone by, before Thorn, when you thought you had a chance of escaping to a simpler life. "If you want to know," he says, "you'll have to catch up, first."

And then he turns his attention to skiing, moving across the snow faster than is really fair, and leaving you puffing behind while Thorn continues to laugh. Unwillingly, under your scarf, you smile.

----

Not that it stops you from being exhausted when you finally reach the travel lodge, in the shadows of the ridge, that is your stopping place for the night. The unfamiliar movements have left a burn in your legs from skiing, and there's only so much you can do against the cold even with upgraded, local gear. The constant snow has made Thorn exhausted and crabby as well, because there's only so much good humor can do for the ice between his toes.

Erzhal considers, sighs, and directs you to the stable. "There's no way to get Thorn to fit inside the lodge," he says.

You nod, not at all surprised. "I suppose we're fortunate that there's a building of suitable size for him at all."

"It's designed for an entire herd of uutur," Erzhal says. "But they have pelts thick enough to ward off the cold, so it's a roof and not much more."

If it's dry, I'm content, Thorn says. Without waiting for you to translate, he shakes some of the ice off his tail and approaches the door of the stables. Erzhal takes the hint and pulls aside the wide sliding door to let him in, his skis digging into the snow with the effort of moving it. Once there's enough space, Thorn snakes his head inside and shoulders it far enough open for the rest of him.

You say, "It will be nice to not have to camp in the snow. Is it safe to light a fire inside?"

"There's not much in the way of hay and the like in the north," Erzhal says. "As long as you don't go intentionally lighting the beams afire, it will be fine. I'll open the smoke lifts and get some wood from the lodge proper."

"Let me help," you say. "I can at the least carry some wood." To Thorn you add, Clear us space for a fire?

There is a brazier as wide as your armspan inside already, Thorn replies.

"I won't turn down the help," Erzhal says. "Come on, the woodpile is under the eaves around this side."

Carrying wood winds up being a bit more of a task than you expected - you're still not entirely certain of your footing on the skis - but with two of you, it's easy enough to carry enough to the stables to last the night. Once you've piled the wood inside the door and taken off your skis, Erzhal shows you how to work the contraption attached to one of the support poles that opens a vent in the roof for smoke to escape. Thorn watches your progress with some amusement from where he's curled up on the floor near the stone brazier. All three of you leave a trail of snowmelt back towards the door.

"Who maintains all of this?" you ask.

"Myself and a number of the summer shepherds," Erzhal replies. "Sometimes with help from the town or from Lyruthk's people when we need repairs that are too much for two or three men to handle. We repair in the spring and restock supplies in the autumn.

"It's impressive," you say. With the vent opened, you gather up an armful of firewood and carry it over to the brazier. "Thorn, if you would?"

"I suppose that beats fighting with a flint for half an hour," Erzhal observes, as you pile the wood into a pyramid and Thorn huffs gentle sparks on it in shades of cherry and pink until it catches properly.

You snort. "I'll admit, I haven't bothered with flint in quite some time," you say. "Even when Thorn is elsewhere, I find myself going impatient quickly and just reaching for magic. It's a bad habit."

"There's far worse habits to have," Erzhal says. He swings his pack off his shoulders and sets it against a support pole near Thorn, before sitting and leaning his back against the same support. You do much the same, except with the familiar wall of Thorn's scales at your back.

"True enough," you agree.

The both of you lapse into silence as you settle for the evening, Erzhal eventually removing his thick coat to reveal a tunic in faded red wool and pulling out the sack of rations pressed on him at the town. He tosses you a smaller, fabric bag of roasted nuts, which you catch out of the air, and a chunk of jerky to Thorn before settling in with a chunk of hard cheese and a knife.

The fire builds and crackles with red-tinted sparks, the telltale sign of a fire that began as dragonflame, and the night passes as you crack the shells of the nuts and toss them into the fire. It's strange, to simply sit as companions with someone like this. Wildly different as the climate and circumstances are, it reminds you of crossing the desert with Eragon, in a past that you know is recent but that feels achingly distant.

Just two men and a dragon passing the night, waiting for sleep to come.

Eventually, when the nuts are half gone and you've pulled out some jerky of your own from your pack, you say, "What can you tell me of Bachel? I know little of her besides her name."

"You're seeking her out and you don't know more than that?" Erzhal replies, a touch incredulous. He's still wearing his hat, with the slit goggles pushed up, and his eyebrows have disappeared entirely behind the flap that hangs over his forehead. In the red-tinted firelight, his wide eyes look entirely crimson.

"I had an encounter with men bearing amulets they credited to her," you say, "which made them completely impervious to direct magical attack." You don't mention just how complete the protection was - that it resisted even the name of the Ancient Language - because the existence of that word isn't information that you intend to share with anyone, much less the fact that you know it.

Erzhal makes a thoughtful sound, peeling a paper-thin slice off his cheese with a small knife as he thinks about that. "Bachel is widely believed to be an Aesodai, a wish-granter," he says at length. "If you can find her, she'll grant any wish that you might have - if you offer up something sufficient in return."

"Is that true?" you ask. "It seems a bit unbelievable."

"I couldn't swear that she could grant any wish," Erzhal says, "but she's certainly powerful enough to grant simple, straightforward ones. Though this is the first time I've heard of her creating something that resists magic like that. What happened to the men?"

"They attacked me," you say, "so I killed them with an enchanted fork."

Erzhal snorts into his cheese. "I suppose that's one way to do it. When was this?"

"In Ceunon, some months past," you say. "I knew that the men had come from the north, so I've been following what leads I can since then."

"I've never heard of her going that far south," Erzhal says, frowning, before picking up the thin sheet of cheese, now curling, and putting it in his mouth.

"You said that you knew where she would be at the solstice," you say. "How do you know that?"

Erzhal chews a moment, swallows, and then says, "There's a ritual site that's known to channel a great deal of power during the solstice. It's an opportunity someone like her wouldn't miss, and I know that she's been there at that time before."

There are things he's avoiding saying, Thorn observes, shifting slightly behind your back.

It's probably not a good idea to press at this point, you send back to him.

That's unusually trusting, from you.

It isn't that I trust him, you send back, huffing inside your mind but mostly keeping it from your face. It's just that asking those kinds of questions would invite him to ask things of us in return.

He knows far more of us than we know of him. Even if it is only rumors.

You don't reply to that. Instead, you say aloud, "And there's no way to predict where she might be before then?"

"She won't venture too far south at this point in the season," Erzhal says, "but if you've been looking for her and haven't caught up to her yet, she's not going to let you. She's a witch, after all - they're always better informed than they let on."

That does fit with what you know of witches, unfortunately. "So there's no way to make her come to us, then," you say.

"She's too cunning for that," Erzhal agrees. "According to what I've heard, she's as old as the pact between dragons and Riders." He nods his head towards Thorn, briefly, and then continues, "Something that magical and that old does as it pleases, and there's very little you or I can do about it."

You grimace, then. As old as the pact between dragons and Riders...

Someday, you'll be able to look upon that span of time and comprehend it. Already, you've begun to notice a slowing in your aging compared to other humans your age. Human Riders tend to stop aging when they appear between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five - Galbatorix looked as old as he did because of the loss of his first dragon and the ensuing madness aging him, and he still appeared as a man in the late part of his prime. You know that you have centuries to look forward to.

But you still can't comprehend it, yet.

Thorn, sensing the weight of your thoughts even if not their contents, lifts his head and twists his neck around to place his jaw in your lap. The act sets Erzhal off into a fit of chuckling.

"I think I can interpret that without your help," he says. "That's a 'go to sleep' look if I've ever seen one."

Thorn snorts slightly in your lap in turn. Well, he isn't wrong. If we cross through the valley of spirits tomorrow, then we need all the rest we can get.

"Is it safe to set wards here?" you ask, mindful of the warnings he gave you before about attracting spirits.

"As long as it's not too many," Erzhal says. "Focus on alarms rather than outright defenses - and don't be surprised if you wake to an ermine snuggled up to you in the night. They're prone to hanging out around the lodges to hunt vermin, and they'll take advantage of the warmth if they can find it."

"Duly noted," you say. A weasel in your bedroll isn't the strangest thing that would have happened to you in the north.

The wards you put up are sparse, but they'll wake you if anything dangerous approaches the campground. Erzhal watches and then nods in approval, adding only one of his own - a ward, slightly inside the circle made by yours, that will alert if your wards are disabled in some way. It's a thoughtful addition that you note down to add to your routine set of wards in the future. For all you know, there are more men immune to magic out in the world, and they'll simply melt right though your regular wards untouched.

You undo the blankets from your pack and cuddle closer against Thorn's side. Across from you, you hear Erzhal stand, and then the distinctive fwsh-thunk of more wood being added to the fire. Closing your eyes against the momentary brightness of the sparks, you drop into an easier sleep than you've had in quite a while.

----

When you wake, it is of course still dark, and the fire has burned itself most of the way out. There's still warmth radiating out from the embers buried among the ashes, you find when you free yourself from the blankets to take relief in a distant corner. Thorn watches your return with one half-open eye.

There's a mostly-white ermine peeking out from under his jaw, which scurries back out of sight as you approach. You give Thorn a wordless look, just raising your eyebrows.

It chased a mouse in here while you slept, Thorn says. For its size, it is a fierce hunter.

This explains very little, but in a typically dragon way, so you don't bother to question it. You won't get any better answers.

Erzhal is, to all appearances, still unconscious, the carved wooden goggles set aside beside his head and most of his pack used as a makeshift pillow. The thick wool of a maroon blanket covers his entire body from the neck down, save for one gloved hand that has inched out and hovers close to one of the bone-tipped spears he carries. Seeing as you have no desire to test your reflexes against the possibility that he reacts violently to being awoken, you busy yourself rebuilding the fire instead.

Not long after it's sparked to life, he sits up, first yawning and then adjusting the seat of his hat on his head. He mumbles something of a greeting that you won't understand even if it wasn't half-mumbled, pushes himself up, and grabs something out of his bag before ambling to the door. You shiver reflexively at the thought of relieving yourself outside.

When he returns, it's a bit more clear-eyed, and carrying a wide, stitched-together skin full of snow. Now that it's full, you can tell that the skin is a cone shape, and it has a small tap on the bottom. Erzhal sets it beside his pack, a bit of snow spilling out to the floor, to retrieve a folding stand that he uses to set the snow near the growing fire to melt.

To your raised eyebrows, he replies, "My teacher enforced that I wasn't allowed to use magic when I was half-awake. At this point, it's become habit."

With that, he sets a wooden cup under the drip of snowmelt to catch the water. "Learn to do things without magic first, and then use magic to make them more efficient," he continues. "That was her philosophy. It's the only thing of her I was able to take with me when I came to the north."

It's not surprising to you to hear that he's also from further south. He speaks your language too well, and with not enough of an accent, though what accent he has you can't entirely recognize. It sounds familiar, in a way that would bother you if you thought about it too long, so you push the thought to the side. You've gotten good at that, over the years.

"Why not return, then?" you ask. "Even if only to visit. For someone as well-traveled as you must be, it wouldn't be that difficult a journey."

"There wouldn't be a point," Erzhal replies. "I could only pay a visit to her grave, and I don't even know where she was buried."

You grimace. That's a familiar enough tale. "I'm sorry," you say.

Erzhal shrugs one shoulder, looking away from you to dig into his bag. "Well, you're familiar enough with how that bastard disliked anything that wasn't under his control. She denied him, and like so many others, she paid the price for it."

You're familiar with that, indeed. "I'm surprised you didn't go to the Varden," you say. "They would have been happy to take you. A mage of any skill at all..."

"Someone dear to me begged me to live, rather than throwing my life away after hers," Erzhal replies. His words are slow, deliberately chosen, and he pauses in shuffling through his bag to fold his right hand over the back of his left and squeeze it. "She gave her life for mine - the least I could do is honor her sacrifice, even if that makes me a coward in the eyes of the rest of the world."

That, at least, you can understand. You can taste the change of your Name in the back of your throat, the heady release of freedom brought on by allowing yourself to reach outside yourself, as you say, "I understand. Tornac, the man who raised me and taught me the sword, died to facilitate my escape from Uru'baen. I was later captured and taken back to the King, but perhaps if I had gone north, instead..."

"Then perhaps we'd have met without me knowing your name from rumors and spinners' tales," Erzhal says. He considers for a moment, then abandons his search in his bag to instead whisper a word of magic at the funnel of snow which sends down enough water to fill the cup underneath.

With an air of ceremony, he lifts it, takes a long swallow, and then steps across the space to offer it to you. "To teachers lost and sacrifices made," he says.

You take the cup. The water inside is pure and too-clear in the way of melted ice. "That, I will certainly toast to," you say, before lifting the cup to your lips.

The water is still chill, and tastes of ice, too-sharp and too-crisp, but one thing you have realized in the north is that you are always, always thirsty - liquid water is a rarity when traveling the wilds, and water you can be sure is safe is rarer still. Before you know it, you've drained the cup, and are awkwardly handing it back to Erzhal, who just smiles in response before replacing it under the funnel.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

Erzhal shakes his head. "Some of the last rumors about what happened when the Varden took the city say that you turned on him in the end," he says. "If those are even a quarter of the truth, then it's me who should be thanking you."

Unsure how to reply to that - to the earnesty there, somehow truer for the fact that he said it to the snow instead of you - you don't reply, and instead busy yourself checking Thorn's saddlestraps for the climb ahead.

Chapter Text

Once you've begun to truly prepare, progress is quick - Erzhal ducks outside again to glance at the sky, and then comes in to hustle everything together so quickly it would be more surprising if he didn't use magic in the process. The last thing he packs up is the snow-melt funnel, and only after using a word of magic to melt the last of the snow he's gathered, taking a long swig before handing the rest of the cup to you.

You drink it just as greedily as the last time you hurried in such a way. In the melted ice, you can't help but taste sand.

(Those little reminders, you realize, are starting to put you on your guard, as you wait for the other shoe to drop. Not that this will probably end in you being chased by Urgals for miles before banging on an unsympathetic mountain... at least, so you hope.)

You secure the spare ski poles to Thorn's saddle along with the rest of the supplies you don't need on a regular basis. After a hesitation, you free Zar'roc from its position behind the saddle seat and secure it to your waist instead. If you wind up having to fight anything in the valley, you will have to use magic only as a last resort; little as you like the blade, you need a weapon at hand that you know how to use.

Securing your quiver of arrows and bow to your back in place of your pack is a decision that brings you far less hesitation. Erzhal nods at the bow, gives the sword a sour look, and then bows and asks permission from Thorn to add some of his own pack-weight to the saddle. After that, the two of you spread your blankets and your cloak over the packs and Thorn's wings, and tie the whole thing down securely.

Thorn rolls his shoulders when you've finished. How is it? you ask.

I don't care for it, Thorn admits, but I can make a few concessions to the cold. However, if we run into something too much to handle, I will take you and fly, spirits or no spirits, frost or no frost.

It's no less than you expected, and familiar. Every sane dragon you've met has expressed more or less the same sentiment regarding their Rider at some point. It's for that reason that the blankets are secured with ship's knots that will go slack if Thorn truly needs to spread his wings.

You turn to Erzhal and say, "Is there anything else?"

Erzhal pauses, looks you and Thorn over, and then nods. "Outside," he says. "It will be quick."

And so the three of you duck out of the stable into the snow, once you've bound the skis to your feet and taken the poles in hand.

There, Erzhal bends down into an untouched part of the snow, and begins to shape something out of it. The nights in the north are unnaturally bright, and so it's easy enough for you to see him making what must be a map of the valley you're going to cross, each ridge about as thick and long as your forearm.

"This is our route," Erzhal says, straightening and tracing along it with the tip of one ski-pole. "On the far ridge, there's a trail leading up to a dip in the ridge here - it'll be snowbound in this season, but it should still be obvious enough through the trees."

You nod, and Thorn leans forward to get a better view of the small model valley.

"Our stopping point overnight is here - " A sharp jab of the pole in the center of the valley. "And there's another lodge here, on the far side." Another jab. "If we should get separated, or if something happens to me, make for that lodge - forgo the night's rest in the middle and go as quickly as you can without flying. No magic until you cross the ridge and are headed downhill, but get out of the spiritground as fast as you can."

"I understand," you say.

"Wait there for three days," Erzhal says. "If I haven't caught up to you by that point, there's a signal flare in the lodge. Fire the red one, and someone will come - probably an Urgal who doesn't speak more than a handful of words of the southern language, but they'll be able to get you to Ghralthek. Ask for Lyruthk or Izolsa - they can speak the Ancient Language fluently, they'll be able to help you."

You nod, and then add, "And if you die?"

Erzhal looks at you for a moment, expression serious, and then says, "Return my skis to Kutsokh for half what I paid for them."

It startles a laugh out of you that you bite down on before it goes too far, and Thorn snorts a dragon-laugh. Erzhal grins at his success, and then says, "I'll catch up with you within three days. If that's not going to happen - you'll know. Trust me."

"I suppose I must," you say, not liking it. You have to acknowledge that he's likely better prepared to be alone in this wilderness than you are, though, even with half his supplies secured to Thorn's saddle.

How long do you think he's been here? you say to Thorn. He doesn't seem that much older than I - five years, at most. If you were going to bet, you'd place it at something more like three.

Thorn considers, and then says, He's a good enough magician to be casual with magic, and his teacher was able to catch the king's eye. He is more skilled than he lets on, and many practitioners of magic are older than they appear.

True enough, you reply. But he's still human, not an elf or a dwarf. Even if a mage can change their appearance, they can't change their lifespan through magic alone.

He smells like a human, Thorn agrees, hesitantly, but there's a note to it that I can't identify.

You raise your eyebrows to him as you and Erzhal wrap your faces in preparation for the climb, prodding a wordless question into the bond.

Thorn says, Do you recall the sky lights we saw a week past? You nod, unsure of where this is going. If such a sight could be translated into a smell, it would be that. It is shifting and it smells of magic. It makes me uncertain.

Perhaps it's the scent of spirits, you offer. They can perform powerful wordless magic the same way dragons can, can't they? Perhaps he's already encountered them before.

That is possible. Thorn doesn't sound entirely convinced, but then, neither are you. It's simply the best guess you have at the moment.

After that, your thoughts have to be devoted almost entirely to the climb. The path is the steepest that can be safely climbed in skis, only taking a handful of switchbacks, and after two hours of this you find yourself wondering how Erzhal can stand the flap of his hat that hangs over his forehead. You feel certain that you are sweating only to have it freeze to your skin, only the puffs of your breath escaping from under your scarf keeping your beard from freezing to your jaw.

And so you climb. Only at the top of the ridge, looking down into the valley, do you stop longer than a moment to catch your breath.

The spiritground doesn't look obviously different from the hillside you just climbed for half a day, until the sun is as high above the horizon as it's going to get. Tucked behind the ridge, the valley is almost completely in shadow - only the far side has the too-bright glow of sunlight on snow, the top of the next ridge bathed in dim rays.

Beneath that visible line lies a valley that will not know the touch of sunlight until springtime, filled with snow and the dark outlines of trees. You can see the tracings of the path Erzhal mapped out for you in the gaps, thin lines of white running down the hill, and the shape of a stream winding through the middle, no doubt frozen solid this time of year. Distantly you can see a bridge, a beam of snow serving as a crossing, at the bottom; you know that the sanctuary where you'll be camping tonight is just beyond it, but the path twists behind a clump of trees and you can't find it again against the dark shadows of the forest.

You don't see any obvious signs of spirits, but that means little, especially when you do not know what signs to be looking for. The only time you've been in close proximity to spirits was the rush of them that escaped the dying Durza in Farthen Dur, and that was little more than a rush of light whipping past you and across the battlefield on its way out of the mountain. If Galbatorix made any habit of doing sorcery, which you would not put past him, he never exposed you to it.

So you turn to Erzhal and say, "How does the path look?"

"Good enough for now," Erzhal says. "Wards down, and let's get on with it."

You grimace, but immediately begin muttering the series of words that will drop the majority of wards from your person. Wards against magic and physical harm fall away; you leave only the ones that protect the most vital parts of your body, your chest, neck, and face, and even those you strip down to a minimum of what they were. Then you do the same for Thorn, leaving one ward in addition to your own - the one which protects the fragile skin of his wings from punctures.

Then you remove the ward which protects the two of you from being scryed upon, and then, with a great deal of hesitation, the ward which prevents your true names from being spoken within your hearing. Not that you can imagine that you will need it for the two-day crossing of the valley, but it has become your last line of defense against those who might seek to control you the way Galbatorix did. In addition to that, replacing it will require speaking the Name, which you're loathe to do in company. You'll have to find a few moments on the far side where Erzhal is distracted to replace it, since any magician worth half a coin would recognize the Name for what it is, even if they retain no memory of it thanks to Eragon's spellwork.

It only comforts you that you can hear Erzhal dropping his wards as well - fewer than yours, but that's no surprise. He has fewer enemies, no doubt, and a human spellcaster would have less energy with which to maintain their wards before becoming exhausted. Most likely, he has no need for an anti-scrying ward, either.

Ignoring the feeling like you're walking into battle without armor, you turn back to him and say, "Done."

Erzhal nods, and then looks down the slope. "At least down is faster," he says. "Come on, then."

And without further ceremony, you slip into the spirit-haunted valley of Thu'oivor.

----

Down is faster. Down is, in fact, a heady, exhilarating rush, as close to flying as one can get without leaving the ground (a sentiment Thorn comes to agree with once he learns to sled on his belly). Down would be faster still if it weren't for the couple of times you fail your turns and tumble instead through the untouched snow, to Thorn's chuckles and Erzhal's best attempts at not laughing (which he fails on completely the time you are stuck with your feet in the air and Thorn has to dig you free while your guide clutches his stomach).

(It was, you'll grant, a fantastically comical image, from the vision Thorn sends you of his perspective. That does little to balm your spirits after the faceful of snow.)

If it weren't for the circumstances - if it weren't for the feeling of looking for spirits over your shoulders constantly - you could almost call it fun.

As it is, the sky is near-dark again by the time you're truly at the valley floor and reduced to pushing yourself along with the poles instead of gliding effortlessly across the snow, and Erzhal gives the sky a wary look.

"If we can manage to cross the creek before the dark of night sets in, I'd feel a lot better," he says. "Keep your guard up."

You nod, and say, "The sanctuary isn't far beyond the bridge, is it?"

"A little less than an hour," Erzhal agrees. "Perhaps two hours total, from here, but it's going to be the most dangerous two hours."

Do spirits congregate at the stream? Thorn asks. You repeat the question carefully, and Erzhal shakes his head.

"Spirits don't," he says. "Shades do. Animals that have become possessed by spirits - Shlajra and Aesijra both - still need to eat and drink like regular animals."

"What's the difference?" you ask.

"A Shlajra is fueled by resentful, mad, or outright evil spirits," Erzhal says. "They're almost certain to be aggressive in some way, though most of them don't have the capacity to properly plan, the way a Shade of the races of men would. They still have an incredible amount of magical power, and they'll use it unpredictably to attack anything that they take a disliking to."

You grimace. "Sounds an inglorious way to die, to be sure."

"That, and the spirits driving the Shlajra will often take the opportunity to move on to a more capable host."

"So it's less that we die, and more that the spirits steal our bodies to cause more effective death and destruction."

"In a word, yes."

Your shudder has nothing to do with the cold. No wonder people are afraid of going out during the long night. "And the... Aesijra?" you ask, only stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar consonant combination of the last syllable.

"Any other kind of animal Shade is an Aesijra," Erzhal says. "Most of them won't be aggressive, but they might harm us out of nothing more than curiosity. The minds of most animals aren't complex enough to contribute to the consciousness of a Shade significantly, so they're effectively spirits given flesh, with all the dangers that normally come of interactions with spirits."

"Still dangerous, but not trying to kill us specifically," you say, and Erzhal nods at your assessment. "All right. Is there a way to tell the difference?"

"If it has glowing red eyes and is pissed off at you, it's a Shlajra," Erzhal says. "Otherwise, unless you're willing to risk mental contact - which I do not advise - there's no real way to tell. Especially in this season, when a lot of smaller animals have white pelts."

You recall the little white face of the ermine earlier, and nod. "I would have expected red," you say.

"Only Shades of men have their hair turn red," Erzhal says. "Most of them turn white, though there are legends about..."

He pauses, glances around, and says, "Well, I'll tell you the story when we get safely to the other side."

"I'll hold you to it," you say, and the two of you set off again, Thorn trailing behind you, leaving a clear trail of churned-up snow.

----

The sky is darker still when you reach the bridge, the first stars long since visible, their dimmer brothers peeking out with only a scattering of clouds in sight.

Much closer to the ground, a twinkling orb of light bobs in the crevasse carved by the stream, which you are surprised to note still flows in spite of the cold, only partially frozen and thus sluggish in its swirls. All three of you stop before setting foot on the bridge, regarding the spirit warily.

"Is it safe to cross?" you ask.

Erzhal frowns in the spirit's direction, and then says, "I'll go first. It doesn't seem interested in us, but that might change at any time - especially as regards Thorn." He throws an apologetic look over his shoulder. "Dragons are just too magical by nature, and foreign here besides. And where spirits are concerned, being interesting is dangerous."

Being interesting is always dangerous, Thorn observes, which you don't bother to repeat, in part because Erzhal has already started forward, keeping his eyes on the dancing light as he approaches the bridge. Now is not the time to break his concentration.

You watch with bated breath until he's about halfway across, at which point he points at you specifically and waves for you to follow him. You shuffle your way to the bridge and across, carefully but speedily, eyes on the road before you but feeling the presence of the spirit at the far fringes of your mind. It's too-big, too-bright, and scrambled emotions leak out from it as though it were a tangle of yarn, too alien to spend any time trying to comprehend.

And then you're past, and Erzhal is waiting at the far end of the bridge, and you exhale carefully before you turn your attention to finishing the crossing yourself. Only then do you turn back to watch Thorn.

It's somehow worse than making the crossing yourself. You're not used to the idea of anything being dangerous to Thorn, not anymore. The only being in Alagaesia who can really compete with him any longer is Saphira, and the two are about equally matched at this point, close enough in age and Thorn's unnaturally accelerated growth no longer as much of a size advantage as it once was. You can still recall holding him as a hatchling, but most of the time, that tiny, vulnerable creature has no relationship to the magnificent dragon he is now.

But glancing between him and the bobbing light of the spirit as he approaches and then carefully sets foot on the bridge, his claws vanishing completely into the deep snow, you're reminded of the hatchling you weren't able to protect. Especially when the spirit lifts a few feet higher into the air and then back down, drifting lazily in the direction of the bridge...

You feel Thorn's intention before he moves, and you hiss to Erzhal, "Out of the road," right before Thorn assesses his situation and leaps.

Even without the support of his wings, the height of Thorn's leap is genuinely impressive. You push away from the road in one direction and Erzhal in the other, leaving him a clear path to make a landing that's as much a controlled fall into the snow as anything. White kicks up wildly in front of you, coating your coat and obscuring your vision, almost burying you as Thorn bounds onward down the path.

When you dare to look again, the spirit is simply winding its way down the creek, following the water, slowly drifting out of sight. When you risk looking away, Erzhal is wiping snow from his face and the worst of it from his coat.

Without a word, the two of you follow Thorn up the road, forced to ski on either side of his wide path through the snow, as attempting to cross the gouge in the landscape he leaves behind him is as hopeless as trying to cross the stream without the bridge would have been.

But, for once, nothing terrible happened, and you'll take your blessings and not complain about them.

----

After that, the rest of the journey to the sanctuary - or the voi'u as Erzhal called it - feels almost anticlimatic. It's simply a matter of shuffling over the mostly-flat valley floor until you get there. As much as you would like to take a moment to reassure Thorn, and can feel that he'd like to do likewise, you can't bring yourself to do so when you know safety is just ahead.

That said, you are glad for having a guide, because you would certainly have missed the voi'u if you didn't have someone with you who knew what it was. It's little more than a low stone wall sticking up out of the snow, enclosing an area about the size of the stable you stayed in last night (and probably for the same reason). There's an entrance at each of three equal-spaced points, where the wall has a gap and a pair of short pillars frames that gap. The wall is not quite as tall as your hip; the pillars come to about your nose and are as wide across as your shoulders. Even with their thick caps of snow, they stand only a foot or so over your head - nearly any Urgal would be taller, and a Kull could step over the walls as though they weren't even there.

But the entire face of the pillars is inscribed with markings - not the script of the Ancient Language, but clearly something magical nonetheless. Erzhal pauses before one of the pillars - the top of which is above his head, considering that he only comes to your nose hat and all - and mutters to himself as he brushes a part of the face clean of clinging snow.

Then he presses a kiss to his left palm, and that palm to the face of the pillar, and you watch as dull pink light spirals out from his hand, spreading through and lighting the script carved into the pillars. Erzhal nods in satisfaction and turns back to you.

"Give it a moment before you go in," he says, "but we'll be free to relax after that."

"What are we waiting for?" you ask.

Before you get an answer, a great wind whips up. The snow piled in the center of the sanctuary blows around, briefly, before suddenly being shoved to the outer rim, where it builds up on the low stone walls and compacts into something more structurally sturdy. It's an impressive bit of magic. The floor thus revealed glows in the same dull pink, but only in a few lines of carvings reaching to each of the entrances.

"That," Erzhal says, before shuffling his way in. With a glance at Thorn, who shrugs the muscles supporting his wings under their blankets, you follow.

As you pass inside, you feel a ripple of magic pass over you - something in the air is different, inside the sanctuary, though you would be hard-pressed to explain exactly what it is. Thorn flicks his tongue out to taste the air, before immediately pulling it back into his mouth away from the cold.

Well? you say to him.

It's safe. It has the same feeling as the smell that accompanies Erzhal, though, Thorn assesses, before padding in and curling up near the center of the sanctuary.

What about the spirit earlier? you ask.

Similar, but not the same, Thorn says. The strange shifting-ness was absent. This place, however...

He snakes his head forward, inspecting the carvings under the disguise of a stretch. It has the same feeling almost exactly. Either this place is being powered by Erzhal's magic directly, it was created by him, or both.

And in either case, that means he's far more powerful than he lets on, you say. You unbind your boots from the skis and sit against Thorn's side in your usual position. Out loud, you say, "It's quite a bit of impressive magic. Will it really protect us from spirits?"

"Unless a particularly powerful one, or a Shade composed of several spirits, makes a dedicated attempt to destroy it, then yes," Erzhal says. "It has a vast store of magical energy accumulated by travelers over the centuries, but that store can be exhausted."

You nod, taking a seat against Thorn's neck to run your hand over the glowing carvings. "I've never seen this script before," you say.

"You wouldn't have," Erzhal says. "Unless you'd made an active study of sorcery, I suppose. It's the language of the spirits themselves, or as best a representation of it as can be rendered on stone."

"I didn't even know there was such a language," you say.

"Shades can speak it instinctively," Erzhal says. "They're a significant portion spirits, after all. My understanding is that for anyone else, it's one hell of a task to learn more than a few words."

"So a Shade made this?"

"I'd assume so. It's far older than you or I - old enough that no one's sure exactly when it was made, much less by who."

You reach out and run your fingers over the carvings. Contrary to the amount of light they give off, they're almost smoothed out, worn away by time. You wonder if the glowing lines of unfamiliar, almost wriggling-looking script even need the carvings at all, or if they'll continue to appear even after the stone has gone completely smooth with age, from the sheer force of the magic that's been channeled through it for centuries.

You say, "I never thought that Shades could be anything but violent."

Erzhal sighs, dropping to sit on the stone and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "There's a saying in the north," he says. "Jro'uchun wauvoitchokh, jro'uchun hroutchokh ir. The things you learn are the things you're taught - you can't be expected to know something you haven't been taught or experienced."

You nod slowly, turning over your thoughts. Thorn says, Spirits are a rarity in the south, are they not? It makes sense that where they are more commonly encountered, Shades would be also.

You repeat the comment for Erzhal's benefit, and then add, "But it still seems strange that even Riders and elves weren't exposed to the idea. I did have occasion to talk with an elf regarding Shades, and she never mentioned the possibility."

Erzhal raises his eyebrows - the pink glow of the runes sets his eyes to looking particularly red - but says, "Another meaning of the phrase is to imply that we all inherit the biases of our teachers. If the elf you were acquainted with was taught by someone who didn't know anything about Aezhai, only Shlajrai, then she wouldn't have known, either."

You nod, thinking of exactly what Arya's firsthand experience with Shades was, and find yourself frowning at the memory. "Even if she had, I suppose she had good reason to have violent Shades at the forefront of her mind," you say.

Erzhal nods. "Because of the very different way sorcery and spirits are regarded in the south, they're the more common there by far."

"What is sorcery like here, then?" you ask. "I've always heard it to be about manipulating and commanding spirits, and not something done commonly or lightly."

"No engagement with spirits should be done lightly," Erzhal agrees. "But there's... It is more like an exchange. In the north, spirits are our neighbors, regardless of anyone's personal feelings about them. If you treat your neighbors badly, by ordering them around or forcing your will over theirs, eventually there will come a time where that comes back to bite you in the ass."

You nod. "That makes sense enough," you say. "Not unlike how one should treat dragons."

"There are certainly similarities," Erzhal agrees. "Both are creatures of great magic who could erase the average human without much effort, after all. Or the average Urgal, or most any other creature, save perhaps elves."

"And Shades," you say.

"Who are spirits themselves, in a manner of speaking," Erzhal says. "Or perhaps it is something more like the Riders, in the case of Aezhai who are more sharing their bodies with spirits than taken over by them."

"Perhaps," you say, not sure how comfortable you are with the comparison but not certain that it is without merit, either. "I suppose with so few Riders left, there is no one who would be able to tell. In two conversations, I daresay you've made me the best-educated on the matter of Shades who aren't simply storybook villains."

Erzhal chuckles at that. "Well, you're willing to learn," he says. "That's the first step."

It does make for quite a contrast with Eragon, Thorn observes, which you don't repeat. Your brother's reputation as a Shadeslayer is not undeserved, considering the evil Durza was not only capable of but willfully committed, but you cannot help but think of how differently it might land, here, and so you find yourself not desiring to bring it up.

Besides, you've spent plenty and more of your life being compared to Eragon. Ever since it became known to you that the two of you were brothers, you cannot help but be aware that you are the one found wanting when it comes to him.

Instead, you say, "Speaking of being willing to learn - perhaps another language lesson, before we sleep?"

"I could be amicable," Erzhal says, "if you would grab something for dinner from the packs."

"A fair enough exchange," you say, rising to reach for the supplies strapped to Thorn's back.

----

It is a pleasant enough hour, eating and discussing the grammar of the language of the north, though you still find the kh sticking in your throat and cannot well hear a difference between xh and sh. Erzhal admits, for the latter, that he is not the best example to learn from, since it is not his native tongue either.

Eventually, you succumb to the ache in your bones, pull the blankets from Thorn's back, and curl up to sleep tucked between his forelimbs. In the dim pink light of the runes, Erzhal remains, sitting the first watch of the night.

When you wake, it is not easily, but to Thorn pulling the blanket off you in his teeth. Erzhal stands just beside him, alert and with a spear held in one hand.

You lift your head to ask what the problem is, but Erzhal shushes you with another gesture that comes too-familiar, too-close to memories you don't want to touch, before pointing into the treeline between the snow walls of the sanctuary.

Silently, you turn, and squint past the starlit snowdrifts into the space beneath the pines. A pair of red eyes, lit from within, glowing, haunting, stares back at you, peeking from a dark shape near the height of a man but distinctly not the build of one.

Mindful of the silence, you only mouth the curse you have in mind.

My thoughts exactly, Thorn says.

Chapter Text

The animal Shade continues to watch you from just beneath the treeline. Thorn sends you a clearer image of what the shape is - dragon vision being somewhat different from a human's. It's something like a deer, with backwards-pointing horns of a similar texture to those of an Urgal, and a light-colored, shaggy coat. Bleached the white of too much magic, if you had to guess.

Erzhal said that it's a wild uutur, Thorn clarifies. I took the liberty of waking him first, to be certain of what I saw.

You nod, and slowly pull yourself up, doing the minimum amount of packing to be ready to leave, which fortunately mostly consists of securing your blanket to Thorn's back again. You can leave without it if you must, but it wouldn't make the rest of the journey pleasant.

Hesitantly, you reach towards the blizzard of Erzhal's mind. It's more like a ice storm, now, and it doesn't particularly abate towards your presence, but he tilts his head towards you in a way that seems to indicate that he's listening.

What's the plan? you send.

The reply comes back two-pronged, thoughts almost overlaying each other, like trying to talk to both Eragon and Saphira at once. We're running, obviously/We might be able to trap it here.

Erzhal pauses, shakes his head slightly to himself, and though the ice storm of his mind doesn't precisely clear, the thoughts he's choosing to share with you weave together more effectively into a single train of thought. It's possible to drop the wards on the sanctuary briefly enough to trap it inside - they hold the same way from within as without. It will only last a few hours (the sanctuary is designed to deactivate after one night), but it will be enough for us to make some headway and hopefully be out of the valley before it catches up with us.

All right, you send back. What can I do?

Be ready to run. He must sense your frown, because he continues, You're not experienced enough with skis to try fighting on them, and the voi'u is linked to my magic, not yours.

I could ride Thorn, you say. I am familiar with fighting on dragonback.

Erzhal hums under his breath, and finally sends, Do it/He can get out of the voi'u faster than you can on foot.

What about you?

I have to be in contact with the stone to work the magic. In response to the mild concern you can't entirely hide in an exchange of thoughts, Erzhal turns back to the Shade lingering at the edge of the clearing, and mutters under his breath, in the Ancient Language, "I'm a lot harder to kill than you are."

You don't have the time, nor the energy, to unpack that at the moment. Instead, you relay the plan to Thorn, who huffs, but obligingly kneels down for you to climb on his back and strap yourself in. You tie your skis across the back of the packs, winding your legs in the gap between the blankets tied over Thorn's wings, and do only the bare minimum of the saddle straps, the ones directly over your thighs. They wouldn't be enough to hold you in the saddle in an aerial fight, but it shouldn't come to that.

You loosen Zar'roc in its scabbard, as well, though it's your bow you pull to your immediate reach in the saddle. Archery has already served you better against Shades than it has any right to once before. And this time, you know where to aim.

Being trapped here won't stop it forever, surely, you send back. With the kinds of tracks Thorn leaves in snow, we won't be difficult to follow.

It won't, Erzhal agrees. But it will give us time to reach a battlefield more advantageous to us, where you can use magic freely without worrying about calling more problems down on our heads. And if we fail, we won't be risking the voi'u. It's irreplaceable.

You cannot very well argue with that. You pull free a single arrow and nock it, looking again at the red-eyed shape in the shadows of the trees. It has moved closer, for certain, almost out of the cover the trees provide it - you can definitely see the outline of the uutur's shape and the long horns coming out of its head.

Your silent discussion with Thorn isn't verbal and takes only a heartbeat, and then you cast at Erzhal, Be ready for us to grab you. If we're to make time...

There's a flicker of something through the snowstorm, dawn-colored and aching like the sun in your eyes. It's a hesitation, but then Erzhal just nods, and secures his spears and skis to Thorn's pack as well.

We make for the ridge, he says. By the time we get up there, the sun line should be visible - once we're past it, that should be far enough.

You nod, shift the bow into a more ready position, and prepare yourself for the worst part of any battle - the waiting.

Erzhal steps back to one of the exits facing away from the Shlajra and you feel Thorn tense beneath you, ready to bound in that direction as soon as it's clear enough to do so. As you watch, Erzhal puts his left hand against the stone pillar and closes his eyes before swiping it downward in a quick motion, the drag of his glove's leather on the stone a quiet noise that remains distinct in the silence.

The pink recedes from the columns, leaving only the floor of the sanctuary and the low walls lit up. In the silence, you hear the snort of breath.

It takes some time for the Shade to exit the cover of the trees, and when it does, it's in a charge. It's impressive how quickly it moves across the deep snow, a ghost of white like the largest deer you've ever seen and long black horns, textured like an Urgal's, that it bears down at Thorn's side.

Erzhal's unfamiliar, loud oath is cut off as your hearing vanishes to the sound of the wind whipping through your ears - it's all you can do to hold on to the saddle for support as Thorn leaps out of the way of the charge, leaving the Shlajra to slide as its hooves hit the cleared stone. It doesn't seem like it will take a long time to turn, and you twist and fire your arrow almost blindly into its hindquarters, hoping to limit the speed of its movement.

The arrow hits, and the creature lets loose a bay that sounds not entirely unlike a war cry. Magic itches high up your arms, and you swear in your turn as Thorn lands, slapping out the beginnings of fire on your clothes with a hissed command.

But now Thorn is just clear of the sanctuary, and Erzhal likewise dives outside it, slapping his hand on the pillar beside him and dragging it upwards as he goes. The pink lights up the column again, trapping the Shlajra inside, where it stares balefully at you, arrow protruding from the thick fur of its flank. You're not sure if the shot went deep enough to inconvenience it or not, given the white fur that seems nearly as thick and impenetrable as the snow.

It makes that baying sound again, this time accompanied by a wave of mental attack that rolls off your habitual barriers but not without leaving you feel the anger and pain. You suppose your shot must have landed well enough, because that particular pain is briefly reflected in your own hindquarters, a sensation more physical than it has any right to be.

"Congratulations," Erzhal says dryly, as you reach down and pull him up into the saddle behind you with your free hand. It's difficult without the magical enhancements you habitually apply even now, the ones that are the only reason you can keep up with the likes of elves or Eragon, but Erzhal must be stronger than he looks, because he barely needs the boost of your hand to push himself off the ground. "It hates you most now."

You grimace. "I thought to slow its progress following us further by injuring its leg," you say.

"You haven't not done that," Erzhal says. He settles in at your back like a natural, as though riding a dragon is something familiar to him. Your saddle isn't particularly made for two, unlike the one Eragon and Saphira used in the later part of the war with Arya, and you cannot imagine it to be a comfortable ride. But Erzhal just leans forward and hooks his lower legs into some of the straps you haven't done up. "The question is if it'll be worth the price in its anger."

You swing your legs as far forward as they'll go to give him room, and then drop them back once he's done. "I didn't expect it to charge like that," you admit.

"Your iutaeyi luck," Erzhal mutters. You don't think you have to guess too mildly about the meaning of that word - you've heard enough curses to recognize one when you hear it. You also can't disagree. "An uutur Shlajra is the worst of all possible options. I'd rather fight a bear or even a wolf, especially with a dragon on my side."

If you're quite ready, Thorn says, and it takes you a moment to realize he's addressing the both of you directly, we should be gone before the magic dissolves.

Erzhal nods and sends a small wave of acknowledging agreement also, which you cannot help but think of as a gust escaping the swirling blizzard of his mind. You stow your bow, and try not to be too surprised when he reaches around you to grab the last of the unsecured leg straps to grip in his hands. It's strange having another person so close to you. Not since -

Do focus, Murtagh, Thorn sends to you privately, and you huff before securing your grip on the handholds at the front of the saddle.

It is going to be a long climb.

Thorn leaps forward the same way he would if he were propelling himself into the sky, and with about as much warning - only the familiarity of the muscles tensing beneath you, shifting even under the thick padding of the saddle. Erzhal's breath behind you is a hiss, but soon enough you're on the way, Thorn making his way through the snow as quickly as he can, heedless of the no-doubt-obvious trail behind him.

With nothing else to do, you toss a thought back towards Erzhal, You'd rather fight the Shade of a bear?

Bear Shlajra are incredibly rare, since they spent the winter asleep, he replies. Even possessed, they tend to be dozy and have no stamina. And a wolf is small enough for Thorn to pin down without too much danger to himself, even if they have the stamina to follow us up the ridge. An uutur has both the stamina and is dangerous from above.

You think of the horns on the Shade, as long as your arm and point, and wince. Claws and teeth aren't that dangerous to Thorn unless they strike at his vulnerable spots, but those horns are more akin to spears than anything else.

Thorn hums agreement mentally, saying, I've hunted them in the wilds before, and they are among the most challenging prey I've had. He sounds smugly satisfied, and you are treated to a vision of similar creatures, with dark fur rather than the barely-off-white of the Shade, gathered in a herd through the trees.

Erzhal mutters in his thoughts, a thread peeking out under the snowstorm, I hope you didn't take too many from anyone's livestock herd.

I avoided any herds that had dogs with them or the ribbons tied round their horns, Thorn says. I do not wish to take anyone's livelihood from them.

That should be fine, then, Erzhal says.

Silence, then. Progressing through the snow at this pace is burning a good bit of Thorn's energy - you'll have to be careful with your spellwork in the coming battle. After perhaps half an hour, he slows to a more moderate pace, breathing heavily.

"Don't overextend yourself," Erzhal says aloud. "Much as I appreciate the ride, your top pace through the snow is not that much more than ours would be on skis."

"We have some hours before the power of the sanctuary wanes," you agree. "Unless you think it will break containment?" This to Erzhal.

"I don't think so," he says. "Even a wild uutur - which tend to be more aggressive than their domesticated counterparts - usually doesn't have the level of resentment that would attract more than one or two angry spirits." He huffs into the back of your jacket and says, "I really would rather be dealing with a wolf. A wolf Shlajra would think we were too much trouble to be worth pursuing at this point."

"How intelligent are they?" you ask, and Erzhal makes a noncommittal noise.

"Depends on the spirit, depends on the vessel," he says. "Uutur aren't particularly smart, so at least we have that going for us."

"Smart enough to bear a grudge, too stupid to give up," you say, almost a question, and Erzhal hums an affirmative that's almost lost to the sound of Thorn's progress through the snow.

----

It's hours of slow progress up the slope. You feed Thorn as much of your energy as you dare to help, though there's really little you can do in comparison to a dragon's vast reserves. Your stores of energy are large for a human, thanks to Galbatorix's meddling and hard practice, but you're well aware that they simply don't compare.

You spend most of the climb in tense silence, too on-edge for the kind of joking and fun that accompanied your descent the day before. About two thirds of the way up the slope, when the gentle light of the long predawn hangs over you, Erzhal suddenly goes stiff behind you.

"The voi'u's magic has ended," is all he says, and it's all that needs to be said. The grim hunt is now well and truly on.

It still takes you nearly two more hours to reach the top of the ridge. There's a bowl scooped out of it that serves as the pass, wide and separated from the trees, almost circular with a radius the length of Thorn's full wingspan. He makes it halfway across before dropping to let you and Erzhal down without a further word.

Dawn hasn't quite broken yet, but it won't be long, you suspect. You swing out of the saddle and to the snow-covered ground, finding that it crunches under your weight in layers of true snow and tiny nuggets of crystalline ice.

"How long do we have?" you say to Erzhal, who drops from the saddle with a similar crunch.

"An hour, perhaps a little more," he says. "If we're lucky, it won't arrive while the sun is actually up."

"That's good luck?" you say.

"Snow glare," Erzhal says. "I'd rather not fight a white creature on a snowy hill with vrulyi'er blinding me on top of that."

You look out across the valley, to the next ridge where the sun will very briefly peep over, and say, "I see your point."

"Then get to helping me compress this snow enough to have some space to fight in," Erzhal huffs. Thorn lifts his head, but Erzhal immediately turns his direction and adds, "And you conserve your strength. We can handle this much."

Thorn huffs, but aside from swiping some snow to the side with his tail, doesn't comment further on your progress. You sigh and set about helping, compacting the snow as much as you're able.

"Wards?" you ask.

"Wait for the dawn," is all Erzhal says in reply.

----

As soon as the sun peaks over the ridge, you stop in your progress of compacting snow with your feet - work that is in itself rapidly sapping your energy - to set at least minimal wards around yourself and Thorn. Erzhal sets some as well, with a novel construction that strengthens his clothes rather than blocking blows with nothing more than magical energy, and you make a note of it, distantly, to test its effectiveness later.

After that he stops, with a strange solemnity, to bow to the sun, which peaks perhaps half its width over the horizon and remains orange-red in the sky instead of white. You stop in your progress to observe.

In response to your unasked question, he merely says, "The last dawn of the year. Usually it's recognized with a feastmeal, but I think we can be forgiven, given the circumstances."

You snort, and say, "Is that a good sign for the battle ahead, or a bad one?" You don't put any stock, particularly, in fortune-telling or the like, but at this point you're well-traveled enough to recognize that there's something to such beliefs even if you don't understand them.

Erzhal shrugs. "It's less that the dawn itself is an omen and more that it's a time to pay attention to any other omens that happen."

"And fighting a Shade atop a ridge isn't an omen?"

"I've fought more Shades atop ridges than I've had occasion to meet dragons, since I've come to the north, but you don't see me calling Thorn an omen."

"Fair enough."

After another moment, Erzhal looks around, and then says, "I think this should serve, or at the least, that's the best we're going to get." He stretches his arms and approaches where Thorn is resting at one side of the compacted snow, which is still a bit uneven but actually possible to walk across, and retrieves something from his pack. "Here," he says, tossing a chunk of cheese at you. "Eat something if you can."

You don't much like the thought, but you know you'll need the energy later. Erzhal digs in the bag, pulls out a large chunk of jerky, and tosses the entire thing to Thorn. Thorn snaps it out of the air in a swift motion - you know well enough that it's not going to be enough to sate his appetite, but you suppose every bit will help.

You say, "Do you ever tire of throwing food at people?"

Erzhal snorts, and replies, "I usually spend the winter in an Urgal village, and I'm stomach-height on a Kull. What am I supposed to do, put it on a pole? I learned to toss out of necessity."

You bite into the cheese to hide your smile. "Whatever you say," you reply after a quick swallow.

Erzhal makes a crude gesture at you with his free hand as he bites into a dried sausage held in the other.

You've only gotten halfway through the cheese when you feel it - a sudden burst of menace radiating from down the slope. You swallow and shove the cheese into a pocket of your coat, crossing the packed snow at a jog to snatch your bow and quiver from Thorn's saddle.

Erzhal has already pulled them free, and hands them to you without a second glance before pulling down his handful of bone-tipped spears. He pulls the protective leather covering free before stabbing two of them into the snow.

"Are you going to be all right with only those?" you ask, eyeing the spears with trepidation.

"They're designed for hunting large animals like uutur and xhusvekh," Erzhal replies. "And we should be safe to use magic up here. I'll be fine."

To your skeptical look, he continues, "Or I won't be, but it's a bit late to do anything about it now," just before the angry call of the Shlajra echoes up the hill.

There's nothing you can say to that, so you check the string of your bow. Thorn?

I am also as ready as I can be, Thorn says, pulling himself up from his resting position and stretching out his shoulders as much as he can without spreading his wings from beneath their coverings. To the both of you, he says, I will try to pin it down, but my claws and teeth are not well-suited to striking at the heart of such a creature. I leave the killing blow to you.

"If we kill it without a blow to the heart, will it continue to follow us?" you ask.

"Hard to say," Erzhal answers. "Let's make that a last resort."

You nod, nock an arrow, and settle in for the last of the wait, bow undrawn but ready.

Another wave of malice ripples over you, bashing violently at your thoughts. And then, silence.

For a moment, looking over the edge of the ridge with the waning, soon-to-be-gone sun in your eyes, all you can think about is that you understand now what Erzhal meant about the snow glare.

Until that silence comes to a sudden end as the Shlajra crashes into view.

Red blood, mostly dried, leaks out its flank from where your arrow from before sticks out, like a red flag drooping in dead air, and it limps that rear leg just a fraction. That is all the time you have to process, because as soon as it takes a look across the field of compacted snow, the Shlajra lowers its head and charges you.

You swear and duck to the side, arrow nearly knocked from your bow in the haste of the movement. Human-shaped Shades are known for being faster and stronger than mortal men, and it seems the animal variety is no different, because the damnable thing is faster than it has any right to be, even on the uneven ground. It doesn't sound that unsettling call again, but it keeps one crimson eye on you as it tosses its head and prepares to charge again.

Thorn interrupts that with a roar and a torrent of red flame, which the Shlajra sidesteps in a way that might almost be delicate, a leap and a sure-footed landing. But whilst it's distracted with you and the flame, Erzhal hisses a word of magic and hurls the spear he's holding. Like a greatly oversized arrow, it flies true, no doubt by means of its enchantment, and buries itself a handswidth below your arrow.

With a cry of pain, the Shlajra's leg gives out, sending it collapsing on the snow. Though it scrambles quickly back to its feet, you can tell that its ability to put weight on that back leg is a thing of the past. Erzhal may not have communicated his strategy, but it's clear enough to you - take out the legs, pin it down, and strike the heart from there.

You can only hope it works.

You waste no time at the opportunity - you line up your shot and fire, bow not drawn to its full potential but more than enough at this short of a range. It strikes the Shlajra in the chest, but does not embed deeply enough to come near the heart - more than likely hitting a rib. You don't have the breath to spare for cursing - you keep moving, even though the Shade has turned its attention to Erzhal, assessing his larger weapons as the greater threat.

It seems like it's gearing up to charge again, lowering its head, and Thorn swipes at it with his tail, keeping a wary distance from the horns. The strike is light, compared to what he would do with claws or bite, but it sends the Shlajra sliding back a few feet, its weight braced entirely on its remaining back leg. Another wave of mental attack, spread widely, which prompts Thorn to respond with a hiss.

You nock another arrow.

Then the Shlajra lifts its head up, and makes the baying call again - but if possible, it is more unsettling this time, as though a small chorus were all making the call at once. It sends involuntary shivers up your spine, throwing off your aim and sending your arrow ripping through naught but fur instead of the muscles of the front leg that you had taken aim for.

Heat radiates off the creature, and you throw a hand up in front of your face - your wards contain a protection from flame, a necessity when fighting side-by-side with or against dragons, but they offer no protection from the flameless heat.

The compacted snow around your feet melts into slush, leaving the footing treacherous. As the Shlajra gears up to charge again - at Thorn this time - you rather think that was the point. The fact that it's smart enough to put you on even footing with magic is unsettling, but less surprising than it might have been a few days ago.

It charges. Thorn twists not-entirely out of the way, taking a glancing blow that leaves a gouge across the side of his stomach, but the Shlajra's horn catches on one of the straps of the saddle, which holds it in place long enough for Thorn to catch it with his claws in turn. More long lines of crimson score its white pelt, steaming in the cold, and it tosses its head to free itself. In the process, its horn digs in again, and you wince as sympathetic pain floods your bond.

Thorn kicks out, sending the Shlajra away from himself and sliding back in the slush towards the unpacked snow. Another of Erzhal's spears shoots for the Shade, landing in the snow and digging in deep beside it.

It seems like a miss, at first. But then you hear Erzhal utter another few words of magic, sharp and haughty commands.

The first sends the spear embedding itself even deeper within the earth. The second freezes the slush around the Shlajra, entrapping its feet in the ice and leaving a smooth plane that reflects the fading colors of the sky.

And then Erzhal charges it himself, one hand holding firm on his remaining spear. And that charge turns into a slide, at a speed faster than a human would normally be able to reach. At that speed, he impacts the Shlajra, driving the spear in his hand into its side. The two slide a short distance, stopping when the Shlajra's other side slams into the spear embedded in the ice, Erzhal's hands now wrapped around one of its horns to keep it from goring him.

Get ready to shoot! his thoughts scream at yours, except it's not accurate to phrase it as coherently as that. It's the sensation of putting an arrow to string mixed with held-ready muscles, the whistle of an arrow in the air and the feeling of the impact, and you've pulled another arrow from your quiver before you can even process the sensations as words.

The Shlajra kicks at Erzhal with one of its front legs, and you hear a sickening crunch as the creature's hoof impacts his leg. It's not something you can concern yourself with right now, because it's either fixable or it isn't. You nock your arrow and boost your own speed with magic, to make a quick dart to the side, just as the Shlajra throws its weight back against Erzhal and goes down with him under it.

You line up the shot. It will be difficult, with the way the creature thrashes - it throws its head again, jerking its horns from Erzhal's grip, and knocks them into his skull with another awful crunch.

No time for finesse. You whisper words of magic to the arrow and fire, hoping that it finds its mark. You can see how the magic corrects the course, avoiding ribs and a flailing leg, to strike home in the Shlajra's chest.

It screams. That sound, the worst yet, is only not the worst you've heard in your life by virtue of continued exposure to Shruikan's mad wailing. The scream is multilayered, all the spirits that make up the Shade screaming at the same time as its body, and it echoes across the empty, snow-covered landscape, adding yet more layers as it fades.

But your shot was true, and around your arrow begins a red light, one that burns and consumes the Shade from the inside out, until its flesh bursts into motes like ashes, and two glowing orbs swirl and then dart off back down into the valley, shrieking their pain behind them. Your head pounds from the combined force of physical and mental noise.

As Shade-slayings go, you've certainly seen worse.

Immediately, you drop your bow and push yourself out to the ice sheet, sliding along mostly-controlledly until you reach Erzhal. He's staring up at the sky, and you can tell from the feeling of his thoughts that he's not entirely coherent after that blow to the head. His hat has been knocked free, and a halo of bright blood surrounds his head.

Except, as you slide to a stop, you realize that it isn't blood. It's hair, crimson as Zar'roc's blade, long and straight and clearly well-cared for, with a handful of fine braids and a carved bone comb, set with a sunrise-pink gem, that's been knocked askew. It looks both better cared-for and somehow far more natural than the only time you've seen that color before.

There is blood, and a mis-shapenness to the side of his face that bespeaks a broken jaw at minimum. Erzhal's eyes fix on you - they too are as red as Durza's, and you feel a fool, you're kicking yourself for the fact that the thought never entered your head, as very often as the matter of Shades has come up - but they quickly slide back out of focus.

He doesn't try to speak. (He's at least that sensible, some part of you notes dryly.) The thoughts he sends your way instead are a scattered mess, disjointed but not only by pain, and while you've heard often enough that Shades are at least as alien of mind as elves, it is not until now that it occurs to you to realize why, to think that of course, a Shade is multiple beings stitched into one, and in dying they come apart.

So there you have it/leave my skis/three days/I told you that I'm harder to kill than you are. And then Erzhal makes an attempt at a deep breath that sounds all too much like his ribs have been crushed, and manages somewhat more coherently, I'll answer your questions then.

"You - " You begin to curse him, but that awful breathing shakes with something that might be laughter were it whole.

Don't worry. It will take far more than my own ribs to pierce this heart. There's something flickering underneath, something he's thinking about other than his own shattered bones, but then it's gone. He's gone, in a flash of smoke, alongside the last beams of the sun, leaving you with no choice but to wait for those answers.

Or leave. You could leave, turn back now. You could -

Thorn thrusts his snout into the back of your coat. We cannot attempt to go back across the valley now, he says. At the very least, waiting three days to hear him out will provide us time to recover.

You're right, you say. We can wait that long, at least.

But it doesn't do anything to dispel the tightness in your chest, the one that has nothing to do with the cold air or your exhaustion after the battle, the one that exists only in a feeling that you do not name as betrayal, because that would mean admitting that you trusted Erzhal at all.

Chapter Text

After closing up Thorn's wounds, the two of you make your way, wearily, down the slope. By halfway down, you can see the cabin Erzhal described in the distance - the structure is much the same as the one on the other side of the ridge, thick wooden walls and a similarly snow-bound stable.

It's almost more than you can bear to divert to get firewood from the back of the cabin, as exhausted as you are by the time you reach the bottom. You want nothing more than to collapse and sleep, but if you want to wake up in the morning, the fire needs to be built and tended to the point that it won't completely disappear in the night. You very nearly forget the smoke lift until Thorn reminds you, and then you're glad that Erzhal taught you how the mechanism works before, when you didn't expect that you might ever have to do it on your own.

You can't sort out your feelings about it. Was it just simple foresight - something which, you can acknowledge without emotional conflict, Erzhal had in abundance - or did he know on some level that something like this would happen?

You don't have it sorted out by the time you've got a decent fire going. You wind up just sitting and staring into the flames, rolling the same handful of thoughts around your head, until Thorn presses his snout into your side.

Murtagh. You are too exhausted to think. Sleep and come back to it in the morning; I will mind the fire.

You need to rest, too, you send back, but it's a weak and token protest. Even as you think it, you're pulling your blanket - or Erzhal's? Does it matter? - free from the saddle. You have only the haziest memory of laying down at Thorn's side, and might well be asleep before you're completely covered.

----

The fire is embers when you wake once more. The dim-yet-slightly-brighter reflection of the snow through the gaps between the stable walls and roof suggests that dawn is approaching - and then you recall that you have moved beyond the realm of dawn, and sunlight shall not reach you here. Not until spring, at any rate.

You groan at the thought. How does anyone tell the time this far north? you think to yourself. Your noises and shifting must catch Thorn's attention, because you feel a sleepy mental prod from his direction, and when you sit up, there's a single slit of an eye fixed on you.

"It's your turn to sleep," you say. "I've rested enough."

Thorn snorts mild disbelief and a wisp of smoke at you, but closes his eyes again. When I wake, I will hunt, he says. Then we can discuss the matter of Erzhal.

...Very well, you send back. I suppose we've naught else to do but wait.

There may be supplies in the cabin, Thorn says. And, Murtagh?

What?

It may help you to get an outside perspective on the matter. Even in your sleep, you were troubled by this over the past, Thorn replies. With that final bit of advice, he rolls his shoulders, sliding one wing out from under its covering cloak - with the heat-retaining ward you put up in an exhausted haze, the stables are warm enough for it - and tucks his head underneath, bringing an end to the conversation.

You sigh heavily, and opt to put another log on the fire, first, and to eat a sparse breakfast from the supplies you carry in Thorn's packs. You fetch snow to melt into water and drink thirstily, then take a few minutes to snap the denser icicles from the edge of the rooftop and pile them in the stable's animal trough that Thorn can have a drink of them once he wakes. You reapply the wards you did not the day before, beginning with the wards protecting you from having your true names used against you. Then you eat a bit more to replace the energy used in laying the wards.

You leave off the anti-scrying wards for the time being. If you decide to contact someone, it will make communication easier. You have not settled your mind about it; while you have always preferred to keep your own counsel, or to speak to Thorn alone if you must speak to anyone, you are not quick to dismiss Thorn's advice, either.

He is the one who knows you best in all the world, after all.

You put the decision off by caring for your gear in ways you haven't in the past few days, but even you can only wax your bowstring and check Thorn's saddlestraps for wear so many times. (Especially when Thorn is wearing said saddle and very much asleep, preventing you from checking the underside.)

Left with only two real options for your time, you make the short trek across the snow between the stable and the cabin, not bothering with the skis even though you sink accordingly in the snow. By that time, the light level outside is beginning to go down; full dark will likely be upon you soon, certainly by the time Thorn wakes.

The first thing that you notice in the walk is that there's a line of wooden posts marking the path from one door to the other. Each spaced slightly more a single arm's length apart, you don't recall consciously registering them at the other cabin, but then, you didn't explore it all that much. Now, you can't help but find yourself wondering at their purpose. Surely it isn't only to mark the path.

It's a little mystery that keeps you occupied until you manage to make your way to the cabin, kick the snow off your boots, and unlatch the door to slip inside.

The interior is dark, and when you light a werelight, you can immediately see that the place is neat and well-cared-for. The walls are thicker than you would have guessed looking from the outside, with much of the space being vertical; a couple short steps lead down to the main floor of the cabin, set several feet into the earth and floored in worn pine, except the immediate area around the fire pit in the center, which is tiled. A spit and a pot on a stand sit beside it, ready for use in cooking meals once the fire is built.

However, in spite of the space being small, it is not as sparse as you expected. Four bunks occupy the higher part of the walls, accessible by ladder or by continuing around the raised floor off the entrance. The space immediately below each bunk is occupied by wooden cupboards that you note down for investigation later. A proper loft, on the far wall, keeps bags of what appear to be flour and grain suspended off the floor, the better to be free of pests. A low table, a washing stand, a privacy screen and even a small desk occupy the rest of the floorspace, all of them a safe enough distance from the fire pit to avoid sparks.

When you approach the table and bunks, you find them to be slightly oversized in comparison to you - which you suppose only makes sense, given that the most common users of this lodge, other than Erzhal himself, would be Urgals. Opening the first cupboard you come to would seem to support this idea - it contains a wide variety of cooking implements, and many of the knives are made of bone rather than metal, carved in a style you have seen Urgals possess before. A variety of wooden dishes, carved and then finished to a surprising sheen, occupy the top shelf. After a moment of examining one of the bowls and admiring the craftsmanship, you turn your attention to the next cupboard.

This one is full of a mix of ceramic mugs - ranging from child-sized to oversized, though you suppose they wouldn't be such in the hands of a Kull - and ceramic and glass jars with wax seals. Most all of them have careful, faded labels in three scripts - your own tongue is not present among them, but the glyphs of the Ancient Language are, and after a moment of study, you're able to determine that the jars are full mostly of spices, teas, and herbs, some of them from quite far to the south. A few labels lack the Ancient Language entirely; you risk opening one, and find yourself caught by the smell that pours out of it. Salty and briny in a way that you haven't smelled in years, not since long before coming to the north. Further inspection reveals what appears to be some kind of seaweed, dried to a crisp and crumbled in chunks into the jar. Another, glass, contains dried berries of an unfamiliar dark purple.

You move on to the next and find it to be full entirely of pickles, primarily root vegetables and what looks to be cabbage. Most of them are labeled in the same careful hand and the same three languages, though again there are some handful that lack the Ancient Language and some that are simply marked with names. One, which appears to be some kind of beet or raddish in a brine that has turned to dark orange, simply has a scribbled drawing of a fire on it. Perhaps wisely, you put it back, though you do set aside a few of the other jars to take with you back to the stables. You refuse to feel guilt for taking what you need, and though you can't carry the jars with you, there's no harm in eating them while you camp here for the next few days.

The fourth cupboard, to your surprise, contains books. Most of them aged significantly, but when you look closer, you find a charm for preservation built into the cupboard - which sends you to inspecting the others, and you find them all to be of a set in that regard. Even the one containing dishes has wards against rust and rot, centered on energy poured into a gemstone set far to the back on the underside of the top of the cupboard. Now that you know to look, you wonder how you missed them, thumming with energy as they are. The wards they support take only a minimum of power; the gems would last several years without needing to be refilled with a magician's energy.

You have your suspicions as to who it is who provides such energy, and that thought sends you to the table in the center of the room, occupying the bench all to yourself.

A Shade would easily have enough energy to provide for numerous such shelters as this, warding the food, leaving everything set up for any travelers who might have need of it. It goes very much against what you would expect a Shade to do, but it's far too much work and preparation to go into a deception.

You return to the books. It is a mostly pointless endeavor - most of the spines are labeled in one of the two languages used on the jar labels that you cannot read, and the next largest portion are a series of books that have no labels at all. When you pull one of those out, you find that is a journal or record of some kind, as far as you can tell. The formatting at the top of each page certainly looks like a date.

There are three books in the glyphs of the Ancient Language, all of them looking... Well, ancient. The first you pull out is a book of elven poetry; none of the poems are familiar to you, as aborted of a Rider's education as you were given, but you can recognize the shape of poetry stanzas well enough. The second is an identification guide to herbs and plants, with notes written in the margins in the same language as the majority of the books. The third is a history of the elves, in the latter half of the Rider era. A politically-focused history, when you open and skim a few pages, which insofar as you can tell are focused on discussing the opposition to adding humans to the Rider's compact. Though it takes you a long time to get through any text in the Ancient Language - you speak it well enough, but you're aware that your literacy in it is a bit lacking - you set that book aside to pick up later. You are certain to have plenty of down time in the next few days, and it would be something new to occupy your mind with.

The loft you find much as you guessed from the ground - cloth sacks of flour and grains, and enough of a stock of dried meat that Thorn probably could go without hunting for a few days. This too makes sense, when you consider that the lodge is mostly used by Urgals, who eat a diet higher in meat than men or dwarves. The most surprising thing you find is multicolored rice, of a variety unfamiliar to you - in Alagaesia rice is most often thought of a s a southern food, grown in the marshier regions of Surda, so to find it so far north is a surprise indeed. It would make for nice variety in your meals, had you any idea how to cook it.

You drop back down from the loft, landing heavily and kicking up a small cloud of dust. If every one of the lodges is this well stocked, however many there are... It's an expensive proposition. Though there's no shortage of ways for magic users to make money quickly and easily if they've a bit of imagination, it's still impressive.

Finally, you make your way over to the desk.

The first thing you notice is that the chair to the desk, easily moved aside, actually sits atop a trapdoor that must lead to a cellar. This you open, finding nothing inside but a few casks and some wheels of wax-covered cheese, two quite large and three smaller ones about the size of your two fists put together. You climb back out and close the trapdoor without taking anything, and spell the dust off your clothes.

The desk itself is built into the wall, the same as the cupboards and bunks. It is the sort with shelving as well as drawers, and there's a large metal frame with a round glass lens in it that can be bent over the desk, as well as a ceiling window - boarded for the season from the outside and packed with a thick wool blanket within - that would allow natural light to fall upon the desk in brighter seasons. In the darker ones, you suppose it doesn't much matter.

You begin to go through the drawers mechanically. None of them have locks, though there is one, of medium size, that is warded firmly shut when you attempt to tug upon it; that, you leave for later, or perhaps never. You are not fool enough to tamper with whatever protections a Shade may have laid upon things that he desires to keep secret; that seems a good way to cost yourself a hand.

The first drawer at the top of the desk, wide and flat over the niche for one's legs, contains paper and parchment kept from the ravages of time by the same stasis magic upon the food stores. It contains also carved wooden pens with metal nibs, of a style similar to those used by the nobles you grew up surrounded by in Uru'baen, and the sticks of pigment that are common in place of liquid ink in the north, along with a stained and well-used grinding stone. Half a dozen of the sticks, including a partially used one, are black, but there are also several of a dark brown that smells faintly of fish, one of that appears to be white chalk, one of a dark reddish-brown that you think would produce a red ink, and two half-sized sticks that appear black until you lift them from the desk into better light. At that point, you realize that they are of a dark, almost-blue violet that you've seen only rarely; aside from the books in the Ancient Language, those sticks of pigment are the most expensive items you've found yet in the lodge.

And they sit gathering dust in a lodge surrounded by snow, you can't help but think. In the heart of Empire, those sticks of pigment would have been worth so much that you yourself would have been hard-pressed to obtain one, even with the remnants of your father's wealth backing you. Ink with powdered gold suspended in it was easier to come by, though that may have been only because Galbatorix had a kept mage who oversaw nothing but the production of that and other such inks for the crown. The cost of obtaining them outside of the main corridors of trade must be astronomically higher.

Underneath all of the papers, most of which are blank or contain only vague scribbles in languages you cannot read, you uncover a fine mirror of silver sandwiched between glass. This too is an item of supreme luxury; you've seen several in your time, as Galbatorix was most fond of them as scrying mirrors, swearing that they produced clearer images than any other kind of mirror. Crafted by the dwarves, their making was as good as lost in the Empire; though this is far smaller than any the king had, only the size of your hand with your fingers together, it must be similarly old. This you also set aside; if you decide to contact someone, you may as well use a tool suited for the task.

The next drawer you open contains a variety of carving tools in a leather case, and long, thin chunks of bone from an unknown animal. Several are partially carved, or contain markings of ink that sketch out some future carving. Most look to be on their way to becoming pens themselves. The larger drawer, below that one and on the left of the desk, is full of pieces of the same bone in other shapes, as well as a black material of similar quality that you recognize as uutur horn. Those have sketch lines on them in white instead of black, which you suppose explains the stick of white pigment.

The other side of the desk is three drawers. The first, quite small, is full of small gemstones, uncut and of various kinds and qualities. These, most likely, would be the stockpile Erzhal would have drawn from to create the sustaining enchantments on the rest of the lodge. Though there is nothing preventing you from opening the drawer, there is still a ward of some sort upon it that you do not interfere with; you just slide it closed again after examining the gems with nothing more than your eyes.

The second drawer is the locked one, and having looked at the rest of the desk, if you had to guess, you would assume it to be full of the more valuable gems and other materials that might be used in magic or craft. Finally, the largest drawer in the desk is full of hardwood chunks, some partially carved. You don't know enough about wood to identify any of them, and so you slide the drawer closed.

Then you take up a mug from the cupboard, go outside to fill it with snow melt, and assemble yourself a cup of sweet tea from magic and the jars whose labels you recognize. When you poke at Thorn's mind, he is still deeply asleep, so you sigh and sit at the table with your drink and the silvered glass of the mirror.

Assuming that the tools and half-finished carvings belong to Erzhal, and you have no reason to think that they do not... You suppose if a Shade should have a craft to ply himself in that isn't magic, it's as good a choice as any. That doesn't not stop it from feeling almost unsettlingly mundane.

That is the bother with it. Aside the sealed drawer, you've found none of the evidence of duplicity that you were unconsciously seeking. There is nothing here that wouldn't be at home in the home of a normal magician; no stocks of poisons in the cupboards, torture implements in the drawers, chains in the cellar. Nothing to suggest that Erzhal is possessed of the kind of casual cruelty that you're familiar with, the casual cruelty that you witnessed only in its aftermath, as Galbratorix forced you into the mould that Durza left behind (the mould that was, in the first place, formed by your father, Durza merely stepping into the place that Morzan had left vacant).

You know what the leftovers of such a cruel nature look like. You do not see them here. On a whim, you cast a spell to detect traces of long-past blood, and find it only in the places that you might have expected - the dried meat in the loft, of course, and the kitchen tools, and in light amounts in the desk, no doubt from the slaughter of the animals that provided the bone waiting to be carved. You sigh and dismiss the spell.

In his sleep, Thorn senses your troubles and sends a drowsy wave of indistinct comfort in your direction. You send one back, tinged with fondness, and down another swallow of your makeshift tea. If your distress over the matter of Erzhal being simply normal is affecting Thorn even through his dreams, then you really do need to do something about it.

You set the mug down and pick up the mirror. After a moment of consideration over the words, you speak a spell into it - one that will brush against Eragon's own anti-scrying wards and identify who the attention comes from, and alert you to when or if he scries you in return. The two times you've spoken since the death of Galbatorix have both been prompted by Eragon probing your wards with a similar spell, perhaps even the same one.

(You really only have two options that you trust enough to speak to on this matter, and of the two... Well, you have not spoken to Nasuada since the war ended. Even if she would be your first choice removed of other considerations, you do not wish your first contact with her in several years to be only to tell her of your troubles.)

(You have no such compunctions against troubling Eragon, however. After all the trouble he's put you through in turn, he deserves it.)

It takes around ten minutes for your spell to alert you to a return scry, and almost immediately after, the image in the mirror shifts from the dull black of a blocked scrying attempt to an image of Eragon's face. Normally you would not be able to see anything of his surroundings, since you haven't seen anything of his new home in the distant east, but in this case, you have very much seen the background he's set against before - the blue wall of Saphira's scales cheers you to see. In some ways, your relationship with your brother's dragon is simpler and less fraught than that you have with the man himself.

Eragon looks much the same as he did when you saw him last, when he informed you of Firnen's existence, Arya's new status as a Rider, and Saphira's impending eggs, though there is something more tired about his features, which remain as strange a blend of elf and human as ever. In spite of his apparent fatigue, he looks brightened and excited to see you, and his words are to match.

"Murtagh! You are near enough the last person I expected to hear from this evening. How fare you and Thorn? I had heard that you departed for the distant north, but little since, at least by any mundane source."

"We've had our troubles, but we fare well enough for the moment," you say. You're not entirely sure how to address the matter when Eragon clearly wants to take a moment to catch up, but you suppose you are the one occupying his time with no warning, so you grit your teeth in your heart and make allowances for it. "Thorn would complain of the cold were he here - we've gone far enough north that even a dragon's body heat is not enough to prevent frostbite on his wings, so he has not flown for some days, and I think no creature is more irritated by the existence of snow than a dragon forced to walk in it."

Eragon chuckles, tilts his head towards where Saphira's face must be (what you can see of her is, you think, largely her shoulder and the lower part of her neck), and then says, "Saphira sends her commiseration. I think she's rather horrified at the idea of not being able to fly because of something so mundane as the cold."

You can't entirely resist the urge to snort in response. "I'm not sure there is anything you can call mundane about it. Did you know that once you get far enough to the north, the sun ceases to rise at all in the winter? We are just on the edge of it now; yesterday was the last day of sun for the season, and we've more north ahead of us."

Eragon shivers. "I have heard of such things, but I am hard-pressed to imagine it. Is that why you've called so late, because the concept of daylight has lost all meaning?" Because you can respond, he smiles at his own joke and continues, "Where is Thorn if not with you?"

"He is sleeping now," you say. "It was at his suggestion that I contacted you, however."

"Please extend to him our regards," Eragon says. "Truthfully, it is good to hear from you. I had had a vision of you some weeks ago, and I admit, I nearly contacted you then, though it didn't seem that there was any great reason to be concerned for your welfare at the time."

Familiar enough with Eragon's occasional bouts of prescience, most notably in the matter of Arya's capture by Durza, you say, "A vision? Is it aught I should be worried about?"

"I do not believe so," Eragon says. "It did seem to be what was happening at the time - unless you've not yet had a battle involving an enchanted fork?"

It isn't what you expected to hear, and it startles you. "No, that is some months past, now," you say. "Though we're following the same trail, we've encountered some... complications." It's as good a chance to lead into the issue as you're going to get, so you continue, "How much do you know of Shades and spirits?"

"Fairly little," Eragon admits. "Aside from my battles with Durza and Varaug, which I imagine I need not explain, I've encountered spirits only once."

"I didn't know that you had encountered them at all," you say. "Do tell."

"It was while Arya and I were crossing the Empire after I killed the Ra'zac," Eragon says. "We attracted the notice of some spirits that happened to be wandering the area - Arya told me that they had sensed our working magic and come to investigate." That seems in line with Erzhal told you. "She was able to communicate with them far better than I, truth be told. I was... thoroughly enraptured by them. She told me after that spirits are prone to inducing overwhelming positive feelings, rapture and awe, in those they encounter, as a way of protecting themselves, and that they understand us about as well as we do them. They were truly alien in thought, and my mental defenses were nothing against them, though they did me no harm, nor Arya."

You hum, and say, "Did anything else happen?"

"They worked a piece of great natural magic, akin to that which dragons do but under conscious control, as a thanks for my freeing of the spirits within Durza. After that, they left." Eragon shifts to sit back more comfortably against Saphira. "Why do you ask? Have you had an encounter with spirits yourself of late?"

You bite down on a harsh laugh, and say, "That is certainly one way of putting it. As it turns out, they are quite common here in the north, particularly in this season, to the point that many folk are fearful of leaving their towns once the sun sets for fear that they become possessed."

Eragon grimaces. "And is it a concern with merit, or simply folktales told to keep children from wandering?"

"It certainly has merit," you say. "Considering that the reason Thorn rests now is that not two days ago, we encountered a Shade in the shape of a herd animal called an uutur, and had we not had a local guide of superior skill - " That you find you can acknowledge easily; Erzhal's skills are not in question, only his motivations. " - we would likely have died, or at least come off far worse and not succeeded at slaying the beast properly."

Eragon sucks in a deep breath, alarm clear in his features for a moment. Saphira shifts behind him, and her snout comes into view as she nudges the back of his head with it, her breath sending his hair flying in every direction. Eragon huffs in response to whatever silent exchange they have, and then says, "Well, full glad am I that you survived and that the two of you will be well. I admit, the possibility of an animal Shade had not occurred to me; I've only ever heard of them being created intentionally by sorcerers, not simply happening out in the wild."

"Before now, my knowledge was much the same," you admit. "However, they are common enough here that the local language has half a dozen words for different kinds of Shade, and regions of the wilderness that are particularly prone to attracting spirits are as well-known as the mountains of the Spine or the forest of the elves."

"Well, in that case, then I imagine your knowledge of the matter will outstrip mine in no time at all," Eragon says. A moment of silence, and then he continues, "Saphira observes that the knowledge is not what appears to weigh heavily on you, and I can't help but think that you wouldn't break three years of silence over such a matter alone, myself."

You sigh. "That's fair enough," you say. "It's not the beast Shade that weighs heavily on my mind."

You mull over your words for a moment, leaving Eragon to wait with barely-contained impatience, before you continue, "In addition to distinguishing between Shades in the bodies of beasts and men, they also distinguish between violent Shades and other varieties, which do not have the appetite for bloodlust of Durza and his kind. Shades which are, I suppose, simply integrations of spirits with another living being, if such a thing could ever be considered simple."

"I've never heard of such a thing," Eragon says. "It beggars belief, to be honest." Saphira makes a grumbling noise. "Though Saphira is prompt to remind me that I once thought much the same of Urgals."

"It is difficult to believe," you say. "I am not sure that I can believe it, and it is for that reason that Thorn suggested that I speak to someone outside of the situation."

"And you are not fool enough to go against the advice of a dragon, much less your own partner?" Eragon asks, but you think he is more voicing Saphira's thoughts than his own, by the amused look in his eyes.

You cough slightly and say, "Exactly. And my options were rather limited, and between you and Nasuada, I decided to burden you with the matter."

Eragon snorts. "Thanks, brother," he says, with a casual air to it that sits strangely against the way the word makes your heart seize in your throat. Saphira puffs hot breath into his hair again, and Eragon grows more serious, even somber. "It is my honor that you would come to me," he says, more earnestly. "I know well that you are loath to share your troubles with others. So tell me - what is it about the idea of such Shades that troubles you so?"

You bite your lip, spend a moment considering your words, and then opt to throw caution to the wind and just say it, because there is no way of softening the blow. "Because in the process of slaying the Shlajra yesterday," you begin, "our guide, a man named Erzhal, was fatally injured. However, it was not by a blow to the heart, and so now I am to spend two days trying to not go mad waiting to demand of him why he hid his nature from us, and fretting about exactly what manner of Shade he is."

"...Ah," says Eragon, and for a long moment, says nothing else.

Chapter Text

Eragon's silence drags on long enough to leave you feeling impatient, before he finally says, "I can speak not at all to his character; you've scarce told me anything of him, and even then, I prefer to withhold judgment until I've met someone for myself. However, to your first question - for what reason do you walk the land under a different name, without Thorn at your shoulder?"

You decide not to question how Eragon knows that - his vision, most likely - but after a moment of hesitation, you answer, "Because none would trust me if they knew my true identity." And then, because the telling of the tale would be incomplete without it, "Erzhal was the first to identify me in months, in fact. Looking back, that was the first thing I should have found strange about him, but it isn't as though it's difficult for a skilled woodsman or magician to notice Thorn's presence."

Eragon nods. "And considering how you've reacted, even after getting some measure of the man and his intentions, can you say that it is wrong of him to expect similar treatment to that you would receive?" he asks. "If he were open about being a Shade, most people would flee on sight, and he is certain to know it."

You huff, but you say, "I concede your point. Had I known him for a Shade when arranging for him to be my guide, I would have taken my chances with the wilderness."

"And then we very possibly may not have been having this discussion, or indeed any other in the future," Eragon says.

He looks like he's going to continue, but Saphira shoves her face somewhat roughly into your view, adjusting herself until her eye is visible in whatever mirror or other scrying surface Eragon is using. You can feel her picking you apart with her gaze, a sensation that's never been especially pleasant from anyone, but especially from a dragon.

"...She says, 'Just because he kept secrets from you, that does not mean the trust you gave him was misplaced,'" Eragon says. "And that there is no point in being a miser with it, and that - hold on - 'I see why Thorn wanted you to have this discussion with another. You need to be reminded that not all people in the world bear a grudge against you and do the things they do out of malice towards your person.'"

"Is that so?" you say, dryly, which prompts Saphira to snort and toss her head slightly. "You're as blunt as ever, Saphira."

There's a pause, and then from behind her head, Eragon says, "I'm not repeating exactly what she said, but she's quite smug about it."

"I appreciate her wisdom," you say, which prompts Saphira to roll her eye before removing her head from where she's crammed it between Eragon and the mirror. "Truly, I do. He told me himself that it is who I choose to be that matters to him."

"Then perhaps you ought give him the same treatment," Eragon says. "Again, I cannot speak with knowledge on the matter, not having met him myself, but it does not seem as though you found his company disagreeable."

"No," you acknowledge. "It reminds me at times of our trip across the Empire towards the Varden. He has a quick wit and is free with sharing his knowledge, which is extensive. He is thoughtful and deliberate, but also flexible and quick to laugh. He has no discomfort towards other races - he seems to have regular business with both human and Urgal settlements, and treats Thorn better than does almost any person I've met." This last point you feel is most important, but you cannot articulate well why, save that Thorn has been treated as a thing for so much of his life, and even the simple fact that Erzhal turns to speak to him directly is more unusual than it should be.

Saphira must say something to Eragon, because he tilts his head at her with a disbelieving expression. Before you can ask what it is she said, he shakes his head as though to throw off the thought and says, "It sounds to me like he's a decent person, then, or at least no worse than the average human."

You say, "That is what bothers me, I think. I have spent the last few hours going through the things in the cabin where he told us to meet him, and all I have for my trouble is a book of elven history and the knowledge that he's a quite skilled woodcarver, assuming all of the items I've found are his."

"A book on elven history?" Eragon says. "That's unusual. Can you tell me the title?"

"One moment." You set the mirror down to pick up the book, and read the title off before setting it down again. "Errors in the Era of the Riders."

From the mirror, Eragon makes an appreciative noise.

"I've heard it referenced," he says, "but not had the chance to get my hands on a copy. From what I know, it's quite critical of the Riders."

"That fits with the few passages I skimmed," you say.

"It's a strange item to find in a Shade's cabin," Eragon says. "The author was a Rider herself, an elf named Irvetsuni. I recall thinking it an odd name for an elf when I encountered mention of her."

"Hm," you say. "Do you know anything else about her?"

"Her dragon was a male of grayish-blue called Zraihe, with the moniker of 'Steelstorm,'" Eragon says. "His exact color is described as that of the sea in a storm at dusk or dawn. Other than that, she was a member of the Council of the Rider elders at the time of the Fall, and Zraihe's Eldunari is not among those we still possess. Whether that means he died without being forced to disgorge it, that it was destroyed, or something else, we have no way of knowing."

"I don't remember seeing any of that color among those Galbatorix had collected," you say. "Though I could easily have missed some, especially those of older dragons."

"We were able to recover and identify most of those, I think," Eragon says. "I will ask Glaedr and the others about it the next chance I get; he's the one who mentioned her, though it was only in passing."

You nod. "I'll tell you how the book is once I've gotten through any significant portion of it," you say. "Thorn and I are going to hunt when he wakes, but otherwise I've naught to do to occupy myself for the time being. I don't fancy my chances of going out too far into the wilds without some form of guidance, be that from Erzhal or another."

Eragon nods. "I'll see if I can track down a copy," he says. "I inherited quite the library from Oromis, but I confess I haven't been through it in the detail it deserves. If there isn't a copy there, I'll see about borrowing one from the elves, but if no one here has one, that could take some time."

"Don't feel the need to rush," you say. "I doubt I'll get through all of it; it's quite the volume and I doubt Erzhal will let me simply borrow it, as rare as it must be."

"True enough," Eragon says. "Do you have any insights to why he might have it?"

You shake your head. "He said that the person who taught him magic was killed for defying Galbatorix," you say, "and that he escaped her fate by fleeing north, but other than that, I know little about his history."

"I wonder if that was before or after he became a Shade," Eragon muses.

"I'm just as curious," you say. "Unfortunately, he's rather unavailable to ask at the moment."

Eragon snorts, his too-perfect elfish features squashing up unprettily. He tips his head towards Saphira, sombers, and then says, "Saphira thinks that it must be distressing, to experience the sensation of dying multiple times. I cannot say I disagree."

"...Nor can I," you admit. "That death in particular was... Not pleasant." Eragon looks as though he might press for details, but you head him off with, "I would rather not dwell on it further, if it's all the same to you."

It could have just as easily been you, after all.

Eragon nods, and says, "Well, then if you've time, I can update you on the state of things here, at least until Saphira admonishes me to bed."

"By all means," you say. "I've had little news from the south, for obvious reasons. I've heard rumors of a dwarf becoming a Rider?"

Eragon lights up, and immediately begins to fill you in on the matter of the growing generation of new Riders - a human, an elf, and a dwarf youth thus far. Save the dwarf, Kulthrik, who had been among the apprentices of the artisans working on Mount Arngor, they were even now training with the elves as their dragons grew. (Kulthrik was training in part with the elves, and in part under Eragon directly. As the first Rider of his kind, he was given some special care just in case of unexpected difficulties due to his race.)

"No dragons have hatched for the Urgals, then?" you ask.

"Not as yet," Eragon admits. "Nasuada frets over it with some frequency, but it has only been a few years yet, and dragons are well known to be quite choosy in regards to their partners." Saphira responds to that comment by knocking the end of her snout into Eragon's head, which prompts him to huff loudly. "There are four eggs walking Alagaesia at the moment, two of them among the Urgals, so I doubt it will be much longer."

"That is quite the number of potential Riders," you say.

"We began with only two eggs," Eragon says, "but as those two have thus far rejected every potential Rider they've been exposed to, Arya and I thought it best to increase the number, since all of them have been shut away for a century or more, and we feared it would begin to affect the hatchlings. We've also had six hatchings now among the unbonded eggs." He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then says, "Actually, Kulthrik's dragon, Orunnost, was one of those. We were all surprised to see the hatchling immediately barrel down the hall from him, though Kulthrik most of all, of course."

"I can only imagine the shock it must have given you," you say, mouth turning up at the thought.

Eragon laughs sheepishly and says, "Orunnost leapt from a banister railing - only a fall of a few feet, but you can imagine how my heart leapt to my throat! However, I cannot imagine him as anything but a dwarf's dragon - his scales look so much like polished stone that even now, people at times mistake him for a statue when he lies still."

From there the conversation wanders to politics, specifically the now-fractured remains of the Empire and how the humans have split the land among themselves. "Dras-Leona has been much a thorn in Nasuada's side," Eragon says. "They seek independence, but specifically in order to continue the practice of their foul religion and of slavery, both of which Nasuada has outlawed. While most of the common people don't seem inclined to care one way or the other, the nobles..."

"Ill-like anything that they feel undermines their authority," you finish. "The Dras-Leonans were not well-liked even at Galbatorix's court, so I can imagine they've found no friends in Nasuada's. The worship of Helgrind crossed a line that even the king's sycophants did not pleasure to cross themselves."

"Have you any insight that might help?"

"Nay; I avoided dealing with them the best I could," you say.

"A pity; Nasuada is grasping at straws with them to avoid another outbreak of war. In comparison, all else goes smoothly enough." Eragon pauses, and then says, "She would appreciate hearing from you, I think."

You grunt. "Perhaps, but it is not my place." Eragon looks about to argue, but you continue, "Leave it, Eragon. I may yet be a Rider, but I've the ire of more nations than not. It will do no good for Nasuada to be known to be speaking with me, and as she is not a magician herself, she would have to rely on another's spellwork for us to speak. I won't put her in that position."

"She and Arya are known to visit with each other occasionally," Eragon says. "Would you be willing to speak to her, in that case?"

You pause. "...I would consider it," you admit.

The sort of silence that indicates that Eragon and Saphira are having some silent exchange, before your brother sighs his acceptance, his shoulders going slack. "I will tell them we spoke," he says, "though not of what matters. Until you have more answers than questions regarding your investigations in the north, at any rate."

You nod, and say, "Perhaps now that I know more of Erzhal's nature, I can ask him regarding some of the other oddities I've encountered. Shades are not so immortal as elves, but I understand now how he can tread freely in places that others avoid on pain of death, and that being the case..."

"He may know more of how to find what it is you seek," Eragon finishes. "Well, I suppose he could not become any more of a Shade than he is, which would open a great many paths to him. Just be wary - you are still only human, so those same paths may not be open to you."

"I intend to take every precaution," you say. "But for now, you should rest, and Thorn will wake soon and desire my company in any case. I'm rather looking forward to a fresh meal, after the last few days on naught but trail rations."

"A part of the marching life I do not miss," Eragon says. He makes a face that betrays the yawn attempting to escape him even if it doesn't quite succeed (which prompts Saphira to snort amusement at him), and after a moment says, "But you are right. It grows late here, and the morrow shall not wait for me. Goodnight and take care, Murtagh, and give Thorn our best as well as my thanks. I can only hope that we'll speak again soon, and that he'll be able to be present then."

The tip of Saphira's snout that's visible in the mirror bobs agreement, and after a moment Eragon adds, "Saphira says that if we do not hear from you in a month's time, you had better have found the best hiding place in the north, because snow alone will not be enough to save you from her wrath."

The warmth that surges in the pit of your stomach is unfamiliar, and so all you can manage to say is, almost mechanically, "I hear and obey, my Lady."

Saphira snorts her approval with a thin stream of smoke before withdrawing her head from your view. Not sure how else to finish the conversation, you say, "Goodnight and good health to both of you," and end the spell.

Allowing for a few moments for Eragon to end the spell on his end, you then restore the wards that protect you from such magic. Then, finding Thorn still slumbering heavily, you finish your now-lukewarm tea and take the chance to clean the road dirt of several days from yourself. Though it is far from a bath, a wet cloth and a bucket of magically warmed icemelt does wonders for how you feel about yourself. Afterwards, you very nearly want to curl up and return to sleep.

By that time, you feel Thorn's dreams coming to an end, so you dry yourself as quickly as you are able and dress once more against the biting cold to cross back to the stable. It is full night by that time, the stars and snow alike brilliant against the contrast of the dark sky. Thorn rouses as you enter, lifting his head and blinking at you.

"Good morning," you say.

Can it be truly be called morning? Thorn asks, stretching his legs out in front of himself like a cat before a fire. Of your fire from before, little but embers remains, but the ward you placed has served its purpose in keeping the air warm.

"It would be evening had the time of day any meaning," you admit. "The sky has been dark for some hours."

Thorn snorts in a way that isn't quite 'I told you so,' but is near enough, especially knowing him so well as you do. He says, You seem more settled, now.

"I did take your advice into account," you say, "and I investigated the cabin as well." You tell him of your findings and your discussion with Eragon. Towards the end, Thorn's eyes crinkle in a dragon's smile.

Saphira understands well the troubles of caring for your Rider, he says. I shall have to convey my gratitude to her the next time we speak, for understanding my intent.

You huff. "What is your take on Erzhal, then?"

He, or at least his teacher, was around before the Fall of the Riders, Thorn says. That he is older than he appears, I have no doubt. Do Shades continue to age after their transformation, or are they as Riders, made immortal by their exposure to powerful magic?

"I've no idea," you say.

Thorn grumbles, but he can hardly fault your ignorance of the subject, and instead he says, If his teacher was an escaped Rider, or a student of one, then that would explain the presence of the books you found. A few books would not have been difficult to take along fleeing the Empire.

"That is true," you say. "Though I would question how long someone like that could have evaded Galbatorix and all of the Forsworn."

Brom managed it, Thorn observes. Until Saphira's egg was stolen, he caused trouble directly under their noses for decades. And I have no doubt that Erzhal is from the Empire, himself. To your raised eyebrows, he says, If I tell you my suspicions whilst we hunt, can we leave now? I am rested enough to be hungry, and a great hunger it is.

You chuckle, but agree, climbing onto his back with a quick hop over his foreleg that makes for a familiar motion. For now, you forego the skis and other supplies you would need to move through the snow easily, and instead pull the covers back from Thorn's wings. These you bind to the saddle behind you - if the ward against the cold begins to draw too much of your strength, you will need to be able to replace them, but for now...

Thorn stretches his wings as much as he might under the cover of the stable's steep roof and gives them a half-flap before nudging his way out of the doors. The rest of our supplies will be safe?

If someone had a mind to rob this place, they would go for the lodge first, not the stable, wouldn't they? you ask.

I suppose that is sensible. Still, they will not be able to miss our tracks.

Perhaps a short distance on foot before you take wing, then, you suggest, and Thorn grumbles in his chest but does so, churning snow as he makes his way to his path from the night before before settling in to stretch his wings after days of disuse. As he does so, you reapply his wards, and then apply an additional layer of heating ward to his wings.

Thorn gives his wings a final stretch to their full extension before pulling them back and leaping into the sky. Almost as soon as he does, you can feel the heating wards pull at your stamina - not too significant a tug yet, but the wind whipping over Thorn's wings steals the heat from the faster than you would have expected.

I can already feel the drain on my stamina from this, you tell him. Let's be quick so that we do not run out of energy before we make our way back. I wouldn't want to be caught out in this snow.

Nor I, Thorn agrees. I see why Erzhal thought that to travel this way would be folly, and take only slightly less time than on foot. A few hours of this would exhaust us completely.

We would spend more time recovering from the travel than actually flying.

But it is magnificent to soar over the snowbound land - Thorn swerves outward away from the Thu'oivor and over the scruffs of forest towards a plain that expands beneath you. Even dotted with scraggly vegetation and the occasional patch of trees, it looks endless, white and glowing beneath the sky, which seems so close that you could reach out and pluck the stars from it and pin them to the spines of Thorn's neck.

It's a harsh land, you say to Thorn, but it is beautiful.

It glitters like the hide of a dragon, Thorn observes, and is just as like to eat you if you do not respect its power. It's a pity that we are so poorly suited for the cold, because I feel as though I could live happy years here, otherwise.

It is far from the causes of our troubles, you agree, and for a moment the two of you only soar, wards fighting the chill. Then as one, you spread your minds through the dark, listening for the thoughts of any large beasts that might make a suitable meal for Thorn.

There, Thorn says, his mental reach wider than yours. He calls your attention to the east, where when you concentrate your thoughts in that area, you can see the life forces of a herd of uutur. As he flaps closer, three of the minds in the group stick out.

There are Urgals there, you say.

Aye, Thorn says, but they have in their keeping the only decent meal within range of our flight. Hopefully they're open to bargaining, for I would rather not kill them.

You send a probe of thought back to him, the equivalent of looking at him with your brows raised.

Erzhal intends to take us to that Urgal village in which he has business, yes? Thorn says. If these three are of that village, I would rather not make our lives more difficult in the near future by killing them.

Fair enough, you say, and then say not much else as Thorn glides over the tops of the trees and lands near the herd.

The uutur spook from his presence, as is only natural, drawing back into the trees. The trio of Urgals - who are, you realize, surrounded by half a dozen large dogs that come to at least your waist at the shoulder, all of them with black backs and varying degrees of white belly - also startle, but upon taking in Thorn and you astride his back, begin to point and chatter amongst themselves excitedly.

You frown; the language the trio speaks among themselves is not the tongue Erzhal has been teaching you. Raising your arm but not yet willing to get off Thorn, you shout a greeting in that language, "Thuxheye!" and are greatly cheered when they return it in kind.

It makes sense enough that Urgals here would have their own tongue, as those further south do, Thorn says. Ask them if I might have a snack from their herd?

I will try. The largest of the Urgals - a male of particularly wide stature, with broader shoulders than you've seen on even most Kull, but only of the typical Urgal height - takes a few wary steps closer to you. You attempt to communicate your desires - you know the basic words well enough, zhasha vraguut (my dragon) and kluza (to hunt - the verb for eating slips your mind entirely), but you stumble over the formation of the sentence.

Your stilted attempts seem to draw sympathy from the Urgal, at least, who says, "Luesha vraguutfa uuturni kluzar?"

"I think so?" you wind up saying in your own language. Thorn snorts.

This is foolish. A moment.

You stiffen as you feel him reach his mind out to the Urgals - even if you trust Thorn to keep his inner thoughts well protected, you mislike the idea of him communicating with strangers. After a few moments, the Urgal at the front of the group nods and whistles at the dogs, which shift from watching Thorn warily to darting over to the herd of uutur that has been steadily moving away.

Well? you ask of Thorn.

He says that I am free to take any of the herd that do not have ribbons around their horns - it seems wild uutur will herd with those of the Urgals - and that his people and the dogs will finish any I do not. Also, they appear to think me a figure from their grandmother-stories come to life.

You snort. Well, you are a dragon, are you not? It has been at least a century since any has seen one of your kind, and up here probably far longer.

It is more than that, but we will have to ask Erzhal about it.

You hum noncommittally at that, before sliding free from Thorn's back so that he can pounce freely upon his prey. Whilst he does that, you look over the three Urgals.

All three are wrapped in dense fur coats, the same as you are, and all three have caps secured over their horns and long hair against the cold. Ribbons are wrapped around their horns, which is something that you haven't seen on Urgals in the south, rendering them as spots of bright color against the dull hide coats and the white of the snow. The three carry spears in the same style as Erzhal's, though with greater length, and all three wear skis, of similar length but greater width than the ones you left behind at the lodge stable.

You hear the loud protestations of Thorn's prey echo through the forest, and both you and one of the Urgals wince at the sound. Once it's quieted, you give them a bow of thanks.

The Urgal who spoke with you grunts, and gestures towards their fire. "Chaidoret. Trouxharit." He pronounces the words slowly and carefully, which you appreciate, and one of his companions uses snow to rinse out a carved wooden bowl - similar to the ones in the lodge - and begins to serve you a bowl.

"Thank you," you say, and then manage what you hope is an acceptable pronunciation of "Tsoivlu."

From the way the Urgals light up as you take the bowl, you managed well enough. You take the food and fade into the background to eat - though from the way the trio stay in the north's trade tongue instead of the Urgal language they were speaking when Thorn appeared, they're very aware of your presence. You appreciate the chance to hear the language spoken and to try and catch whatever you can understand, which isn't much.

The stew is delicious, and not only because it's the first hot meal you've had in some days that wasn't simply game roasted over a fire. The blend of spices features many you don't recognize, and chunks of wild onion, chopped fine and cooked into sweetness, are almost as prolific as the meat. Some kind of cream has been added to the broth, rendering it opaque and thick. After a whispered check for poison, you're all too glad to dig in, and to your surprise, you finish the Urgal-sized bowl entirely.

By that time, Thorn has finished his meal as well, and trots back over across the snow, carrying the back third or so of an uutur back to the herders. Two of the dogs trail after him, one nipping occasionally at his tail but too slow to actually catch it as Thorn swings it from side to side.

Thorn sets the carcass down a reasonable distance from the fire and bowing his head in thanks to the Urgals. You take that as the signal to lift yourself from the block of packed snow you were seated on and return your bowl and spoon.

The Urgals are pleased enough - one of them immediately approaches Thorn to finish the process of butchering the uutur, and one of the others says something about Ghralthek. You just nod along before climbing back onto Thorn's back, glad that the two of you didn't just take from the herd without asking.

Before you can take off, the butchering Urgal cuts large chunk of the hindquarters off, wraps it in the hide, and approaches Thorn to attempt to push the meat off on you. You accept after a moment's hesitation, when Thorn says, I think it may offend them if you don't.

I don't particularly like the idea of getting blood all over your saddle.

Then freeze it, Thorn suggest. It's more than cold enough, it won't take much energy.

Good idea. You gesture the Urgal to toss it to you, and freeze the meat in mid-air before catching it, fresh-hide wrapping and all. Then Thorn beats his wings once in warning and the three Urgals wisely take cover, though the dogs remain clustered close, immediately breaking into deep barks. After Thorn takes off, they attempt to chase him for some distance before one of the Urgals whistles them back.

I think that went well, overall, Thorn says.

Did you catch from their thoughts what they were saying about Ghralthek? you ask.

The youngest one wants to spar you if you meet there, Thorn says, with some amusement.

And you didn't warn me before I agreed?

You can take one Urgal, Thorn says with confidence, and you cannot well argue with that. Besides, it has been a long time since you sparred anyone. You're getting out of practice.

You cannot much argue with that, either, but you still huff at him, tucking the lump of frozen meat into one of the bags at the front of Thorn's saddle where you usually keep food to eat in the saddle. In companionable silence save the sounds of wind and wing-beats, the two of you fly back to the lodge.

Chapter Text

As you and Thorn land in the churned snow in front of the stable, you say, "You promised me your thoughts on Erzhal."

That I did, Thorn agrees. Then he presses his wings to his sides and shivers, which you've never seen a dragon to do before. But first let us get in from this cold.

You nod absently and follow him inside, pulling the door most of the way closed behind you. Once you're inside, you pull the saddle from Thorn's back entirely for the first time in half a moon, and he stretches appreciatively.

Thank you, he says.

"I need to check the straps on the underside," you say, which Thorn knows is close enough to You're welcome, especially when you have other things on your mind. You remove the chunk of raw meat you were given by the Urgals and pack it into a bucket filled with snow, which should keep it frozen until you've got a proper fire going and a spit to roast it on.

Thorn settles into a curve curled around the fire pit and sets about cleaning his front claws from his meal. You settle in across from him, with the saddle and its bags, to check the straps as you'd said. It helps to have something to do with your hands, sometimes.

You say, "You said you thought he was from the Empire. I don't see any reason for him to have lied about his master catching the king's ire, so is there a reason beyond that?"

Thorn hums, and then says, I should be more specific, I suppose. I believe he was nobility in the Uru'baen - or perhaps the era immediately before, when the city was still called Ilirea.

You undo a knot. "Not that I distrust your conclusion, but what makes you say so?"

First, the way he behaves around me. I need not tell you that most of Galbatorix's court cared little for the thoughts of dragons, since they had no exposure to dragons capable of thinking. You nod; the way Thorn was ignored by the nobility was a major reason you were glad that Galbatorix didn't demand your presence outside of military chambers often. Erzhal, on the other hand, has a respect that borders on reverence, and it is no false flattery.

Second, when he speaks in your language, there is a... Thorn hums low in his throat, before giving up on trying to find a word for what he desires to express. Instead, he simply plays memories to you, comparing Erzhal's accent to that of some of the older members of the court. His words sound more alike to theirs than yours do, he says. Though his choice of words is casual and of common class, his manner of speaking has a... crispness to it that bespeaks of a noble's education.

"I'm not sure I can hear it," you say, "but I believe that you do. You've always had a better ear than I." Not only for such subtle differences in speech, but for music as well; if there were an instrument that any dragon could hope to play, you're certain that Thorn would have taken to it immediately.

Thorn is, as usual, pleased by the compliment, and continues, And then there was that bow, of course. This he deems requiring of no further explanation, and you agree. And now these books that you have discovered - few enough commoners can read in their own tongue, much less more than one, or in the Ancient Language. If he were a simple magician who had learned magic before the king took steps to keep all magicians under his control, it is unlikely he would be able to read it.

You frown at a particularly worn place in one of the saddle straps, though your thoughts are not really directed towards it. "I'd not thought about that," you say. "I forget at times that being taught to read almost as soon as I took to walking is unusual."

And while you enjoy reading - along with swordplay and horsemanship, it was one of the few activities that was enjoyable to you in your childhood - you wouldn't have thought to collect tomes in such a manner. Though, admittedly, you've also never had a place which was truly yours. The only times that you've been out from under the thumb of Galbatorix, you've been traveling, unless you count the weeks you spent in a particularly nice cell in Farthen Dur.

It isn't something you felt a particular lack of until now. And yet, you still don't feel as though you could settle down anywhere and call it a home, not even as a place to which you return between bouts of traveling.

"All right," you say. "Though I'm not sure it's evidence in favor of the capital in particular, I agree that he must have been well-educated somewhere in the south before coming here. Though I am not sure what difference it makes in comparison to the rest."

Thorn hums. I suspected there was something strange about him from the moment I smelled him, he says. At least now I can say that I can identify spirits and their magic for certain when I smell them again.

"Doesn't it bother you?" you say.

Why should it? Thorn says. He did not actually claim to be human; he simply let you draw your own conclusions. I prefer to judge men by their intentions rather than their nature, and if Erzhal had ill intentions towards us, I cannot imagine him allowing himself to die against a Shlajra on our behalf. Far easier to simply let the beast kill us, or if it failed, finish us off himself.

You don't reply, instead staring at the underside of the saddle until you're not really seeing it. Thorn says, It is more the secret itself than its contents that troubles you, but he has as much right to them as do we. You cannot expect to be given the innermost thoughts of others without offering equally of yourself in return.

You sigh, then, because for all that that reasoning is perfectly logical, it does little to soothe your unsettled thoughts. "I suppose I won't be able to rest until I hear the answer from his own mouth," you say. "There are just too many questions. How did he become a Shade? Why is he so different from the likes of Durza? It's hard for me to believe that his intentions are genuine when I know so little about the man."

Those are questions only he can answer, Thorn says.

"I know. So I suppose I'm resolved to wait at least long enough for him to appear and answer them," you say. "Beyond that... I don't know. It will depend on what the answers are."

And if the answers are acceptable to you, Thorn says, then will you tell him of the rest of what it is we seek? He could be a powerful ally, and he knows the north far better than we.

"Perhaps," you say. "It's too soon to plan for that."

You fall silent for a time, until Thorn stands in order to nudge you with his nose.

You're brooding, he says. Go and read your elf book. Else you're like to worry yourself like a loose tooth, because there's nothing else to do but wait.

You sigh at that, but stand and drape yourself over the side of Thorn's snout.

"Let me clean the scales behind your head first," you say, which earns you radiant approval.

----

The rest of that day, and most of the next, does indeed pass all too slowly. You spend much of it reading, caring for Thorn, and otherwise fighting the idleness. Thorn, for his part, spends much of the time dozing, digesting his meal and conserving his energy against the cold as much as is possible.

As you as preparing to sleep, curled up against his side, late into that long second night, Thorn suddenly lifts his head. You lift yours as well, but you don't hear or see what's gotten his attention.

What is it? you ask silently.

I believe Erzhal will arrive soon, Thorn says. Or perhaps has just re-formed. But something in the magic of the air has changed, and I believe it smells of him.

You grunt, not particularly wanting to venture out into the cold again.

Thorn says, If he arrives while you sleep, I shall not let him leave, nor do anything questionable, so rest.

Thank you, you say. But even as much as you trust Thorn, it still takes longer than you would like for you to fall asleep.

----

You sleep shallowly, and can tell that it hasn't been a full night when you awaken again. Thorn is still watchful towards the doors when you stir enough that you give up, pushing yourself up on one arm to lean back against the wall of his scales.

Not yet, Thorn answers the question before you can ask it. But soon. I can feel his presence approaching.

You grunt, and decide that's time enough to get yourself presentable. Before too long, you find yourself half-listening to the minds around you as well, and at that point Erzhal becomes so obvious that it is impossible to miss him, though still half an hour away across the snow. The next largest creature, aside from yourself and Thorn, is a small fox sleeping in its den beneath the snow.

It quickly becomes apparent that your estimate of the timing was off; you mutter about the superhuman strength of Shades under your breath and finish changing your clothes at a record pace, before sitting back by Thorn to build the banked fire back up to a reasonable height. By the time it's well and truly crackling, a task of about five minutes, the ice storm of Erzhal's thoughts is close enough that you could make easy contact if you so desired.

You do not, and not because you now know that underneath that obscuring snow is the shape of a mind that might drive a mortal man mad to dig too deeply into. It's simply that you're going to wait to have words with him in person.

Soon enough, you hear the sound of skis over snow coming close to the door, and you stand and make your way to the stable entrance.

Erzhal is disheveled, his cheeks flushed and his clothes in disarray, but most obviously, his head is bare and his hair unbound, a faintly pink werelight hovering near his head. You are struck again by the vividness of it, as jarring against the almost monochrome snowscape as Thorn's similar coloration, and far more unnatural looking upon someone who looks human. You cannot help but now automatically compare to Durza, who you had the misfortune to see up close on several occasions; Erzhal's hair is longer and better kept, his skin pale but not so pale as to seem almost glasslike, and his cheeks are not drawn and sunken. Putting aside the haste of his travel and the sweat that dampens his hair at the crown as a result, Erzhal is simply better put-together and better cared-for in appearance than Durza ever was.

He looks up from the snow at you, and you wonder how you ever mistook those eyes for brown. In the wan pink of the werelight, the deep red color is readily apparent.

"Good. I'm glad you didn't run off," Erzhal says. And then after, he adds, "While I'm sure you have endless questions, I'm not going to be in a fit state to answer them until I've had a hot meal. I made my way here as quick as I could and I'm not entirely put together as a result."

"Ah," is all you can think to say to that. It seems fair enough, by your reckoning; any kind of impressive magic or physical magic leaves you near-starving, even if it doesn't drain you completely. After a moment, not sure what else to say, you add, "We've a fire going already."

Erzhal nods, short and quick, and then mutters, "Release" under his breath in the Ancient Languages. You hear the sound of the buckles holding his skis to his boots undoing. "I'll be right back, then," he says, and then darts back into the snow. Though he does so without a whisper of a spell, you feel a tingle of magic on the air nonetheless, and as you watch, he runs over the surface of the snow as though it were the bare ground, not leaving even the faintest impression.

You shiver. Wordless magic is something that any magician is in theory capable of, but it is not something done casually by even the greatest of spellcasters. From what you know, even the elves are wary of using it.

Shades truly are something else, it seems, you say to Thorn as you stare at the abandoned skis for a moment before lifting them to put them with your own.

Thorn snorts, and says, He finds it freeing to drop the facade, no doubt. Pretending to be less than you are is chafing, no matter your nature.

I wonder... You don't have time to say much more, because you hear Erzhal approaching again, this time accompanied by what seems to be half the cookware of the lodge, most of it carried but a precarious stack of pan-bowls-seasonings floated behind his head. You stay clear of his path as he comes in and sets the metal tripod over the fire and begins to sort out the rest.

Without a word, you fetch the still-frozen chunk of uutur meat that the Urgals gave you two days ago, still in its bucket, and set it by his knee. Erzhal glances down at it, raises his eyebrows at you, and then pulls it from the bucket with a firm command. As you watch, he adds it to the rotation of magically animated cooking supplies around him, giving it a place on the cutting board after a set of mostly familiar root vegetables while he balances a wipe, curved-bottom pan on the tripod with his hands.

You've never seen anyone cook with the aid of magic before, and the process is more than you can easily keep track of even as an observer. Erzhal doesn't even bother to take a knife to the meat, just slicing it into bite-sized chunks still frozen while heating oil in the pan before him. Once he's evidently satisfied with that, he slides all of the meat in and puts a flat lid on it. Then onto that lid goes another pot, this one filled with already-boiling water and rice. While that all simmers, he assembles some kind of sauce and drains two of the smaller pickle jars of their brine.

Across the fire, Thorn muses, It's a pity there's almost certainly not enough there for a dragon. He seems to know what he's doing.

I have no idea what half those spices are, you send back.

I can't imagine he's planning to poison himself.

True enough.

Once the sauce appears to be ready, Erzhal lifts the flat lid over the pan of meat and pours all of it in, along with the vegetables. Then he drops three polished crystal orbs in - you can't tell if they are glass or gems - and commands them to stir before replacing the lid. Only then does he so much as glance in your direction, and finally say, "I see you went hunting."

"We encountered some Urgals and their herd," you say. "It took surprisingly little convincing for them to allow Thorn to feed on some of the unmarked animals."

Erzhal nods. "That doesn't surprise me," he says. "As much as half the herd isn't strictly 'owned' by anyone - in order to claim ownership over a given uutur, you have to tie the ribbons around its horns yourself."

"That seems a tall order, even for an Urgal," you say.

"It's easier to do when they're young," Erzhal says. "Especially if the mother is used to you enough to let you approach."

You lapse into silence again. The lid of the rice pot rattles loudly and then goes still, all the while accompanied by the sound of the three crystal orbs rolling around the large pan underneath. Erzhal packs away the supplies he didn't use and steps outside to wash the cookware that he's finished with. By the time he returns, you can smell the meal more than the vinegar of the pickles, and your stomach is making you very aware of how long it's been since the last time you ate.

Erzhal takes a large, carved spoon from his pile of supplies, and uses it to load first a scoop of rice, then a scoop of the vegetable-and-meat mixture into each bowl. He drops a wooden spoon into one and passes it your direction.

You say, "Thank you," well aware of how forced it feels. Erzhal just makes an affirmative sound, already working at his portion. While you test the meal for poison (just in case) and eat slowly, uncertain about the sweet-and-vinegar taste, he doesn't stop until his first bowl is completely cleared, and only partway through the second does he slow to a more normal pace.

At that point, you feel it safe to speak, if perhaps not about the obvious subject, so you say, "Why is it that only some of the things in the cupboards had labels in the Ancient Language? I saw your book of herbs, or at least I assume it to be yours; it seemed thorough enough."

"It is," Erzhal says, after pausing to swallow. "But this far north - or far enough to the east, or if you cross the seas - there are things which have no proper name in that tongue, because the original speakers of it, before it was bound to magic, never encountered them."

You tap your spoon against the rim of the bowl. "How do you do magic with such things, then?"

"There's a few workarounds," Erzhal says. "This herb or that beast, or by describing their properties more explicitly - the sweet sap of the tree with leaves shaped like hands that fall in autumn, for example, because those people had names for four specific maple trees but none of them are the kind that produces this." He reaches down and lifts a glass bottle with a dark brown fluid in it, thick and sticky. You remember seeing him pour a good portion of it into the mixture for the sauce, so it must be where the sweetness comes from.

"I'd always thought that the Ancient Language described everything there is in the world," you say.

Erzhal just huffs a small laugh into his bowl. "Jro'uchun wauvoitchokh," he mutters into it, before saying, "The Ancient Language is a strange one, because it is a language people live in, but it does not - it can not - change. If you live long enough, you'll hear every other tongue shift over time, but that one is as unchanging as the elves who adopted it. It doesn't live, but nor does it die."

"And you?" you ask, seizing the chance where it appears to you. "Are you old enough to have seen such changes?"

Erzhal looks at you for a moment, then sighs, and says in the Ancient Language, "The person I was before I was 'Erzhal' was born after Galbatorix, and I'll not give you a more precise date than that." He swallows another bite of his food - the second bowl is almost gone now as well - before continuing, "You can ask whatever you please, and I will answer, but sometimes the answer will be 'I'm not telling you that.'"

"...Very well," you say, looking down into your own bowl. You don't remember emptying it, not consciously, but all that remains is the stain of the sauce. You set it aside. Figuring you may as well take the implied invitation to continue in the Ancient Language, you consider your words for a moment, and then say, "What are your intentions towards us? While Thorn and I will defend each other to the death, our power is limited, and I acknowledge that there is only so much we can do against a well-prepared Shade."

"To get a measure of you, and see the kind of person you are," Erzhal says. "I do not intend to cause you harm, though that does not mean I will not harm you; there are things I too will defend to the death and beyond, and if I believe you a threat to them then I will act swiftly and mercilessly in their protection. However, from what I've seen of you so far, I don't think that will be necessary."

It is small comfort, but it is a comfort. Ultimately, you feel the weight of the unspoken why pressing down on you, and so you say, "To what end?"

Erzhal looks as though he's considering either his words or his bowl quite carefully, and then at length says, "There is a duty I have been carrying for a long time. If you are the person I hope that you are, then I will at last be able to put it down."

"And if not?"

"Then I carry on." A one-shouldered shrug. "It either will be or it won't be. At this point I have long learned to be patient with it."

Thorn says to you, in what you assume to be a private aside, I suppose it would be too much to ask that he share this mysterious duty's nature.

Probably. You don't ask, and instead say, "Were you planning to tell us?"

"When we reached this lodge, in fact," Erzhal says. "Circumstances left me without much option, obviously, but it would be impossible to pretend to be anything other than what I am once we reach Ghralthek. I am too well-known there for being exactly who and what I am."

"And who is that?" you ask. "It seems as though you know plenty of us, but we know nothing of you, save that you are a Shade, and obviously less mad and violent than the likes of Durza or that beast."

Erzhal hums, and then says under his breath, "Well, if that's the sum of your exposure to Shades, I see where the problem is." You don't dignify that with a response, though you feel Thorn's amusement. Directed at you, he says, "From the language which only spirits and spirit-touched speak, 'Erzhal' would be best translated as... 'he who wanders,' or 'seeking meaning after loss,' with a connotation of both physical and emotional wandering. Every Shade has a compulsion in their bones that is tied to the nature of how and why they became what they are, and mine is a wanderlust that will never be sated. I can't stand to stay more than three months in the same place, which is why I'm known in many and know of many more."

"Like a true name, then," you observe.

"They're not dissimilar," Erzhal says, "but a Shade's name lacks any potential to bind them; it's simply the essence of what binds the disparate spirits within them together into a coherent entity. And before you think to wonder - the true name of a Shade names all of the spirits involved, the vessel they possess, and then the nature of the Shade that arises from the interaction of them all. Mine takes nearly half an hour to speak, at a quick pace."

"That is... lengthy," you say.

I suppose it explains why Galbatorix never tried to make name-slaves of Shades the way he did other beings, Thorn says. Natural protection, of a sort.

"There are many words between the two languages that do not directly translate," Erzhal says. "Spirits experience emotion foremost, and so nuances of emotion that they express in one or two words might take a sentence or more to express in any other tongue."

"What is 'Durza' then?" you ask, simply curious.

Erzhal grimaces. "'I will return,'" he begins, "but specifically in the sense of a phrase such as 'I will return this pain to you a hundredfold,' or the like. One who makes the world suffer as they once suffered, regardless of if the world deserves it or not - a more nasty sort of Shade you will never encounter."

"He's dead," you say. "Eragon, the first of the new generation of Riders, killed him in Farthen Dur."

"He's as aptly named as a Shade," Erzhal observes dryly. You try not to smile, and can only think that you're failing miserably.

A person's name shapes their fate, Thorn observes. That is why dragons, being the wisest of creatures, do not allow ourselves to be named by others.

"A statement which I am wise enough to not argue with," Erzhal says dryly, which makes Thorn huff and expel the tiniest puff of smoke.

You like him, you accuse Thorn inside your mind.

Do you not? Thorn returns. It is not a crime to enjoy someone's company, Murtagh. Nor is it as risky as past experience tells you it is.

You don't have an answer to that, which Thorn well knows, and no doubt that is why he said it. You take a deep breath, and you say, "Just answer me this: How did you become a Shade? Was there a reason, or was it just ill fortune? Because if it was the latter, you've no room to complain about my luck."

The last few words make Erzhal snort. "No, it was no accident," he says. "It was..." He pauses, considering. "It was a choice," he says at length, and then pauses again, in such a way that you cannot help but think that the statement is unfinished, and sure enough, he soon continues.

"I told you before that the witch known as Bachel is an Aesodai, one who grants wishes. In the language of spirits, her name means something akin to 'to pull off a con,' or 'to play a cruel trick.'"

You catch the implication well enough, and bite your lip at the thought of a Shade capable of granting wishes. It is certainly within the level of power that Shades possess, though you cannot imagine how it might be possible; more to the point, you suppose that a Shade might be one of the few being capable of magic far enough outside of the bounds of the Ancient Language to be unaffected by the name of it.

"What did you wish for, then?" you say.

"For a reason to keep living, after Galbatorix took everything I held precious," Erzhal says. "In return, I was given a choice, and the knowledge that taking one road meant giving up the other forever."

He chuckles, and shakes his head slightly, hair swinging around his head. "I chose the duty I carry now," he says, "and for the sake of it, I gave up revenge. Not just against Galbatorix, but for all of time - I cannot even feel the emotions that drive others to be vengeful. That was the price I paid, because there is always a price, and if you come north seeking wishes, you'll pay it whether you like it or not."

To give up revenge... You glance at Thorn, but his expression is inscrutable even by the standards of dragons, who do not have faces as expressive as other races for obvious reasons. "I can't imagine giving up revenge," you say. "To just give up on even the emotions behind it..."

"I have no regrets about it," Erzhal says. "To give up being vengeful and holding grudges does not mean I cannot grow angry, after all." He smiles, seemingly to himself, and reaches into one of the pockets of his coat to pull out the comb you saw before, with its pink stone. "And the alternative - what I know Bachel hoped that I would give up, for she was angry with my choice, but had no more power to stop it once it was in motion than I did - giving that up would be unthinkable."

He says a few swift words in the Ancient Language, and as you watch, his hair neatens as though brushed by an invisible hand, and some few strands begin to fly into long, thin braids, before the whole thing wraps itself up into a knot high at the back of his head. Into that, he slides the comb with a practiced motion, leaving the pink stone visible in stark contrast to his darker hair.

You are loathe to break whatever reminisce he is having by asking the obvious question; you feel as though you are toeing too close to something you shouldn't touch, something that will invite questions in return. But Thorn, ever willing to transgress and cross precipices that you are not, says, And what was it, that you refused to give up for the sake of revenge?

"Love," Erzhal says simply. "Nothing more, and nothing less."

Chapter Text

It is difficult to settle comfortably after that pronouncement, so you retreat into doing things that require physical motion, and then at greater length into reading. Erzhal excuses himself back to the cabin to wash, which you can't say that you mind, because it gives you an opportunity to think things over and talk with Thorn.

"If he had chosen revenge," you muse, "things could have been very different."

You might not even have been born, Thorn observes. Depending on how old Erzhal is - if he had come seeking revenge on Galbatorix, I've little doubt that he would have torn through as many of the Forsworn as were still alive on the way.

"A Shade on the warpath is a frightening thought," you agree.

If he had come south when the Varden and elves moved to war, that would have changed a great deal as well, Thorn muses. But I suppose this far north, he may not have heard anything until it was all already settled.

"And by then the rumors had grown several times over in the telling," you say. "I'm sure they weren't particularly flattering to us, either."

Thorn snorts at that. No, I can't imagine they were. Perhaps we're lucky that he cannot feel vengeful, if what he lost was so significant as to drive him to such extremes as to bargain with a Shade for a wish in order to find a reason to keep living.

There are certainly plenty of people who have been wronged by Galbatorix's regime who have spoken, sometimes at length, about how they would take their revenge on the two of you as the last remnants of it. You've heard the talk in taverns and the like ever since the Empire fell, and even if most of the people who say such things where they think you will never hear would never say it to your faces, much less act on it, it doesn't change the strength of sentiment that it represents.

You say, "It's lucky for us, indeed." And a reminder that we can never entirely let our guards down. We can't expect to get so lucky every time, and we're far from the strongest beings in the world.

Thorn snorts something not-quite-disagreement and rolls onto his side, stretching and pawing at the open air as he often used to do as a hatchling. The information he gave us about Bachel is most interesting, he says instead, changing the subject. That she is a trickster, and that she was the one to grant his wish, both.

"I thought from his reaction that they knew each other," you say, "but I didn't expect that."

How could you have? Where we come from, no one can grant such wishes, be they Shades or otherwise.

"Even if there's a hefty price to be paid," you say, because you are sure that it is a hefty price, that nothing in the world comes for free, "there would be far more stories of such bargains."

Exactly. Thorn paws at the air again. Even if Shades are involved, people would be lining up to try. The appeal of having a wish granted is simply too great for most two-legged folk.

You raise your eyebrows. "But not for dragons?"

All that I might wish for, I already have, or can gain easily by my own claws, Thorn says. Before we released ourselves from Galbatorix, it may have been a different matter, but now I am free as a dragon ought to be, and all the things I desire that I do not already have are things which require only patience.

You smile at that. "I'm glad."

Thorn looks at you, twisting his head on his neck until it's nearly upside-down, and says, But that is not the case for you, is it?

You fold your arms. "If I have wishes," you say, "they're not things worth negotiating with a Shade for."

Thorn remains silent, at that, which is, historically, not a sign that fills you with confidence. He would often remain so silent when thoughts of Eragon or Nasuada plagued you, or later, when you sought furiously a change in yourself that would allow you to change your true name. It is not an unkind silence, but it is one that tells you all too clearly that you are missing something that ought to be obvious - and also that it is something that you will have to figure out for yourself.

Fortunately, you do not have that long to dwell on it, because you can feel Erzhal returning at the edge of your senses. You think he must have been keeping his presence wound as tightly to himself as he was able, before, because now it's impossible to miss even when you aren't looking for him in particular.

When he's properly returned to the stables, you ask, "Why an ice storm?"

"It's more of a warning than a defense," Erzhal says. "'Here is a force of nature that cannot be stopped, and it shall consume you if you meddle with it,' that sort of thing. Only an idiot goes into a blizzard without guidance and expects to just walk out again as the same person."

"If they walk out at all," you muse, and Erzhal simply nods. His hair is done slightly differently now, you notice, and no longer has the sheen of sweat to it that it did when he arrived. There are several carved sticks of bone in his hair now, as well, the largest with a topper of crystal that seems to be the color of packed ice, just a shade too blue to be called true white.

He seems a bit vain about it, you muse to Thorn, privately.

As he should be, Thorn says, for red is the most vibrant and attractive of colors. You're not sure why you expected any other response, to be honest. That Thorn is less vain than Saphira does not mean that he doesn't have a streak of it as well.

"I've heard that the thoughts of Shades and elves can make a mortal man go mad," you say. "Eragon came out none the worse for his mental struggle with Durza, but I suppose there must be some truth in it, then?"

"There is, but a Rider of all people would be the most resistant to it," Erzhal says. He nods at Thorn, and continues, "The danger in a Shade's thoughts comes from the fact that we are pluralities. I am 'I' but also 'we.' Those who are not used to such things can confuse the other thoughts for their own, especially when it comes to spirits, who think more in emotions than words."

"But a Rider is used to sharing thoughts with their dragon, so they'd be better prepared," you finish. "Makes sense enough."

You know a great deal about dragons, for one who lives where dragons do not dwell, Thorn observes. As you watch, he rolls onto his belly again and stands, coming closer to Erzhal - who doesn't flinch - in order to sniff at the pins the Shade has added to his hair. ...That is dragon-bone, he adds, brushing the crystal-studded stick with the tip of his snout, tone not angry but a touch wary.

"It is," Erzhal acknowledges.

How did you come by it?

Erzhal sighs, and says, "Do you know what became of the Forsworn Raimizhre?"

"No," you say after some hesitation. "I've heard the name - she was one of the elven Forsworn - but not what happened to her."

"Good," Erzhal says, sounding smug. "That means Galbatorix never found out what became of her, either."

He stretches his arms, and then sits where he is, in front of Thorn, and pulls the stick from his hair. Surprisingly, not a strand comes out of place. With its shaft exposed, you can see that there are runes of the Ancient Language carved into the shaft, though you can't make out what they are. "Raimizhre," he begins, "was well-studied in the myths of the north. You know of the Banishing of the Names?"

"I do," you say.

"After the war had settled, Raimizhre and her dragon came to the north," Erzhal says. "Her dragon was gone over the edge of madness - long gone, I imagine - and Raimizhre was near to it. She came to the spirits with a wish - that her dragon become a Shade, and so once more have a name and identity. In some ways, it was quite a clever solution."

You go tense around the shoulders, at the thought of a dragon - one of the dragons of the Forsworn, no less - becoming a Shade. "She didn't succeed," you say, hoping that you aren't mistaken. "Someone would have heard if she had."

"She did not," Erzhal agrees. "Spirits may not meddle in the affairs of men or dragons, but they understand the idea of punishing those who betray you well enough. The Banishing of Names was a punishment by all of dragonkind to the traitors of their race, and so they refused Raimizhre's wish."

Then this bone belonged to her dragon, Thorn says. He leans down, sniffs it again, and retreats, satisfied.

"It did," Erzhal says. He hums, and the stick of bone lifts to float above his hand. "One of the lower bones of the wing, near the shoulder. All four of these - " He uses his other hand to indicate the three sticks of bone that are still in his hair. " - are of a set from the same bone, and weapons in their own right. They're called toifla, and they're a favored weapon of Urgal hunter-mages in the north, though usually made of uutur or xhusvekh bone."

"I've heard that dragon bone has unusual properties," you say, stepping over to examine the floating hairstick more closely. Now that you look at it, you can see that the end without the gem is carved to a wickedly sharp point.

"Any part of a dragon's body is inherently saturated with magic," Erzhal says. "Bone is just one of the only parts that keeps, along with scales and claws." He makes a short gesture, and the bone spike whizzes around to the back of his head, weaving itself into his hair again. It's an impressive display of control; you can easily see how such a spike, flying around by magic, would be a useful weapon, alike to an arrow that requires no bow to fire.

"Bones, scales, and Eldunari," you murmur.

Erzhal's eyebrows go up. "I've not heard that term before," he says.

You glance at Thorn, and then say, "If you've not, then it may be for the best that we don't speak of it," you say. "It is a secret closely guarded for a reason."

"Fair enough," Erzhal says, though there's something in his eyes that remains lit with a curious sort of hunger. If you were less used to Thorn's eyes, nearly the same color, you might have looked away - there is some peek of something there, behind the snowstorm, that tells you that while Erzhal may be willing to let the subject lie for now, he hasn't forgotten it.

You say, "None of the dragons of the Forsworn were exactly small. That cannot be all the bone that remains."

"It isn't," Erzhal agrees. "I won't tell you where her body lies, save that it is in no place of honor, but I make use of it on some rare occasions, for tasks that merit such a substance." Thorn grumbles low in his throat, and Erzhal turns to him and continues, "And I won't apologize for that. Magics which rely upon refined uses of the body are as much a Shade's birthright as breath of fire is yours, and every piece I've taken has been for a purpose. Raimizhre and her dragon knew the north and its ways; nothing goes to waste here."

I understand, Thorn says. If anything, it is good that her bones have been put to some use. It is simply that there are too few dragons left; I worry that others might pursue us because of those same qualities of our bodies, and so drive us to our ultimate extinction.

"That's why I've never told anyone where her body lies," Erzhal says. "Nor sold anything made of dragonbone, not for any price. I know well how near it came to dragons no longer existing in this world, to bones being all we had left." His expression shifts, melancholy, and he finishes, "I was not sure I would live to see any of your kind take to the skies again."

Thorn says, We shall be the rulers of the skies again soon, as is only proper. The Riders hid away many eggs in a secret place, and even now Eragon readies the world for those hatchlings.

"Only dragons bonded to Riders are old enough to wander the skies as of yet," you say, "but it's only a matter of time before unbonded eggs begin to hatch as well. And his dragon, Saphira, makes ready to lay eggs of her own."

Countless emotions cross Erzhal's face, impossible to catch before they settle on a look of exhaustion with perhaps a touch of disgust. There is certainly disgust in his tone as he mutters, "Oin ozha chukricho'el, aiklo," under his breath. He doesn't offer you a translation, and you don't ask.

Instead, to change the subject, you say, "What became of Raimezhre's blade? A Rider must have a sword, even one of the Forsworn." You can keenly feel the presence of Zar'roc, strapped to Thorn's saddlebags behind you.

"Oh, it's in my house in Ghralthek," Erzhal says. "I don't have much cause to use it in the winter - swords are not particularly practical weapons for hunting - but it's useful for ceremonial fights and when young Urgals get it in their heads to challenge me."

"You... leave it in your house in an Urgal settlement," you say carefully, disbelieving. Thorn snorts amusement.

"Considering how well-known Frostbite is, it's not as though anyone else would attempt to use it," Erzhal replies with a shrug. "And even the most foolhardy of fresh-horns aren't foolhardy enough to mess with my things."

Its name is Frostbite? Thorn asks.

"Technically, the name is Kriba'uzmuulva Lu'uzha, which translates almost literally to the color of ice-fingers," Erzhal says, "but that's a damn mouthful and a half, so 'Frostbite' it is."

"That's the first I've heard of a Rider's blade named in something other than the Ancient Language," you say.

"Raimizhre was not much of a traditionalist," Erzhal says with a huff that almost turns into a sigh at the end.

You say that as though you knew her, Thorn observes. The tone of his thoughts is not unlike when he's hunting and is sighting out a particular animal as prey.

Erzhal says, "Though it was the spirits of the north as a whole that made the decision, it was by my hand that she was struck down." You revise your perception of his age upward accordingly, in the back of your mind - Raimizhre disappeared some twenty years after the end of the Rider War.

That alone isn't enough to know her, Thorn says, but the sighting-down feeling of his thoughts has eased, just slightly, at the non-answer. Whatever he is theorizing, however, he keeps to himself for the moment.

"How many more secrets are you keeping?" you ask of Erzhal yourself, bitterly.

He blinks at you, and then smiles, a small thing that catches you by surprise with the warmth of it. "Many," he says, words in the careful Ancient Language tone that is close to an oath without being one, "but none that give me a reason to wish you harm, nor that I believe would cause you harm by my keeping them. They are by and large secrets that I keep for the protection of others, or due to oaths I have made in the past, and I believe the two of you are clever enough to figure out most of them. If we approach a point where I must reveal them, and you haven't discovered them for yourselves, I will tell you."

The last carries the ring of promise-close-to-oath, the magic of intention behind it, and you sigh. "I can accept that if I must," you say.

Not even a hint? Thorn says, tone mostly joking, but not without a tinge of hope.

Erzhal turns the small smile on him turn and, to your shock, winks. "I'll give you three," he says, before continuing in the Ancient Language. "The first - it is only the elves of Du Weldenvarden who do not eat meat." You frown at the obviousness of the statement. "The second - Her name was Teana, and she was a stable maid in Ilirea who dreamed of flying." This has the air of a recitation, almost ritualized, and you know Thorn will remember the exact cadences of it better than you. "The third - "

And Erzhal looks you up and down before chuckling to himself and shaking his head. "If your intention with the beard was to look less like your father, it's doing you no favors," he says. "You've his cheekbones and brow, but your jawline is from your mother's family, whoever she was."

You find yourself unconsciously reaching up to thumb the edge of your beard. "I'll... keep that in mind," you say. "It's far too cold to shave it off at this point in the season, however."

Thorn must send a private thought to Erzhal, because he glances in Thorn's direction, snorts, and replies with a quiet, "Not particularly." It is, you think, the first time Thorn has ever spoken something to someone else that he didn't share with you, and you nudge at him with your mind.

Are you two gossiping about me?

Only about your beard, Thorn replies. Nothing of particularly great import.

You do not chew the inside of your cheek, because that would be immature, and you certainly aren't jealous. Thorn nudges his mind up against yours and says, You are my dearest other half, Murtagh. But it is difficult to not like Erzhal when he is the first person to treat me as a being who has never been our enemy.

I know, you say. And you understand it to some extent - it is, after all, why you grew fond of Nasuada in Farthen Dur, being that she was one of the only people who visited you on a regular basis and treated you as something other than an extension of your father's name. I just worry that he might be using that fact to his advantage.

And you're jealous, Thorn replies, seeing through you immediately. That is a problem I cannot help you with, Murtagh. We cannot live as mere extensions of each other; that means too that we must be able to have our own interactions with the people around us, even if our opinions of those people diverge.

I know, you repeat. You're as wise as ever. My heart simply doesn't like the idea.

Keeping half an eye on Erzhal, who seems content to leave the two of you to your private conversation, you instead say, What do you make of the hints? That he met Morzan at some point seems the least remarkable, considering that he's already admitted that Galbatorix killed his teacher and that he killed one of the other Forsworn in turn.

Agreed, Thorn says. The name Teana doesn't tickle anything familiar to me, and as for the hint about elves, I cannot make heads or tails of it. Are there elves outside of Du Weldinvarden?

There might be, you say. Perhaps we can ask Eragon when we scry him to prevent Saphira from bearing down on us with a nesting mother's wrath.

Thorn chuffs a small laugh. That would be wise, he says. Perhaps the name Teana will be familiar to him, or to one of the Eldunari, as well.

It's certainly possible, you agree. If we can't make heads or tails of it in a month's time, we'll ask him then.

Thorn seems satisfied with that, and then says, We may also find out more at Ghralthek. It's true that we don't speak the tongue of the north, nor the Urgal language, but surely if Erzhal is well-established there enough to have a house of his own, there are people there who know him well.

You think so?

He is not a person who moves through the world completely alone, Thorn says. Call it a dragon's intuition, if you will, but though whatever duty burdens him is, I think, his alone, he is too comfortable with whatever situation he finds himself in to be entirely a loner. And if he has been in the north for most of a century, then to be not-well-known would practically require him to be a hermit, which he clearly is not.

I see your point, you say, and then you adjust to face Erzhal again. He's waited patiently, even though your conversation with Thorn, at the speed of thought, took far less time than it would have taken aloud. You say, in the common tongue, "Then we make for Ghralthek?"

"In the morning, if that's agreeable to you," Erzhal says. "I'd like to get a night's sleep before getting back on the road. I'm already late for my obligations, so I may as well be rested to face them."

This seems logical enough to you, but you check with Thorn before saying, "If we fly you there, would you be willing to provide energy to sustain the warmth wards? I imagine that you have enough to spare, considering what I've heard of the strength of Shades."

Erzhal considers, tilts his head towards Thorn briefly, and then says, "I would be amenable to that. It would save us two days of journeying. I've never followed the path from the air, but Ghralthek will be obvious enough by its lights once we're near enough. North from here and then - hm, no, over the air there wouldn't be a problem in crossing the ice," he says. "Normally I wouldn't risk it with a creature of Thorn's weight - you or I could cross the ice without problem, but it's still like to be thin enough to crack in the middle under his."

"So your original plan led us around, then?" you guess.

"Up the coast," Erzhal says with a nod. "Ghralthek lies at the place where an inland sea connects to the ocean - many Urgal tribes gather there over the winter, as their hunters go out over the ice to hunt seals, fish, and whales if they can find them."

"They hunt whales?" you say, distracted by your own incredulity.

Erzhal nods. "Much of the sea freezes over in the depths of the winter," he says. "For two or three months, depending on the year, you can go far enough out on the ice almost to cross it. According to legend, that's exactly how the ancestors of the Urgals got here - by crossing from another, more distant land, in an era when the world was colder."

"I've never heard that," you say. "I thought the Urgals came to Alagaesia by ship."

"You should hear the story properly from one of their storytellers," Erzhal says. "You would enjoy it, I think, and it's a good season for stories. Perhaps I can talk Izolsa into telling it - she would be able to do so in the Ancient Language, so you wouldn't need a translation."

"I'll look forward to it," you say. "I haven't had the chance to hear many Urgal stories, only those of men and a few of those of the elves and dwarves."

"That you're willing to hear them is more open-minded than many of the Riders of old were," Erzhal says. "They regarded the Urgals and their culture zhiza'ain guvai - without love, or care, or..." He trails off, biting his lip at his own attempts to translate. "The kind of attention that you pay to something that matters to you. That's zhiza'ain, the love of a thing that you keep with you wherever you go."

You try the word out on your lips, the zh tripping you up a little less than it did a few days ago, but still you think not quite correct. You say, "That will be changing soon. After the war, Eragon expanded the pact to include Urgals and dwarves both. They'll have Riders of their own soon."

"Is that so?" Erzhal says, looking suddenly breathless, a touch desperate.

"I'll repeat it in the Ancient Language if you like," you say.

"No," Erzhal says, "I believe you. It is too much a claim to make if it wasn't true." He presses a hand over his heart and closes his eyes for a moment. "Excuse me a moment."

"Of course," you say, not certain what else to say.

Something changes in Erzhal's close-eyed expression, something solemn dissolving instantly into a grin, and in a blur of motion that you can't entirely track, he stands and barrels out into the snow. It kicks up in a cloud around him, a miniature snowstorm surrounding him in body as well as in mind, as he (insofar as you can tell through the snow) spins on one heel like an excited child. His voice resounds, not in a whoop like you might have expected, but in a multilayered song, the words sliding off your brain and only catching on a few syllables like trying to walk through a spiderweb. It is an unnatural sound that puts the hair on the back of your neck up and makes Thorn snort and blink his clear inner eyelids repeatedly.

Despite this, it is clearly a joyous sound, one that nearly compels you to stand and join in the dance. The small tornado of snow continues to spin for a moment before the flakes begin to drift downward, steadily revealing Erzhal's outline, his arms upraised but now still to the point that snow accumulates on him like a statue. His shoulders are the only part of him that moves, heaving as though he's just run a mile at a rush.

You've had occasion to see elves move nearly as fast, on the battlefield, but this is something else. You do not think you've ever seen an elf move simply for the joy of it, and though their songs are well-known, you think that they could not compare to the multi-tones of Erzhal's, brief as it was. They may be equally as beautiful, but you cannot imagine that anything the elves could do would be so clearly magical as a chorus resounding from a single throat.

Thorn says, amused, I believe the news has met with his approval.

Unexpectedly so, you agree. You straighten your back as Erzhal turns to come back inside, brushing snow from his coat and shaking it out of his hair, and raise your eyebrows as he sits back down across the fire from you.

"And what was that?" you ask.

"A Shade is but a vessel for spirits," he returns, cheeks reddened by the cold. "And spirits of magic, emotion, and little else. Occasionally those things need expressing."

Your eyebrows remain raised. At length, Erzhal huffs and says, "A great injustice has been righted. You'll be heroes for bringing this news to Ghralthek, even above and beyond how lucky they'll consider Thorn. I hope you're prepared for your names to join the storytellers' rotations."

"I'm surprised the news hadn't reached here yet," you say. "The Urgals in the Spine have known for nearly a year now."

"The Spine curves off from the rest of the continent after the sea of Ceunon," Erzhal says, "as I'm sure you saw on your journey north. Except in the winter - when there's trade between the two groups out on the ice - the only news we get from the Spine here comes filtered through human mouths on human trade routes, and they don't care much for sharing news of Urgals other than invasions."

This makes sense enough, and you nod. "And last winter, it may not have reached far enough into the Spine to cross the sea, I suppose," you say.

"Most likely," Erzhal agrees. "It takes more time for news to spread through the mountains. Are there any Urgal Riders yet?"

"No, as of a few days ago," you admit. "A dragon has hatched for a dwarf, however."

Erzhal nods. "It's still good news," he says. "It will be much celebrated when we arrive, though not so much as if we'd arrived in time for the Lastday celebrations. The hunters will have left for the ice already."

"I'm perfectly happy to have only a smaller celebration," you say. "I'm not sure how comfortable I am with being celebrated at all, to be honest."

Erzhal bites his lip for a moment. "I suppose it's very different from the reception you usually receive," he says, dipping his head slightly in either an acknowledgement or an apology.

Murtagh speaks for himself, because he has only ever experienced cruel celebrations and banquets, Thorn says. I'm quite curious to see what an Urgal party is like, myself.

"That's not true," you say. "I've also seen a dwarven celebration, remember?"

You spent all of the victory party at Farthen Dur either hiding in your room or hovering at Eragon's door, Thorn replies. It doesn't count.

Erzhal snorts, which is how you're sure that Thorn shared the comment with him. "There's less alcohol and more meat at an Urgal celebration," he says. "So I think it will be to Thorn's liking, at least."

Thorn curls his tail over his front toes, humming his approval. Then you should go to sleep, that we can set off sooner, he says. I look forward to seeing the tribute Ghralthek has to offer.

"Tribute?" you repeat, but your dragon smugly ignores you, which prompts Erzhal into a burst of laughter before he begins preparations for sleep. Grudgingly, you do likewise.

Chapter Text

When you wake, it occurs to you that you've nearly lost track of where the scant hours of daylight fall, in comparison to your sleep. It's Thorn who is able to point out to you that you'll be flying through the light today, as thin and brief as it is.

You nod, pull yourself out of bed, and set about preparing the saddle. Erzhal sleeps on until you're about halfway through the preparations, but you don't particularly have any desire to wake him, either. Preparing for flight is time you get to spend with Thorn undisturbed, which was once upon a time a luxury.

You get distracted once Erzhal does awaken, however, because after stowing his gear, he begins a series of stretches that you don't think any man should properly be capable of. It's clearly preparation for the flight ahead, focused as it is on the upper legs, lower back, and hips, and it makes you self-conscious about your own lack of stretching. With Thorn's amusement in the back of your mind, you go through some few basic stretches that you are familiar with and know are within your ability. Trying to imitate Erzhal's routine without building up to it will only cause you to pull a muscle.

You're still quite certain that you'll never be able to stretch your legs that far apart, however.

As the last thing before setting out, you and Erzhal return the cookware and other supplies to the lodge. You also start to return the elven history book, but Erzhal stays your hand. "Keep it for now," he says. "As long as you don't damage it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," you say.

"Good," Erzhal says. "Because I'm still not sure if it was a gift or a loan."

You snort, and wrap the book into your coat after saying a few words warding it against water and fading, as well as against the oils of your hands, which was a habit Galbatorix beat into you (fairly literally) when it came to handling the more ancient and precious books in his collection. Erzhal nods approval and takes a few of the carvings from the drawers of his desk (you have a good idea what's in the locked one, now) before you leave.

Then the two of you return to Thorn and you stow the book in your front saddlebag before mounting up, pulling yourself up the ever-increasing distance from the ground to Thorn's back. I'm not looking forward to trying to do this in a century, you say to him as you settle into your seat.

Thorn chuckles. If it becomes too difficult, I can always lift you onto my back the way a mother lifts a kitten.

No thank you, you say.

You turn at the waist to see Erzhal climb up behind you, intending to lend a hand (he is, after all, significantly shorter than you), but there's a pull on the saddle and you see instead that he's already taken a leap to get his chest over the hump of the saddle, and then pulls himself the rest of the way up the way someone might on a particularly tall horse. It's completely lacking in dignity, while at the same time being a demonstration of the supernatural strength of Shades - you doubt any normal human could have leapt high enough without a running start.

Your saddle is only equipped with straps for one person's legs. You don't quite turn to Erzhal as you say, "Do you want to strap in?"

"As long as there's no acrobatics, I should be fine," he says. He's not that close to your back, but you'd swear you can feel the motion of him shrugging one shoulder anyway. "In the worst case, it's another delay for me, though I admit it would make me look rather stupid to die twice in a week."

"All right," you say. "Then I suppose there's nothing else to do but cast the wards and be off."

You do so, and then, hesitantly, reach out your mind towards Erzhal's. Now that you know what lies beneath, the snowstorm makes you more nervous - but the state of his mind now is just gentle flurries, still obscuring the deeper thoughts but no longer with such an implication of danger. You relax a little as he threads energy towards you, though you go tense again at realizing just how much energy there is to be had.

He could have gone toe-to-toe with Shruikan in pure magical energy, you observe to Thorn.

Did you ever get a good idea of the strength of the other Shades you encountered? Thorn asks. For all we know, that may not be particularly strange. They're legendary beings for a reason.

I don't think Durza was as strong, but I couldn't tell you for sure, you say. I had no ability with magic until you hatched for me.

Thorn hums, and then says to you, It may be worth asking. I will, if it makes you too nervous.

You thread the energy into the wards so that they pull more from Erzhal than you, and say, I won't stop you. I'm just not sure how appropriate it is.

Fortunately, a dragon is never inappropriate, Thorn says, thoughts tinged with laughter as he stands and pads out of the stable. He flaps his wings lightly to stretch them, not quite pushing them to their full extension, as he makes his way to the area clear of trees and full of churned-up snow where he took off and landed previously. Expanding his thoughts to include Erzhal, he says, The strength of Shades is every bit as impressive as I'd been led to believe. Or is your strength particularly noteworthy?

Erzhal responds in kind, which will probably be for the better shortly given the wind, I'm above-average, I think, but not the stuff of tales. I/we are six-and-one, which is more than most wild-occuring Shades, but not a grand number. The six-and-one is distinctly an impression of six spirits and a human.

I see, Thorn says. And the witch Bachel?

Uncounted-not-uncountable, Erzhal replies, and at the same time, Too many.

Thorn accepts that, stretching his wings one final time before tensing his muscles in preparation for takeoff. You take the warning and take hold of the saddle; Erzhal wraps an arm around your stomach, which you find less unsettling than you expected. And in a leap and then one-two-three deep wingbeats, you're above the trees and rising, feeling the pull of the chill night air on the warming wards.

You bury yourself deeper into your jacket and hood, having foregone any such protections for yourself in favor of more traditional layers and face protection. Behind you, you feel Erzhal duck his face out of the wind by pressing it into your shoulder.

Tell us of Ghralthek, you say. Since I imagine we'll be there soon enough.

As long as we fly north, it should be visible as lights on the horizon before long, Erzhal agrees. Which is good, as I confess I don't know the route by air. Luckily, the stars are hard to miss tonight.

They really are - there's some few clouds scattered across the sky, but for the most part you are beneath the open sky again. You know navigation by them well enough that you could keep the course even if Thorn did not have a dragon's inherent sense of direction. You settle in to the rhythm of the beat of his wings, relaxing a bit at the familiar sensation of long flight.

Ghralthek is... It's peace-treaty-land, Erzhal begins. The Urgals of the north do not tend to be as war-loving as those of the south - there are plenty of creatures in the north to test themselves against besides each other, and life is difficult enough without sustained warfare. Ghralthek, which means shore-peace in their tongue, is one pillar of that relative peace. The continuation of tribal wars and clan feuds is not allowed within its borders.

How is that enforced? you ask. It seems like it would be difficult to keep Urgals from fighting if they wanted to.

It's because after everyone has gathered at Ghralthek, the best hunters of all the clan-group-Ikrash go out together on the ice for the year's whale and seal hunting, Erzhal says. The meat and fat, as well as the whalebone and certain other substances, are too important as resources for an Ikrash to survive more than a year or two without, but hunting whales takes more hunters than any one Ikrash can provide.

So those who bring violence with them are excluded from the hunt, you say.

And thus jeopardize their own survival, Thorn observes.

Erzhal nods against your back, which you aren't sure he even realizes he's done, but which you are very aware of, as his thoughts also radiate agreement. And those who remain in Ghralthek over the winter trade and work to raise their children in common, he says. Which often leads to children with parents in differing Ikrash, which also promotes a sense of community. If your leader wants to go to war against another Ikrash, but you have a child with someone of that Ikrash, or your childhood playmate is there, then you're likely to speak against it, and so on.

It makes good sense. You say, That's very unlike the Urgals we're familiar with.

Nights are for being together, and days for working separately, Erzhal says. That's a major point of philosophy underpinning the society of the Kuenbrazuiv.

You understand the last word to be the name by which the Urgals are known in the tongue of the north, and also that it is the name which the northern Urgals use to distinguish themselves from their southern cousins, as well as its literal meaning, people-of-curled-horns. Having a conversation in the medium of thought, you reflect, does a great deal to facilitate picking up vocabulary, though it also adds a layer of distortion in this case; Erzhal clearly speaks at least four languages, and often reaches for a term in the native language of the area for the most precise meaning. There's a certain flexibility to the order of his thoughts, as well; you can feel that he's making an effort to keep things in an order you find logical and easy to follow.

And that is where you live, when you are not wandering? Thorn asks.

It is one of the places, Erzhal says. I typically spend most of the winter there. There's an undercurrent of distinctly not saying something, but though you're sure he knows you've noticed, he just continues onward, Most of the mages go with the hunters out on the ice, so if there is a crisis of someone getting injured or of some other nature, I'm often the first person those who remain in Ghralthek call upon.

Are there other Shades there? Thorn asks.

There is one Shlazhai, a wolf known as Skasir, Erzhal says, but he minds the borders and cares little for what may happen to those inside. The peace of Ghralthek is his concern and nothing else. In answer to your mental question, which you hadn't even articulated into words, a mental shrug. That is his nature. He keeps the blood of war from being shed within the city, and ensures those that wish harm do not enter. Accidents and illnesses, and even small feuds, are none of his concern.

The city... you repeat. Is the settlement truly so large?

You feel a flick of delight, a touch smug. You'll see for yourself soon enough, Erzhal says. I wouldn't do you the injustice/displeasure of depriving you of the chance of first-sight the lights of Ghralthek over the ice for yourself.

Will we have to prove ourselves to this Skasir? Thorn asks, warily. In the corners of his thoughts, you can feel your own memories of your arrival to the Varden.

No, Erzhal says. Though it would be polite of you to greet him if he takes an interest in you, he has a gift for sensing intent that is difficult to explain to those who have not grown up in places where spirits touch the earth/descend to flesh. A concept that is difficult to equate to words, carrying with it the idea that spirits become a little less what they are in order to interact with the physical world, though it is clear enough the meaning - a place in which Shades occur without sorcery creating them.

So because we have no ill intent, he'll allow us to pass, you say.

More accurately, because you have no intent to start or perpetuate great bloodshed, Erzhal says. If you had, for example, come to kill one person and one person only, and leave all others unharmed, he would still permit you passage, unless he thought that the death of that person would kick off a xhal uwelueskaul/revenge war.

Is that common? you ask.

Most people who start revenge wars know exactly what they're doing, Erzhal says. It is not something one does by accident. I've only seen three in my time in the north, and they were all short, bloody things, over in a turning of the sun/a year's time. The longest anyone has records of was five years long, and that was between a southern tribe and three of the Ikrashuiv Kuenbrazluz.

In his thoughts, you can feel the echo of bloodshed, and it makes you shiver. Silence, save for wind and wingbeats, hangs in the air.

At length, Erzhal says, Though that is not a complete answer to your question. Among the Kuenbrazuiv, it is not uncommon to invite spirits into one's body on a temporary basis, for the purposes of certain rituals. Such individuals are called Po'aezhai - or more specific terms if one applies - for they remain touched even after the spirits have left them. They are more sensitive to magic and spirits, and are usually considered to have great wisdom. Given the current state of the rotations of the Ikrashuiv (because not all of them return to Ghralthek to stay the winter), there will be eight in the city, seven elders and Utkruz, who was spirit-touched as a child and is around your age.

They become Shades temporarily? you say. I didn't know that was possible.

There are a few requirements, Erzhal says. A death binds vessel and spirit together - a Shade who dies-a-not-truedeath cannot become mortal again. The spirits must be invited in, not forced or commanded by sorcery, and must be of a sort that is willing to leave again after. For the most part, the Po'aezhai have accords with particular spirits that have been passed down through their Ikrash for generations. He pauses, with amusement, and says, Except for Utkruz. His becoming a Shade was an accident - he wandered too far from the city on a night of lights, and became possessed. The spirits and he played as one until his body reached exhaustion, and as thanks for the experience of a child's fun, the spirits returned him unharmed.

That does not sound to be the whole story, Thorn says.

Well, it took what would have been nine days and nights in another season for him to reach that point of exhaustion, Erzhal says. He had not even been gifted with magic before that, and now he's among the foremost magicians of his generation, but that's not the only way he was changed by the experience. He speaks exclusively in the tongue of spirits most days, though he can sometimes manage the Ancient Language, and he forgets at times that he is no longer in that state of possessed childhood in which he had no need to eat or drink and could not freeze to death. If you should see an Urgal with red-streaked hair frolicking in the snow as though he cannot feel the chill, that is Utkruz, and I ask that you - gently - remind him when and where he is and guide him inside if you can, and that you send for help if you cannot.

Is there anyone in particular to seek help from? you ask.

His elder sister is usually not far, Erzhal says. Her name is Ithtrel. Failing that, myself or one of the elder Po'aezhai.

We understand, Thorn says, and then adds, It sounds an unfortunate fate.

It is what it is, Erzhal replies. None find it more frustrating than Utkruz, especially when his limited ability to communicate fails him, but for the most part, he's happy with his existence, and his is the opinion that matters most, is it not?

I suppose so, you say. Though I imagine it serves as a strong warning to be careful of spirits, as well.

There were far fewer incidences of children wandering around unsupervised for the two or three years after that, Erzhal agrees, with some amusement. It's not uncommon for spirits to take an interest in children - especially those who have the ability to learn magic naturally - but that's an extreme case.

You said that the rest of the Po'aezhai were elders, Thorn says.

Indeed. It's a position that commands great respect, because they interpret the will of the local spirits. It's not usually possible for living people and spirits to communicate effectively because their experiences are so different. But they're neighbors whose actions impact each other.

So they need a way to communicate about it, you finish. It still seems strange, but when you put it that way, it makes sense enough, if the other option is coming into conflict.

The war between dragons and elves came about because our kind and theirs did not communicate, Thorn agrees. And it was the Riders who bridged the gap. If there are Urgals chosen to serve the same purpose in communicating with the spirits, then it is only logical that they be afforded similar respect to the Riders.

Dragon logic is as flawless as ever. You're not entirely sure that that thought is one Erzhal intended to send, so quiet and unformed of an impression as it is; the words are more those provided by your own mind attempting to interpret the thought. You raise an eyebrow privately to Thorn, who sends back the equivalent of 'I noticed it too,' but Erzhal continues in a 'louder' mental voice, That's precisely the case. Izolsa, the peace-leader of the Ikrash I have the closest association with, is a Po'aezhai, and a dear friend of mine.

Along with the thought comes the image of an Urgal woman, older than any you've seen in person, with a purple shawl wrapped around her shoulders and confident bearing. There are streaks of Shade-red in her hair the way an older human woman might have streaks of grey, the whole of it tied tight into a bun behind her horns. The image is almost blurred, the mental impression of her stronger than the physical; a firm authority and patience covering laughter and old stories, the warmth of a fire and long talks over drinks into the night.

You latch onto the detail of the shawl, remembering the pigments from Erzhal's desk in the lodge, and say, That dye is incredibly expensive, isn't it?

In the south, it is, Erzhal agrees handily. Because it is produced here in the distant north, by only five Ikrash who know the secrets of harvesting it. Izolsa's is one of them.

The dye is made by Urgals? you send, incredulous.

It passes into the hands of human traders in the autumn, Erzhal says. I'm not surprised that its true origins are lost by the time it makes its way that far south. 'Made by Urgals' isn't exactly a selling point there.

You have to bite down on a laugh at that. Especially not in the court at Uru'baen, you say.

Especially not there, Erzhal agrees.

You fly in silence for a time, after that. To Thorn in private, you say after some time, I still feel ill-prepared to enter a city full of Urgals.

Then do not prepare, Thorn says simply. Just do.

You're no help at all, you send to him, fondly.

It will be nice to see a city where we aren't expected to fight anyone, Thorn says. I look forward to the chance to explore it, though I'm sure that there will be few buildings, if any, built for someone of my size.

That's probably true, you agree. Well, if we have to camp in another stable, then that will be fine. It's nicer than a lot of other places I've slept.

You don't directly say that that is because it's somewhere you're able to stay with Thorn right next to you, but you don't have to. You feel the warmth of his returned affection without any words on the matter, buoying you up high, high above the snow.

----

After several hours of flight, Thorn suddenly calls your attention to a spot in the distance. Is that it?

You squint into the wind. There does indeed seem to be a line of lights approaching in the distance; you've been flying over a largely featureless plain of ice for most of the last hour, which Erzhal had assured you was the bay that lay between Ghralthek and the south.

Behind you, you feel movement, as Erzhal adjusts in the saddle to attempt to see over your shoulder. The difference in your heights is significant enough, however, that he doesn't succeed - you hear him make a disgusted noise, barely audible over the wind whistling past, and then he pushes himself up onto his knees, using your shoulder as a point of balance.

Immediately, his thoughts color warm with excitement. It is indeed, he says. Though you can't well see the colors from here. More movement, as he drops back into a proper seat.

You squint harder into the wind, but you can't make out any more color than the typical yellow-ish glow of flame lanterns. You just resolve to wait.

Soon enough, the lights resolve themselves into the proper shape of buildings curling around the edge of the bay and spreading out beyond it. You understand, then, why Ghralthek is considered a city, as you begin to work out its true size from the expanse of lights. It isn't as large as Uru'baen-Ilirea or Dras-Leona, but it's larger than Ceunon, which is considered the last city of Alagaesia as you head northward. You think that it might be equal in size to Gil'ead, at least in terms of its sprawl, for none of the buildings look to be particularly tall in comparison to the constructions of humans. If any are more than three or four stories, you would be surprised.

As you get closer, you begin to see what Erzhal meant about the colors. What was at first only a blur of lights resolves itself into a ring around the city, colored lanterns glowing in a line that extends outward over the water, hung from poles struck deep into the ice what must be thirty or forty feet from the shoreline. The colors are as varied as the stories of the dragons of old, though red, a deep amethyst purple, a bright blue-green, and the creamy yellow of bare flame are the most frequent colors. Each must be half the size of a man, to be visible from such a distance. Similar lanterns hang further into the city, from poles and buildings, making the streets almost as bright as they would be in daylight.

When you are close enough that you can begin to see the details of buildings and the dots of people moving in the streets between them, Erzhal says, I need to signal to the people below that we're friendly, or else they're likely to greet us with arms, even if Skasir allows us passage.

All right, you say. Do it.

Erzhal pushes himself to his knees again behind you, and after a moment of precarious balance, says a word of magic too quietly for you to catch. He throws one hand over his head as he does so, and a sudden burst of pink light over your head leaves you blinking. Spots of light rain down around you before vanishing; you think at first they are just a reaction of your eyes, until a few wingbeats later when Erzhal repeats the signal. You're expecting it that time, and are able to glance up in time to see that the burst of magical light makes a shape of some kind, perhaps runes that you are simply at the wrong angle to read.

A pause of another few wingbeats, and then a burst of red and purple light blooms from the city in response. Erzhal drops back to his seat and says, Aim to land where that burst was, Thorn, if you would.

As long as there is space for me to do so, I will, Thorn answers.

You may be the first Rider and dragon to have come to Ghralthek since before Galbatorix was even born, Erzhal says, but I assure you that its people are smart enough to move out of your way.

Thorn chuffs a dragon's laugh into the wind and beats his wings with renewed vigor. The spots of people in the city below grow, both in detail as you approach, and in number, as more Urgals leave their homes and assemble in the streets to see the spectacle of a dragon's arrival. When you soar over the lantern poles struck out in the ice, a wave of noise kicks up, audible even over the wind. It takes you a long moment to realize that it's positive, that it's cheering, given that Urgal voices are on the whole deeper than those of humans, and their language unfamiliar to you.

Thorn, for his part, responds with a short burst of flame, well above the buildings and any danger of lighting them on fire. The response from below is more excitement, this time accompanied by the stomping of feet, first wildly and then in rhythm. Your own anxiety is only partially soothed by Thorn's pleasure as he takes up a glide the rest of the way to the point indicated by the flare.

That location turns out to be a rather large square, clearly set up for the trading of goods. Urgals are hastily making space for Thorn's landing, pulling tables and tents out of the way. It still isn't perfectly clear, with two stone-walled fire pits each the size of a man, but it's enough space for Thorn to land without knocking anything over. You'll take it.

The crowd is impressive; you're not particularly good at telling Urgal women from men, especially bundled against the cold as they are, but the children are obvious enough, most of them trying to pull parents closer to get a better sight while said parents attempt to hold them safely back. The Urgals are dressed much the same as the humans of the north, in thick fur coats and hats or hoods; were it not for their size (and, in particular, the size of the handful of Kull in the crowd, many of whom are lifting children over the heads of the more typically sized Urgals), you would have difficulty telling them from a human crowd, because their snow gear covers their horns as well as the rest of their heads. Almost all of them wear at least one brightly colored scarf, sash, or ribbon that can be seen from a glance.

Two people step out from the crowd as Thorn folds his wings up against his sides. You free the blankets tied to the saddle to cover them against the frost, and immediately feel the draw of the warming wards fade away to what feels like almost nothing after hours of flying. Erzhal frees the blankets from the ties at the back, and then leaps from the saddle in a single motion, landing heavily on the side facing the two Urgals.

The taller of the two it takes you only a moment to recognize as Izolsa, mostly by the feeling of her mind in comparison to the impression Erzhal gave you earlier. Her hood is pushed a bit back from her face, letting you see also the red streaks of her hair, but also giving you a better impression of her age; if Urgals get lines upon their faces at around the same rate as humans, she is at least sixty years old and could well be older. Red and purple ribbons peek out of her hood, tied around the base of her horns, and you realize that there is only one sleeve to her coat, though there is a lump on the other side that bespeaks of a stump arm. Her skin is weathered, but her expression is warm; she gives you and Thorn barely a glance before turning her attention to the interaction between Erzhal and her companion.

The shorter of the two is smaller than you, short enough that you aren't entirely certain that she's an Urgal until she pushes her hood back and regards Erzhal with an admonishing expression. She's young, perhaps in her late teens, with matching ribbons to Izolsa's tied around her horns and a handful of thin metal pins securing the long braids of her hair to the back of her head.

"Patan!" she shouts at him, her tone long-suffering. "Fousha aila!"

Erzhal begins to say something to her in return, in a more normal tone, but is cut off as the girl throws her arms around him and squeezes. You see his arms and shoulders slump for a moment before he returns the embrace.

You slide down from Thorn's back, watching the interaction with curiosity, as much because it gives you something to focus on instead of the crowd surrounding you as for any other reason. Who do you think she is? you say to Thorn.

I'm sure Erzhal will tell us in but a moment, Thorn observes dryly, stretching his back as much as he can with the saddle still upon it.

Indeed, the two seem to quickly devolve into a discussion that Izolsa watches with obvious amusement but seems to have no intention of interfering in, before Erzhal finally throws up his hands and says in the Ancient Language, "Will you allow me a moment to introduce our visitors or not?"

The Urgal girl huffs at that, crossing her arms, but replies in the same, "I will allow it, but don't think I'm done with you, Patan."

"Lectured by a teenling barely grown into her horns," Erzhal mutters, sighing and pushing the hair that came free of his hat over the flight out of his face. He turns back to you and beckons you over, and only at that point does Izolsa come to stand on the other side of the Urgal girl. You hesitate a moment, but come to stand at his side, Thorn following a few steps aside.

His thoughts touch yours, but only faintly, and you realize after a moment that it is to provide a translation for the words he addresses to the crowd, which are in the northern tongue and spoken too quickly for your limited ability to follow the language.

"Please give a Ghralthek welcome to Murtagh and Thorn, a Rider and dragon from the far south!" A pause, while the crowd roars - quite literally in several cases - loudly enough that you almost flinch and Thorn blinks and flicks his tail in displeasure at the noise.

"They have come north and bring with them news of great import! The kin-traitor king, Galbatorix, is dead!" Another massive roar of enthusiastic noise. The Urgal girl turns in your direction, her eyes wide and an uncertain expression on her face.

"But more than that, more than even the news that dragons fly the skies again - for things have changed in the south! No longer is it only forest-elves and humans who may become Riders! For our southern cousins lent their spears to the downfall of the king, and thus have been welcomed into the pact with the dragons!" A slight hush, falling over the crowd, one of disbelief, and Erzhal takes a step forward and presses his hand to his chest, over his heart. His voice is slightly quieter in the hush, though still obviously enhanced with magic to carry. "I swear it upon my living-heart, it is true - soon, Urgal Riders shall take their places in the sky among the other races, and so no longer see people-of-horns pushed to the edges of the world."

The cheering takes a moment longer to build, this time, but when it does, you are forced to press your hands over your ears at the amount of volume pointed in your direction. The Urgal girl beside you does likewise, and Thorn tosses his head and bares his teeth at the sound.

When the roar has subsided, Erzhal continues, in a more quiet tone, "Be patient with our visitors, for they do not speak our tongue well and know little of our ways, but they possess good intentions and are willing to learn. And with that, I bid you return to your families and spread the word, and celebrate through this night in whatever manner you will."

Another wave of cheering, but this far weaker than the last. You feel the gaze of many members of the crowd upon you, but even as you watch, the crowd begins to disperse, the press of Urgals in the square thinning out as they return to their lives.

Erzhal's touch withdraws from your mind, and he rubs at his temple. "That should keep everyone occupied long enough to buy us a few minutes of peace," he says in the Ancient Language. Izolsa nods, chuckling.

"Is it true?" the Urgal girl asks of you. "Did the Riders really welcome the Urgals into...?" She trails off, her expression indicating that she's searching her mind for the word, but the intention of her question is clear enough.

You nod, and say, "Both the Urgals and the dwarves can now become Riders."

The girl nods, and then turns to Erzhal, and says, "Patan, does this mean that you have to go south?"

"I haven't decided yet," Erzhal replies. "It is not a decision I could make without speaking to my family, after all."

That seems to soothe whatever anxiety the girl has, and she nods vigorously and gives Erzhal a small smile. Erzhal turns to you, and says, "Forgive me - I've told you already of Izolsa, but I've neglected the rest of the introductions. This is my daughter, Zharai'ekl - Zharai, to most."

"Your... daughter?" you repeat incredulously, looking between the two of them. While Zharai is shorter than average for an Urgal, you've never heard of the two races intermixing. You're fairly sure it isn't possible, but Erzhal said so in the Ancient Language, so there can be no doubt to the words.

Izolsa catches sight of your confusion, and immediately begins to laugh, a deep sound. "By custom as strong as blood, not blood itself," she clarifies. "Though I could hardly ask for better - most of my other grandchildren's fathers are not nearly as dutiful or involved as Erzhal."

Erzhal huffs and folds his arms. Zharai glances between him and you, and then says, "Do I have to do the elven greeting?"

"Do I look like an elf to you?" you ask, and her expression warms.

"No," she says. "You look like a reasonable person."

This, in turn, makes Erzhal bite his lip to keep from laughing, and he says, "Let's go to the house and discuss things there, shall we? You may have forgotten, but it's damn cold out here."

"That sounds like a good idea," you agree, and gesture for him to lead the way away from the square.

Chapter Text

The house Erzhal leads you to is of moderate size, either a high two stories or a low three. Given the scale of the other buildings - all the doors well above your head, to accommodate the eight foot frames of Kull - you're betting on two.

It serves to make you very aware of how small Erzhal is, comparatively. If you're chin-to-nose height on most of the adult Urgals you pass on the way to the house - and for a human man, you're not short - then Erzhal is lucky to be neck height. And yet the Urgals dip their heads reverentially to both him and Izolsa as they pass, usually before stopping to all but openly gape at Thorn, who has to wind his way through the streets very carefully to avoid knocking into anyone.

"Here we are," Erzhal says, still in the Ancient Language, which you suppose is the only common tongue spoken by all four of the people following after him. He's led you around to the back of the house, which features a door even taller than the one at the front, nearly twice your height. He pauses, then says, "Zharai, where's Fausa?"

"In my pocket," the girl replies. "Why?"

"Just wanted to make sure he wasn't inside before I tried to work space-altering magic on the house," Erzhal says. "Otherwise we'll all have to sit on Thorn in place of the furniture." He offers an apologetic shrug to your dragon.

Thorn snorts and replies, The foresight is appreciated.

And with that, he steps up to the door and begins muttering in the Ancient Language. Though you strain your ears, you can only catch about one word in three, and you have no familiarity with space-altering magics, though you know that Eragon used one to carry the Eldunari into battle with him. Giving up on trying to figure out a complex piece of magic when you lack prerequisite knowledge, you instead turn to Zharai and repeat, "Fausa?"

The Urgal girl lights up and beckons you closer. You raise your eyebrows (which probably isn't even visible beneath the furred edge of your hood), but obligingly step close. Zharai undoes the clasps on the outer layer of her coat enough to reveal a hidden pocket inside which, when you lean close enough to see into it, is full of a contentedly sleeping ermine, curled up with only its ears providing definition to what is otherwise a ball of white fur.

You send the sight along to Thorn, and say aloud, "Ah."

"They don't have a proper name in this language," Zharai says, "but the elves call them snow kittens or house weasels. Patan told me that you keep cats for the same purpose in the south - is that so?"

As hunters of mice, or as pets? Thorn asks, amused.

"Both," Zharai says. "Though Fausa is not much use at mouse hunting."

"He's lazy," Izolsa says. "And almost certainly wouldn't survive without my granddaughter as a companion."

Zharai looks about to defend her pet - she has a look on her face that seems to you to be one of considering her words carefully, which you suppose is unsurprising given that the conversation takes place still in the Ancient Language. It's more mundane than you've ever seen - you suppose elves must also have family arguments in it, but you somehow can't imagine elves having family arguments at all. There's something too alien and dignified about them.

This is just a family, for all your for-obvious-reasons unfamiliarity with the concept of family in general. That that family is two Urgal women and a human Shade seems to not matter at all.

At that point, Erzhal glances over his shoulder and says, "That's done. Zharai, help me with the doors?"

"Okay, Patan," she replies, stepping up to one of the wide doors and putting her hands on the handle to pull it open.

To you and Thorn, Erzhal says, "Don't think to hard about the way the space works. It doesn't, but overthinking it will make it harder to maintain the magic, and if it collapses, well, it won't be pretty or pleasant."

"Thank you for the warning," you say.

I suppose it would be too much to ask for a truly dragon-sized building, Thorn says.

"There are a few, but we would have to ask permission to use them," Erzhal says. "Which would likely be granted, but it's a problem for tomorrow. For tonight, you'll have to weather mine and Zharai's hospitality."

"And mine," Izolsa says. "I dearly wish to hear the story of the king's defeat."

You shift uncertainly in the snow. "I'm not a particularly good story-teller," you say, even as you send an aside to Thorn, There's only so much we can tell.

We should have thought of that beforehand, Thorn observes. Best stick as close as we can to the truth without revealing the Eldunari or the Word.

I'm not sure the story works without either of them.

"You can't be as bad as Manan," Zharai says, either ignorant of or politely ignoring your private conversation.

Erzhal chuckles and says, "Your mother speaks a perfectly respectable situation report."

"Which is a useless story!" Zharai counters, huffing before pulling her side of the big doors open.

"Fewer arguments you've had every winter, more going inside out of the cold, I think," Izolsa says. Erzhal sighs and pulls his side of the door open as well, allowing you entrance to the building.

It's a tight squeeze for Thorn through the doors, though once inside the space opens up - perhaps more than it should, considering the wide swath of empty floor when the rest is covered in rugs, but you pointedly don't think of that too long, as you were warned. You look at the walls instead. Similarly to the lodge, they're built of wood with a platform running around that creates two stories within a single space - though this time, the space of the second floor is large enough to do something other than sleep on. While not quite rooms, you can tell that each person has their own space, with heavy wool curtains that can be drawn for visual privacy (though you're sure that noise still carries, or at least that it would normally; being that it's Erzhal's home, the curtains are likely warded).

No warm air escapes when the huge doors swing open, another work of obvious magic and a clearly useful one. You step inside and are immediately met by air much warmer than the outside, and promptly duck off into the side space that's set aside for removing coats as the others follow you in and close the doors. Another similar area lies on the other side of the house, beside the normally sized door. Half a dozen lanterns hang around the space, burning with bright flame through thin fabric shades.

Thorn settles for knocking snow off his feet before padding over to drop to his belly on one of the rugs. Even with the distortion of the space, it's a bit of a squeeze for him - you can tell the central space should be much smaller around the fire pit in the center, and immediately divert your thoughts to something else.

You are following Erzhal's lead in peeling your boots off when you notice a shock of white in the weapons rack behind the coats. You reach for it, and then hesitate.

"You can look," Erzhal says. "I already told you what it is."

You nod, and pull the Rider's sword from among the more mundane spears (there's half a dozen of the style Erzhal favors), a plainer steel sword, and an unstrung bow.

Frostbite is an apt name for the blade - now that it's in your hand, you can see that the sheath isn't quite white, but a blue that is so pale that it seems white at first glance. It's a different shape than the Rider's swords you've handled personally before (though you've seen it before in Galbatorix's collection), long with the slightest bit of curve, more of a slashing weapon than a thrusting one without being completely useless for the latter. The gem at the pommel is almost completely transparent in color, disrupted by a line of white, snowflake-like inclusions at an angle to the tang. There are no ancient-language runes adorning the sheath proclaiming the sword's name, the way you've seen on every other Rider's weapon.

You hesitate again before drawing it, but Thorn nudges your mind and says, I wish to see it, so you take hold of the sheath in your other hand and pull it free. The blade comes out with only the faintest whisper of noise - it's a slightly lighter shade than the sheath, though you wouldn't have thought it possible at first. It looks somehow whiter than white in the light of the lanterns, the color of pristine snow at dawn.

You lift the blade closer to your face, and there find an inscription in an alphabet you have no ability at all to read - no doubt the long proper name of the blade - worked in a blue so dark it looks almost black in contrast. The metal is just a little too milky to reflect your face back at you.

You swing it experimentally, and it feels entirely wrong for your style even aside from the fact that it's clearly weighted for someone of different build and race. You make one more slash at the air, and then say, "I see why you rarely use it. Raimizhre was taller than you, wasn't she?"

"Somewhat significantly," Erzhal says. "She was about as much shorter than Zharai as Zharai is shorter than you."

Which isn't very much at all - the top of Zharai's head, discounting her horns, falls at about your hairline - even if it makes the girl huff when it's pointed out as though the difference were much more. You nod and offer the blade to Thorn to inspect further. When he withdraws his head, satisfied, you sheath Frostbite once more before returning it to the weapon stand, and then set Zar'roc beside it.

Two of the Forsworn's blades, Thorn observes. Perhaps the last two left in the world, at that.

"I know that the elves destroyed at least three," Erzhal says. "Those of Glaerun, Fomora, and Grandt."

"According to Galbatorix, five of their blades were destroyed, and another three lost," you say. "The latter number, I assume, including Frostbite."

"Most likely," Erzhal agrees. He steps up to the two swords and reaches out for Frostbite's hilt. "I suppose I can undo the ward against scrying on the blade now that he's dead; there's few others left who are familiar enough with it to do so."

While he mutters a few words over the blade to undo the spell, you turn back to Zharai and Izolsa. Both of them are clearly listening in, Zharai making no attempt to hide her interest while Izolsa has moved to sit beside the fire and is making too pointed of a study of it.

You opt not to say anything at all on the matter and instead cross the room to sit with your back against Thorn's foreleg on the rug. To Erzhal, privately, you send, Do they know who we are?

Only what they can guess from seeing you bearing that sword, Erzhal replies. Most of the exact details of events hadn't drifted far enough north the last time I saw them.

You grimace if only within your mind and say, I'm not sure if that's better or worse. I don't look forward to explaining it. You've never had to explain it, except once to Eragon, who was from a place so far away from everything that he didn't know what it meant.

I can explain it, if you'd prefer, Erzhal offers.

No, though I appreciate the thought, you say.

As you're sitting in silence, you notice that Zharai must have pulled Fausa from her pocket while putting her coat away, because the ermine is now settled in her lap, looking tiny between her knees in the folds of a faded, colorful skirt. Erzhal comes and sits beside her, completing the group around the fire; seated, Zharai appears even moreso the taller than she did standing. Izolsa has started a pot of hot water over the flames, stirring it with a carved wooden spoon in her one hand. The stump of her arm is hidden in a mostly-complete sleeve, a spill of bright red fabric in place of a wrist cuff. The smell of spices comes from the pot, and you assume it must be another of the teas you saw Erzhal make at the lodge.

You take a deep breath. And then another, when Thorn nudges you with his snout.

What do you think? you send to him. What do we tell?

The name, but not the Eldunari, I think, Thorn says. The story works without them - other than that they enhanced Eragon's wordless spell, they did not much participate in the battle.

And what of the rest? you ask. Where do we even begin?

Wherever you wish to, Thorn replies. But it is hard to make sense of it without the beginning.

You sigh at that, scoot your back against his leg more firmly, and with an amount of hesitation that you don't expect from yourself, begin the tale. Telling it in the Ancient Language is difficult; you do your best to stick to facts, but even the facts are difficult enough to recount.

Having to identify yourself as the son of Morzan leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that is only partially soothed by the oversized (or rather, Urgal-sized) mug of tea that Izolsa passes you on a word of magic. It's warm and creamy and remarkably sweet, and you can't identify most of the spices in it, but you drink it anyway after a whispered check for poison that doesn't seem to offend anyone.

But after that initial bump, and a second one surrounding the circumstances of Thorn's hatching - which makes Erzhal glower concerningly, his eyes seeming to almost glow in the fire until Zharai elbows him - it's an easy enough tale. Easier, in some ways, to tell the broad strokes of it, to ignore the details. You bypass the battle at Gil'ead, in which Galbatorix used you to slay the last of the Riders of old, entirely, as well as the matters of Dras-Leona's cathedral being destroyed and the details of Nasuada's stay at the Hall of the Soothsayer. The latter, you imagine, you'll never share with anyone, at least not until after she is long dead and the acknowledgement of her vulnerabilities can do her no harm.

Zharai spends the whole telling leaning forward, her eyes alert and interested; Izolsa listens with more patience, her gaze slowly going back and forth across the room, watching the reactions of the people in it as much as she is listening. Erzhal continues to stare down into his tea, his expression inscrutable.

You cannot help but wonder, how many of the gaps in the story they notice, and how they fill them in in their minds. Erzhal, no doubt, sees more of them than you would like, familiar with Galbatorix as he seems to be.

Small wonder that he glares so, Thorn observes. You nudge him with a question, and receive a feeling of 'can't you see it/isn't it obvious' in return. He likes you. He may not experience the drive for revenge, but as he said himself, that does not mean that he does not experience anger.

You just shake your head, pausing the telling to take another swallow of the tea. It works wonders for your throat, which by all rights should be growing sore by now; the fire hasn't completely burned out, but it's more embers than flames.

I'm not used to being the object of such concern, you send back to Thorn. Not from anyone but you, and we were always in the same position.

Thorn shifts to lean the weight of his foreleg into your back and says, There are plenty of people in this world who would give it to you, if you gave them a chance.

It sounds to me like all the more reason not to say anything at all, you send back, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest and returning your attention to the tale.

You tell of chasing the illusionary Saphira over the city, and returning to the castle to discover that the real Eragon and Saphira had slipped through the defenses, making a great mess along the way. Here, you begin to work in more details - the shards of elven swords caught in the traps, and coming into the throne room to discover the group held in place by Galbatorix. As you describe the strange lance Arya was carrying, Erzhal abruptly looks up.

"They had a Dauthdaert?!" he says, half-aghast but equally as alight with interest. Even so, he continues, "While it might well have been one of the only weapons that could hope to leave a scratch on Shruikan, bringing such a weapon into battle alongside a dragon ally, and the last known female at that..."

"What is a Dauthdaert?" Zharai asks.

"I'm not familiar with the term myself," you admit.

Erzhal frowns, and settles back into his seat from how he had leaned forward. "They're weapons from the war between dragons and elves," he says. "Created for the sole purpose of killing dragons, and impervious to their magic - and most other forms of it, if the legends I've heard of them are correct. Their wielders could run straight through the hottest of dragonflame without fear, feeling nothing more dangerous than the heat of a forge from an armspan away."

"That seems in line with the capabilities it displayed," you say. "A number of the traps were magical in nature, and those were not triggered - Eragon's group simply bypassed them as though they did not exist."

Erzhal nods. "Then at least some degree of those legends must have been true. But it's also said that, given the opportunity, the weapons are still invested with a hunger for the blood of dragons, and if they are allowed the slightest chance to turn awry..."

You don't answer. Thorn leans his head forward, over yours, and says, Fortunate then that it was for Shruikan and not for me. I have no desire to find myself at the other end of a weapon that seeks my blood like a hunter hanging in the sky above its prey.

Zharai says, "Did elf-Arya kill him with it?" and her grandmother immediately says, "Hush, they'll get there."

You attempt to continue the tale, only to get waylaid again when you reach the matter of Eragon's true parentage, this time by Zharai.

"Why was that a surprise?" she asks.

You don't know how to answer, because why wouldn't it be? Fortunately, Erzhal steps in, and says, "Most humans are double-siblings, Zharai. Human women usually only have one partner. If they only share one parent, they use the term 'half-siblings.'"

"Oh," Zharai says, and then, "Well, that's strange, but not the weirdest thing humans do, I guess."

Thorn's snort is one mostly of agreement. All two-legs are strange, he agrees, but they are all strange differently.

"How do you do it, then?" you say. "Is it more common to have half-siblings than full siblings?"

Izolsa nods. "Many of our women will take multiple mates in a season, and the men lie with multiple women," she says. "The mother knows best who the father of her child is, and presents the infant to the father after the child is born."

"The first male adult to hold the child is acknowledged as the child's father, regardless of who may have actually fathered the child," Erzhal says. "Which is how I ended up a father, lest you wonder. I was called upon to assist with the birth on an emergency basis, but Lyruthk decided that Zharai would get the most benefit from me as a father and caught me in a corner as a result."

You raise your eyebrows. "The most benefit?"

Izolsa sighs and says, "Often, the decision of who to acknowledge as a child's father is as much about the status of the potential fathers as anything else. A male can refuse a child by not accepting them into his arms, but it is rarely done; therefore, those known to be skilled hunters, craftsmen, or magicians will often have more children than they have actually fathered. That Zharai only has siblings who share her mother is quite rare."

"From my mother, I'm the youngest of three," Zharai says. "Four if you count the sister who didn't survive her second winter."

"So who the blood father is... doesn't matter?" you say.

"It matters very little," Izolsa says. "If two people are planning to have a child together, they will go to the magician of one of their Ikrash, who will use a variety of spells to check their compatibility - one of these checks that they are not siblings by their fathers. If the two are incompatible, that is all they are ever told; siblings-by-night don't often find each other in such a way, however."

She then frowns and says, "Sibling-by-night is an awkward translation for mutaeya. Siblings who don't know of each other and will continue to live their lives with that ignorance, even as their fates wind in and out of each other."

"A familiar enough concept," you say, feeling the dryness of your own words, and Erzhal and Izolsa both snort.

"A good example of why it isn't done to tell," Izolsa says. "For some the truth brings closure, but for most it brings only the pains of what-might-have-been and regrets."

You have to stop to stare into your cup after that, before you take a long drink of it to avoid having to say anything at all. You can't say that she's wrong. There are certainly times when you regret, not that Eragon is your brother, but that you ever knew it - that you ever had to come face to face with it and the way that it hurt, the way he denied it. The way he denied you in the process, not only your shared blood but the friendship that had been there, which you can't help but think meant far less to him than it did to you. The way even now, he's come out the better from it, with the same mother but a father lauded as a hero instead of the monster whose blood you share. Fate favors Eragon far more than it does you, like the two sides of a steep hill, where descending takes far less effort for the distance you travel, while you are clawing your way up the ascent and gaining little distance in trying to catch up.

Thorn nudges you in the back with his snout again. You don't exactly ignore him, but you don't feel as receptive to the comfort as you usually would. "I can't disagree," you say at length. "I can't say that I would be happier not knowing, because there's no way to know, but it's certainly brought us both our share of suffering and more."

The somber comment brings silence for a moment, all of you taking a moment to drink from your cups. It lets you find your place again in telling the story; when you start again, telling of the duel with Eragon, with Galbatorix hovering over your necks watching, practically from the inside as well as the outside, it comes a little easier. It is a little easier to tell, when you don't feel as though you have to explain the emotions you went through, because to tell this part, to tell of that moment where you felt your name shift -

You had known that there was something building. You had guessed, had perhaps known what it would be, and had refused to look at it. Like so many things, if you had acknowledged that it existed before the time was right, it would have been taken away from you. Even now, it is difficult to articulate exactly what it was that changed; though you know that your true name did change in that moment, you have not spent long enough with the idea, even these long months later, to know what exactly those changes were.

Thorn makes a quiet rumble in his chest at the thought. You should, he says. There is nothing else pressing, and the knowledge is important.

You hesitate before asking, Have you?, already knowing the answer.

And I believe that I could guess yours, as well, Thorn replies. However, that is something you must figure out for yourself. There are a great many things that can change a person's true name, including the act of discovering it on one's own.

You bite your lip - not physically, but emotionally in the bond with Thorn - and take another drink of your tea before you continue. The mug is getting near to empty; soon you won't have the excuse, and there is still more of the story to tell.

So you continue, through the change of your name, through that moment in which you understood that person you are least able to understand on any other day, and when next you stop for breath, Zharai and Izolsa both let out whistles that hang in the air of the house for a moment. That's enough to make you pause, before Erzhal says, "It's a congratulations," which cannot be the full explanation, but is enough for now. You nod and continue.

Though, at this point, aside from the battle between the dragons and Arya with the Dauthdaert, you have to extrapolate a great deal. Eragon told you something of what he did, but you won't ever know the whole of it. "In the end, it was too much for him," you say. "For all that the stories will surely give Eragon the credit - Galbatorix took his own life, and did his best to take as much with him as he could. That we survived was more luck than skill, if you ask me."

"And so the circle closes," Erzhal mutters, which has the sound of a poem or some other phrase of significance, but you don't get the chance to so much as react before he continues, "I'm not surprised he decided that if he couldn't live with it, no one else would get to, either."

"A stubborn stain that remains until the cloth is less than rags," Izolsa agrees. "It is good to know that he is dead, and Shruikan also. To set that one free, death was the only option."

Zharai makes the same whistle from earlier, seemingly in agreement.

What do you mean by 'the circle closes'? Thorn asks, tilting his head towards Erzhal to regard him with one eye.

Erzhal looks considering for a moment, and then says, "It's said that when Galbatorix killed his teachers, the dragon of the pair used the last of his life force to lay a curse upon him. May you understand someday what it is you've done, and may it be your undoing."

There's a hint of magic in the words, spoken in the Ancient Language as they are, though there's no obvious spell to them. Instead, you just feel a shiver down your spine - one shared by everyone but Erzhal, if the way the others react is any indication. Even Fausa, previously asleep in Zharai's lap, wakes suddenly and looks around, small white head darting from side to side before it lands suddenly on Thorn and the creature immediately darts away to hide under the skirts he was just sleeping on.

Zharai says, "You've never told me that," before turning her attention to fishing her pet out of her skirts.

Thorn says, When a dragon is taken by the ability to work magic, the results are always potent... All the more so if one invests their entire being into it, I can only imagine. To hear you speak the words, I feel the echo of what that dragon must have felt, even with all involved dead - that spell was powerful indeed.

"Is it possible, though?" you ask. "To change the future by laying down a curse like that?"

Izolsa hmms under her breath. "To change the future is easy," she says, with an air of recitation. "To change the present, difficult. To change the past, impossible."

"That's my line," Erzhal says with a huff. Izolsa just winks at him.

"What it means," she says, "is that to make something happen - or not happen - is a lot easier than changing what is now. The price is less steep, because what will be is not sealed until it is. The cost of changing the past, on the other hand, is the same as the cost of bringing back the dead."

"In other words, it can't be done, and you'll waste your life energy trying," you say, and she nods in response.

"Even the future costs a great deal to change," Erzhal observes. "The more precisely you try to change it, and the sooner you try to put it into action, the more difficult it is. It's not the kind of magic you fool around with."

"So because the curse laid on Galbatorix was so specific, it cost more energy," you say.

"Energy, or something else," Erzhal agrees. "Changing the future - or even the present - is another thing which wish-granters are capable of, to those who can pay the price."

Is it the same as prophecy, or something else? Thorn asks.

"Prophecy is more akin to observing the future," Izolsa says. "Prophecies, in themselves, do not change anything, though they can make the coming-about of the things they foretell easier."

"And the changing of the future harder," Erzhal agrees. "The cost to avoid a prophecied fate is steeper."

"It sounds more complicated than anything I would want to meddle about in," you say. "I'm no prophet and I have no desire to be."

"That's probably the safest option," Erzhal agrees.

"But safest doesn't always mean best," Zharai says, apparently finally catching the wiggling form of Fausa from under her legs and using both hands around his chest to keep him in place. She lifts him in the direction of Thorn's head, and Thorn extends his neck most of the way over the fire to give the ermine a sniff. "Or so you're always saying."

Thorn radiates his most innocent aura towards the expression as he says to the creature, I swear not to eat you unless you climb into my mouth. While you doubt Fausa understands exactly, the power of the Ancient Language does seem to have an impact, as the creature stops trying so hard to escape Zharai's hands and instead twitches his nose at Thorn in return.

"A lesson that I wish you'd internalized less well than you did," Erzhal says with a sigh. "If my hair could go white, it surely would have, and at least half of it would be your fault. But the story is over for now, and that means bed for everyone. You can harass our guests for more details in the morning."

"Panoukh, Patan," Zharai says.

Chapter Text

When you wake, it is with no idea of how long it was you were actually asleep. The house is much darker than you're prepared for, though there is the vague sound of activity from beyond Thorn's wing, which you curled up beneath in lieu of one of the lofts. When you cast your mind about, you find only Thorn and an unfamiliar presence, with an even smaller one accompanying it, that must be Zharai and Fausa.

You drowsily prod Thorn, who replies, Izolsa and Erzhal left in search of lodging that doesn't require magic to be large enough for me. Apparently even for a Shade, the manipulation of space is quite draining.

You sit up and gently nudge Thorn's wing out of your line of vision with one hand. When he pulls it back, it makes very little difference in the amount of light; the house is much dimmer than it was when you went to sleep.

Though you suppose that only makes sense; Urgals are well-known to be able to see better in dim light than humans, and you know that Thorn's vision is superior to yours in that regard as well. Rather than lighting a werelight or enhancing the lanterns that hang around the house, you mutter a complex spell that increases the amount of light that enters your eyes, and then blink a few moments while your vision adjusts.

What you don't expect is that there's a response, which is Zharai saying, "I would have lit another lantern for you, you know," from where she's currently set up at what seems to be the kitchen table. There's a loaf of some kind of bread wrapped in a towel beside her and a trio of jars, one of which is open as she spreads some on the bread. There's a wrap of fabric around her head, hiding most of her hair from view, which matches the skirts peeking out from under the table.

Caught off-guard, you say, "I didn't want to trouble you."

"It's not really trouble," she says. "I just don't like it too bright unless I'm reading."

You stand and come over to the table, surveying what must be breakfast. Rather than fruit preserves, which is what you would have expected from the jars, the open one at least contains some kind of thickened fat, a bit too grainy to be called butter, which Zharai is slathering across her bread immediately before she puts it in her mouth. You take a seat and unwrap the bread to cut yourself some.

"I wouldn't have expected you to know how to read," you say, as carefully as you can. "I suppose I'm more ignorant of Urgal culture than I thought."

"You've met my father, haven't you?" she counters, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. "He 'values education very highly.'" The way she says it has a slightly different rhythm, which sounds strange to your ear, taught as you were that the Ancient Language had to be spoken without an accent and as uniformly and carefully as possible. It's clear that she's quoting someone, though you don't have any idea who that might be.

"That does seem in line with what I know of him," you say. "Truthfully, I cannot say that I know much."

Zharai hms, and then says, "He taught me this language from a young age, well before it was possible to tell if I would be able to use magic or not. I know a little of your language from the south as well, but I am not particularly skilled at it; Patan is the only person in Ghralthek who speaks it fluently."

"That's more languages than I speak," you confess. "He's taught me a little bit of the tongue of the north, but my attempts to communicate in it were... awkward."

To say the least, Thorn says. Fortunately, the Urgal shepherds we encountered were not unwilling to listen when I spoke to them directly.

Zharai covers a laugh by shoving some of her bread into her mouth. You shoot Thorn a brief glare before you turn your attention to the other two jars. One of them, you're relieved to find, has fruit preserves of some variety, sweet-smelling and tangy, and you use the back of a spoon to smear some onto the bread. "Can you use magic, then?" you ask Zharai.

"No," she says once she's swallowed. "I am one of the best... mind-speakers in my generation," she continues, the word makeshift but getting the concept across, "but nothing beyond that. My mother was disappointed, I think."

"Even that is an uncommon talent," you say. "And a useful one."

Zharai nods, but then says, "I think she thought that I would be a magician because I was weaned on it, instead of milk like a normal babe."

"Weaned on magic?" you repeat, your eyebrows raised. Thorn also leans his head towards the table, his curiosity clear for anyone with knowledge of dragon body language.

"I was born early," Zharai starts to explain. "Too early to take milk. Patan sustained me with magic until I was developed enough to take milk and food like a normal babe."

You don't know what to say to that, and hide it by taking a bite of your breakfast. Thorn says, No wonder that Izolsa said that he was a most dutiful father.

"He complains about how my mother tricked him into it," Zharai says, "but he doesn't mean it, really. He just frets over me like a child with their first jiggletooth."

You continue to chew, because - to say that you understand that would be lying, and therefore the words would stick on your tongue. You don't understand what it means to have a father, not really, not except for the scar on your back that still sometimes aches when you think of it. You know who and where it came from, that Morzan found it at the bottom of a bottle and that it nearly killed you, but you can barely recall the man himself. You were just too young when he died, and after that Galbatorix had you cared for by an array of servants sworn to secrecy and as trapped by oaths as the Rider you would become.

Thorn says, Murtagh worried over me much the same when I was a hatchling. He hated to let me out of his sight.

"I don't think Patan did let me out of his sight for the first year of my life," Zharai says. "My aunt has an elf-picture of him with me strapped to his chest."

"Elf-picture?" you repeat. "You mean a fairth?"

"Yes, that!" Zharai says with enthusiasm. "I forget the word, we don't have them here so I barely use it."

"I didn't know anyone but the elves knew how to prepare them," you say. "I've only seen a few - most of them old enough that the pigments were starting to fade."

Zharai nods. "That makes sense," she says. "According to Grandmother, before the Riders' war, the elves used to buy pigment from us to make them. All of the dye-making Ikrash suffered after the war when the Weldenbrazuiv closed their borders."

"Weldenbrazuiv?" you repeat.

"The forest-elves," Zharai says. "That's our word for them."

Your father alluded to there being elves who don't live in Du Weldenvarden, Thorn says. But he wouldn't say anything more.

Zharai pauses, and then bites her lip. "I can't tell you if you don't know," she says. "Sorry. It's a stupid oath, but..."

"But it's still an oath," you finish. "It's fine. I understand."

Some tension that you hadn't consciously realized was there releases from Zharai's shoulders. "Thank you," she says. "I would tell you if I could."

You nod, and say instead, "Is the fairth here? I'd like to see it."

She shakes her head. "It's at my aunt's. Not in the city."

Too bad, Thorn says. A Shade with a baby strapped to his chest would certainly be an image to remember.

"I have another I can show you, at least," Zharai says. "Hold on."

She stands from the table and goes over to another part of the house, near what you assume is Erzhal's space, and hops up to the loft. You take another bite of bread and chew while you wait for her return; it takes long enough that you get most of the way through the slice by the time Zharai makes an exclamation of triumph and pulls something out of a bookshelf.

"Here!" she says, sliding part of the way down the ladder up to the loft and jumping the last two or so feet. "Patan doesn't look at it often these days; I think it makes him too sad." She carries the fairth over to the table and sets it beside your elbow, out of danger of getting food on it.

You lean forward to look. On it are two figures, both appearing human at first glance, but both with red hair, as bright as you think the pigments of the fairth will allow. The shorter is obviously Erzhal, though something about him seems subtly different. The other figure, a full hand taller, is an older human who looks to be in his middle years, with his arm swung over Erzhal's shoulder.

"Patan and my uncle," Zharai says. "Jormun."

You set the last crust of bread down to raise the fairth so that Thorn can see with his own eyes, and say, "Was he also...?"

"He was human," Zharai says. "He asked a magician to change his hair so that it matched Patan's."

Another way in which Erzhal's family is nothing you can understand. And yet, looking at the image, something aches in your chest that you can't explain.

Thorn says, How long ago was this fairth made?

"Long," Zharai answers. "At least twenty years before I was born. Jormun died when I was barely walking, and he was quite old for a human."

"Then, your aunt...?"

"Is his widow," Zharai says. "And Patan's only family aside from me. She was the one who made this." She reaches out to tap the fairth's back with one hand. You nod, lowering it back to set it upon the table.

"Yours is...a complicated family," you say.

"It's simpler than on my mother's half," Zharai says. "My aunt only has one brother to keep track of, and neither of them have children. My mother was one of five children who made it to adulthood, so I have more than a dozen cousins to remember."

"Are all Urgal families so large?" you ask.

"We tend to have either many children or none at all," Zharai replies. "Only two of my mother's siblings had many children, then my uncle sired only one, and my youngest aunt has none at all and is past bearing age now, so I doubt she'll adopt any." Her expression grows a bit more grim, and she adds, "Most families do not have as many children survive their first few years as we have. My grandmother is both a magician and a midwife, and she and Patan have known each other a long time, so we have him to call upon as well when times are difficult. Even before I was born, our Ikrash prospered for knowing him, although he would never admit to being the cause of it."

"That makes sense," you say. You know that it's harder for human infants in more rural areas to survive, out where there are no magicians to help if something goes wrong.

How did they meet? Thorn asks. They do seem to have known each other a long time.

"Longer than my mother's life," Zharai agrees. "But that's a story you should hear from one of them. I'm sure Grandmother would be eager to tell it, if you asked."

"Erzhal said that she was a good storyteller," you say.

"She's the best," Zharai agrees. "Well, except Izukh from the eastern bone-carving Ikrash, but he cheats. A storyteller should only rely on their voice to tell their stories."

How does Izukh cheat, then? Thorn asks, leaning his head forward curiously.

"He has a spell that he uses to make shadows on the wall behind him that act out the story," Zharai says. "It is very good magic, but it makes you want to look at him too much. It's not good for working stories."

"Working stories?" you ask.

"We tell stories while we work with our hands," Zharai says. "There is always work to do, even in the middle of winter. I'm sure someone will find you something to do soon."

This, strangely, you have no objection to. It's almost relieving - if you are to wait out the next few weeks before the solstice in Ghralthek, you find yourself glad for the idea of something to occupy yourself. And at least this way, you won't feel as though you're getting something for nothing while you're here.

"What kind of work do you do during the winter?" you ask, glad for a subject less fraught than family.

"Well, it depends on your Ikrash, and if you're a skilled craftsman," Zharai begins. "And if you're a magician or a Kull. There's some things that are much easier for them to do than the rest of us."

"What do you usually do?" you ask.

That gets you a smile. "Well, I work on the dyes, so I can't tell you all of our secrets," she answers. "But... Well, let me put this back, first, and then I'll explain what I can."

She takes the fairth from the table and tucks it under her arm, returning it to its place on the shelf in the loft. You finish the end of your crust of bread, and gladly let yourself be drawn into a discussion of dyeing methods and dye production, which is a far messier occupation than you expected it to be. It serves as a balm and source of good humor, that you'll know forever that the most expensive dye in the Empire is produced by a bunch of Urgals carving the guts out of snails, and none of the nobles who wear it will have any idea.

----

Eventually, after the conversation has meandered a good number of times and you've agreed to help Zharai with her use of your tongue in exchange for help with your use of hers, Izolsa returns to the house, and says to you, "The Ikrash of south-mount shepherds has agreed to let you lodge at their stable for the winter. The building is a bit far from here, but the price was fair."

"Thank you," you say. "We truly appreciate it."

"A little bribery goes a long way, as I'm sure you understand," Izolsa replies with a wink. "If you're ready, gather your things and I can lead you there now."

You nod, and then say, "Where has Erzhal gone?"

Izolsa laughs. "He's three days late from his usual arrival," she says. "He has much to do, especially since the second phrase of jerky-making starts tomorrow, and he is one of only five people strong enough to manage the load of the hot racks." She pauses, looks you up and down, and then shifts her gaze to Thorn. "Though perhaps not so much this year. Dragon's fire would be a great boon to keeping the smokers going, if you were willing."

If there's a fair share of the meat in it for me, Thorn replies.

"Good answer!" Izolsa says. "Then I will show you to the smokehouses on the way. Zharai, are you feeling well?"

"Well enough," the girl answers. "I just got drawn into the discussion."

Izolsa shakes her head, a fond smile on her face. "Well, I'm sure Khelai and the others are missing you," she says.

"I suppose they are," Zharai says. "Sorry, Murtagh, Thorn, I'd best be going before Khelai assigns me to the melt buckets all winter."

And with that, she dips her head to the two of you and makes for the door - though, of course, there she has to stop and assemble her winter gear, so it's not as quick an exit as it would have been in the south. You don't wait around before starting to pack your own things, securing the blankets over Thorn's wings again, and putting on your own winter gear. You hang Zar'roc over Thorn's saddle again, but hesitate before putting on your skis.

"It isn't that muddy a route," Izolsa says. "You should be fine in just your shoes, though I prefer etoi regardless." In response to your raised brows, she gestures at her feet, which you realize are raised by three inches of wooden platform strapped to the bottom of her winter boots. The platforms are carved, roughly but not without skill, with a pattern of mountains, which you realize after a moment is the view of the Thu'oivor from this, the northern side.

"Clever," you say, meaning it. "I certainly could have used a pair of those in Uru'baen during the rainy season." Not that you had much occasion to find yourself on the public streets - not that you were often allowed on the public streets - but you can see the value in them. They certainly seem superior to the fully wooden clogs that the commonfolk wore around the city and took off before coming indoors.

"Perhaps we'll find you some before you go," Izolsa replies. "Though you may have to suffer a child's size."

You glance down, comparing the size of your feet in boots to hers, and have to bite back a chuckle at the accurate assessment. "A problem for later," you say, looking back up and then over at the large doors. "Will we be letting the heat out, or is it still spelled?"

"Knowing Erzhal, it's still spelled," she says. "It's fortunate that his strength is so great as it is, because he is the only mage I have ever known to be forgetful about what spells he has left hanging in the air."

Thorn snorts his amusement as you hesitantly push the first of the large doors open. Sure enough, there is no rush of cold air outward, the warmed air remaining where it is as though the door had not been opened.

"Such inattention could easily kill a lesser mage," you say. "Wasn't he a magician before becoming a Shade? Surely he knows better."

"He has the habit of listing off all the spells he has running before he goes to sleep," Izolsa says. "But throughout the day, it's absent from his mind unless it becomes too much a strain. I imagine that happened with more frequency when he was human."

"He told me that his teacher disallowed him from doing magic before breakfast," you say. You lean into the door, pushing it further open - there's an inch or so of fresh snow since the night before, which you have to push as well as it piles up behind the door. "Is that related?"

Izolsa nods. "He's prone to forgetting anything he does when he first wakes up entirely. Not the best for spellwork, which I suppose is why his teacher made that rule."

Thorn nudges the other door open with his snout until it's wide enough for him to squeeze through. Did you know him when he was human? he asks Izolsa.

"Oh, no, that was long before my time," she says. "There are none in Ghralthek still alive who knew him as anything other than what he is now, if there were any to begin with."

Thorn hums, but doesn't share his thought process with you, even when you prod at his mind. He instead steps out onto the streets - which are just as alight with lanterns as when you arrived - and shivers slightly against the cold. You follow him out, pushing the doors closed behind you and Izolsa as you go.

"Do you know anything more about his teacher?" you ask.

"She was a great scholar, and not particularly well-liked among her people due to her divisive opinions," Izolsa says. "To hear Erzhal tell it, she considered things that they would rather not have considered, and spoke about them at great length. Aside from that, there is little I can tell you; he does not speak of her often, at least not to me. Zharai may be able to tell you more; the education Erzhal has given her is based on the one he was given, as much as it can be."

"Thank you," you say. "I'll ask her sometime."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you," Izolsa says. "Though you'll have to tolerate her questions in exchange. She gets her curiosity from her father."

You put aside how strangely that comment hits you and instead say, "He didn't strike me as that curious. He's barely questioned us at all."

"That is because he has manners," Izolsa says, "which his daughter is still learning. You do not come to know such a wide and strange variety of things as Erzhal unless you are a deeply curious person. But come, we have places to be."

With that, she sets out past Thorn, leading you down the wider streets where there's little risk of him crushing passerby. You are forced to almost scurry to catch up with her; her steps are confident and her stride is longer than you are used to.

Your mental map of the city is only passing, based on the part of it you saw from above, but you're fairly sure she leads you in the opposite direction from the square where you landed last night. There's no light in the sky save the stars, which makes guessing the time impossible, but the streets are still quite active with Urgals in thick coats going this way and that. Many of them pause in their progress to stare at Thorn; a few greet Izolsa with cheerful shouts and waved arms, and she usually offers a greeting in return.

She leads you towards the edge of the city, where you begin to pick up the smell of animals. If Thorn had ears that could move, you're certain that they would be perked forward.

Are you hungry? you ask him.

I do not need to eat yet, he responds, but it is good to know where the food will be.

True enough, you reply. You turn to Izolsa, but what you intended to ask is drowned out by a sudden chorus of barking dogs, going into full alert mode at the sight of Thorn. The cacophony makes it impossible to hear much of anything.

Well, at least they know a predator when they see one, you say to Thorn.

Pity their barking would be of no use against me, he replies.

Nor their biting, I imagine.

Amidst all of the dog-sound, there is a sudden, much louder bark - you've never heard a wolf bark before, but that is what it must be, as a white creature much larger than the dogs surrounding it stands and shakes snow off itself. The dogs, in turn, go immediately silent, at least so far as barking goes; a few of them whine as the wolf passes them to come to the edge of the dogs' enclosure to observe you.

"Ah," Izolsa says. "Skasir."

You recall the name, and regard the wolf with considerably more wariness as he easily jumps the fence that keeps the dogs contained. The wolf-Shade's fur is pure white, but he is obviously not albino; his nose is a dark grey, and there is black surrounding his eyes, which are the same deep red as Erzhal's rather than the wan pink of albinism. There is a scar across one side of his muzzle where fur does not grow, and another splitting his ear on the same side. The tip of his tail - which would be black on a normal wolf - fades instead to the crimson that you're used to seeing on the crown of human-shaped Shades. As he approaches, it is obvious to you that Skasir, or the wolf he was previously, is scaled to the north in the same way that the Urgals and their buildings are, his shoulders nearly level with yours even if you were to remove the volume of fur that keeps him warm against the snow.

You give a little bow in his direction, mindful of Erzhal's advice to be respectful of Ghralthek's peacekeeper if you should catch his interest. Thorn, too, dips his head in acknowledgement.

The old wolf shakes his shoulders, before he swings his tail just barely from side to side. You feel the touch of a foreign mind on yours, light as the first few snowflakes on your skin, the thoughts melting into words in the same way that the ice crystals turn into water from the heat of your flesh.

Yours has been a long road, Skasir observes. His voice, insofar as it is in words at all, has the ring of an echo, reminding you of a mental version of the way Erzhal's voice grew multilayered in song. There is an aged wisdom to it, which reminds you of the one time in which the older dragons spoke to you directly from the Eldunari. One which leaves bloody footprints behind you. Snow can only do so much to wipe them clean; you must acknowledge the blood if you are to begin removing it.

The words are cryptic, directed to both you and Thorn, but before you can formulate a response, the old wolf tosses his head and adds, No wonder that the pup is so fond of you. He is his teacher's student at heart, attracted to trampled plants to help them grow. With that, he turns his attention from you, approaching Izolsa, who smiles and gives him a brief scratch in the fluff below his split ear, and then continues on until he is nothing more than a blur of white fur against the white snow.

You remain silent until he is past, but then glance at Thorn and send to him, The pup?

Erzhal, no doubt, Thorn replies. It seems that there is one person in Ghralthek who knew his teacher.

But I doubt he'll tell us anything more, you say.

Agreed. That creature is far closer to a force of nature than the Shades we have encountered thus far. Then Thorn continues, musing, I wonder if that is what encountering wild dragons was like, when they still existed. The knowledge that the being you stand before is perfectly capable of biting you in two, but lacks any interest in doing so at the moment.

You don't sound particularly frightened, you observe.

I grew up under the shadow of Shruikan's wings, Thorn says. A creature that has no desire to harm me, and is not fickle in it, is nothing to fear, in comparison.

Fair enough, you send. You turn your attention outward, to Izolsa, and say, "I am surprised he tolerated being pet like a common animal."

"He has some fondness for our kind," she replies. "If he did not, he would have left long since, rather than allow children and pups to pull on his ears and climb on him as they do. And every being appreciates a touch of comfort now and again."

You cannot well argue with that. Instead you say, "Did you hear what he said to us?"

Izolsa shakes her head. "If he offered you advice, I would suggest you take it," she says. "He rarely involved himself with individuals, and even more rarely with outsiders."

"His advice was... cryptic," you say.

"It often is," Izolsa agrees. "Consider yourself lucky if it was in words."

Thorn snorts. One of the dogs, now that Skasir is no longer present to intimidate them, risks barking at him just once. Thorn swings his head in the dog's direction, and it whines before backing down.

Izolsa leads you onward, past a couple of buildings where a large number of utuur are gathered, to a set of building with open walls that are visible from a great distance, on account of the massive cookfires that are set all through it. Smoke billows from the roof in multiple places, and there's an atmosphere of liveliness and the scent of slow-cooking meat, along with another like burning grass that you can't identify. Entire carcasses - mostly utuur - turn on racks over the fires, arranged in a complex pattern that puts four of them over the same fire.

Most of the people inside are Kull, with a few regular Urgals scattered throughout and - when you stop to get a sense of their minds - Erzhal somewhere near the middle, where the largest fires are. At his height - barely up to the chests of the Kull - you suppose it's not surprising that he disappeared into the crowd. No matter how you try, you can't see even a glimpse of red hair.

Thorn says, I do believe I could assist with that, in fact.

"They turn at all hours, this time of year," Izolsa says. "Things will slow down in a few weeks until the end of winter, when the hunters return, but we smoke meat all winter."

"Surely you don't have enough wood for that," you say. The trees you've seen since crossing the ridge are few and not particularly tall.

Izolsa chuckles. "No, we use utuur droppings. For most of our fires, but especially for this."

That explains the smell. You hm but don't say anything.

Thorn says, Nothing goes to waste here.

"Not a thing," Izolsa agrees, sounding proud. "But come, we can get you introduced tomorrow. Much as I'd like to stick around, I do have other tasks for the day."

"Of course," you say. "We appreciate your time."

"Don't be so stiff," she says, before turning back off down the street, at an angle this time from the street you approached on.

You soon realize that the streets aren't quite squared off in many parts of this district - rather, the buildings, if viewed from above, would be a series of hexagons with a few triangles and squares thrown in. The hexagonal buildings are generally the larger ones, with roofs coming to a single high peak coated in snow. The lanterns are different colors, too - you're seeing green ones for the first time.

Eventually, Izolsa leads you to what's clearly the same sort of stable as beside the lodge, though this one has full walls and is much larger in every dimension. "Erzhal said that he would be by later with some furs and other proper things to make it more like a home," she says, "but let's see what we can do for the time being."

She flicks her one hand and adds a slightly snappy, "Open," which sends the two doors swinging wide enough for... Well, at least a half-dozen utuur to enter, side by side with space to spare. For Thorn, it requires a bit of ducking, but it's not so low that he has to lower himself to his belly, which is the best you suppose you could have hoped for.

You follow after Thorn, but don't bother kicking off your boots. Though the floor's been scraped and there's no obvious mounds of droppings or dirt, it's far from clean.

You lift a wide broom that's honestly too large for you from a corner near the door and say, "I think I've found how I'm spending the rest of the day."

Thorn and Izolsa both snort. "Well, at least the labor will keep you warm until someone can bring you the materials for a fire," she says. "If you can handle it from here for a bit, however, I should really be going. There's a man who needs a tooth pulled today, and I hate having to reach into other people's mouths."

You shiver, not because of the cold, and say, "For that, I can't blame you. Thank you, again."

"Count it not," she replies, and then pauses and says, "Hmm. That doesn't translate well, either. But it is worth it to see Erzhal's wandering have a direction again. I have seen him grow lost, this last decade, as Zharai needed him less and less."

You raise your eyebrows. "He seems to me to be someone who knows exactly where he's going, to me."

Izolsa chuckles, and says, "If you're walking in circles to the same places, when you know what you seek isn't there, isn't that the same as being lost?" When you don't have an immediate response, she continues, "Other than Zharai, I know not what has kept him in the north, but he is not suited to it no matter how he may pretend otherwise. Though it would grieve us all, I hope that when you decide to return to the south, that you take him with you."

You stare at her for a moment. Thorn bends his head towards her, and says, That's up to Erzhal in the end, isn't it?

"It is," Izolsa says. Her gaze drifts downward slowly as she continues to speak. "But with how long he has been away, I am sure that he will think himself unwelcome - even putting aside that your lands view the spirit-taken in a radically different light. As someone who calls him friend, it would mean a great deal if you were to ensure that at least two people in your land of Alagaesia would welcome him with open arms."

You can only nod to that - you can make no promises to her, but cannot bring yourself to deny what is obviously a genuine request, either. Best say nothing at all.

When she's left, you turn to Thorn and say, "He is not the only one who has reason to find himself unwelcome in Alagaesia."

What did he do, I wonder, Thorn says, that being a Shade is not the only reason for that?

You hold that thought in your mind, now that Thorn has called it to your attention, but you have no answers - only an exceptionally dirty floor and the work required to clean it. With a sigh, you set about it.

Chapter Text

You sweep the worst of the dirt out what seems to be the back door, working up a sweat under your layers, while Thorn does his best to assist, which primarily means staying out of your way. Then you scour the floor as much as you feel safe doing with magic, stripping ground-in dirt away that would take hours of scrubbing in only a few moments.

It's exhausting work, but when you're able to dump the dirt outside on the snow, it's incredibly satisfying. You've handled the floor itself and are moving on to the trio of braziers - you'll likely only need the central one, but being thorough never hurts - when you feel a flick against your mind.

Open the doors we brought food! is tossed against your mind, the words rapid-fire. You don't recognize the mind initially, but Thorn huffs.

That would be Zharai, he contributes helpfully.

You hum, and then make your way over to open the door. Zharai leads the way inside, barely visible under the combination of her coat and the furs and blankets piled in her arms and over her shoulders, only enough of her face visible that she will be able to see. Behind her follows a Kull man with a set of wooden blocks wrapped in leather and dotted with snowflakes, with a leather bag slung over his shoulders. You stare at the outside, where the snow is just starting to fall, before you shut the door quickly.

(Not that much heat has built up in the structure yet, but the air is slightly warmer for your exertions and Thorn's presence, and you'd like to save what heat you can.)

"Thank you!" Zharai says. She approaches Thorn before dropping her armload at his feet. "We brought a bed, bedding, and enough zaril to last a few days."

You have your suspicions as to what zaril is, which are confirmed after the Kull puts his armful down and slings the pack off his back. The distinct odor of dried dung makes your nose crinkle as soon as he opens it.

Still, you're not one to complain, so you say, "Thank you. Who is your companion?"

"This is my brother, Lethykr," Zharai replies. "He is a house-builder, so I asked him to come look at the roof vents."

Sure enough, his burdens settled, Lethykr is making sure the levers to lift the smoke vents in the roof work properly. The first goes perfectly fine, but the second of the three makes a horrible shrieking noise of metal on metal when he tries to move it. All four of you wince at the sound.

"Thank you," you say. "Though I confess I'm surprised at his occupation."

Zharai chuckles. "I can guess. It's true that most Kull wind up hunters and warriors, even this far north, but there are plenty of other jobs that are easier for Kull than others."

Almost as punctuation to his sister's comments, Lethykr raps his knuckles, hard, on one of the massive beams that stands upright to support the roof. "Moving this," he says, his grasp of the Ancient Language clearly awkward but enough to get the point across. "Most can't."

You look up and down the beam, which is as wide across as your shoulders, and say, "A good point," as clearly and simply as you can.

"Summer is the best season for building, so he lives in the city year-round," Zharai elaborates. "It is not as glamorous as hunting, but it is steady and secure and requires much thoughtfulness." She looks smugly proud, for which her brother says something to her in a language that is neither the Ancient Language nor the common language of the north that you've heard thus far. From the sounds you're able to pick out, it's probably the Urgal language of the north; it certainly sounds similar to the names of people and places you've heard so far.

Zharai shoots back a reply in the same language and kicks her brother in the heel with one foot. You see that she's wearing similar wooden-bottomed shoes to what Izolsa was wearing before, though Zharai's have far simpler carvings, just a braid pattern around the upper edge of the platform. Lethykr is wearing plain leather boots, and grunts, barely audibly, at the impact.

You clear your throat and raise your eyebrows at the two of them. Lethykr says, "She is flattering me."

"He is being bashful because his lover is with child and won't confirm that it is his," Zharai says. There's no verbal response to this comment, but Lethykr's greyish skin turns a distinctly redder shade and he kicks at Zharai's heel in turn.

Experiences we would never get in Alagaesia, you send to Thorn wryly. Seeing an Urgal blush because his younger sister is annoying him.

Perhaps we should rescue him, Thorn replies.

Hm. I suppose I could be merciful. You clear your throat, and say, "What was that about food?"

"Oh, right, of course," Zharai says, and she sets about digging in her bag while Lethykr takes the frame of the bed and begins to assemble it. The wood pieces fit together cleverly; distracted as you are, you aren't sure that you could re-assemble it without guidance, much less create such a thing. Thorn, however, pays acute attention, leaning forward enough to hang his head over the process, which doesn't seem to bother Lethykr at all.

You help Zharai with the meal without being asked, cutting the meat and an unfamiliar root vegetable into chunks, along with an onion (Zharai teaches you a ward against the tear-inducing fumes of it, which she learned from her father but can't cast herself). After the resulting soup has been simmering a while, Zharai dumps a bundle of almost black, dried plant matter into it, which thickens up with the water almost immediately.

You take a sniff. It smells of the ocean, not the wide open parts but the shoreline after a storm when all the sea grass that washed ashore has started to rot. It's less unpleasant than you would have expected. By the time it's finished, Lethykr has finished assembling the bed, such as it is, with one skin strung tightly across the frame like a cot, fur side down, and then a number of blankets and another skin on the top.

You thank them both and the three of you share the meal before they leave; Zharai insistently leaves you the pot of leftovers for the morning, which you can hardly refuse. The stock of food you keep in Thorn's saddlebags, normally enough for a fortnight or so, has grown slim from traveling without stopping.

Then you lie down and almost immediately fall asleep.

----

The next morning, you wake, and accompany Thorn to the smokehouses, figuring you may as well put yourself to work there. You quickly learn that even as much as you expected physical labor, it's hotter and sweatier than you expected, the fires keeping things hot enough that you sweat even when you aren't hard at work turning the racks of meat. You see Erzhal, physically, mostly in flashes between larger bodies, visible by red hair pinned into a bun high on the back of his head and a worn vest that isn't much less red in spite of its obvious age. It is quickly obvious that he performs some of the more dangerous work in the smokehouse, often darting directly into the fires in order to adjust this or that rack or piece of meat, his smaller size compared to the Urgals an advantage rather than an impediment.

(You wind up doing similar tasks yourself, being also smaller than the average Urgal and able to ward against the heat of the flames for a limited period, but it's mostly enough in those first few days to show you that you have no idea what you're doing.)

Mentally, however, he's a fairly consistent presence, helping to translate this or that comment for you, for few of the Urgals can speak the Ancient Language and they certainly don't gossip in it. The smokehouse is around twice as many women as men, but gender does not seem to be a distinguishing factor in the work. Almost all of the Kull who work the largest racks, the ones that hold the full carcasses of uutur bulls, are women, and many of them work completely topless, which rapidly ceases to be distracting. You reach a point where you only even notice when you break for lunch, though you keep to a thin linen vest yourself, one you've had no occasion to use in several months. Drenched in sweat, you can't be sure that it completely covered your scar, but it's at least enough that no one has called attention to it.

The two days following, you go and do the same, and you return sore but satisfied at the work. It is not exactly simple, but you feel as though you've made a difference, and picked up at least a bit of new knowledge in exchange, even if your vocabulary has mostly expanded by the names of herbs and spices and differing ways to say that you've burned yourself on hot coals or the iron of the racks.

The fourth day, you wake on your cot in pain, your back seizing in protest to the heavy labors of the last three, and you know that today is going to be a bad day.

You curl up with a groan, drawing Thorn's attention, and he noses carefully at your back before saying, I will tell them you've taken ill for the day.

There's no need for that, you attempt to protest. It isn't that bad.

It's not the worst pain your back has given you, by far.

But it will grow worse if you don't rest, Thorn replies. So you will rest. There is no room for argument in his tone; it's as good as an order.

You groan again and respond in a quiet tone of thought, They'll think less of me. That I'm broken.

Thorn snorts, a faint scent of smoke filling the air even though none is visible. You're being ridiculous. The only one who finds shame in the limitations of your body here is you. These are a kind people, and more understanding than humans.

You don't respond to that directly; you don't know what kind of response you're supposed to have. It's true enough that you've seen, by this point, a number of Urgals with injuries that would reduce humans in the other cities you've been in to beggars. There's a pair who work one of the outermost fires at the smokehouse who cannot hear, who sign at each other and at some of the other Urgals with their hands. Logically, you can understand that it is different here.

But things like that have never been different for you. And why should they be now, when you are here as an outsider?

Thorn nudges your side with his snout. The pressure helps, at least for a moment. ...Thank you, you finally send him.

Rest. Perhaps get through more of that book of yours, Thorn suggests. I'll take care of the talking for you.

"You make it sound like you like it," you grumble aloud, before huffing and pushing yourself, carefully, upwards and out of your bed. "At least let me get the door for you. It's difficult to work the bar without hands."

I could manage. But Thorn allows you to do so, his head hovering directly behind you in case the ache in your back develops into a true attack and he has to catch you. After he exits, he carefully pushes the doors closed again by pushing his head against them. The exteriors probably have marks from the scrape of his horns, now.

You don't bother to bar the door again, instead making your way back to the bed beside the fire pit and slumping into it. You'd prefer an armchair, or something else with a back that you could sit in comfortably, but you don't have anything like that in your makeshift home yet and now is not a good time to go ask, so you just make a note to yourself to try to prioritize it for the morrow.

Or the day after, if it takes that long for the ache in your back to abate. Short of using magic to numb the sensation in it entirely, which will do more harm than good over the long run, there's nothing else you can do. You did have to go into battle with it seizing like this, at one point, and when you returned sensation to it, you were in such pain that you were bedridden for three days. You can remember that Galbatorix was displeased, but for all of his power there was little even he could do for such an injury, one that had grown up with you in the very shape of your body.

"It's a pity," he'd lament, standing in your doorway, wearing the face of false kindness he so often did when he hadn't decided that cruelty was what he needed to keep you in line. "I knew a boy in the Riders, a fellow student some years younger than I, who was well on his way to becoming a master of flesh-reshaping magicks. If he had lived, I'm sure that by this point in his life, he would be able to do something for your back. Alas, I know little of the subject myself."

The melancholy in his voice as he spoke of this other student - a similar but slightly different tone to the one he used to speak of your father and some of the other Forsworn, the ones that Galbatorix actually cared something for - was the only thing that stood between you and the belief that he was merely making excuses for not helping you. Galbatorix did not speak of the other Riders often, and even more rarely of any who weren't among the triumphs of his rebellion against them. Even in your haze of pain at the time, you took notice.

He numbed the pain for long enough for you to eat a meal and keep it down, after. You remember falling upon it like a starving man, but you know that you would have eaten every bite even if the pain hadn't been persistently at the point of nausea for two days. One did not refuse the King's kindness, on the rare occasions that he had any to spare.

You grimace, and dismiss the thought of those days as thoroughly as you can, lifting Errors in the Era of the Riders from the saddlebag nearest the bed and dropping it onto the bed so you can curl up with it properly. A few of Erzhal's things are still in the saddlebags, you realize - mostly inconsequential things, but the round glass mirror is there, carefully wrapped in a rabbit skin and tied with twine.

You lift that from the saddlebag as well, unfolding the skin in order to get a proper look at your reflection. You hardly looked at it when you scryed Eragon, so you may as well look now; Erzhal's observation about your beard comes drifting up from the back of your mind like an old ache itself.

You can't say that it's entirely inaccurate - not that you have any fully formed memories of Morzan's face, only vague flashes, but you've seen enough portraits and other images of him to have a good idea. Your brows and cheekbones are indeed similar, though the shape of the lower part of your nose is a bit wider, presumably from your mother's family. You try to remember what Eragon looked like when you first met, to compare the two in your mind, but you can only call to mind his renewed, near-elven visage.

Finding yourself slightly disturbed by that thought, you turn the mirror slightly and push your hair back from your ear. Human Riders are supposed to grow more elf-like as they age, perhaps in place of grey hairs and the signs of real aging that the immortality of a bond with a dragon has stripped you of. No matter how you look, at least for the moment, you don't seem to look any less human than you did when you bonded to Thorn, though.

(Well, as far as you can tell. You do look a bit more gaunt, but that's easy to write off as the result of hard travel on hard rations; you don't think that it's a feature of the Rider transformation so much as just the reality of living as a Rider without a home to return to.)

As you start to re-cover the mirror, you feel a nudge against your scrying wards. Though they hold, you jerk your head up in alarm; the feeling of whoever is attempting to scry you is vaguely familiar, but you can't place it. It certainly isn't Eragon.

You're on the edge of informing Thorn when you're filled with the sudden conviction - wrought of magic, the same spell which you used to contact Eragon - that the person seeking your attention is Arya. You raise your eyebrows at nothing and send those thoughts off to Thorn instead.

Most unusual, he agrees. Do you think Eragon has contacted her already?

It's possible, I suppose, you say. The two of them are certainly close.

Should I return? Thorn asks.

Perhaps, but do not hurry, you send. Though I suppose I should speak to her, there's no need for you to stop what you're doing as well.

Thorn is silent for a moment, and then says, I will remain here for the time being, then. Give her my regards.

You nod physically as well as mentally, before you brush the mirror clean and attempt to find a comfortable position in which to speak to it. This is somewhat easier said than done, but fortunately, Arya won't be able to see any of your surroundings, so she will remain ignorant of the fact that you speak to her image on a tiny mirror hanging from a spit rack dragged out of the fire pit. (Your back protests both this and the fact that you slide your bed against a support column so that you can lean against something as you speak to her.)

When you're as comfortable as you're going to get, you dispel your wards with a word and then scry upon her in turn. She looks a bit windblown, as though she's been travelling herself and has only just settled down for the day, though the lighting on her face implies that she's inside rather than out. It's nowhere you've been before, at least, the background behind her a sheer white that almost hurts your eyes.

You greet her formally, proud of yourself for not stumbling over the elven greeting that you've only used once or twice in your life, and she returns the greeting with a small smile. Beyond that, you're not sure what to do; though you know her well enough to recognize her, you hardly are familiar with Arya, except for the weight of her body suspended beneath Saphira.

Fortunately, you're saved that part of the exchange, because Arya immediately begins the conversation with, "You look well, Murtagh. Wherever it is you've gone, it seems to be treating you well."

You're half-surprised, but also grateful, that she doesn't continue the conversation in the Ancient Language. It allows you to lie and say, "I have no complaints at the moment," since if she hasn't noticed your pain, you're certainly not going to tell her about it.

(You've gotten good at putting on a diplomatic face in spite of pain, of all kinds.)

"I heard that you went far to the north," she says. "Is that true?"

"It is," you say, and then, "I take it you haven't spoken to Eragon yet. He and I spoke only a few days ago; I assumed that was the reason behind your scry."

Arya's eyes are a different shape entirely from those of a human, but they react the same way to show her surprise before she shakes her head. "No, I've not had reason to call upon Eragon in some weeks, though I was going to do so soon. Is it anything I should be concerned about?"

You have no idea how Arya, or any elf, might react to what you've learned of Shades, much less that you're presently keeping company with one, so you elect to leave that particular revelation to Eragon's mouth and superior knowledge of elven culture. Instead you say, "Nothing so pressing that it cannot wait, though there are a few questions I might ask of you if you've the time to spare. I'm more interested in why you've contacted me, if not for that."

"It is on the behalf of another," she says, and in response to whatever question she sees on your face, continues, "But it can wait a moment. What is it you ask of me?"

You say, "It's about some information I've come across in the north. The first, I suppose, is whether there are any elves who live outside of Du Weldenvarden."

At that, Arya's expression goes a bit dark, and she bites at the inside of her lip. "That is not knowledge one comes across by chance," she says. "I'm afraid it's a question I cannot answer for you."

"You cannot?" you repeat. "For lack of knowledge or some other reason?"

At that, Arya stops biting her lip, and instead a bit of mischief alights in her eyes. "It is a thing that cannot be spoken of except to those who already know of it," she replies.

Information that she only holds back because of oath, then. You nod your understanding, and say, "Thank you for the information," in your most politely ambiguous use-at-court voice, which only makes it all the clearer that Arya is trying very hard to not smile.

"Is there anything else you wished to ask?" she says.

"Have you ever heard the name 'Teana' before?" you ask, figuring that you may as well proceed down the list.

Arya hums, and then says, "It is not unfamiliar to me, but I don't think I have heard it in a long time, and could not place who it belongs to. Is there anything more you can tell me about this person?"

"It seems she was a stablemaid in Ilirea at some point," you reply. "Before Galbatorix overthrew the Riders, most likely."

"It would have to be," Arya agrees. "Teana... It is not an elven name, I can tell you that much. I do not believe it to be the name of one of the human Riders, either, though I am far from knowing all of them."

"Well, that's a point in the right direction, at least," you say. "I asked Eragon to look into it if he has a chance, but he seems to be quite busy these days, so I thought I may as well ask."

Arya's face softens. "Busy is certainly one way to put it," she says. "'Overwhelmed' may be a better word, truth be told. I would offer him my assistance, but I am limited by the frequency with which I must travel between the forest and Ilirea, and even so far south as Surda and Farthen Dur. Still, I shall look into the matter myself."

"There's no need to extend yourself on my behalf," you say.

"It is no trouble," Arya replies. "A great deal of my time among my own people is spent in a state some might refer to as 'hurry up and wait.' Elves are not wont to hurry if they don't desire to do so, after all."

"So I've heard," you say, "but I cannot speak from experience as to whether that's true."

"There will be plenty of time for you to experience it if you should ever decide to visit us," Arya says and then after a pause, continues, "I admit, you've piqued my curiosity as well. I cannot imagine what relevance a presumably-human stablemaid from before the Fall of the Riders could have to anything so far in the north."

"In that case, I would appreciate anything that you're able to discover," you say. "What about Errors in the Era of the Riders?" You pronounce the title in the Ancient Language, carefully.

"I'm surprised that you had not heard of that one," Arya returns. "Given that..."

She glances away for a moment, and then leans in to inspect your face closely in whatever surface - presumably a mirror - she's using to scry you. "Though it predated his birth, I would be deeply shocked if Galbatorix was not intimately familiar with the title," she says. "Irvetsuni and Zraihe were his teachers when he was first trained among the Riders."

You feel something of a chill run up your spine. "He never spoke of them," you say. "Not in any detail, at least. And he never named them to me."

"He killed them when they refused to join forces with his rebellion," Arya says. "It was a great loss to the Riders, one of the first of significance - in some ways it was the opening blow of the war, which brought his activities into the open, though of course Shruikan had been stolen more than a year before that."

You nod, and say, somewhat haltingly, "He was not wont to speak of that time often - nor the past in general. It was the present and future that concerned him far more."

"Few elves are much inclined to speak of it, either," Arya says. "I was barely a child at the time, so I cannot say that I have many clear memories from back then. Irvetsuni sent me a birth-gift, which I still have, but a child's charm of unbreakable glass tells me little of who she was as a person."

"Well, it gives me a great deal to think on, at any rate," you say. "And a very different lens through which to read her words."

"You've come across an actual copy of the book?" Arya says. "They are few and far between - many of our people blamed Irvetsuni for the sins of her students. If a dead woman could be a pariah, she certainly meets the definition."

"Students?" you repeat.

"Aye," Arya says. "Galbatorix was among the last of her students, but Raimizhre of the Forsworn was the first."

You're sure that your expression darkens at that, but you do your best to reveal little of your thoughts. Not only Galbatorix, but one of his followers as well - and the one who herself came to the north, no less. For Erzhal to have both the student's blade and the teacher's book in his possession...

You can feel the pieces almost aligning, but you do not have time to turn them about properly right now, not with Arya watchful on the other end of a scrying mirror. You'll relate the information to Thorn and between the two of you see what you can decipher later.

"Well, that is the exhaustion of the list of things that your knowledge might assist me in at the moment," you say. "Who is it that wishes to speak to me? I can scry them instead, if you're willing to leave your end of the spell in their care, since I assume that it is not a magician who wishes to speak to me."

"Indeed, she is not," Arya says. "However, you would not be able to scry her as it is - the two of you have never met."

You raise your eyebrows as high as they will go in the direction of the mirror. "Oh?"

For all your feigned nonchalance, that makes you nervous; you trust Arya at the very least enough to not expose you to a stranger who she does not trust, but that does not mean that the person who wishes to speak to you is someone who is themselves worthy of your trust. You'll have to be on your guard.

"I will teach you a spell that will allow you to see anything that is reflected in this mirror," Arya says. "It is somewhat more draining than the usual scrying spell, and cannot be done if the other person's scrying surface is not a mirror, but it should be well within your abilities."

You nod, and she recites a few words in the Ancient Language. You repeat them, and then when she nods, you end your scry and begin it again with the differing incantation.

The image resolves again, somewhat more slowly, into Arya once more; it is subtly different, however, and it takes you a moment to realize that it is because the image of the elven woman has been reversed. You are seeing Arya from the perspective that she herself would see looking into a mirror. Behind her, you can see now the walls of what seems to be a farmhouse pantry, with jars, clay pots, and small casks stacked on shelves around her.

"Got it," you say.

Arya nods, and then says, "Then I will fetch her. One moment." She stands, revealing that the mirror she was using is only at about her waist level, and steps out of view.

You hope it won't be too long, because the spell is indeed more draining than normal scrying. You touch your mind to Thorn's, briefly, and he lends you some of his strength before saying, I am most curious as to who would wish to speak to you.

As am I, you say. But it seems I will soon have my answer.

Because at that very moment, a set of worn skirts have come into view, which their owner smoothes down with work-worn hands before she sits in the seat that Arya occupied a moment ago. She is a young woman, between you and Eragon in age, with reddish brown hair and warm, if not especially fine, features.

She gives a seated curtsey, as much as she is able, before saying, "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. Arya said that you were more likely to ignore her than to respond, and that even then you may not wish to speak with me."

"I do not have such quarrel with Arya as to refuse her call," you say, "but she did not inform me as to who it was that requested to speak with me. What is your name, and who are you that Arya would contemplate doing such a favor for you?"

"Ah," she says, and fidgets for a moment, before continuing, "My name is Katrina, daughter of Ismira, and wife to Roran Stronghammer, your cousin."

"...Ah," you say in reply, lost for any words to say at all.

Chapter Text

Katrina, the wife of Roran Stronghammer.

The entire Empire has heard of her, of course. The woman worth crossing the Empire for, in both senses of the word 'crossing.' As many images as exist of her husband, actual visuals of Katrina were rare, at least on the side of the war that you were on. She may be the second-best known human woman in the world (after, of course, Nasuada), but there are few who would recognize her on the street.

You suppose that you're one of them, now. You commit her face to memory, searching it for some indication of how she feels about you, but all you can find is a sort of shy awkwardness over a layer of determination. No malice, no ill-will.

You recover yourself, and say, "I cannot say that you are a person I would have ever expected to desire to speak to me," and it's more bitter than you really intended it to be.

(But how could it not be? Roran was certainly a capable enough man, and if he and Katrina truly make each other as happy as the stories say, then more power to them. But that Eragon has more love for his cousin and his cousin's bride than he does for you is no secret and takes no genius to notice.)

Katrina's expression softens, just slightly, as she says, "Well, you are my family, are you not?"

"I don't know," you say. "I've never spoken a word to your husband, either. I can't imagine that he would ever desire to speak to me; I've little doubt that he hates me as much as any other person who fought for the Varden."

"Perhaps that is so," Katrina says. "But Roran's opinions are not mine, and I know he is quick to judge those who he thinks have harmed those he cares for. Fortunately, I do not find myself in need of his permission for something such as this."

You frown at the mirror. "I am not worth going behind your husband's back for, either."

"It is a matter on which I will bring him around in time," Katrina answers. "However, my time on this is somewhat limited," she glances down, towards her stomach, "and Arya is the only magic-user to whom I might make this request. So when she chanced to stop in Carvahall on her way to the Urgal villages in the Spine, I took the opportunity as it was given to me."

"If he is half as stubborn as Eragon, and by all accounts he is more so, I doubt Roran will change his opinions on me that easily," you say.

Katrina lifts her head, firming up her shoulders, and says, "It was my father who betrayed Carvahall to the Empire. If Roran can hold me in his mind separate from my father, then he can hold you separately from yours, and I intend to make him see that, no matter how long it takes."

For a moment, you're stunned into silence. Then you say, "It's different."

"It is not," Katrina says firmly. "You are no more responsible for your birth than I am. Morzan was an evil man, but you are not he; and from what I have heard of you, you fight his legacy as best you can, even when no one believes it of you. So long as I have a home in Carvahall, so shall you and your dragon, as members of my family, and if you are not welcome here, then neither am I."

She sucks in a deep breath and says, eyes locked on yours even through the medium of the scrying mirror, "This I swear, on the name of my mother."

It's among the most serious oaths someone like her - who doesn't speak the Ancient Language, who is nothing more than a woman from a backwater mountain village that got dragged into a grand destiny - can swear. You cannot conceal your shock - it numbs everything for a moment, even the pain of your back. Feeling returns slowly, and the feeling that returns is difficult to name, simply because there is so much of it.

Murtagh? Thorn sends, probing your mind with gentle concern. You send him back a lopsided reassurance, words failing you on all fronts, and receive a surge of affection in return.

You aren't sure when you started crying, but you become aware of it when a tear trickles into your beard. It itches. You reflexively reach up to wipe them away with the back of your sleeve.

"I don't know what to say," you say. "I am undeserving of such an oath, and the welcome your home would give me. We are not even family by blood."

"I have no family by blood left," Katrina says. "My father was an only son, my mother a second daughter whose sister followed her to the grave five years ago, with no husband and no children. Roran's family is the only family I have, and I will not consign half of it to be ignored without giving you a chance. I chose him, and his family, and that means choosing all of it, even the parts he would prefer not to acknowledge."

You still don't know how it is you're supposed to react, so you say, "Well, it is clear that you have the spine of steel needed to survive in it."

Katrina's expression brightens, not quite a full smile but still something warmer. "Would that I had less need of it," she says. "But I did not wish to speak to you to complain of the difficulties of a butcher's daughter who finds herself a noble lady. I wished to ask a boon from you, truth be told."

"Name it." There is no other response you can properly give. "If it is within my power..."

Katrina truly smiles at that. "It is no great service," she says. "It is simply... Roran and I are expecting our second child." She cups her hand over her stomach again, smiling down at it, and you feel your mouth make a little oh. "Roran does not wish to name children for either of his parents, and we already named our first daughter for my mother. He wishes to seek Eragon's blessing, if the child is a girl, to name her Selena."

"Our mother," you acknowledge quietly, and Katrina nods.

"It sat ill with me," she says, "to seek the blessing of one of Selena's sons and not the other. It is nothing more and nothing less than that."

To her, perhaps it truly is that simple. For you -

(Have you ever been Selena's son before Morzan's, before? To anyone?)

For you it is a tangled knot, but you need not untangle it to say, "Yes. Of course you have my blessing. I am honored beyond measure that you would even ask."

"It would be cruel otherwise," Katrina says. "And it seems to me that you have experienced enough cruelty."

You consider that, consider for a moment the resentment that would fill you if you had come across the child without this conversation, and finally say, "Nonetheless. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

Katrina smiles, and says, "Arya tells me that you have gone far to the north, beyond the borders of Alagaesia. I would not presume to know if you plan to return, but - if you ever should, I should like for you to meet the child, be they born Selena or otherwise."

You hesitate. Thorn nudges against the back of your mind - he has been paying a great deal more attention to your conversation since you were first put off-balance - and says, Speak the words. It is not a commitment that you cannot keep.

So you say, "If it is ever that we return to Alagaesia, it is to you and yours that we will pay our first visit."

"Good," Katrina says. "We do not use that dragonhall nearly enough, for how much effort it took to build."

You're startled into chuckling. "I'm sure Thorn will give it due appreciation," you say. "We live in a repurposed stable at the moment, and it is barely of a size for him."

"He is even larger than Saphira, yes?" Katrina says. "I had heard that was the case."

"It is," you say. "Though it will not matter much before long - he is only sized as though he were a few years her senior, and the growth of dragons slows a great deal around the end of their fifth year. Eventually it will take careful measuring to tell the difference."

"Thank goodness for that," Katrina says. "It is mind-boggling to imagine anything larger than she is, though Firnen is nearly larger than she was the last time I saw her."

"Has Eragon not visited you since he left to establish the new order of the Riders?" you ask. "I know that much requires his attention, but surely not so much that the flight on dragonback is too great. Especially for Saphira - she's a stronger flier than Thorn or, from what I've heard, any other dragon."

Katrina's face falls. "To hear Eragon tell it," she says, "it is his fate to leave Alagaesia and never return. Certainly, no amount of convincing from even the combined voices of Roran, Nasuada, and myself can tempt him to even consider it."

You frown. You do not say, That seems like him, to abandon his family when something more important demands his attention, but you are not so generous a soul that you do not think it. It is simply that you do not think it would win any favors from Katrina for her to hear, and you are still too shocked by her decision to acknowledge you as family to risk losing it.

Instead you say, "Then we will surely have to visit, if Eragon is neglecting his responsibilities to our family." The word 'our' feels strange on your tongue. You aren't sure if it belongs there.

Katrina smiles. "I will look forward to it," she says. "Though perhaps not for a few months - I imagine it will take that long to bring Roran around to the idea, though the rest of the village should follow his lead once I have. It may not be a grand welcome, but by spring I should be able to ensure at least that you aren't run out of town."

"It would be a month even were we to set out at this very moment," you say. "And the business we have here in the north will occupy us until midwinter at least. Likely we'll stay until spring comes; I don't fancy travelling in this winter any more than I must."

Katrina nods. "Carvahall has become closed off from the world for the winter as well," she says. "It has set in early this year. Arya is the only visitor we can expect until spring - on dragonback is the only way to get over the passes."

"It's too cold here even for that," you say. "Without magic to warm them, Thorn's wings freeze in the air if he flies."

Katrina shivers, apparently involuntarily. "I can hardly imagine such a cold," she says. "Being on dragonback was chill enough with the wind, and that was just across Alagaesia in a warmer season."

You wonder idly what circumstances brought her to flying, though you suppose Saphira would likely have had no objections to bearing her and Roran. Instead you say, "I wouldn't have imagined it either, and yet people live here just the same. The sun hasn't properly risen in a week and won't again until spring; the sky is the lighter colors of dawn for a few hours each day at most."

"Oh," Katrina says. She's leaning forward slightly now, attention locked on you. "That sounds... It may seem odd to say, but it sounds as though it's beautiful."

You say, "It is, a bit. The snow glitters at all hours, and even the sea is frozen over. I think you would appreciate it better than I, being from the mountains."

Katrina laughs a little. "That's true, I'd forgotten that you grew up in the south. Did it ever snow there?"

"Only enough to make the ground wet," you say. "Winter in the capital is a muddy season that occasionally freezes on clear nights, but snow melts too fast to be anything more than a hassle."

"Well, it seems you're making up for lost time," Katrina says. She brushes at her skirts again and says, "I should be going. There's always more to do around here, especially now that we occasionally get visitors under the impression that I know how to behave like a proper lady and keep a huge manor house and the like. Fortunately the winter has put a stop to most of those, but still." Her smile is a particular kind of tired that you can only commiserate with. "The work is never done."

"True enough," you say. "Though I may be able to help with some of that, if we find time to speak again. I'm certainly not going to use my noble's upbringing on my own behalf."

"I would appreciate that," Katrina says. "Arya usually stops by on her way back across the mountains, so perhaps we can speak then? Though I know not when that will be."

"I would like that," you say, surprised at the words in your mouth and how they do not taste bitter. "Good luck, Katrina."

"And the same to you," she says, standing and giving you a faint dip of a curtsey in the enclosed space. With a wry smile, you return as much of a bow as your back will allow you to from your sitting position. "Take care, Murtagh."

She turns away from the mirror then, leaving the little closet. You hear her calling as she goes, "Arya? Thank you, you can end the spell now - " And so you release your end of the communication, letting the mirror return to simply being a reflection.

You sit staring at it for some time, after. Your thoughts are not pressed together well enough for words until you feel Thorn nudge against them for your attention.

Is all well? he asks.

I think so, you say. Since you keep replaying the conversation in your head, you figure you may as well share it with him.

After seeing it, Thorn says, Between her and Saphira, it seems to fall to the females to keep the rest of your family in line.

It does, does it? you return, your thoughts slightly teasing. What does that mean for me?

That you are the most sensible of the lot, of course, Thorn replies. I would not be your partner otherwise. After a pause, he adds, Though Nasuada did improve your temperament.

You huff into the collar of your shirt as you lean forward to take the mirror off its tripod. Hush, you.

Thorn simply radiates smugness at you for a moment, before he says, Erzhal wished to check in on you. I believe it alarmed him when I dropped all conversation to focus on your emotions.

Ah, you send, not sure for a moment what else to say. Eventually you decide on, I suppose he can come, if he's worried, though I won't be able to go any distance to meet him.

I can accompany him back, if you wish.

You're the one who insists that we need to be able to interact with people separately, you reply. I can handle him.

Thorn sends warmth in your direction, again, which is enough that you're able to push yourself into moving enough to sort the last of Erzhal's things out of your bags. You re-wrap the mirror and set the whole bundle aside. If he's coming here, it may as well be to get these things.

It's still near to an hour before you feel the presence of a mind like a chill breeze outside your doors. You call, "Come in!" before he actually knocks, and sure enough the door slides open just enough to let Erzhal's figure through.

After a few days with primarily Urgals for company, the sight of him up close is startling. He looks somehow even more slight than he did before, still dressed primarily for the smokehouse with only a fur cloak through over clothes that are otherwise far too thin for the weather outside. His breath puffs out a single cloud before he's able to close the door against the cold; you only have so much strength for heat-retaining wards, and in spite of the size of the stable it's very efficient at keeping the warmth in on its own.

Still seated in the bed with your back against the support beam, you offer him a nod. Erzhal takes in the arrangement and mutters, "Should get you a couple chairs," before shrugging his cloak off and folding it into a cushion to sit against the wall of the fire pit with.

"We'd look a joke in Urgal chairs," you reply.

"Good; at least it's something to laugh over," Erzhal replies. "How are you feeling?"

"I've had worse days," you say, "but it isn't pleasant." You shift, testing, and say, "It's better than it was when I awoke, but it's still aching enough that I would rather not push it."

Erzhal nods and says, "Your back?"

You nod in return. "An old injury," you say, because you don't especially want to give details. "As even Galbatorix could do nothing for it, I've resigned myself to my lot."

Erzhal's face flickers, too fast for you to interpret, but he says, "Might I take a look anyway?"

You hesitate, and reach out with your mind. Thorn?

Your dragon catches himself up on the situation from your thoughts, and finally says, You need to decide for yourself how far you're willing to trust him, Murtagh.

I know, you send back. I think I may want to. But I need your support to do it.

Thorn's mind presses more firmly against yours. You have it, always, he says. Do you need me to come?

I think this is enough, you say. In your mind, you run your hand over the scales of his neck, and in reality, you gently push yourself away from the support of the pillar.

Erzhal, who had been sitting with an oddly patient expression, stands and brushes himself off before coming to sit on the edge of the wooden frame of your bed. He doesn't say anything, seemingly content to wait you out; content with whatever your answer might be.

You take a deep breath as you turn your back to him; another, brushing your thoughts against Thorn's presence, as you reach up and pull your tunic and shirt over your head by the neck, to minimize the amount you turn your torso as you do so. You pull them both as a single motion, which will cause you problems when you try to pull them back on, but you'll deal with that then. For now, it lets you keep your arms inside the sleeves for warmth; your back prickles immediately against the chill even with a fire going.

It also, of course, is prickling under Erzhal's gaze, but the cold is a ready excuse. Against your will, you find yourself braced for his reaction.

The bed shifts slightly as he leans around, presumably to get a better view of the extent of the scar. "How old were you?" he asks.

"Young enough that I don't have a clear memory of it," you say. You're not sure if you're grateful that he asked that question instead of where it came from or not.

The noise Erzhal makes is something stronger than a hiss, unhappy and just a little inhuman. (Fortunately, your skin is already as prickled as it's capable of being.) "From your father, I take it," he says.

You flinch. Even if he didn't say Morzan's name, it's too quick a cut to the truth for comfort. "How did you know?" you ask.

Erzhal must be considering his answer, because there's a half-breath of silence before he says, "A scar from that age shouldn't still cover this much of your back. Scars don't grow with the rest of you; a normal scar would remain child-sized. This is a cursed scar, a relentless scar - " The Ancient Language term, thrown into the middle, surprises you just a bit. " - and it's the first time I've ever heard of one on a human."

You grimace, and swing your arms back over your head so that you can disguise your discomfort by pulling your clothes back on. Thorn's thoughts are a considering weight against yours. "I've never heard of such a thing," you say somewhere around your shirt collar.

"My teacher told me about them," Erzhal says, "a long time ago. It happens occasionally among the elves, and it's thought to be because they're more saturated with magic than the other races."

"I wasn't capable of magic before Thorn hatched for me," you say. "Galbatorix tested me for it several times as I was growing up." About half the times you met him in person before you ran away, actually. You dreaded your birthday because you always had to attend the King for the afternoon and hear stories of your father.

"In elven children, it can repress their ability to do magic," Erzhal says. "It's a mark of great shame, not for the one who bears it, but for their families. It only happens when a parent causes their child such significant harm that the child takes it as a rejection. I wouldn't have thought even Morzan capable of that, but I suppose no one ever does."

It's quiet and a touch pained. Yanking your shirt down the rest of the way to your waist, you risk turning to look (carefully, to avoid aggravating your back). Erzhal isn't looking at you, not really - his eyes are off to the side, his expression a hair too soft to be called a scowl, but still displeased. It's almost the opposite of someone wistfully recalling their past, you think - a negative nostalgia, some old hurt recalled.

You feel compelled to say, "He threw his sword at me. It's what compelled my mother to break free of his control, which led to Eragon." And her death, in turn, leaving you an orphan under the King's personal eye.

"She was a magician herself, I assume," Erzhal says, and you nod. "Who is Eragon's father?"

"The Rider Brom," you say. "He was under cover at Morzan's castle at the time."

That makes Erzhal's face twist up further, only visible for a moment before he snorts. "Now that's a damn fine mess," he says.

"What?" you say. "Do you know something about Brom that I do not?"

Rather than getting off your bed, he pulls one of the furs on the end over his shoulders against the cold. He doesn't answer your question, but instead says, "I suspected that all the Forsworn must have been mad, after Raimizhre came to the north, but it's different to suspect and to hear it from one hurt by that madness. I'm sorry. That never should have happened to you."

Caught off-guard, you don't know what to say for a moment. Eventually you settle on, "If it's a rare kind of cursed wound that only happened to elves before, that explains at least why Galbatorix was never able to do anything for it."

"It would, yes," Erzhal says. "Treating it like a normal wound... Well, you live the results."

You grimace again and nod. Finally turning so that you can rest against the support beam again, you say, "He told me once that there was a fellow student of his that he thought might have been able to do something about it."

Erzhal looks up at that, seemingly startled. "Did he?"

You nod. "Though he didn't say a name, he mentioned that the other was on his way to mastering the magicks elves use to change their flesh. It was rare enough to hear him talk about anyone other than the Forsworn that it's stuck with me. I suppose that that other student sided with the Riders, since he's dead now."

There's a twist of a bitter smile on Erzhal's face. "I suppose he must have," he agrees.

"Do you think that the elves would be able to help?" you ask. "If it normally occurs among their kind, surely they must know more of the condition."

"I don't know," Erzhal says. "Normally, the condition requires - well, resolution to resolve, either the repairing of the bond between parent and child or the breaking of it entirely. In your situation, I don't know if that's possible."

You look down at the floor. "I don't believe it is," you say. "Not as long as I still have to carry his name wheresoever I go."

"The elves do have the advantage in that regard," Erzhal agrees.

You sigh, and turn the matter back to, "What made you so sure that my mother was a magician?"

"A mother using magic during pregnancy influences a child towards it," Erzhal says. "That's true regardless of race, though I'm not sure it's well enough known in Alagaesia to make a difference. Here, though, it's accepted as a correlation, if an imperfect one."

You nod. "Zharai mentioned something of the like," you say. "That her mother was disappointed that she didn't wind up being a true magician?"

Erzhal nods. "There was a great deal of magic involved in her conception and birth," he says. "She is a wish-child, after all; the result of a bargain made."

"She is?" you say. "I've heard stories of such things, but I thought they were only stories." You frown, thinking about those same stories, and add, "And the women in them are always barren. Zharai has siblings by her mother, so that's clearly not the case."

"It wasn't," Erzhal says. "Though it is now - that was a part of the price. How to explain..."

He shifts his weight to slide onto the part of the bed formed of the blanket-covered leather suspended across the frame, his feet lifting from the ground and hanging out over the edge like a child's. The bed being Urgal-size, there's still enough room in it for the two of you to sit without touching, though his weight naturally slides a bit towards yours in the hammock.

"As you know, the elves use magic to change the shapes of their bodies," he says. "One of the most common forms of this is that some who are born as men choose to live as women, or vice versa, and change their bodies accordingly. This also occurs in the other races, but only the elves have the knowledge of magic and physiology both to change their internal organs enough to be fertile as a different sex."

He pauses there, and in that pause, your thoughts catch up to what he's implying. "So then Zharai's mother sired her earlier children?" you say.

"Well, presumably, given how fatherhood works in their culture, but yes," Erzhal says. "She was living as a woman by the time Lethykr was born, but Zharai is the child of her womb."

You bite your lip. "I do not think I understand what could drive a person to do such a thing," you say, "but I suppose the facts make sense enough. Is that why the birth was complicated enough that you had to step in?"

Erzhal nods, and then folds his arms with a huff of breath. "She went to Bachel for her wish, or rather perhaps, Bachel sensed the strength of the wish and came to her. But the words of the bargain were to bear a child, not that the child would live."

"A cruel trick," you say, remembering his explanation of the meaning behind the other Shade's name.

"Which I informed Lyruthk of, possibly several times, possibly at some volume, when I arrived for the winter and discovered her with child, and out of season no less," Erzhal says. You bite back a laugh at his phrasing, which is clearly intended to bring about such. "It was a fool thing to do - but of course that's how Bachel is. When a witch appears before you with promises of your heart's desire, there are few who can say no, especially when the cost appears to be less than it should be."

"Such as never having any more children?" you say.

"There was more, but that's between Lyruthk and the witch," Erzhal says. "And before you ask - I've no idea who Zharai's blood father is. It might have been one of Lyruthk's lovers at the time. It might have been Bachel herself - Shades are capable of much the same magic as elves, and although we're normally infertile, the magic of the bargain-making could have superceded that. It may be that she has no father at all."

"And it's not something you can ask," you say.

"Not even I," Erzhal says. "Especially at this point - she would look me in the face and laugh, saying, 'Well, it's you, of course!' as though she doesn't know damn well that we've never shared a bed."

At that, you do laugh. The sound of it surprises you, and you clap a hand over your mouth in shock automatically. Still, your chest flutters with it, with the release of something you can't name. Erzhal is smiling in turn, a little victorious expression, your laughter a victory in a contest you didn't know he was engaged in. Though you expect your back to seize at the motion of your ribs, it doesn't; if anything, it once again eases, another degree towards normal.

For a moment, everything is warm.

Chapter Text

You feel good enough, when Erzhal leaves, to accompany him to one of the group kitchens for a meal, and to remain there when he returns to work on the smokers some more. Your impression is that it was a much-needed break for him as well, because he seems more relaxed when he leaves you, though not before extracting a promise that you'll wait for Thorn or someone else to help rather than trying to make your way back alone. You allow it, because by the time you actually arrive at the mealhouse, you have no option but to sit down heavily and lean on the table, just enough pain in your back that you worry you've pushed it too far.

You're feeling better again, after a meal of fried shellfish, candied nuts, and hot milk - Urgals eat at least some portion of meat at every meal, and their reaction to someone feeling ill is to shove mugs of hot milk laced with honey or sweet syrup at them until there's no room for anything else, so you had a more than large enough meal and are somewhat drowsy with the aftereffects. You're leaning against the table nearest the doors until Thorn arrives when there's a great ruckus outside of dogs barking and people shouting. Suddenly stiff and wary, you listen carefully - it's taken some time for you to learn to tell excited and pleased Urgal shouting from any other kind, but this seems to be of that kind.

Not wanting to get up quite yet, you hail the attention of the group of Urgals at the next table and awkwardly ask, "What's going on outside?"

"Kribakliyibraz traders," one of them tells you, or at least you're fairly sure that's what you're told. You have to break the first word apart backwards - -braz is the suffix for a group of people, and kriba is ice, so the best you're able to reach is 'ice-city people' which is less than helpful.

Thorn? you send, since he was nearly done at the smokehouse anyway. Can you take a look on your way over?

I might cause more of a commotion, if these traders aren't already aware that there's a dragon in the city, Thorn replies. But I will look.

Thank you, you send. I have faith in your ability to be discreet. That gets you the sense-impression of Thorn's dragon-laugh, deep in his chest.

This is the only place where the ground glitters more than I do, he sends in return. But I make no promises.

You roll your eyes fondly and take another sip from the remnants of the drink in your too-big mug. It's mostly the syrup at the bottom, rather than milk, and it's gone mostly cold and thick as a result. From outside, you hear laughter, too high-pitched to be an Urgal's, which only rouses your curiosity further. Cautiously, you gather the fur cloak from the bench next to you and prepare to stand.

You needn't have bothered - the traders made their way inside even as you're bracing yourself for the potential return of pain. They certainly aren't Urgals, though they speak the same tongue and are trading news back and forth more quickly than you can follow. All three are about your height, their furs covering any distinguishing traits. Even their faces are covered, scarves and mufflers over the lower halves and the slit snow-goggles you've seen on some of Ghralthek's outriders over their eyes.

At the sight of you, the first one comes to a stop, and then their companions do also. You shift uncomfortably beneath your cloak - your head is still bare, and you're well aware of how much you stick out, the only true human in this sea of Urgals.

"And who is this?" one of them says to the Urgal closest to them, a woman with purple and blue ribbons holding her hair back from her face and a matching sash across her chest. The Urgals all launch into an explanation at once, which makes it impossible to follow what they're saying. You don't know that you could even if they were speaking languages you could understand, but you hear your name, Erzhal's, Thorn's, and the various words for 'dragon,' 'Rider,' and 'south' thrown about several times.

The traders keep glancing at you sidelong as the explanations go on, until you can't stand it anymore. You push yourself up and exit the mealhall, pulling your hood over your shoulders and keeping your back straight as you head into the snow.

Fortunately, Thorn isn't very far away when you do so. Three sleds, with collectively some two-dozen dogs in harnesses lashed to them and a trio of puppies secured in a basket, stand on one side of the street, and Thorn is on the other. The dogs are for the most part giving him wary looks, though a couple of them bark briefly at you as you pass them by.

They don't get up, though, except for one of the puppies who attempts to wiggle out of its basket-harness in your general direction and fails. You make your way over to Thorn swiftly and immediately sag against his foreleg.

They saw me, you send. I left in the middle of the Urgals explaining.

Thorn swings his head around to nose at you, his hot breath filling the space under your cloak far better than your own body heat alone could. He doesn't question you further; you're sure the sensation of discomfort caused by strangers' eyes and potential judgment is clear enough in your mind. Instead he says, Can you walk the way back, or do you need me to carry you?

I can walk, you say. Just stay close.

Always, Murtagh.

In that fashion you make your way back to the stables, one hand frequently supporting your weight against Thorn's side. It takes longer than your trip to the mealhall, because many of the streets are inaccessible to Thorn due to the combination of his size and the accumulated snow that fills them. It's just beginning to dust again as the two of you slip inside.

Your fire hasn't quite gone out, though you're not sure you're up to building it back up properly again. Instead, you drop a couple units of the dried-droppings fuel into the pit - you've almost gotten used to the smell - and stand back to watch as Thorn blows the smallest, most delicate flame he can manage into the pit. Then you flop backwards onto the bed, cloak still around your shoulders, and don't particularly move again.

"Today has been about all I can handle," you say aloud to Thorn, who twists around the support pillar so that he can rest the end of his snout on your chest.

Then sleep, and begin again tomorrow, he tells you.

You huff, pushing lightly at his snout, but it's only for long enough to crawl under your blankets properly, the cloak going on top as another layer. With Thorn still wrapped around your bed, you fall asleep easily.

----

Your back is still sore when you wake - no longer soul-breaking pain, but enough that you simply remain in the blankets as long as you can manage, and when you do leave bed to relieve yourself, you do so slowly and gingerly. When you're done, you return to the warmth of your blankets, because the fire has once more burned down to embers.

Thorn sleeps through it all, and you do not attempt to wake him.

The idea of your back wound being cursed is a strange one - but then, for those last few days among the Varden before the Twins dragged you back to Galbatorix, you'd seen Arya and the healers make a similar assessment of Eragon's wound from Durza. If nothing else, it shouldn't surprise you that you would match in that regard as well.

For the first time in a long time, curled up under the blankets, you reach up to your shoulder, as far over your back as you can manage, to feel the highest part of the scar with your fingers. It feels the same as it always has, but now you imagine that you can feel the malice in it, the physical manifestation of your own resentment.

I didn't do this, you tell yourself, resolutely. It's born from my pain, but he's the one who did it to me. Morzan is the one at fault.

Morzan and - as much as you wouldn't have entertained the thought a few years ago - your mother, as well. Knowing that she abandoned you for the sake of her second child - you're not angry at Eragon for it. He had no opinion on the matter at the time. But Selena rejected and abandoned you, too, and putting it in those terms...

Well, it explains why your scar hurt much more frequently after you found out, why it's given you bad days more regularly since then. The blurry figure of your mother - you remember her hands and black clothes better than you do her face - is now also something that causes you pain, amplified into the physical by the nature of your wound.

A curse. Relentless, Erzhal had called it. You think a better word might be 'rotten.' Like mold that's gotten into a grain storehouse, there's no way to be truly free of it without starting over entirely. And you can't salt the earth of your body and your heart, not without erasing your own memories entirely and making your identity disappear.

(You know the words that could do it. It was a threat Galbatorix used when even the pain couldn't make you obey.)

(And now, of course, you cannot unlearn them.)

You sigh and let the tension out of your body before reaching over your shoulder causes another spasm. You have a cause, now, and the knowledge that you aren't the only person in the world who has experienced it. It seems hard to believe that there would be elves who could treat their children so badly - even with your limited knowledge, you know how much they value their children, rare as they are. But if you can accept the kindness of Urgals, then you suppose you have to accept its opposite.

(You know better than most how easy it is for cruelty to hide behind a pleasant exterior.)

At this point, you grow tired of lying in bed and moping - you did that most of yesterday, after all - and instead reach into the bag tucked under the edge of your bed's frame and extract the hefty book from it with one hand. You pull Errors in the Era of the Riders into your arms and set about the slow task of reading it.

Following the establishment of the Riders as a proper organization, elven culture changed rapidly, creating many small schisms among our people. The first and greatest of these was between those who accepted the immortality that our newfound bond with dragons had caused, and those who did not. This schism deepened as the effects on elven fertility became apparent. Where we had once been a prolific people, we were now instead a powerful one.

Many were unwilling to accept these changes, and wished to be excluded from the pact in order to continue their traditional lifestyles. Unfortunately, the deed had already been done. The anger of these traditionalists - many of whom had also lost family to the war with the dragons - plagued Eragon for the rest of his days. There was no action he could take which pleased them, which was an eventual factor in his decision to leave the leadership of the Riders to Sothril and Lyari. (For further discussion of this period, see pg. 80-95.)

The next greatest change which wrought havoc among our people was the discovery that all elves had become capable of magic. Though the tongue of magic was already in common use throughout the land, being that it was the only one the dwarves accepted for trade in this era, few were capable of more than speaking it before Eragon's Pact. Less than a quarter of our people were magicians at that time, and of those only around half of them knew their name and nature. (See First-hand Accounts of First-time Magic, Irthiwen, circa 5500 AC.)

Several accounts exist of young adult elves, in particular, dying due to lack of training in magic exist, including Irthiwen's. The spread of magic to all elves came as a surprise to the Riders, who instituted an emergency program to teach the basics of magical control. Over the next three centuries, this would be adapted into our current education system (see pg. 140-178), including the practice of acknowledging an elf's coming-of-age only upon their discovery of their name and nature for themselves.

It is also around this period, related to the discovery of magical talent within every elf, that refusal to consume flesh became commonplace. Indeed, this was a source of great contention between Eragon (who had arrived at the conclusion of vegetarianism due to his own magical inclinations and training) and the traditionalists...

Here you have to pause for a time, in part to process what you've read, and in part due to feeling Thorn's consciousness drift towards waking. Marking your place in the book with the strip of silken ribbon bound into the book's spine - it's more than a little threadbare, but true silk lasts forever - you set it aside and push yourself into a sitting position as close to Thorn as you can get without unwrapping your legs from the blankets and exposing them to the chilly room.

His eyes are just barely cracked open, glowing like embers beneath the ridge of his eyelids, and he says, Did you sleep well?

Better than I expected to, you admit. Though I think I still shouldn't push it today.

Your back is still giving you trouble, then, Thorn says.

Right now, it's just sore, you say, but I've grown wary of putting too much strain on it these last few months. A second attack is always worse than the first.

Thorn lifts and lowers his head in a nod that would be imperceptible if his skull wasn't so large, and leans forward to put the tip of his snout in your lap again. It's been his habit since he was a hatchling, and if you're honest with yourself, you dread a bit the day he's so large as to make it completely impossible. As it is, any viewer to the scene would be hard-pressed to see more of you behind his jaw than your feet at the bottom.

You scratch at the scales below the base of his horns, freeing the small flakes of dead skin that build up there from where his horns erupt from between his scales. It's faintly pink under your fingernails.

You are fretting less about the traders than I expected, Thorn says.

"They just took me by surprise," you say aloud. "It makes sense that this wouldn't be a trading hub for only Urgals - though I do have to wonder at what kind of people would travel in this season, as dangerous as it seems to be."

Perhaps they're also Shades, Thorn muses.

"Maybe," you say, "but I think that Erzhal would have mentioned that, if they were."

Thorn doesn't answer but instead hums in the higher part of his throat - the pitch is still extremely low, but you can feel it in your knees where his jaw rests on your legs. You were reading this morning, no? Did you enjoy it?

"It's slow going," you say aloud, before switching back to mental communication. My skill with the written form of the Ancient Language isn't as high as I'd like, and Irvetsuni writes with the native fluency of an elf. I'm only barely into the introduction and outline of the rest of the text, but what I've gotten through so far is interesting.

You spend a few minutes telling Thorn about what you've read so far, and he closes his eyes to listen. Eventually he says, I see why this book is remembered as critical of the Riders. I had no idea there was so much controversy among the elves when they were established.

Nor did I, you say, but it makes sense, when you think about it. Elves went from having a lifespan comparable to men to being nearly immortal. Of course not everyone adjusted to that readily.

Thorn cracks an eye to look at you, his pupil a slit around the level of your shoulder. Speaking from experience? he says, in that tone he has when he has some insight into you and just wants you to confirm it - to face it for yourself.

You sigh, and tip your head forward to rest your forehead against his. I still barely know what to think of the idea that I will live to see the next year, you admit. Even five or ten... I envy Eragon, having some definitive purpose to live for.

You have plenty of purpose, Thorn replies. You wish to resolve the matter of the dead ground in time to return south in the spring, to see your mother's namesake, don't you?

You hadn't explicitly told him the contents of Katrina's request, but it somehow doesn't surprise you that he knows. You frown, and say, You make it sound so easy.

It won't be, Thorn says, But you cannot fail at a goal if you have none.

From anyone else, you would have taken issue with the wording, because it makes it sound as though you're afraid of failure. From Thorn, you know, comes the true insight, echoed on a layer of thought beneath his words -

You don't avoid setting the goal because you fear failure. Rather, it's because you expect to fail, and you are so very tired of failing, almost more so than you are of the scar on your back and the pain it brings, the pain it represents.

"Very well," you say with a sigh. "I'll show the stone to Erzhal, and find out what he knows of it. Will that satisfy you?"

Thorn hums against your legs again. It's a start, he says.

----

The sample of the stone that Sarros had found for you is hidden at the bottom of your bags, wrapped in waxed fabric and tied with leather cord. The cord you'd gotten from a wise woman a few days out of Ceunon, and she claimed that the runes stamped in it would contain evil and ward away misfortune. There wasn't anything magical about it - leather doesn't store the energy that would be required - but you had decided that a little superstition couldn't hurt your cause.

You pull it out now for the first time in months. As soon as you open the fabric surrounding it, the faint smell of sulfur opens up. The stone itself - black, with its emberlike core - still radiates its unsettling shine. It doesn't actually glow, but it traps any passing light within as though it did.

Along with it, you kept the magic-negating charms from Sarros, wrapped in yet further fabric to keep the bird skull from being struck by the stone and shattered. This you haven't unwrapped to examine since, and you do not do so now. It is all the more unsettling for the fact that you know now it is a piece of a Shade's darker magicks.

Instead, you re-wrap the entire bundle and leave it on the end of your bed while you wrap yourself to venture outside. To Thorn, whose ability to sense the presence of others reaches further than yours, you say, "Can you tell where Erzhal is?"

At his home, Thorn replies. Would you like me to tell him to wait there for you?

You nod. "That seems best," you say. You pull a mostly-clean tunic from your bags - at some point you will need to wash your garments, or find someone to do so, more likely - and pull it over your head carefully. Your back doesn't protest any more than it has been generally protesting its continued existence, which is a good sign.

Thorn pauses for a moment, and then says, He says that he will await you there, but that the traders may stop by to speak to him.

You take a deep breath, and then nod, lifting your cloak from the mess you've made of your blankets by this point and wrapping it around your shoulders. You consider taking your sword, but if the traders know of your history, then there's no point in dragging that legacy around like a point of pride. Zar'roc remains stood among the saddlebags.

Instead, you take one of the sticks stood by the door to use as a staff, and pull on your gloves before opening the door. You glance back at Thorn.

I can manage to close the doors even without thumbs if I desire to leave, he says. Leave an alarm spell on the door if you feel the need, but I doubt anyone will come after our things will ill intent. And I could do with a day of rest myself - I took a share of the meat yesterday and could use the time to digest it.

You nod and whisper a spell into the crack between the doors - even at a distance twice that of between here and Erzhal's house, it won't pull on you too greatly. Then with your makeshift walking stick, you set off into the snow.

Someone has gone along many of the main roads to pack the snow down, and then thrown grit after themselves to prevent sliding on the resulting ice. It makes your journey significantly easier, though a light dusting of snow falling once again reveals the work to be an endless task. Still not entirely knowing your way around Ghralthek, you walk in what seems to be the right general direction, with your mysterious burden and your walking stick, until you can sense Erzhal for yourself, and at that point you can safely use him as a landmark to make your way.

The streets of the city, without a particular guide, feel quite a bit different from when you were hurrying through them following after someone else. You pass a Kull woman re-lighting the high-hung lanterns along the way, and feel the tingle of magic as she refills the crystals that store the energy to provide light to the tallest. You hadn't realized that those lights, which stick up even over most of the houses, are flameless like the dwarves' lanterns; you stop to watch her for a while with some interest as she clambers up the ladder and then back down.

When she reaches the bottom, she nods at you, and you nod back. Then she picks up her ladder - which has such widely spaced rungs that you'd be hard-pressed to climb it yourself - and carries it, vertically, through the streets on to the next of the lights. You turn and make your way perpendicular to her.

In each lit-up little district, a majority of the Urgals you see wear ribbons and sashes that match the color of the lanterns, which finally keys you into the realization of what the colors must mean. They're indicators of tribe, of each Ikrash's member and territory, in a way that's visible even when everyone is bundled up against the snow. From there, it becomes a lot more simpler to make your way - you need only look for the bright-red-and-violet that you remember Izolsa and Zharai wearing, and that leads you in the right general direction. The violet lanterns, which you suppose are probably all the dye-making tribes, are clustered together into a greater district.

You tell Thorn this as you go, and he grumbles, It is an efficient system, but one not well-suited to a dragon's sight. You nod, and make your way carefully past a group of Urgal children, in mostly purple-and-blue but a few in blue-and-green and purple-and-red, who attempt to beg you into their snowball fight when a stray throw bounces off your wards well before it hits your head.

Erzhal's house, as it turns out, is on the border of the red-and-purple neighborhood, with many of the lights on the far side of the street being instead red-and-orange. You wonder if the red indicates the Ikrash who have a strong relationship with spirits. As you've gone, you've noticed that there's actually two colors of red, one darker and one brighter - the darker red is more common in the district you came from, but the one here is the bright crimson.

Another lamplighter, this one a man of normal height but shoulders that would be wide even for a Kull (and what seems like a belly to match, as far as you can tell under his thick coat) waves at you from his lamppost as you knock on the door. You give a wave back, awkward, as Erzhal tosses a careless thought in your direction - It's open, you can just push it.

You do so, blinking at the bright light that immediately pours through the doorway, and then make your way inside. Erzhal has the lights turned up to nearly a daylight level around the central table, which is strewn with a variety of carving instruments and materials. You take in the scene briefly, and then close the door and set about taking off your snow gear.

When you're done, you take your bundle and make your way to the table. "Is there somewhere I can set this down?" you say. "I don't much like holding it."

Erzhal responds with a muttered word in the Ancient Language that sends a jumble of hardwood scraps into an array of neatly-aligned utuur longbones, clearing a space near the middle of the table. You set your burden in the cleared space, and dust your hands off reflexively.

"And what is it that you brought all the way north but dislike carrying that much?" Erzhal says, peering curiously at the bundle as he sets aside the piece of bone he was marking up with a pencil.

"It's proof of my tale," you say. "Didn't you wonder where I'd heard Bachel's name before, when I first mentioned her?"

"I figured you'd come out with it eventually," Erzhal replies, and he doesn't even try not to sound smug. You give him a look that shows your displeasure, but you can't very well argue the point.

He doesn't look it, but if he killed Raimizhre, he's at least a century old, including his human lifespan, you remind yourself. No doubt at that age, Erzhal is capable of the famed patience of the elves and dwarves.

For now, he puts a hand on the cloth overlaying the strange stone and says, "May I?"

You in turn reply, "Help yourself. I was hoping that you knew more of it than I."

Erzhal flips the cover off casually, corner by corner. He leaves the further-wrapped talisman to stare at the stone, his fingertips hovering just shy of touching it. "I'm guessing that you didn't pick this up yourself," he says.

You shake your head. "I tasked several travelling traders with bringing me information on anything strange they encountered in their travels," you say. "One of them returned with this stone, and this, which he claimed was made by the 'witch-woman' Bachel." You reach out and gingerly unwrap the birdskull charm before laying it back on the table. Erzhal's eyes narrow at it, but he withdraws his hand from over the stone to gesture for you to continue.

"He attempted to exort me for his fee," you say, "and when that didn't work, resorted to threatening a bystander's child. Any magic I attempted on him rolled off as though I'd done nothing, even the name of the Ancient Language itself, which he credited to this charm."

"It's definitely her work," Erzhal says. "She has a particular love of birds, and bones are a powerful medium for our particular kind of magic." He indicates the series of them at his elbow.

"His men also each carried a similar charm," you say. "Ultimately, I killed the majority of them with an enchanted fork - magic didn't work on them directly, but that didn't stop magical objects from killing them."

"If it was a mage's own wards, I'd call it an unforgivable loophole, but given that it was Bachel, I imagine it was intentional," Erzhal says. "She probably took advantage of their existing fear - perhaps even prophesized that they would die at the hands of a magic-user - and used that to manipulate them into a bargain that seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And by accepting it, they got overconfident, and so sealed their own fates," you say bitterly. "What do you think she asked for?"

"It could well have been anything," Erzhal says. He picks up the amulet by the bird skull, peering at it with an expert eye and turning it over in his hands. He whispers a short spell, frowns, and whispers another - this one not in the Ancient Language, but another that makes you feel like an army of spiders have just walked down your arms, full of hushed consonants and near-missing vowels. Grimacing, he sets the charm back down. "But if I were to guess, she took what remained of their life force when they died untimely at your hand. There's no power left in the charm, which means that it probably carried its enchantment back to her when they died."

"Is such a thing possible?" you ask.

"For her, yes," Erzhal says. "I could probably make a similar such spell if I desired, though not one with the effect this charm had. It relies on being linked to both the caster and the user, but it's like a spring trap rather than a constant connection. At a certain trigger, the effect launches from one to the other. It probably soaked up the strength of the spells you attempted to use against it as well."

"Clever," you say. "Though I suppose she must be, in order to live up to her name."

Erzhal nods. "Though I doubt she had the exact possibility of it having to stand up against the name of that language in mind, it's likely a spell she worked in that spoken by Shades alone," he says. "So I can solve that mystery for you easily enough, at least."

"I suppose that makes sense," you say. "I considered attempting wordless magic against it, but I didn't want to take the risk with so many bystanders around."

"How much magic did you try against it?" Erzhal says.

"Not much," you admit. "I didn't want to spend the time when they had the girl - no reason to put the life of an innocent child at risk. And after that, it was a melee."

"Makes sense. If you had kept trying, you probably would have run down the strength of the enchantment relatively quickly, and killed him that way," Erzhal says. "If it was protecting him from magic being used against him, then his life being drained away by his own enchantments would have fulfilled the bargain in terms but not heart as well."

You're more familiar with the idiom as law but not spirit, but you nod anyway. "Makes sense enough, though he didn't seem to grow at all tired from the spells I did throw at him," you say.

Erzhal grimaces, and directly to your mind rather than aloud, says, One of the secret magics of Shades is that we can weigh future lifespans against spells, rather than using of-the-moment life energy. So the charm may have been pulling years from the end of the man's life, instead of his current life energy.

You sit up a little straighter. I will not share the information with anyone save Thorn, you say. But then I have to ask - how does that even work, in the case of using such magic upon yourselves?

It's the reason most Shades are incredibly short-lived, Erzhal replies. We-spirits can die of magical exhaustion just the same as any other being. Death by strike-to-heart is just death for that particular Shade, and the spirits that composed it live on. Death by using too much of our life force kills the spirits that sustain the Shade. But borrowing against the host's lifespan instead is a death like strike-the-heart, where the spirits escape unharmed.

So rather than using their own life force, Shades burn through the lifetime of whatever being was made into a Shade until they reach the end, like if someone threw the whole candle into a hearth rather than lighting the wick. And in explaining it, Erzhal just revealed that weakness to you, only the second that you've ever heard of Shades having. You send to him, What of you, then? You're the opposite of such a case.

I'm extremely careful with my lifespan, Erzhal replies. And I'm close to unique, because my human personality is dominant, rather than that of the combined spirits. That's only possible because I was not only willing, but in a position to have some control over the nature of the spirits-I-am.

You narrow your eyes at him, but he doesn't flinch beneath your gaze. There's still something that doesn't seem to quite add up in that, but it isn't as though you can dig it out of him if he doesn't want to share. His thoughts are, as ever, the shapes you're able to make out in the pocket of serenity beneath the trees in a blizzard. Beyond the bounds of the branches you're allowed to see lies a swirl of thoughts that could easily rip you apart.

And what of Bachel? you ask instead. You implied that she was a great deal older than you are.

Oh, that's easy, Erzhal says in return, his thoughts at once colored with a light humor and a strong undercurrent of bitterness. Bachel was once an elf.

Chapter Text

An elven Shade. A chill flashes its way up your spine and stays there, quieting your throat for a long moment. You stare at the strange stone, as though a solution will appear from its depths, until you stop really seeing it at all.

"I suddenly feel as though I've taken on more than I can handle," you say.

"Information is the first weapon, and planning the second," Erzhal says. "Only then do we turn to our swords. A bit of wisdom my teacher used to share all too often."

"She was truly a sensible woman," you say. "It's a shame I never got to meet her."

"She would have liked you a great deal, I think," Erzhal says, a touch melancholy, into the table. After a moment, he shakes his head, as though to toss aside the thoughts, and says, "I'll make tea," and stands up from the table.

"No honey," you say, not turning in his direction. You can allow him the moment to himself without forcing him to lose face by having it acknowledged.

"Feeling bitter today?" Erzhal shoots back immediately, over the clatter of dishes and tea-making noise. You ignore how your face tries to betray you with a smile at the light teasing. It's still too strange to look upon directly, and the last time you smiled so easily around someone was Eragon, and look how that turned out.

After the kettle whistles, you say, "I've heard of wordless magic, but not spells in tongues other than the Ancient Language."

"It's not common," Erzhal says. "But hypothetically speaking, you could work magic in any language; it just runs many of the same risks as doing it wordlessly, although to a lesser extent. It takes some practice to be able to do it easily, though, especially if you were trained exclusively in the Ancient Language."

"Were you?" you ask. "Trained exclusively in the Ancient Language, I mean," you add when he twists around to raise his brows at you.

"As a human, yes," Erzhal replies, "but a benefit of being many-and-one is that such mental habits are less of an obstacle, since they're only a habit of part of me."

"And yet you still forget to take down the spells you've hung," you say.

Erzhal huffs, surprisingly self-conscious, almost hunched into his shoulders as he brings the tea mugs to the table. Combined with his size - which seems all the smaller as you grow used to being surrounded by Urgals - it makes him seem almost childish. You take another look over his face, trying to place his age once more, but no matter how you look at it, physically he seems no more than a few years older than you.

"My natural distractability wasn't much helped by it, no," he says, sliding your mug across the table, careful to keep it away from the stone. "If anything, the opposite. Sometimes it's hard to keep track of what I'm thinking at any given time. Being the dominant personality is more like management of a team composed of my own trails of thought."

You nod and look into the mug before murmuring your habitual check against poisons. "You implied before that it's unusual for the - body's consciousness, for lack of a better term, to be dominant in a Shade."

Erzhal nods, sipping at his own tea for a moment, and then says, "Have you ever felt such overwhelming emotion that it completely drowned out your ability to think?"

You can think of a few times, but what you say is, "When Thorn hatched for me," because it's the simplest of them to explain. The combination of comingled shock, joy, fear, protectiveness, and what you can only describe as a surge of self-worth had blurred out your thoughts entirely.

(If you had been thinking, you've told yourself many times, you wouldn't have reached out your hand. You've told yourself that so many times, even knowing it was a lie. You couldn't stop yourself from reaching out - have never been able to stop yourself from reaching out, even knowing how much hurt it would bring you down the road.)

"Imagine being in that state of existence all the time," Erzhal says. "Spirits don't think in the same terms as other beings - they experience primarily emotion, which rises and falls like the tide."

And as Shades are composed primarily of spirits, they would experience the same if not more. You can follow that reasoning simply enough, and so say, "Then to act as you do is most impressive. You must have a will of iron to not go mad."

Erzhal laughs, startling, his cup sloshing slightly. "Oh, don't be mistaken. I'm quite mad. I spent - several years, at least, in a fugue state, under the care of the woman who would become my sister. I might have remained that way for the rest of time, or at least until very recently, if my brother had not arrived from the south, attempting to follow my footsteps to find out what had become of me."

You look down into your cup again. "Zharai showed me the fairth of him," you say.

"It had been nearly twenty years since I last saw him," Erzhal says. "We had exchanged letters up until my mentor's death and my flight from Alagaesia, but he was a child of half my age when I left home, six to my twelve. And yet he came for me."

In those words, not only in the tone of Erzhal's voice but somehow projected, like a much lighter and more ephemeral version of sharing thoughts, you can feel the whisper of emotion - love, dedication, wonder. Everything, you can't help but think bitterly as you look down into your mug and drain more of the warm liquid, that your relationship with your brother hasn't been.

But despite the bitterness on your own tongue, you can hardly fault him. You can understand where the feeling comes from perfectly, even if you can't relate to it from experience. To come so far to the north on what must have been little more than unsubstantial rumors...

Erzhal continues, as though in a trance, "I chose love and was made for love. How could I not love him?"

And even though it isn't your place to answer, even though the question doesn't seem directed to you at all, you answer, "You couldn't have. I understand."

Erzhal's eyes snap to you, out of their mist, and for a moment you are incredibly aware of their color, pinned down by deepening, unnatural red - and then the moment is over as he blinks and that remnant of what must be his old madness clears away. As though he had forgotten your presence and was suddenly reminded, he continues, "It took another five years for him to pull me all the way back up. I still remember the feeling of everything snapping back into focus - it was when he told me that he planned to ask Nadia to marry him."

"I assume she said yes," you say.

Erzhal's cheeks color and he lifts his mug rather deliberately over the lower half of his face. "I rather ruined his planned proposal," he says. "She heard me yelling at him about it, and that's how she found out. Jormun never could be angry at me about it; he always said that he would have married her sooner if he'd known that was what it took to bring me back."

It's such a normal story that you can almost forget the undercurrent - that Erzhal was quite mad up until that point, and that his brother fell for the woman who had taken over the care of a strange Shade. That love can be both madness and salvation.

(It makes you think of your mother, and how love changed her, and for the first time that thought is not bitter, but merely wistful, and sad.)

Erzhal takes another long drink of his mug and says, "But enough about that. The traders will arrive before too much longer to speak with me, and we should have this out of sight before then." He gestures to the stone before him with the hand holding his mug before he puts it down.

"They won't like it, then, I take it," you say.

"That valley is considered cursed, and for good reason," Erzhal says. He pushes the stone slightly towards you, using the mug as a buffer between himself and the stone, and says, "How closely have you examined it?"

"Only visually and with my hands," you say. "I was wary of attempting to do so with magic, considering the source. I half-suspected it would be trapped in some way."

"Not for you, nor for any other mortal being that handles it," Erzhal replies. Before you can question him further, he says, "Reach out to it like you would if you were leaning on Thorn's energy for magic, if you can."

"With my mind?" you ask, confused.

"No, it is a mindless thing. But there's life in it yet."

He means in the same way that I took energy from the Eldunari, you realize. You reach a tendril of thought towards Thorn, more to have something to brace yourself on, like hanging onto a banister to keep your balance as you attempt to step over a gap in a staircase. His thoughts catch yours, a solid support.

Be careful, he sends. Even if Erzhal thinks it is safe.

You nod, physically as well as mentally, and extend your consciousness towards the stone. In the depths of it, you find what seems at first to be naught but a glimmer, but soon registers to your senses as a surprising amount of magical energy, about half that of an Eldunari of comparable size.

Energy, but nothing else. As Erzhal said, it is a mindless thing, absent any other indications of life. There is something unsettling about it, so after you've confirmed your investigations, you pull back, and when you do, your hair stops feeling as though it should be standing on end.

You say, "I feel it. But what is it?"

"The corpse of a spirit," Erzhal says. His expression is grim.

"I thought spirits lacked corporeal forms," you say. "How could one leave a corpse?"

"That is the question I've been trying to answer for the last several decades," Erzhal says. He glares at the stone for a moment, before wrapping it back up, avoiding touching it completely. The result is not nearly as careful a wrapping as it had when you brought it in - eventually Erzhal sighs and gives up, shoving the whole thing towards you with his mug again. "It's not dangerous to you, but it is dangerous to me," he says. "And explains why we were beset by a Shlajra on our crossing of the spiritground. The spirits likely sensed this and sought to destroy it."

You nod, and take the stone back to wrap it securely once more. "You know where it comes from, then," you say.

"A valley to the east that was once a spiritground," Erzhal says. "The most dense in all the north, in fact. It's where 'I' was born."

"And now it's full of spirit corpses that shouldn't exist," you say.

Erzhal nods. "This is the first time I've heard of it coming up in connection with Bachel, which is... concerning," he says. "And investigating this is why you came to the north?"

You nod. Erzhal grimaces.

"I'll take you there," he says, "but it will require extra preparation on my part."

"I'm not in a hurry," you tell him. Thorn, still half-connected to your thoughts, does something like a nip at the back of your mind, and you add, "There is one thing in the south that I have to attend to upon my return, but not until spring at the earliest."

"That should be plenty of time," Erzhal says. "I'd like to get this handled by the solstice, if at all possible."

That's just over a month away. You nod, but ask, "For any particular reason? Winter will continue long after."

Erzhal just smiles in a way that's too-knowing and a little unsettling, but before he can say anything there's a knock at the door. You go stiff, holding your mug too-tightly in one hand, and stuffing the stone - the spirit corpse - into your bag with the other.

It's embarrassing that you were caught by surprise, too drawn into the conversation to keep your senses aware for the presence of others, even when you knew the traders were due to arrive. Erzhal commands the door open with a word of the Ancient Language before you can get up, and two fur-wrapped figures enter.

They're clearly familiar with the place and with him, though they pause in the doorway seeing you. Erzhal calls out, "Come on, you have better manners than to leave a door open to the cold," in the Ancient Language, and one of them snorts and pulls the door closed behind themselves.

"As though you haven't spelled the heat in," they reply in the same tongue - you think the voice is a woman's, and a moment later are proven correct as they shuck their coat and goggles. Their companion follows suit after a too-long moment of staring at you.

You don't feel ashamed of staring back. The pair is fairly tall, and slimmer-featured than most of the humans you've seen this far north, but they are human so far as you can tell. Both have unexpectedly dark skin, looking more like Surdans than anything between here and there. The woman's hair is pitch black and the man's a warm chestnut brown, and they both have it pulled back from their faces with braids at their temples, similar to Erzhal's usual style. Under their fur coats, they wear tunics of embroidered wool and hide pants that are presumably fur-lined as well.

To you, the woman says, "We apologize for yesterday. It was not our intention to make you uncomfortable; we were simply shocked to see you, and naturally curious."

You say, carefully choosing your words, "I was not offended. I am simply used to being the subject of hostile attention, which I would rather avoid."

The woman smiles slightly. "An understandable reaction," she says, before turning her head slightly in the direction of her companion and elbowing him in the side. "Is that not correct, Adaran?"

Adaran grunts as her elbow connects with his lower ribcage. He says, somewhat sourly, "Rumors of the return of the Dragon Riders have been drifting from the south for the last two years. To meet one in the flesh, and so soon, was entirely unexpected."

Their minds are well-walled enough that you don't want to attempt discerning their intentions, so you have to simply take them at their word, even as acutely aware as you are of how possible it is to dodge the truth in the Ancient Language. Adaran certainly doesn't look excited about your presence, though the woman by his side is smiling with somehow even more warmth.

She says, "And of course it would be Erzhal who ran into you," as though it's as inevitable as the sun rising - something that might not happen immediately, but would happen eventually, beyond any doubt. She turns back to the Shade in question and says, "Nadia sends her regards."

His sister's people. That makes sense, you suppose. Nadia would no doubt be too old to make the journey herself from wherever these traders came from.

Erzhal snorts and rolls his eyes. "Is that all she said?"

"She says also that she would appreciate it if she got to see her niece at some point this winter," the woman continues. "She has a coming-of-age gift for her."

"And I have no doubt that you're putting it more kindly than she did, Revneili," Erzhal says. "But I'll see what I can do."

Revneili laughs, and the sound is somehow familiar to you, tickling at a forgotten memory. "Well, I have delivered the message. It's not me she'll bear ill will towards if you don't visit." She glances at you, and adds, "Do you want me to tell her?"

"That's news I had best deliver in person," Erzhal says. "And I still haven't decided, anyway."

"Don't be a fool," Revneili replies. "Your heart has never belonged here, spirit-talker. You belong to the sky, and to the sky you'll return. You're simply delaying the inevitable."

"Then I'll delay," Erzhal replies. "It's not like I don't have time."

Revneili sighs, but doesn't argue further. Instead, she strides down into the lower section of the house and plops next to you on the bench. Adaran follows her down, but remains standing, his arms folded.

It seems like only one of them approves of me, you send to Thorn, who sends back amusement.

That's better than average for humans, he responds.

Revneili says, clearly to you, "I had always wondered what it would be like to meet a dragon. I thought that even if the Riders returned, I would never get the chance. They always lived so far to the south. But here you are! I would like to meet your dragon, if it is amenable to you."

Thorn sends a general sense of approval, and you say, "That can be arranged. When does your group leave?"

"Oh, a few days yet," Revneili says. "We do not keep to a strict schedule." She leans in closer than you're quite comfortable with and adds in a whisper, "If you spar Adaran, he will like you more."

You resist the urge to lean away and instead whisper back, "I'll keep it in mind." Even as you do, you glance at Erzhal, but he doesn't seem inclined to rescue you. Instead, he's having difficulty keeping a straight face.

Adaran ignores his companion and says to you, "Are you going to remain for business as well?"

And because you know a 'get the hell out of here' when you hear it, you shake your head. "No, there was just something I wanted to ask Erzhal about earlier," you say. You stand to extract yourself from the table.

"You can leave the mug," Erzhal says. "I'll deal with it later."

You nod thanks and make your way over to the door. "Perhaps tomorrow morning?" you say to Revneili, as you go through the ritual of bundling yourself back up.

"That would be splendid," she agrees. "You already know where we are staying, so we can meet there."

You nod at that, and say, "Then we'll speak later," to both her and Erzhal, who nods.

Privately, he whispers into your mind, Don't mind Neili. She's always had an active imagination. The nickname is said with clear affection - you get the impression that Erzhal knew her as a child, and that in his opinion, she hasn't changed much since then.

I couldn't tell, you send back, dropping out of the Ancient Language in order to let the sarcasm stand. What business do they have with you, if I may ask?

Adaran is one of the people I buy gemstones from, Erzhal replies. He has an affinity for magical prospecting. Usually he takes some of my carvings in exchange.

Just a regular business transaction, then. You're not particularly surprised that the man is a magician, as well-defended as his mind was.

Erzhal continues as though the people he's talking to in the flesh are no distraction at all, Don't show the spirit-corpse to anyone else if you can help it. It's an ill omen. I'm impressed that anyone who isn't a mage survived getting their hands on one.

I thought you said it wasn't dangerous.

The place it comes from is, Erzhal clarifies. The dead spiritground is... It's easier if I just show you.

There's a feeling like knocking at the door of your mind, and you give a mental glance at Thorn. Humor him, your dragon observes. He's being polite.

You lift your walls a fraction, enough to allow Erzhal's memory to flow in.

It's disjointed in a way that takes you a moment to make sense of, even though it's almost purely a sense memory. The vision of the desolated ground, with no plants or animals, only grey streaks of not quite melted snow and dimly glowing stones - spirit corpses, some of them much larger than the one you're carrying - it's not far from what you expected. The sound is silence, cut by the wind.

But it feels wrong. It isn't merely silent. It's dead. Everything down to the smallest insect is dead, and you can feel the lack of life secondhand through Erzhal's senses - can feel a faint tug at some ward, the place trying to pull the life out of him as well.

The memory ends as Erzhal's vision shakes just slightly and you feel a shiver - one that you mimic in your own body uncontrollably. You send back, The land was trying to kill you?

Trying is a strong word, Erzhal replies. It's more like all the life was bleeding out of it - or rather, had bled out of it. I was the last thing left.

How far does it extend? you ask.

Further than I was willing to explore at the time, Erzhal replies. It grows by a few feet every year. I discovered it on a trip to the area I normally only take about once a decade, ten years ago.

So at least ten years old, but younger than twenty. Erzhal continues, It's possible to reduce the effect with wards, but not to eliminate it completely. But I knew that I would have to make the journey this year - I'm no closer to a solution than I was ten years ago, so there's something there that I have to retrieve before it's too late.

And you're willing to take us along, you say.

Having some back-up can't hurt, Erzhal says. And you might be able to put together something I've missed.

I doubt that, you say, but we will go, whenever it is that you're ready.

Erzhal sighs. I have to visit my sister first, he says. If I die out there, she'll never let me live it down.

With that, he withdraws, which is fine with you. You reach out to Thorn instead, knowing that he was listening to the conversation, and send, What do you think?

I'll be happier to return that stone to where it belongs, Thorn replies readily. Even if we cannot do anything for the root of the problem, we can at least do that much.

Do you think anyone else knows anything about it? you ask.

Thorn hums. No one we know, he says. And it is hard for me to imagine that anyone here knows something and has not shared it with Erzhal, but it is worth investigating. What do you think of the traders, now that you've seen them?

They don't seem to be bad folk, you admit. It was strange encountering humans again, even though it's only been a few weeks since we left the last town.

You pause in your progress back to your stable to let a group of Urgal children wielding sticks run past. They're playing at swords, or perhaps more accurately at spears, given the way they hold their 'weapons.' The faint light in the sky that qualifies as daylight has already faded, but that doesn't seem to have put any stop at all to their antics. They simply charge through the lantern-lit streets instead.

As you watch, they almost crash into a figure with blue and yellow sashes tied around her waist, and about half the children stop to apologize. The woman straightens her skirts and picks up one of the fallen 'spears,' demonstrating a downward stab into a nearby snowbank. The children shout approval and several of them imitate the motion before they go bouncing off again.

As they disappear around the corner, the woman glances back in your direction. You see her smile in the tiny opening of her fur-lined hood, and then she shrugs at you, almost a universal gesture of 'children, what can you do about them?'

It's really no different than you might see in a human town. You shrug back at her and continue on your way.

Once you're moving again, Thorn asks, Do you think you will spar that Adaran?

I don't know, you say. I feel as though I must have gotten terribly out of practice.

All the more reason to do so, Thorn replies. And you need practice moving around in the snow.

You huff, but can't deny that. Why the sudden interest? you ask. Normally you don't care for swords.

Relying on a weapon that can be knocked from your hand is foolish, Thorn agrees, all superior dragon wisdom for a moment, but I have a hunch that things may not be all as they appear with these traders.

You give him a mental raise of your eyebrows.

Don't you think it's interesting, Thorn says, that when we asked Zharai about the elves who don't live in the forest, she gave the same answer as Arya?

You pause, and stop to lean against a wall under a green lantern to gather your thoughts.

It's true that it's strange, that an Urgal girl in the middle of nowhere would be under the same oath of secrecy as an elven princess. But when you think about Revneili's enthusiasm for dragons - a known trait of the elves of Du Weldenvarden - and, perhaps more importantly, the sound of her laugh...

You only heard Arya laugh once, in the thick of the battle beneath Farthen Dur. You think that she did it more for distraction than for joy, because everyone in range, man and Urgal alike, had hesitated briefly, entranced by the sound. You were one of the quickest to recover, because you were able to place the laugh to its owner and the faint uncanniness that always surrounded her, and it worked to your advantage then. You had almost forgotten the memory entirely - you doubt you would have been able to call it up without prompting.

But now that you have thought of it...

You think that sparring him will reveal something, you say.

I believe, Thorn replies, that it will confirm it.

You look up at the lantern, scowl, and continue on your way. If they are elves, they will have every reason to hate us, you say. We killed the last of the original Riders. We were on opposite sides of the war.

If they are elves, then they didn't come south to fight Galbatorix, Thorn counters. They may not care about us at all. Didn't that book of yours say something about not all elves approving of the pact?

You consider that, as you move through the streets. You're reach the district with the right colors of lanterns, so it shouldn't be long until you return to the stables. I suppose I'll have to read more and find out, you send. And cross blades with Adaran tomorrow, if he's willing.

Thorn hums agreement, and puffs a small amount of smoke in greeting as you push the door open. You disable the alarm ward you left behind and pull out a simple lunch of trail bread and jerky, and set to eating it with one hand while you carefully pull out the manuscript with the other.

It's likely to be a long night.

----

...Indeed, this was a source of great contention between Eragon (who had arrived at the conclusion of vegetarianism due to his own magical inclinations and training) and the traditionalists who said that for an elf to consume meat was no different from any other predator doing so - indeed, no different from the dragons the growing faction backing the Riders so revered. Although a compromise was reached, which permitted hunting provided that kills were not brought into elven cities, this was not to last.

Those who refused vegetarianism were neither the first nor the last group to leave Du Weldenvarden, but they were the first to do so as a single large movement. Prior to the Bone Split - so called because it was their objective to make a clean break from the rest of elven society - only a trickle of elves had left the forest, primarily older elves who had reached the end of their previous natural lifespans and simply not died. That group, commonly called the Old Exiles, disappeared primarily into the mountains and other inhospitable environments, and presumably died there.

It was not the elderly who walked away from the forest during the Bone Split. It was primarily young adult elves - those who would have been of an age to start families, who found their efforts frustrated by our reduced fertility. Elves who were old enough to have been raised with a sense of the time before the Pact, but who were too old to easily adjust to the changed nature of our race. On the night of the first Agaeti Blodhren, the first-century anniversary of Eragon's pact, these elves took to the north and vanished. Although many of them left clues behind (presumably for undecided family members who might follow them later), only some dozen of this faction and their descendants have ever returned to Du Weldenvarden, including myself.

Although this schism was painful, it stabilized elven society greatly by separating the two most divisive factions. Most of those who remained were at least somewhat willing to compromise with the Riders and the cultural change they brought. Still, Eragon himself would never give up on attempting to mend the Split, and after his retirement, he and Bid'Daum journeyed to the north and there spent the rest of their days...

Chapter Text

When you finish the passage, you have to close the book and sit to process the information you'd just read for a moment. The words turn over in your head, and all you can do is turn to Thorn and say, Well, you were certainly on the right track.

Thorn hums deep in his chest, vibrating against your back where you're curled up on a pile of furs against his side. It would seem to be a safe assumption at this point, he agrees.

You think back over the conversation you had earlier, and say, No wonder Erzhal was brought back to himself when his brother intended to propose. A human getting married to an elf! It must have been unheard of, except for maybe the Riders.

Thorn snorts, equally amused, but says, But it seems she agreed. They must have loved each other deeply.

Deeply enough for it to be worthwhile, even with the difference in their lifespans, you agree. And then you think, And that's the side of the family that Zharai thinks is simple? It has half the races of Alagaesia in it!

Thorn dragon-laughs against your back. But no cousins, he says.

You grumble and sit forward, rubbing your head. Reading by werelight tends to give you a headache eventually, since no matter how bright a light you start with, they tend to fade to a dimmed red as you stop paying attention to them. You'd rather use natural light or candlelight, but both are in short supply this far north. Perhaps you can ask for one of the Urgal lanterns.

"It's late," you say aloud. I spent the whole evening translating that book, and I should get some rest if I'm going to try fighting an elf tomorrow, even one in disguise. You've never had a one-on-one duel with an elf, not really. Most of the times you've fought them were in large battles, and with the aid of Galbatorix's enhancements, which are now mostly gone. You're stronger and faster than a normal human - even, you think, than other human Riders were, not that you ever got a chance to compare - but you no longer have the supernatural abilities that let you go toe-to-toe with Eragon and the best of the elves.

Sleep, Thorn agrees. And don't worry so much. I won't let anything happen to you. There's a sensation of crunch between his teeth that you would rather not dwell on, more of a memory of battles past than an imagining.

I know, you say. And only a fool goes against a dragon.

Exactly. Thorn twists his head around to nudge you with the tip of his snout, a cute habit from when he was a hatchling that he's never really let go of - probably in part because of the fond smile it brings to your face every time, even now that his head is bigger than you are. Sleep well, Murtagh.

I'll do my best, you say, pulling the furs up from the floor and loading them onto your bed. After you climb in, you don't stay awake long past when you start consciously listening to Thorn's breathing.

----

The next day does not dawn, but you still have a sense of earliness when you rise from bed. Thorn makes a sound when you get up, but continues to doze. Dragons have to go through less preparation to meet the day than humans do.

For your part, you dress, check over your boots and, grudgingly, belt your sword on over everything but your outermost coat. If you do decide to spar, you won't want that anyway, considering how bulky it is. The slightly scratchy wool of your innermost layer will absorb the sweat you work up, but there's no reason to make things harder on yourself.

Only when you're nearly ready to go do you go over and nudge Thorn's head, scratching behind his horns as you poke at his mind to make him get up. "Come on," you say. "I'd like breakfast before all this."

Thorn hums, but lifts his head and shakes away the sleep before stretching as much as he can in the enclosed space. My wings are beginning to get stiff from lack of use, he grumbles at you as he stands up.

"We'll go flying some time when we can spare the energy," you say. "Even if it's only for a little while."

This seems to satisfy Thorn, who clicks his jaw open and closed once before making his way to the doors. You follow, pulling your coat over your shoulders as you go, and step out into the cold.

It has snowed a little over the night, just enough to add another sheet of white over the growing-familiar streets, which were already white enough. There is crunch to even the main road when you step out onto it, though only a few flakes still drift on the wind as you make your way to the eating hall where you ran into the traders before.

Their sleds are still there, now arranged in a more organized fashion against one of the buildings. It takes you until now to notice that the door of it is not Kull-sized, the way most of the ones in Ghralthek are. The dogs must be inside; if you listen closely, you think you can hear a muffled bark, but it might just be your imagination.

There's a wide overhang that serves as the porch of the mealhall, which is mostly free of snow. Thorn brushes a splattered chunk, fallen from the roof, aside, and curls up on the relative warmth of the elevated wood. See if you can get me a bucket of tea, he requests.

You snort. "Not a barrel?" you ask.

It would take too long to come to a boil, Thorn replies.

"Fair enough. I'll see what I can do."

It still feels strange to be able to just walk into the Urgal mealhalls and request food without an exchange of coin, but you've gotten used to the idea by now. Being able to feed anyone who comes to their doors seems to be a point of pride for the clans of Ghralthek, and sure enough, it doesn't take much of your awkward attempts at their language before the matronly Urgal woman manning the pots points you at a table and has started making you up a tray. The scent of stewed seaweed hits your nostrils before the bowl is anywhere near you - oatmeal with salty seaweed mixed in, and a side of slightly too-crispy fish that has been wrapped in the same and fried.

There's milk in your tea again. You sigh slightly, but drink it without complaint, letting the warmth fill you from the inside out. You eat at a quick pace, return your dishes to the rinse pile, and collect Thorn's hot bucket of tea, careful to not swing it enough to spill as you carry it out.

Dog barking begins in full about the time you leave the building - one of the traders has opened the doors of their building and let the creatures loose. They're of the same general kind to the ones the Urgals keep, though not as large. The puppies are absent; instead, two adolescents of the Urgals' breed mingle with the others, half a hand taller at the shoulders and not yet full grown from the look of their proportions. You can't say you know enough about these dogs to be sure; hunting dogs in the Empire tended towards short, sleek coats, and the amount of thick fur the northern dogs have makes it difficult for you to judge their size.

You make your way over to where Thorn is tucked up under the overhang of the building, behind a low wall that keeps out most of the snow, and deposit your bucket beside him. Steam wafts up from the tea enough to make a cloud.

Thank you, Thorn says, adjusting the position of the bucket slightly with one forelimb before he tilts his head to sip at it.

"They're still putting milk in mine," you grumble, taking a stool that's slightly too tall to sit on normally and dragging it closer to Thorn before you hop up on it.

It's hard to tell anyone apart in their snow coats without relying on your mental senses, but you're fairly sure that the trader who is outside with the dogs is the one who you haven't met. You cast your thoughts around - it's always a hassle trying to pick out any particular individual in a city, even if it's not actively crowded around you - and as you do, a pair of figures steps out of the traders' building.

One of them looks around, sees Thorn, and excitedly tugs on their companion's sleeve before darting over, quick and surefooted over the snow. The other - by the unique mix of Urgal wide shoulders and short stature, along with the sashes over her coat - is Zharai, who follows at a more sedate pace.

She sends a thought to you and Thorn, amused, Neili has told me about this meeting at least eight times since last night.

We'll try not to disappoint, you send back, which makes Zharai's shoulders twitch with a swallowed laugh as she follows Revneili under the cover of the building's expansive porch.

Thorn tips back the last of his tea and sets the bucket back down, turning his attention to Revneili, who bows in a way that's somewhat close to what you're familiar with. She says, in the Ancient Language, "Honored Thorn, it is an honor to meet you," and then, immediately, "Skirask. I already made a mess."

Thorn makes a small sound in the back of his throat that you know to be suppressing a laugh, and replies, The honor is mine. It isn't often that I get the chance to meet someone so excited to make my acquaintance.

Revneili smiles, and steps a bit closer to Thorn, pausing only to drag a chair with her. You decide to leave them to it, and say instead to Zharai, "The two of you know each other?"

"Neili's been harassing Patan since I was barely old enough to speak," she replies. (You remember, vaguely, being told that Urgals walk well before they can speak properly.) "I've never seen her so flustered before."

"She did say that your aunt was hoping for a visit this winter," you say.

Zharai nods. "She told me as much. Technically speaking, I come of age this winter, rather than in the spring, so..."

You frown. "Does it make that much difference?"

"Those who have seen nineteen winters are of age to go out with the hunting party," Zharai says. She huffs, and then sits on the bench next to you, looking as small as you feel on it. "That is tradition. I have seen nineteen winters this year. I was born before the solstice."

You say, "But they didn't let you go."

Zharai says, "My mother forbade it, because I am nine months younger than everyone else who has seen nineteen winters, and my eighteenth nameday has yet to pass."

"There is a difference?"

"Our children are not named until the first anniversary of their birth. Too many die in the first winter."

You say, "That seems an odd custom to me, but I can see the logic in it."

Zharai says, looking at her feet, "I certainly wasn't expected to live. I'm still too small, and my horns are dull, and..." Rather than finishing the sentence, she makes a low-throat growl of frustration that is very Urgal.

You try to lighten the subject by asking, "What do your people call the baby, if they are not named yet?"

"Usually the child is just - I do not know how the elves say it," more grumble-growl. "The mother's name baby. Lir-lir." She flicks the rough meaning of the term at you in a thought, too casual by half - but then, this is someone who grew up always able to respond to the thoughts of others, with a Shade for a father.

You say, "I do not know what it is in this language, either," and she snorts, a smile creeping back onto her features.

"What is it in the southlands?"

"So-and-so," you reply.

"So-and-so," she repeats, carefully, the 'and' coming out a little more like an 'ahnd.' "Some babies get nicknames. I was 'small one,' obviously. My sister was 'the biter.'"

You can't resist wincing at that. "Evocative," you say.

"I don't know that word," Zharai says. You decide to take a risk, and pull together the meaning as best you can before tossing it back at her. Her brow scrunches, and then she grins. "Evocative! I will remember that."

You don't quite smile, but you say, "Well, I for one am glad that you did not go hunting. We wouldn't have gotten to meet otherwise, and there aren't enough people here I can actually talk to."

"That is true," Zharai says. "I suppose I can forgive Manan a little of it."

"Is your mother out with the hunting group?" you ask.

"No, not this year," Zharai says. "She was hunt leader last year, but... It will probably be the last time. She is nearly elder-age now."

That makes sense, if the youngest of her children is nearly an adult. You ask, "Did you want to go hunting that badly, then? I thought you were a dye-maker."

"It is the principle," Zharai says. "I probably would not have gone, I am not that adept with a spear and I cannot use magic, but having it forbidden is such... skirask. I am tired of being treated as fragile because I am small."

You're not sure how to relate to that (you think, bitterly, of how adulthood was thrust upon you before you were ready, when you were not much older than she is), so you just say, "I'm sorry."

Zharai hmphs a little under her breath and says, "Thank you. I will just have to show them by lifting twice as many baskets of snail guts as the next-strongest young dyemaker."

"I believe you," you tell her, glancing around. Thorn and Revneili are still deep in conversation, but Adaran has finally left the house the traders stay in, talking to the trader with the dogs. You stretch your back slightly and check the sword at your side, before saying to Zharai, "I have to go. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," she replies, and then, "You are carrying your sword - are you going to ask Adaran to spar?"

"I'm going to try," you say.

Zharai's eyes glitter as she grins and smacks a hand into the place between your shoulderblades. Even through your layers, the force of it ripples through your spine. "Good luck," she repeats.

You feel proud that you didn't wobble at the impact. Even for a mild, friendly smack, there's enough force that you have a bit more faith in her claims of being able to outpace the next-strongest dyemaking trainee. You cross the courtyard with your hood down, feeling the bite of the cold in your ears.

Up closer, one of the dogs barks lightly at you and dips in a rowdy bow. You're not that familiar with dog body language, but its mind seems playful and its tail is wagging furiously, so you assume it isn't a threat. (Though given how the dogs play, that doesn't mean it won't still bite you.)

You ignore it - the day you can't manage to avoid a playful dog is probably a day that spells the end for you - and instead approach the two traders and bow. "Honored Adaran," you say. "Would you do me the pleasure of a spar?"

You put in the most humble way of speaking you know that doesn't make you feel like you're actively debasing yourself.

Adaran turns - his hood and goggles are hiding much of his face, but his shoulders slump slightly. He says, "Did Neili put you up to this?"

"I choose not to comment," you say immediately.

It gets a snort from the third trader, who you think is a woman. She bends to scratch a dog behind the ears and says, "That girl is always planning trouble."

(She says it while facing the dog, but it's definitely intended for both you and Adaran to hear.)

Adaran considers you for a moment, and then says, "You use only the sword?"

You nod. "And magic, but that is inappropriate for a casual spar."

"That it is," Adaran agrees. "I am not knowledgeable in the sword, but I will fetch a spear, if that is agreeable to you."

"That's fine," you say. "It's valuable to try myself against opponents with different styles and weapons."

Adaran nods, and turns briskly back to their cabin. The other trader stands from where she was petting the dog and says, "I don't believe we've been introduced, though Revneili accounted us with all the details of your visit last night. I am Iskane, a sled-dog breeder. It's a pleasure to meet a Rider in the flesh."

"The pleasure is mine," you say, giving her a little bow. She laughs, the sound light (too light, reminding you again of Arya) and reaches up to remove her sun-shades so that you can see her face properly. She's an older woman, looking to be in her fifties or sixties, definitely the oldest of the trio of traders.

"I had heard that southerners were flatterers," she says, and there's something a little harder in her eyes as she adds, "I had also heard that your people were soft. We will see if one is as true as the other."

So that's two of them you have to impress. It's not that much more pressure than one. You say, "I hope to surpass your expectations."

By then, Adaran is returning, his spear of choice over his shoulder. It's a bit longer and heavier-bladed than the ones you saw Erzhal using, and looks well-used. There are a pair of gems dangling from the cord that secures the head to the shaft, neither as large as the ruby in Zar'roc's pommel but of respectable size all the same.

"Are you familiar with the standard sparring rules of Ghralthek?" he asks, and you shake your head. "There is a circle of stone in the square under the snow," he explains. "Whoever is forced out first, or concedes, is the loser. This time of year, the circle is marked out with sand or dye."

"I can do that while you decide ground rules," Iskane says. "I have seen enough spars here to know where it is."

"Thank you," you say to her, and she stops to get something from one of the sleds before making her way across the square. One of her dogs follows. To Adaran you say, "Shall we make-safe the blades?"

"I only have the one set of furs with me, so that would be preferable," he agrees. "I've heard tales of Rider's blades being able to cut through anything, and I would rather not test it."

"It is not that dramatic," you tell him. "It simply doesn't need sharpening and care the way a normal sword does."

"Still sharper than my coat would like," he says, in a way that's almost friendly by comparison. The two of you protect the edges of your weapons with slight variations of the same phrase, and begin to walk towards where Iskane has gotten a pair of Urgals and a bag of sand, and they are going around the edges of the circle in the square. Now that you know to look for it, it's just barely visible as snow raised slightly above the snow around it - the sparring circle underneath must be raised above the rest of the square.

"No face or groin shots," he says, and you nod.

After a moment's hesitation (and feeling Thorn's eyes on your back), you say, "My back is prone to occasional spasms from an old injury. If it starts to seize, I will call out."

"That is fair," Adaran says. "Otherwise, to forfeit?"

"To forfeit," you agree, and enter the makeshift arena. The circle is most of the way complete around you, and there are now half a dozen Urgals gathering with interest about five feet outside it. They stand like there's another invisible circle there, which there probably is.

You glance at the food house. Thorn and Revneili are both watching with interest. Zharai, on the other hand, has disappeared.

Another couple of curious Urgals, including a Kull with a lamplighter's ladder, gather around. You sigh. You should have known better than to expect that you would be able to get away with not having an audience for this.

At least you won't be able to understand most of their whispered comments. If they have bad things to say about you, you'll remain blissfully ignorant.

"On my count?" Iskane says, as you and Adaran take places facing each other. You nod as you unsheathe your blade, and see him do likewise. The count Iskane starts is slow, and punctuated on each number by her slapping her leg. The crowd picks up the same on the second beat. "Three, two, one - begin!"

Apparently enough of the Urgals gathered around know enough of the Ancient Language to count, because the last word is drowned out by the six or seven voices that boom with excitement. You drop awareness of them.

It's one of your best and worst qualities as a fight, the way the entire world narrows to a point on your opponent. The gift of a fantastic duelist, but it makes you weaker on a battlefield, Galbatorix once said. You push his voice out of your mind, too.

Adaran keeps his spear point-down, his grip about a third of the way down the haft, as the two of you start a slow circle. With the thick furs, it's much harder to see the minute shifts in his weight, the tension in his muscles. The main reason you aren't taken by surprise by his first thrust is that you were almost waiting on it.

The ring of metal on metal sounds as the spearhead hits Zar'roc at an angle, a quarter of the way down its length. You feel it all the way up your arm - as it is, the spear skitters upwards in a way that only redirects the blow. You slide sideways out from under it as Adaran is just starting to pull the weapon back.

You see the twist of the spear that would have caught the indentation on the lower part of the head like a hook around your blade in time, and drop your sword out from beneath it before Adaran can yank with his full force. As an opening salvo to measure each other, it's not bad.

Disengaged, Adaran turns the spear in his hands, and you take the opportunity to return the attack. You strike at his side, but Adaran catches your blade with a leather-wrapped part of the haft, angling it across his body in a way that should have been awkward but seems to flow easily. He continues the motion in a way that sends the butt of the spear swinging for your legs, and you have to dance backwards more awkwardly than you'd like, still not used to the snow underfoot.

He has reach over you. If he's human, you have speed and strength over him, but the grace with which he handles the spear in the next exchange of blows - you go low, he goes high, you hit the flaps of his coat but nothing solid - make you more inclined by the moment to think he's not.

He swings the spear around his body, in a too-wide circle that brings the butt of it swinging for your waist. You catch it, on the back of your off-hand's forearm where you'd normally have at least a buckler strapped, and it doesn't knock the wind out of you the way it would have unblocked, but you can still tell it's going to bruise nastily and be sore in the morning.

You dig your feet in to the snow as best you can and use that arm to try to yank him forward. Adaran grunts, digging his heels as well, and for a moment you're at an impasse, both of you gripping his weapon and everything but his arm out of reach of your sword.

"You're quick," he acknowledges, before twisting the spear again in his grip, forcing you to let go of it when it reaches the end of how your wrist will bend without breaking.

As far as simply trading blows, it's clear that neither of you has a particular edge over the other. You swing for his thigh, and he catches it on the haft, again at an angle that no human would consider as anything other than a last resort. He moves around the spear into a better-balanced position quickly enough, but perhaps that's something you can use.

The snow around your feet is starting to become churned-up mush. It's another added complication, because you know well enough by now that it will become slick once it's been beaten down enough. For now, you circle to push Adaran into a less-trampled part of the arena, and he circles in turn, probably thinking the same thing.

He feints the head of the spear at your sword-shoulder, and you have to dance backwards again in a panic to avoid the way the feint flows into the real attack of slamming the butt into your feet. It digs into the snow with the sound of crushing ice.

Just enough that there will be a delay as Adaran pulls it free again. You swing Zar'roc high, at his shoulder, and he again twists to get the haft between his body and your blade. This time, the feint is yours - you adjust the angle of attack at the last second, stopping just shy of where his hand is holding the haft. The way his body is angled, there's nowhere he'd be able to move that wrist out of your way.

"You'd lose the hand," you say.

"That I would," he agrees. "Though if you think that would stop me, you're the fool."

And he kicks the butt of his spear into your leg, which puts a matching bruise on your calf to the one on your forearm. It's not enough to knock you over, but you still grunt and pull back.

As the two of you pull apart, Adaran tosses his spear from the one hand to the other, and takes a moment to pull the hand you 'chopped off' into his sleeve. He uses his teeth to tighten down the ties of his sleeve over the end, making a reasonable facsimile of a stump, and you can't help the hint of a laugh that escapes you.

"Three minutes until you bleed out!" you call.

"It's enough," Adaran returns. There's new respect in his voice, now.

This time when he moves, spear thrust out before him, it's a lot faster.

Faster, for certain, than a human should be able to move.

Fortunately, it's not your first time fighting an elf, so you're able to spin out of the way even if it does result in you sliding slightly in the snow. You don't get knocked off balance, you'll call it a win.

You let the momentum carry Zar'roc high, only controlling the natural arc rather than putting active force into it. Adaran ducks out of the way, the two of you pulling away from each other only long enough to get your bearings again before he jabs the spear upwards at your shoulder. With 'one hand,' he's at enough of a disadvantage now to get desperate, jabbing rapidly at your torso, in and out at irregular angles.

Prodding you backwards towards the border of the arena, you realize. Well. You can't lose like that.

You wait for the next thrust that's about chest height, letting it go to your side under your arm. You're faster than a human, too, somewhere in that middle zone between what's possible for a normal person and what's normal for an elf, and you put all of your speed into your charge. You swing Zar'roc downwards, at the shoulder that Adaran has still pivoted forward with the line of the spear. You pull the blow, but it still lands hard on his coat, just below the change from torso to sleeve.

"Now you'd have no arms," you say.

Adaran seems surprised for a moment, and for a tense few seconds neither of you moves. Then he shakes his head, the tiny bit of his face that's visible breaking into a smile.

"I forfeit," he agrees. "You're more vicious than I expected, chopping a man's arms off like that."

His spear lowers, going down past your hip, and once it's most of the way to the ground, he lets it drop entirely. The hand that isn't in his sleeve he offers to you in a fist.

You blink at it for long enough that it must be obvious, because he withdraws it to mime butting his own fists together before extending it to you again. This time, you offer your own free hand in a fist, and he butts his knuckles with yours.

The crowd roars. That's what it takes to bring your awareness of them back, apparently - you glance around, and discover that it's at least quadrupled in size since you stopped noticing. Thorn has actually had to come out from under cover to be able to see you, his long neck over the heads of the Urgals and his eyes glittering with dragon pleasure.

You were right, you tell him. There's no way that Adaran, at least, is human.

I noticed, Thorn says. I do know how fast humans are supposed to be able to move. His tone is wry.

Revneili has, at some point, climbed up onto the lamplighter's ladder, It sways back and forth as she whoops and calls out, first in the Urgal language and then in the Ancient Language, "Anyone want to take on the winner?"

"Now, wait - " you start to say, at the same time a voice shouts over the crowd, "I will!"

It's on the far side of the arena, so you have to turn, although you're almost not sure if you should. Zharai has stepped into the circle of space between the arena and the crowd. Held high in one hand, still sheathed, is Frostbite, the same color as the trampled snow around you as the barely-there light of day disappears into night.

"Murtagh," she calls out, clear above the murmuring of the crowd. "Will you give me the honor of a spar?"

You risk a glance at Thorn. I can't very well tell her no, can I?

No, Thorn agrees, looking somehow more amused than he was previously. Urgals are Urgals wherever you go, it appears.

At least in some respects. You turn away and step towards her across the arena, Zar'roc still in your hand, and say, "I won't go easy on you."

"Good," Zharai says, as she steps up and into the circle of sand demarking the arena. "Patan always does. I was getting sick of it."

You resist the urge to sigh, and roll your shoulders. Hopefully you can get this over with quickly.

Chapter Text

You have to blade-safe Frostbite on Zharai's behalf, which you don't really mind. The distrusting part of you can be sure of your own work.

Adaran, who has taken to the edge of the circle leaning just a bit on his spear, says, "You might want to limit the number of challengers after this. Else you'll be doing nothing but fighting younglings for a week."

"I can take a few more," you say. "If I must. I've fought adult Urgals; their teenlings shouldn't prove that much of a challenge in comparison."

Zharai takes the blade back from you and huffs slightly.

If you underestimate her, she'll make a fool out of you, Thorn observes.

Her mother is a hunt leader and her father is a Shade, you reply. She's the one out of all of them that's likely to pose a challenge.

Thorn hums, audible from his position at the back of the crowd. Several of the Urgals, uncertain of the sound, edge away from him. That is how we see it, he agrees. But to everyone around her, she is the small child who barely survived being born.

It's hard to argue with that, so you acknowledge it and settle in to a combat stance. Zar'roc looks even more blood-colored in the low light when your eyes chance to see it shining out of the corner of your eye. Night proper is falling, but there's still enough light from the snow and lanterns that it doesn't feel dark.

Across from you, Zharai holds its ice-white counterpart in a high guard. You can't see any immediate flaws in her stance.

She's almost certainly used to opponents bigger than she is, you observe. After all, her father is the only smaller person in the entire settlement, unless you count the traders. That it was Erzhal who taught her to use that blade, you have next to no doubts; there's no reason for an Urgal to know how to use such a weapon.

It's Revneili again who gives the countdown, her voice still coming from overhead on the ladder. Like before, the Urgals slap their legs in the beat between the counted numbers. "Three; two; one; begin!"

You don't waste time. If Zharai is used to taller opponents, you'll attack low, and so you do. The girl grunts as elfsteel hits elfsteel where the blades connect, but her grip holds.

Then she adjusts her weight and pushes, and despite Frostbite being only two-thirds as wide as Zar'roc, she shoves you back hard enough that you have to take a step back.

Frostbite, with its single, slightly curved edge, is a slashing blade, so you're prepared for the downward stroke Zharai follows up with. Blade hits blade again, this time with the impact ringing in your shoulder. You'll have to take any further hits like that with both hands for support, to keep Zar'roc from being rattled straight out of your grip.

And she's only using one hand.

You step quickly out of range for now, shaking the tremors out of your wrist. Neither of you has much of an advantage in reach, unlike your previous spar; it goes to you if it goes to anyone, Zar'roc the slightly longer blade.

You say, "Just how heavy are those snail buckets?"

Zharai smirks, and replies, "Some of them are heavier than my father."

You grunt, and deliberately ignore the feeling of amusement coming off Thorn. Even the literal smallest of the Urgals, it seems, has more strength than most grown men. The thought of moving buckets the weight of a grown (if small) man all day makes your back twinge at the thought alone.

Even when you could match an elf, that was in bursts - the magical price of maintaining that strength was too costly for you to have it when at rest. Galbatorix made you do some strength training without magic, but nothing to that level of continuous use of your body.

You'll have to rely on your speed, then.

"I'd hate to have to wrestle you," you tell her, and almost before the words have left your mouth you charge in. Being too cautious has never served you well in battle, and there's no reason to expect it to start doing so now.

As you expected, Zharai is slow to react - she has neither the speed to match your charge nor the reflexes of someone who has seen actual, life-or-death battle, and it shows in the bruise you're sure she'll have across her outer thigh in a few minutes. It's a give-and-take, though - she takes a swing at your side while you're open that doesn't hit, but comes closer than you'd like.

You dance to the side, towards the center of the arena, and Zharai comes after you swinging, her expression one of concentration. Another blow you parry - wisely using both hands this time. The next one actually makes you skid a little on the ice, but she overextends, and can't pull back quickly enough to avoid a tap on her lower ribs.

Now that you're better prepared for her strength, your position is a lot better, and you begin to get a feel for which of her blows to dodge and which to parry. She's making more attacks, but you're landing more blows, and on the fifth she huffs and pulls back.

There's a familiar, unbearable frustration in her eyes as she says, "I forfeit. You're better than me."

You relax your stance before sheathing your sword, not wanting to look her in the eye. The mirror of your own past feelings of never being able to measure up to Eragon isn't easy to look at, and you don't know what to say to the reflection you see in her eyes.

Even in the Ancient Language, you did well feels condescending and inadequate. Eventually, you manage, "Want me to heal your bruises?"

Some of the usual spirit returns to her face as she shakes her head. "Both my parents will tell me to let them be a lesson about getting in over my head," she says. There's something nervous in her voice and the direction she's looking, behind your shoulder, so you turn.

Both her parents, indeed.

It is your first time meeting the woman who must be Zharai's mother, but you don't have any doubts about who the Kull woman towering over Erzhal's shoulder is. Now that you've been among Urgals long enough to tell their faces apart, her nose and the shape of her horns are similar to Zharai's, though the horns are far larger and more impressive. There are a number of ornaments of bone and horn sewn into the collar of her coat as well as the red-and-purple sash that crosses her chest, though she lacks the horn ribbons you've seen on many of Ghralthek's women.

Despite the disparity of both height and species, the disapproving expressions of Zharai's parents are matched. Zharai sheathes Frostbite after extracting the scabbard from the loop on her coat it was attached to, and puts the blade in her father's outstretched hand with her shoulders slumped.

"If you had asked, I wouldn't have said no," he tells her, and her shoulders slump further.

"Jro, Patan," Zharai replies dejectedly.

Erzhal sighs in turn, and twists his entire body to look up at the woman behind him. "Vluezai staibre, Lyruthk."

"Othritl," Lyruthk says down to him, and you're proud of the fact that you can tell from the sounds and intonation that it's from the Urgal tongue rather than the north's trade language. She then says something to Zharai in the same language.

Rather than her shoulders slumping further, Zharai draws herself up, shoulders straight, and replies in kind. Lyruthk rolls her eyes, tilting her head up at the heavens, and the two of them rejoin the crowd, still talking in low voices.

Erzhal, for his part, unsheathes Frostbite and begins checking it for damage. You take a step closer to him, and say, "Should I have told her no?"

"No," Erzhal says. "You're not at fault; it's just taking the blade without permission that she did wrong." He lifts his chin at you over the blade and smiles, his eyes flashing with arresting red. "The people here aren't as battle-loving as their southern cousins, but they still put a high value on demonstrations of strength. By that standard, what Zharai did was only to be expected."

You glance back into the crowd just in time to see Revneili slide down the ladder. "Even though she lost?"

"Better to have tried, and lost, and learned something," Erzhal replies. "It was only a friendly spar, not a fight to the death. Challenging an obviously stronger opponent is usually a learning experience."

He resheathes the blade and holds it up in your direction. "Dismiss the ward on this for me?"

"Of course." You cut the spell with a word and Erzhal secures the blade in his belt. You sheathe Zar'roc in turn, checking that the way it's attached to your waist will hold as you do so. "What did Lyruthk call you?"

"The literal meaning is 'squishy skull,' but idiomatically it's closer to 'soft-hearted," Erzhal says. "A lot of Urgal idioms have to do with the head and skull, for some reason."

It takes a glance at his expression to realize that he's telling a joke, but you do chuckle at that point. "You taught her well," you say.

Erzhal smiles, in a way that's less mischievous and more proud. "This blade suits her better than it suits me," he says. "Like it's original owner, the north is in her bones."

You follow as he starts to make his way out of the now-dispersing crowd in Thorn's direction. "And what does that make you?" you ask. "You're surely as much of the north as either of them."

Erzhal shakes his head, just slightly. "My heart belongs to the north," he says, using the Ancient Language word hjarda, the anatomical heart, rather than the more commonly used figurative cora, which can also mean core or spirit. "But my bones, as everyone seems keen to remind me lately, belong somewhere else."

Before you can question him further, he steps around the Kull with the lamplighting ladder towards Lyruthk and Zharai. Revneili has joined them; you see just enough of them to see the trader put Fausa back around Zharai's shoulders before darting off, waving one hand.

Best to leave them to it. You turn back towards Thorn instead.

----

You go back to work at the smokehouse that afternoon, though the Urgal in charge - a round, non-Kull woman named Thedru - insists on giving you lighter work than you had been doing previously. You don't object - your muscles are sore from sparring even after you heal the worst of your bruises, and even if you wanted to argue, Thedru is no more fluent in the Ancient Language than you are in her tongue.

Besides, in this case, lighter work still involves moving bags of sea-salt, shoveling snow into melting pots made of whale stomachs, and distributing the resulting cool water to the workers in the hot center of the smokehouse. At least the snow that piles up around the buildings means you're not going to run out of clean water any time soon.

(Thorn, as you're leaving, drinks nearly an entire melting pot by himself, to scattered cheering and leg-slapping.)

As you're getting tired enough that you're ready to return to the stable, a hush falls over the group, from the edges inwards. The usual friendly murmur of the work conversation turns disquieted.

Unable to follow the flow of conversation for yourself, you head to the large racks near the center. As you're getting close, Klartzog, the Kull mage who is in charge of the full-carcass racks today, flags you down.

"What is it?" you ask. "I noticed that the others seemed to be growing unsettled."

Klartzog nods, and says, "You should return to your dwelling. I'll send someone after you so you aren't alone."

"Why?" you ask. "Is there some danger?"

"Look." Klartzog points upwards, through the smoke gap in the ceiling. You squint; there seems to be a sort of film between you and the stars. "A spirit-night is setting in. Everyone who isn't absolutely needed here will go home soon."

You still aren't sure that you understand, but you do remember Erzhal telling you in passing about spirit-nights and what happened to children who got lost on them. So you say, "Thank you for the warning. We'll go back, then."

"Go in a group," Klartzog says. "Ithnar's group will be headed in that direction; you should travel with them." He points out a group of Urgals, formerly shirtless, who are pulling wool over their heads and buttoning up coats. The one who is actually at the stage of putting on sashes is tying a knot in orange-and-green similar to the lanterns near your stable.

"Thanks," you say. "We'll do that." You dart back to the edge of the smokehouse to grab your own coat and start pulling it over your shoulders as you approach the group.

None of them speak the Ancient Language, but you're starting to get good enough at the local language to follow the conversation - at least when it's in the trade tongue of the north. When they switch into the Urgal language, you can't follow it anymore. But they're friendly enough and seem glad for the additional company; each of them also takes a moment to touch Thorn on the leg, which you've seen the children of Ghralthek do a few times, but never adults.

"He is spirit-color red," one of them explains when you ask, or at least that's what you're able to get out of it. All of them stick close to the two of you as you make your way through the city, and all of you watch the skies as they begin to develop strange colors.

You've never seen a sky like the one above you now; a rippling veil of green-purple-pink separates you from the stars and moon in the distance. It is nothing at all like a sunset or cloud, being transparent yet still possessing a distinct bottom edge. It flows like a river across the northern half of the sky; beyond that, you do not have the words to do it justice.

The Urgals are loath to leave you and Thorn alone at the stable; they only disperse when other figures make their way through the streets coming from the other direction. The strange lighting seems to set the red streaks of Izolsa's hair aglow; her hood is down even with the chill. Apparently the presence of a spirit-touched elder is enough to convince your travel company that you will be fine.

Zharai follows in her grandmother's wake, but she seems quiet in comparison. You hope that her parents weren't too harsh on her earlier. Like the Urgals from the smokehouse, she takes a moment to touch Thorn's shoulder, and then grips the bright red sash hanging from around her shoulders.

Izolsa, in contrast, does not appear discomforted by the colors of the sky or the possibility of spirits. "I've asked the traders to come here as well," she says to you. "I hope you don't mind; their group is also not large enough to ward off any curious spirits. You want at least five or six people gathered together, and more is better."

You mind a little, but extra company is something you can tolerate if it means safety from possession by spirits. It isn't as though there are many other places that can fit Thorn, so of course other people would have to come to you. "It's fine," you tell her. "Though I don't know if the meat I brought from the smokehouse would be enough for that many people."

"We're all bringing food," Izolsa says with a smile. "Come on, inside with us."

You push the doors open and let them in. It's not much warmer inside than out; your fire has burned out and the heat largely dispersed. Thorn pads in after the three of you and pushes one of the double doors closed with his tail, leaving the other cracked.

"Where is Erzhal?" you ask.

"He'll be out patrolling," Izolsa says. "Since he and Skasir are the only ones who don't have anything to fear from wandering spirits, they've a long night ahead of them."

"Returning any stray children to their families, I assume," you say.

"Among other things," Izolsa agrees. "Everyone who can will be staying inside tonight, but there are always a few who think there is something so pressing as to be worth the risk. Sometimes it even is; in either case, our spirit-walkers will give escort where they are able."

You nod; that makes sense enough, especially given that Erzhal escorted you across a spiritground on your journey north. A night like this, you suppose, turns the whole of the frozen north into a spirit's playground, full of the potential danger of interactions between spirits and flesh-and-blood people.

Why is every Urgal in the city intent on touching me? Thorn asks Izolsa. It is not usual.

"Red is the spirits' favorite color," she explains. As she speaks, she reaches up to her head near her horns and rolls a clump of hair, mostly Shade's bright red with a few strands of her natural black and grey, between her fingers. "It is a common belief that wearing or touching red will help gain their favor. As a last resort, someone outside alone on a night like tonight will throw a red object - or, even better, a dried and preserved heart - to distract the spirits and keep their own safe."

(Like Erzhal earlier, she uses hjarda, though its usage in this context is less surprising.)

"That is a very nice way of saying he's bait, Grandmother," Zharai says sternly, and Izolsa laughs loudly as Thorn snorts his disapproval.

"Only a fool would hope to use a dragon as bait," Izolsa says. "Even if he is already the right color, anyone who can recognize the presence of spirits can tell he isn't spirit-touched in the slightest."

You're saved from trying to come up with a response for that by the barking of dogs; casting your thoughts around reveals that the three traders are outside along with Iskane's pack of them. "Come in!" you shout in the direction of the door, which sets off another, louder round of barking, including an unfamiliar booming one.

The first figure you see is Adaran, who pushes the door all the way open to allow the small stampede of dogs inside; in addition to Iskane's, there are two of the much larger Urgal dogs with them. All of them immediately disperse to sniff out the space as the trio of traders come in, pushing one of their sleds along with them. One of the half-grown pups comes up to Thorn's nose, tail wagging furiously.

"We've brought food and chairs," Iskane says. "Izolsa warned us that your furnishings were a bit sparse." She gives the sled a last good shove as Revneili closes the door.

"And the entire family, it appears," you say, looking over the dogs.

"They'll calm down in half an hour or so," Iskane says. "Once they've investigated everything to their satisfaction."

You certainly hope that's true. It seems like it will be a long night, otherwise. One of the larger dogs comes over and stuffs its face into Zharai's coat, which prompts a loud, displeased noise from the weasel inside as Fausa squirms away. He climbs up onto the top of Zharai's collar and then onto her head, which only attracts further attention from more dogs, all gathered up with their tails waggling.

Iskane says, "Leave it!" in a voice that's practically a bark itself, and the dogs disperse, some seeming a bit sullen. She sighs and pushes her hood back from her head.

Her ears are rounded, but the way her hair falls forward as she leans to pick up the frame of a chair from the sled suggests they shouldn't be. You say, "You can drop the glamour. Thorn and I already figured it out."

Iskane pauses, and then looks at Adaran. "Your fault for showing off," she tells him, before dismissing the spell. There's a faint visual ripple before her face is that of an elf, nowhere as aged as her human appearance but not exactly young-looking either. You'd say it's the most aged face you've seen on an elf, but you haven't truly been around enough elves outside of battle to be able to tell.

Adaran snorts, grabbing a chair for himself and setting it up near your bed. "I was baited into it," he says.

"If that's what you want to believe," Iskane replies. She shakes out the chair in her hands before setting it near the fire and gesturing Izolsa to sit down.

They're unlike what Galbatorix told us of the elves, Thorn observes privately to you.

If the book is any indication, they're not the same culture at all as the elves in Du Weldenvarden, you send back to him. You take the bundle of furs and blankets Iskane hands you when she gets back to the sled, feeling a little foolish standing there doing nothing.

Zharai says, "Well, now I don't have to try and avoid talking about it. I can't believe you managed to ask one of the only two people in the whole city who is oathbound not to tell anyone."

"He asked you?" Revneili says, and there's an elfish twinkle to her laugh. You grunt and dump half your load of furs in her lap on your way around the fire, which just makes her laugh harder.

Zharai huffs, and then turns to you, grabbing a wool blanket off your pile and tossing it over her shoulders like a far-too-large shawl. "They only make people who go to their homeland swear," she explains. "Which is only Patan and I. If you had asked anyone else..."

He asked an elven friend of ours in the south, and she couldn't answer either, Thorn says.

"Huh," Zharai says. "Can we sit on your bed?"

Surprised by the question, you say, "Sure," before you really think about it. Zharai immediately drops onto the hammock-bed, and Revneili sits only slightly more delicately next to her. Whatever, you can sit against Thorn's side, and sleep there if need be. "Just don't let the dogs on it," you say.

"Don't worry, they know they aren't allowed," Iskane says. She lifts a pack from the high back of the sled and sets it beside the stone wall of the fire pit before settling back into the sled. An older-looking dog with a mostly-black coat and bright white ears settles over her feet.

Izolsa says, "Is everyone settled in? I've been told that there's a story that Murtagh and Thorn would be interested in." She glances at Thorn and adds, "Though I doubt my grandmother ever expected me to tell it to such an esteemed audience when she taught it to me."

We would be honored, Thorn replies.

"Well, you can pay back the honor by lighting the fire," Izolsa says. "We'll be wanting it even with this much dog in here, I'm sure."

Thorn chuffs the dragon equivalent of a chuckle and leans his neck around to puff a small flame into the fire pit. Once he settles back on his haunches, you spread a hide on the floor and tuck yourself against his side, still within easy reach of the fire's glow. Even after the actual dragonfire has burned out, the fires lit off Thorn's breath are always a little redder than normal fire, and it makes Izolsa's red hair look even more prominent.

She scoots her chair a bit around the fire so that she's sitting almost directly opposite you and the two girls on your bed. (Now that you're looking again, Revneili doesn't look that old, perhaps your equivalent in age. Something about her seems younger than Arya, though.)

Adaran brings the last chair up close to the fire, next to the pack Iskane set down, and pulls out an earthenware pot and board. "The story of how your people came across the sea?" he asks Izolsa as he pulls a bone knife from his pocket and starts peeling a root vegetable straight into the fire. Fragments of the outer skin hit the flame and fill the immediate area with a surprisingly sweet scent. "It's been some time since I last heard it."

"Since my grandmother herself, surely," Izolsa teases.

Adaran grunts. "Not that long. It's only been about two decades..."

"Uncle," Zharai admonishes, and you feel yourself twitch. After a moment's hesitation, you send her a private thought.

Uncle?

I told you that my aunt has a brother, she replies.

I suppose I just didn't expect it to be Adaran. Erzhal spoke of him more like a trading partner than like family.

They don't get on that well, Zharai says. You know that my aunt had to take care of my father for a long time, right?

He told me as much, yes.

I'm not sure Adaran has ever forgiven him for that, Zharai sends back. Now hush, the story is starting. With that, she puts up a light wall around her mind - not really a defense so much as a 'go away, I'm trying to listen' - and scoots closer to Revneili on your bed.

You share an amused thought with Thorn, pull a blanket a little tighter over your lap, and settle in. One of the dogs wanders over and flops down, back against your hips, as Adaran tosses his peeled root into the pot beside him and starts on the next one.

"Long and long and long ago," Izolsa begins, "our people lived as livestock in a land without snow..."

----

...where the rains served only to wash our blood away into the earth.

All lived in fear of our masters, who flew the skies on leather wings and snatched men and women from their tribes in their great toothed mouths. Their foul children walked among us like two-legged insects, shining black and sticky with dried blood that even the rain could not wash away.

At their command, we moved constantly, never to rest in the same place more than a single night, for night was when they would descend upon us to choose their prey. The sheep and the goats and the horned deer were our herds, and in the same way that we lived off their meat and milk, our masters lived off of us. Trapped between the mountains in which our masters made their nests and the sea, we had nowhere else to go.

So it was that one day, a mother fled her tribe into the mountains, carrying her babe in her arms and with nothing save the clothes on her back and the knife in her belt, and that only as long as the palm of her hand. When one of the masters flew overhead, she hid herself in a cave, protected from their sight - but only for the moment, for she knew they would search for her, and that when they found her, there would be nothing left of her and her babe but their bones. Just as had become of her mother, and her mother's mother, and all of the mothers before, as far as anyone could remember.

So she continued into the cave, and it was deep. Alongside her path ran a dark crevasse, one that she knew held only death at the bottom should she fall. Eventually, she reached deeply enough that she could not see any longer, and she wished for eyes that could see in the dark.

A voice, or perhaps many voices, said unto her, Give us your clothes, and we will give you the gift of sight.

And so she did - all except the sling of her babe, she cut off, and threw into the darkness at her side. And her eyes stung with tears until they bled, but she was given the gift of sight. For spirits walked alongside her, and now she was gifted with the ability to see their glow, even if it sapped all color from the world save the red of her blood.

For many more hours she walked, deeper into the cavern. Eventually, when her strength could no longer sustain her, she cried out, "Oh, spirits! I wish for food, or even a drink of water, that I might continue!"

And the voice of the spirits said, Give us your hair, and we will give you a meal.

And so she did. She tore at her hair until her scalp bled, and threw all of her hair into the darkness at her side. And a creature of the cave came, attracted by the smell of blood, and with her knife she killed it. Only when the deed was done did she realize that the creature she had killed was among the youngest of the masters, too young and soft of skin for the outside world.

"Oh, spirits!" she cried. "What I wish for, more than anything else, is freedom from these monsters! Wherever it is I go, I cannot escape them!"

And the voice of the spirits said, Give us your babe, and we will give you your freedom.

But this the mother could not abide. "If only one of us is to be free, then let it be my child! For I love him more than I love living, or any other thing in this world. Ask any other thing of me, I beg, but not him!"

And so the spirits said, Then give us your heart.

And so the mother plunged her knife into her breast and threw herself into the dark, and so she died. And the spirits took her heart and made their home in it, and so she did not remain dead.

But a babe cannot live alone in the dark. In three days' time, when his mother returned, he had climbed into the body of the masters' young, seeking food and warmth, and its flesh had grown hard around him. Believing him dead, his mother wept; yet unable to part with him, she gathered the hard, round form of her child into the sling and tied it once more against her chest. And so she felt the warmth against her chest and knew that, in some form, her child yet lived.

And so, with blood for eyes and blood for hair and skin made pale by the light of the spirits, did she turn and leave the cave.

Chapter Text

"A Shade," you say.

"The very first," Izolsa agrees. The storytelling quality of her voice disappears for the moment, the strange rhythm it possessed gone. Across the fire, Zharai grumbles at the interruption, but is in turn shushed by Revneili. "Or at least, the first any stories were ever told of."

"I had heard that Urgals had a particular affinity for Shades that bordered on worship," you say. "One in the employ of Galbatorix used that goodwill to bind many tribes to his will."

Both of the Urgal women hiss. "That is foul," Izolsa says. "A perversion. Tell me that it is dead."

"It is; my brother killed it."

"Good." The old woman huffs, leaning forward to use her one hand to toss extra fuel on the fire. It sparks high for a moment before settling; she adds some herbs to it afterwards, which again alters the smell of the smoke.

Adaran waves it back in her direction with one hand, apparently finding the smell displeasing. His pile of root vegetables has decreased to almost nothing, and he's moved on to onions. Izolsa inhales a gasp of the smoke and blows it back at him in a perfectly formed ring.

"Grandmother," Zharai says, aggrieved. Whether at the smoke ring or simply because she wants the story to continue, you cannot tell.

"It is a good place to stop for a moment anyway," Izolsa says. "I can answer questions, and then we can continue. Knowledge is like food, and it must also be cooked at its own pace."

She settles back into her seat and adds, "This story is older than the split between our people and those you are more familiar with in the south, who live in the mountains. I do not know if what they do can be called 'worship,' but here it is more like everyone in the family answering to the eldest of the clan. It is a respect you know before you know what the words mean."

"It's our ancestor-story," Zharai says. "Every Shade is a little bit a part of it, even the bad ones, the same way awful parents are part of your history."

You can practically feel your back twinge at the words. Thorn shifts, in turn, to press the weight of his flank against your back, and you lean into the support. "We understand that well enough," you mutter.

You can feel all the eyes on you, but Thorn takes the pressure off of you by asking, The 'masters' in the story - Galbatorix had servants from across the sea who ate the flesh of men, called the Ra'zac. Are they the same creature?

"They are," Iskane says. "That is the name in this language for their larval form, which can pass as men. I had heard that they had been seen in the south, but that was before we lost communication with the forest."

"How long ago was that?" you ask.

"Perhaps five years after the end of the Riders," Iskane says. She looks at Adaran for confirmation, and he huffs.

"Not even that," he says. "The last contact we had from the Weldenbraz was when Islanzadi became queen. Not long after her coronation, she closed the borders of the forest, even to us." He leans forward to put the pot of ingredients into the fire directly, its bottom sitting on the coals, and then leans back and looks at you. "How much do you know of our history with the Riders?"

"Not much," you say. "I presume Raimizhre was one of your people, since neither she nor her sword are named in the Ancient Language."

Adaran nods. "Both she and her teacher, Irvetsuni, were from our people. They are the only two to have ever become Riders and gone south."

The only ones? Thorn asks. I see why Islanzadi might have harbored discomfort towards your people, but surely cutting you off entirely was a bit much.

"Not for an elf," Izolsa observes dryly. "Meaning no offense, but your people are emotion-driven and the opposite of fickle."

"The southerners are worse," Iskane says. "Changing their minds is like trying to change the color of the sea."

"Islanzadi is dead," you say. "Her daughter, Arya, has become queen in her place - and is a Rider and has lived among humans and dwarves besides. If you wished it, I'm certain that she would at least speak to you."

Adaran raises his eyebrows at you. "Is that so," he says, the words lacking the upward tilt of a question.

"Last I knew, she was headed into the Spine to carry dragon eggs among the Urgals there," you say.

Adaran does not reply, but instead pours water from a skin into the pot in the fire before putting a lid on it. His expression is more closed off than it was, but you think that he looks thoughtful.

Zharai says, "Is the elf friend you asked the queen, Murtagh?"

Why are you so surprised? Thorn asks her. We are Riders, after all.

You shrug one shoulder uncomfortably. "She is the only elf I knew before coming here."

"Well, I'd like to meet her," Revneili says.

"May I use this?" Adaran says, lifting the wrapped meat you brought from the smokehouse. You nod, and he starts unwrapping it and gives it a brief sniff before starting to cut it into strips. "I am not in a position to make any promises for our people," he says carefully. "And I do not feel it would be appropriate for me to make contact with her as queen without speaking to our leadership. The history between us and the elves of Du Weldenvarden is complicated, and not only due to Islanzadi's withdrawal from communication."

"I understand," you say.

He pauses, and then adds, with a grimace, "I come here to escape politics, you know."

"As did I," you agree, which at least earns you a look of commiseration.

"I can't say that I would object to meeting a queen of the elves myself," Izolsa says. "Though that's a matter for another time. I'm sure Erzhal would want to have his say in the matter as well."

You can only imagine how that would go. You're perfectly glad to put it off.

Silence falls over the group once more, except for the crackling of the fire and the shuffle of a dog crawling under your bed to wedge itself into the warm spot underneath Zharai and Revneili. Once she's sure that you're all settled, Izolsa picks up the thread of her tale again.

"The mother went back down the mountain, to her people on the flat of the land...

----

...But none recognized her, and none wished to hear her words. They called her simply Shradi, fresh blood, for the color of her hair and her eyes, and treated her as an outsider who had gone mad. For why else would a woman carry a stone tied to her breast like a babe, fearing no sky and no master?

The third time she was turned away by her people, Shradi walked out alone into the night, which was a certain way to die. The shape of one of the masters blotted out the stars as it overtook what it thought would be easy prey.

But the spirits had made her strong and fleet of foot. And when the master dived to close its jaws around her, Shradi was not there. And when its jaws had closed over nothing, she reappeared upon its back, and there used her great strength to shatter the bones of its neck.

The mate of the slain monster came, and Shradi slew that as well. And then their children came, and those she ripped apart with her hands, until not only the ground but even the moon was stained with their blood. When all around her were slain, Shradi let loose a piercing whistle that cut through the night so that all would know of her triumph, and sat down on a stone to wait.

People from all around came to see the source of the noise, which echoed over the entire plain. "Stay with me for three nights," Shradi told the gathered people. "And I will show you how to become free."

The masters who remained were afraid of Shradi, and rightly so. For the first two nights, they did not strike. But on the third, the begging of their children and the emptiness of their own bellies grew too much, and they attacked the camp.

The first Shradi slew with a sheep-minder's staff which had been sharpened at one end, which she threw to knock the monster from the sky. And so her people took up the spear, and they became free.

The second, she slew with the gifts of the spirits, and so her people too learned of magic, and they used this power to free each other.

And the third she slew by taking the horns of a beast of the herd, planting them on her own head, and ramming it to death. And so her people did the same, taking the horns of their animals for themselves and their children, so that they would never again be without the power to free themselves.

The people begged Shradi to lead them, but she could only shake her head. "I am promised to the spirits, and there I must return," she said. "But my son will lead you to freedom in a faraway land, where the beasts that once called themselves our masters dare not go."

For a turning of the moon then did Skradi sit with the stone form of her son in her lap, singing to him songs of safety and warmth. Only then did the stone around him break open, like the shells of the creatures he had consumed to survive in that dark place. He was no longer a child of man, but a child of the spirits, and so at first all feared that he would be a beast like the masters from whom they had just won their freedom.

But the moonlight shone upon him, and his skin glittered in the same color as his mother's eyes, and when he raised his head, his horns were in the same shape as hers. And when he spread his great wings, they did not blot out the light of the moon, the sun, and the stars as those of the monsters did. They glowed, instead, with the color of blood, as he launched himself from his mother's arms and flew to the north.

And the people followed.

----

"Then, her son was..."

You pause, and look very conspicuously at Thorn, who snorts and tosses his head.

Isolza laughs and says, "So the story goes! So you understand why our people think he is very lucky."

I am honored by the comparison, Thorn says, dipping his head before swinging it around on his neck to push his snout into your lap, displeasing one of the dogs wedged against you in the process.

Thorn? you ask, pressing your mind against his even as you wrap an arm over his nose.

Your partner does not respond in words. Instead, he radiates his emotions into your mind: an aching but newfound hope, the feeling of the wind over his wings as you flew away from Uru'baen for the last time, the weight of a legacy settling into place on his spine.

The sound of Izolsa and Zharai whistling, when you told of how you freed yourselves from Galbatorix, now given meaning and context. A celebration of freedom older than the presence of Urgals and men in this land, perhaps older than the Riders or even the elves.

And for the first time, the difference between pride in being a dragon, the pride of being your partner, and pride in being himself.

You catch yourself blinking back tears, and close your eyes. Your name has changed, you say to him, quietly even within the privacy of your bond.

It has. You feel his eyes close in turn, the muscles shifting under your arm. I knew who I was. But now I know what I want - to be a symbol of freedom that lives up to my predecessor.

You inhale shakily, and nod, your head pressed against his. Slowly, you become aware of the world around you again - the dog still pressed up against your side, the sounds of the fire and of Adaran starting to serve the food. The respectful silence of the rest of the people in the room, as you extract yourself enough to risk looking at them again.

You aren't sure what you expected from them, but it isn't the faint smiles and polite looking away that you find. Izolsa is the only one looking directly at you, and when you lift your head, all she says is, "Such is the power of stories. When we see ourselves in them, they become real."

You say to Thorn, She's too damn perceptive.

Well, she is a grandmother, Thorn replies. From what I hear, they always are, even when they are not gifted by the spirits. I can only imagine how that would have magnified her abilities.

You smile weakly, and raise your head when Zharai approaches with a bowl of vegetables in broth with strips of meat laid over one side. "Thank you," you say to her.

Thorn lifts his head away from your lap so that you can take the bowl, but settles it at your side instead, his warm breath blowing over your legs. We'll speak more when we have less company? you send to him.

We will, Thorn agrees. He lifts his head just enough to look at Izolsa directly with one eye and asks more publicly, How goes the rest of the story? Your people came here from across the sea, did they not?

"We did," she agrees. Rather than attempting to eat her meal with utensils, she lifts her bowl in one hand and tips it to snatch a piece of meat between her teeth. She barely seems to chew before swallowing it and saying, "That part of the story has many stories in itself - it took a hundred years for our people to journey north and across the sea from the lands in the west. Being given wings, Shradi's son flew ahead of them, and often appeared as nothing more than a star and a promise in the night sky, and so he came to be called Urzharai. It wasn't until they came to the northernmost tip of the land that he reappeared to them, summoning a bridge of ice across the ocean."

"And so you came here," you say.

Izolsa nods. "It is a difficult land to live in," she says, "but even as much as we struggle with the cold and the long nights, we are safe from those who once called themselves our masters, for their children would freeze to death in the snow, and not even Urzharai could fly in the chill of this night, as I'm sure you've discovered for yourself."

Thorn puffs smoke briefly out his nostrils. It is a land ill-suited for dragons, he agrees. What became of Urzharai?

"That depends on the storyteller," Izolsa says. "Some say that once we had come to land, he took flight once more, and became one of the stars in truth. Some say that he curled up to sleep as a mountain, and still slumbers to this day. The version I like best is the one where he dissolves into spirits like his mother before him - each of his scales becoming a spirit of this new land, leaving only his heart behind."

Only his heart, huh, you send to Thorn privately.

Such an eldunari would be an interesting one, if it exists, Thorn agrees. Would you have to kill a dragon Shade through his eldunari or his hjarda, I wonder?

Let us hope we never have to find out, you tell him. With my kind of luck, it would be that you have to destroy both at the same time.

Thorn gives another small puff of smoke, but agrees, Let's not test our luck. It is only just beginning to turn around.

Revneili, for her part, elbows Zharai with a wicked expression on her face. "They called him Urzharai, did they?"

Zharai groans into her bowl. "I have already heard every joke you could make," she says. "Before you ask, it was my father who named me, anyway."

Izolsa hides her smile behind her bowl as she says, "Normally it is the mother who names the child, here. But no one could deny that Erzhal was the one who put in most of the effort of seeing Zharai'ekl to her nameday, so he claimed the privilege. It is not so bad a legend to be named after, is it?" she adds, turning a teasing expression to her granddaughter. "You could do worse for a name than 'little star.'"

"It's true," Adaran says. "You could be 'little persik.'"

"I do not know that word," Zharai says carefully.

"It is a kind of fruit found in the south," you say. "The word in the common tongue is 'peach.' They are somewhat like softer apples, with a single large seed in the center. The trees cannot withstand frost, however."

"And if you manage to actually get him drunk, Erzhal won't shut up about the damn things," Adaran mutters. "Not that that's easy - I am not entirely sure that a Shade can get drunk - but I saw him deep in the drink once when he was human. Talking about peaches was the only good cheer he had in him."

"You knew him then?" you can't help but ask.

"Aye," Adaran says. "His little brother married my twin sister. She was nearly disowned for that." He shakes his head, staring into his bowl. "Nearly, because she did not give our parents the chance. She had already packed her things before telling them that she said yes, and for what?"

He glances at Zharai, and says, "I mean no disrespect. But I cannot understand her choice. Her husband is gone; even with the best of her magic and a Shade's, Nadia was wed for less than a century."

"For an elf, I suppose that is a very short time," Izolsa says. "Though to the rest of us, it is very long." She hums, and sets her bowl down on the rim of the fire pit. "But let me ask you this: in my seventy-three years, I bore six children. Only five of them lived long enough to be named; my youngest died of a wet summer cough, seizing in my arms. Does the shortness of his life make the love I bore for him less worthy than that I bear for my other children?"

Adaran is silent, staring into the fire. It is Iskane who says, "Of course not."

Izolsa exchanges a smile with the other older woman. Iskane smiles back in a way that you think borders on conspiratorial. Satisfied, Izolsa turns back to Adaran and says, "I do not know why Nadia made the choice she did. Only she can tell you that. But if she has half the wisdom Erzhal's account of her describes, then it would surprise me very little if she accounts the love of her marriage in much the same way I do that I still hold for my nameless son."

Adaran does not respond. There's no immediate indication that he is listening at all, until his head droops and he sighs.

"I will think on that," is his final response.

I feel like an intruder suddenly, you send to Thorn, who rumbles an agreement against your back.

If the outside were not dangerous with spirits, now would be a good time to take a walk, he agrees.

If only. I've enough of this sort of thing in my own family. The peace between Erzhal and Adaran, it seems, is less easy than your own with Eragon. Pushing yourself up, you say, "I'm going to take another look at the sky - assuming it's safe?"

"You should be fine as long as you don't leave the shadow of the building," Izolsa says.

"Take some few of the dogs with you," Iskane says. "It is best that the pups get some of their deposits out of their systems outside, if we can manage it. They respond to commands well enough."

"I'll do that," you say. As much as you're not particularly fond of dried dung as a source of fuel, it smells a good sight better than the dog kennels you remember Galbatorix's hunting hounds residing in, and you've little desire to permeate your living space with the latter if you can help it.

Iskane gives a quick command to the dogs, and most of them look directly at you. They follow you to the door in a pack, and you shrug on your coat before opening the door to let them out.

----

The dogs flow out of the doors like a brief furry waterfall, but they stay near to the building. Even animals, it seems, sense the strangeness of this night; several of the dogs look up to the sky before going to the fresher snow to do their business.

For your part, you stay beneath the awning, watching the shifting colors. The flow of the 'river' occupying the north side of the sky has shifted, but it certainly hasn't dimmed. Reflecting off the snow, it gives all of the city a blue-green cast; a handful of the lanterns have gone out, and as you watch, one of the orange ones at the nearest landmark dwindles down to nothing as its energy runs out.

You suppose that the lamplighters are also tucked safely indoors on this night.

The dogs begin to wander back in, giving you a sniff as they pass by but not much else. Soon, it's just you and the handful of stars visible past the flickering curtain - and the sword still on your hip, which is surely enough crimson to ward off any spirit.

Even once the last dog is inside, you remain where you are, door only barely open, paying more attention to the lights above than the low sound of voices behind you. You aren't so far zoned out, however, that you don't hear the light fall of boots on the roof above you.

You don't come out from under the cover, but you do tip your head so that your voice carries upwards. "So, elves who aren't from Du Weldenvarden, is it?" you ask, in your native tongue, because after days of only being able to communicate in the Ancient Language, you need something that requires less truth aforethought.

A chuckle from above, and you see Erzhal's foot dangle over the edge of the roof as he sits down where he is. "I wondered if that was why you challenged Adaran," he says.

"Revneili said that it would make him more friendly," you say. "I only followed her advice."

A brief snort. "Between her and Zharai, I'm not sure which of them will kill me first," Erzhal replies. "They've been egging each other on since Zharai learned to toddle. The first time she went out of my sight of her own accord was to chase Neili down."

"How old is she?" you ask. They seemed like peers to you, but you know that Arya is only barely considered an adult at a hundred years of age; you have no idea how to gauge the age of an elf.

"Neili? A bit over sixty."

"I wouldn't have taken her for that old," you say.

There's a shift of movement up on the roof. "Elven longevity is due to their link with dragons, so they age somewhat similarly," Erzhal says. "They grow at the same pace as humans up to sixteen or so, and then begin to slow down. At fifty years, they look twenty; at a hundred and fifty, twenty-five; beyond that, it gets harder and harder to tell. Adaran is somewhere in the vicinity of two and a half centuries, and Iskane over five."

You hum. "You didn't mention that he was your brother in law," you say.

Another shift, something sliding against the ice layer beneath the snow on the roof. A plop accompanies a clump of falling snow. "Calling him that would make it too simple," Erzhal says at length.

"Zharai implied as much," you say. "But it didn't seem like there was any obviously bad blood between you, either."

"Not at this point," Erzhal says. "But elves are slow to let go of grudges, and there was a time when I was far from his favorite person. Perhaps if we had sparred, things might have been different, but for the first decade of our acquaintance I was in no condition to spar with anyone, and it was forbidden from his perspective anyway."

"Forbidden? Why?" you ask. You take a few steps out of the doorway; as wary as you are of coming completely out from under cover and being beneath the beautifully haunted sky, you want to see his expressions more.

Erzhal is looking off into the sky, the green light doing no favors to his coloration. It makes his skin seem pukish and his hair close to black. He looks down at you as you come into view. "How far have you gotten in your reading?" he asks, with some amusement.

You huff. "Not as far as I'd like," you admit. "The script of the Ancient Language still does not come easily to me. I've barely managed the first few pages after the introduction."

"No shame in that," Erzhal says. "It takes five years of committed study to master with a teacher; that you can make your way through it without a dictionary at hand is something to take pride in."

It's just the cold and not the compliment that warms something in your breast. "Why do you ask?"

"I figured there was no reason to repeat myself if you'd gotten to the information already," Erzhal says. He swings his foot thoughtfully as he considers his words, though he does beckon you up with one hand.

You aren't fully dressed for the chill. You still jump for the edge of the roof and catch yourself there with your arms, weight swinging for a moment before Erzhal grabs you under one armpit and hauls you far enough up that you can pull your legs up. Inside, a dog starts barking at the ruckus.

Everything out there going well? Thorn asks against the back of your mind.

It's fine, you send back to him, huffing as you turn to sit facing off the roof yourself.

Thorn sends back amusement, and comments It seems he enjoys the chance to demonstrate his strength, before he withdraws, leaving you feeling faintly confused and flustered.

Erzhal doesn't seem to have noticed the exchange, nor does he pay much attention to the dogs. "The elves who split ways from those who partnered with the dragons came here to the north," he says, "but they weren't the last. Every so often, elves who simply grew tired of living - many of them Riders whose dragons had died - would come to the north, and here they would wait for the right time."

"... I see," you say. "I did get as far as the original Eragon and his dragon coming north, but I didn't realize they weren't the only ones."

"I'm not sure that particular category of north-comer applies to him," Erzhal says, tilting his head slightly, thoughtful. "From the accounts I've heard of Eragon's last days, he lived much longer than those who came north simply to die, though he did pass eventually. From what I have heard, however, he came looking for someone or something."

"Did he find it?" you ask, unable to help your curiosity about your brother's namesake.

Erzhal shrugs, lifting his hands from his lap. "Only he could tell you, and his bones lie at the bottom of the sea if they still exist," he says. "That is what is traditionally done, for the ones whose bodies are found at all. Most, it seems, simply walk into a blizzard night and never return."

You shiver. "I've heard that freezing to death is one of the least awful ways to die," you say, "but I can't imagine..."

"Nor can I," Erzhal agrees, "but you and I are both human, or something close enough, and young by their standards. A century here or there doesn't make much difference to those who have crested the far side of their second millennium."

You breathe in, and out. Your breath fogs in front of you. "I don't much like the thought that I could live that long," you admit.

"There's no point in worrying about it now," Erzhal points out, mildly. "It's a long road before you even see that hill. But to answer your question - Adaran and Nadia come from a long line of elves who, in addition to their personal interests and their usual duties to their community, care for those who are waiting for the end. Giving counsel, helping them to find closure with their descendants if they have any, their final preparations for the journey... In some cases, even going so far as to help them prepare poisons for themselves, and of course, if there is a body to be found, they perform the last rites as well."

"...You said that you became a Shade because you were looking for a reason to live," you say, quiet as the snowfall. Even a blind fool in a blizzard could put those pieces together.

Erzhal simply nods. "Nadia was concerned that I - being a human and of tempestuous temperment besides - might choose to meet my end violently instead of peacefully, and so she forbade anyone from drawing arms against me," he says. "Not that she needed to. If I had wanted to die on a blade, I did know where Galbatorix was the whole time. It's not like he was difficult to find in those days."

"I'm surprised that they gave such care to a human at all," you say. "It can't have been usual."

"To my knowledge, I am the only human to have ever come north seeking that city," Erzhal says. "And Nadia's decision to care for me as one of those who is waiting was not a popular one - all the more so when I returned from walking into the snow. They thought they were rid of me, then, since by their accounting I had accomplished my duty - but I suppose for all our commonalities physically, elves and humans rarely make sense to each other."

For a moment, you debate asking how he even knew such a place existed, when it would seem to have been knowledge known only to a few even among the Riders. Certainly, Galbatorix never spoke of such a place, even though his teachers must have known.

With a name like that, Irvetsuni was likely from the north herself. No wonder her words seemed so critical of the Riders and the other elves in Du Weldenvarden.

And just like that, you feel the piece fall into place.

"Erzhal?"

"Mm?" His acknowledgement is barely more than a hum.

But now on the precipice, you can't bring yourself to step over. Coward, you call yourself within your mind, but the words don't come to your lips, even after you struggle with them for what seems an age.

"...Never mind."

Chapter Text

You curl up to sleep next to Thorn that night, telling the girls to keep the bed they've so comfortably occupied. You don't expect to actually sleep that much at all, between the number of extra people in your space and the thoughts churning through your head.

Thorn nudges you lightly with the tip of his snout, and for a wild, half-asleep moment, you understand utterly the kind of grief that could drive someone to become a Shade. You had always thought you understood - after all, it was losing his first dragon that had turned Galbatorix into a monster - but now...

Sorry, you send to Thorn. I suppose my thoughts are keeping you awake as well.

It is of no importance, Thorn tell you. If the thoughts trouble you so much, I would gladly share in the burden. You know that.

(Yes, the loss of this would surely drive a man to become a monster. The question is only what kind of monster a man might become for want of it.)

"He was a Rider," you whisper, saying it aloud making it somehow firmer and more true in your mind even if it isn't in the Ancient Language. It's the only thing that fits - his unusual knowledge of the elves, the way he talks so knowingly about the Riders of old, the loss that caused him to go mad... It's the only thing that fits with all the pieces.

Thorn wraps one wing downward over you, shielding you from the other residents of the stable, save for the one dog that snuck up beside you for warmth and remains asleep against your hip. The pieces do fit, he says. But what will you do now, knowing?

I don't know, you tell him. Of course I want to confirm it first, but I didn't even have the courage to do that.

It's perfectly reasonable of you to need time to sort out your thoughts, Thorn admonishes. Weren't you always telling me before that reacting without thinking never did anything but get you in trouble?

That much is true, and hearing it helps you relax. You twist in your makeshift bed, rolling over. (The dog appears to be too hard asleep to care.) No wonder his family all assumed he would go south as soon as Galbatorix was defeated, you say. There are surviving dragons in their Eldunari, but of the Riders, he's truly the last, unless there is another like him who fled somewhere even further away. And I cannot imagine where they might have gone unless it was across the sea.

East, perhaps. Further even than Eragon's new lodgings, Thorn suggests. But I think you are right. Galbatorix was thorough in his destruction of the Riders. It was difficult enough to believe that Oromis and Glaedr survived his campaigns.

The mention of Eragon's teachers sends a sharp bolt of guilt into your stomach, but it is more tempered than it once was. You didn't kill them; Galbatorix did, using foul magic to use your body as a vessel. And Glaedr survived in his Eldunari and even now advises Eragon on rebuilding the Riders.

And now, this. Oromis wasn't the last after all. It eases your heart another notch.

To Thorn you say, Arya said that Galbatorix was one of the last of Irvetsuni's students. Do you think Erzhal - whoever he once was - was the other?

It seems likely, Thorn says. His knowledge of the elves of the north, his possession of her book... He did say his teacher was killed by Galbatorix.

And he said that Zraihe laid a curse on Galbatorix before he died, you say. That is not casual knowledge.

Perhaps he was there, Thorn says.

I find it hard to believe that Galbatorix would let any witnesses to the murder of his teachers live.

True. But I doubt Erzhal's resourcefulness is new to his character after becoming a Shade.

You acknowledge that with a mental tip of your head. And if they were students of the same teacher, then he would have known Galbatorix far better than most of the other Riders, the same way Brom knew Morzan.

(No wonder Erzhal's first reaction to hearing of your and Eragon's partially shared parentage had been to call it a mess. You knew Brom as a person only as he lay dying, but his feud with Morzan was legendary in the Empire, and Galbatorix would have given anything to find him and finally put an end to him.)

(When he extracted that part of the story from your memories, the king called the Ra'zac from Dras-Leona to be rewarded for finally putting an end to one of his worst enemies. You have never wanted to know the details of that reward, and consider yourself fortunate to have been spared any description of it. Uru'baen had fewer hapless souls trapped on slavery than Dras-Leona, but not none.)

You sigh and say, Once we have confirmation, we'll have to inform Eragon.

It wouldn't have to be immediately, Thorn says. The secret's kept long enough. It can wait another few months until Erzhal is ready.

You raise your eyebrows physically, even if you're only facing the side of his belly. You think he isn't?

If he was, he wouldn't have left us to figure it out by ourselves, Thorn says. Even with as many hints as he dropped in retrospect... He was buying himself time, I think.

I suppose that makes sense, you send. Having spent a century in hiding here... It would be hard to go back.

It would be hard to go back even if he was not fundamentally changed, Thorn agrees. And objectively speaking, he is not the same being as the Rider who left. The elves here are one thing - I'm sure they're as used to the spirits of the north by necessity as the Urgals. But those in Du Weldenvarden?

They're not like to be happy about it, you agree.

And even if he were not a Shade, the elves hated Galbatorix fiercely, Thorn says. The king was free with stories of how elven Riders whose dragons had died threw themselves in his path, practically mad themselves. I'm sure Eragon has equal stories from the other side.

You think they'd call him coward?

I'm sure that he thinks they would, Thorn says, and it's far from certain that he'd be wrong. The king was quick to complain about the differences between how the elves treated human Riders and how they treated their own, as well.

You sigh. They're perfectly good reasons for wanting to stay hidden and put off returning to the south, and you're the last one with any room to criticize Erzhal for doing so. You still find it sitting ill with you. In Eragon's position, you would definitely want some warning before that kind of political situation sprang into being.

We'll talk to him about it soon, you decide. The time is rapidly approaching where we're due to call before Saphira comes after our heads, after all.

You can decide what to do about it then. The decision, even if it's just a decision to put off the real decision until later, lightens the load on your mind enough that you think you might be able to sleep soon.

Thorn closes his eyes. I had half-expected you to be angry with him, he says. If he had come south and joined the fight before Galbatorix died, he could have saved us a lot of suffering.

That's true, you say. But it's also possible that I never would have born at all. I'd rather be alive, even with all the suffering I've experienced.

Your last memory before falling properly asleep is Thorn's reply. I'm glad to hear it.

----

You wake late in the morning - or at least you assume that it's late, as your stable already smells of fried meat from breakfast. And dog. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

Good morning, Thorn says.

"Morning," you mumble, not entirely sure what language it's in. Aside from the furs you're wrapped in and breakfast, it seems like the others have mostly packed up, though Izolsa is still in her chair from the night before and the one Adaran had occupied is still nudged up close to the low fire. "How's the sky?" you ask, a little more aware.

"It should be clear enough to resume usual business in an hour or two," Izolsa says. She casts her gaze towards Iskane and adds, "And I'm sure our friends are eager to be on their way - they never do stay long."

Iskane nods. "The sun is gone, but it would be a poor idea to drag our feet long enough for the light to disappear entirely," she says. "It is bad for the mind and elves and men bear it with less grace than do Urgals."

The last comment feels more directed at you and Thorn than it does at Isolza, so you nod your head. "We'll do well to keep that in mind," you say.

"Erzhal will most likely go with us," Iskane adds, looking at Adaran. "Unfortunately, were our people to see a red dragon approaching without forewarning, they would assume the worst, even if Thorn is far smaller than any of the Nameless."

"That's only logical," you say.

Erzhal said before that he needed to visit his sister before leading us on to our final destination, Thorn adds. Waiting for his return to Ghralthek is no hardship.

"You're not returning south, then?" Revneili asks, lifting her head from whatever she was doing over with the bags.

"Not any time soon," you say. "Probably not until spring approaches."

"That is what sane people usually do," Adaran says. "The mountains are only going to grow more treacherous until the sun returns."

"But for now, we need to get going," Iskane says, mostly to Revneili, who makes a face but goes to the door to assemble her gear.

Zharai pushes herself out of your bed. "Manan said she wanted to speak to you when you had free time," she says, expression gloomy.

"About that sparring incident, I take it?" you ask.

"Mmhmm," Zharai agrees, and then she goes over to the door with Revneili. You glance at Izolsa, who simply shakes her head.

"I'll take you once these others have stopped crowding the doors," she says. "Unless you'd rather go along to see Erzhal and the traders off?"

You probably should - it might be your last chance to speak to him for some days - but something in your stomach clenches.

"No," you say. "That's fine. We talked last night, after all."

----

The elves take their leave without any further ceremony, at least so far as you're concerned. You feel Erzhal's thoughts in the direction of their stayover house, but you send him only a Good luck; we'll speak soon, rather than questioning him. Thorn sends along well-wishes as well.

From Izolsa, you get the location of Lyruthk's house. You are one of the first people out into the night after the elves have left the stable, willing to take the risk, and the only people you see on your way there are a single lamplighter accompanied by a man - Kull, hunched with age, walking with a cane with a sharpened tip that he uses to dig into the ice - the both of them in blue-and-bright-red sashes. The Kull man looks your way, and the tiny amount of his face that you can see in his furred hood twists in a smile.

"That eager to be under the sky, are you, southerner?" he asks in the Ancient Language.

It surprises you enough that you stop long enough to look at him more closely. The red sashes he's wearing are uneven in color, as though the fabric was twisted when it was dyed, and there are bits of shell and red gemstone - rubies, but the flat and opaque kind that do not glitter - sewn onto the shoulders of his coat. And the feeling of his mind, even without brushing it directly, is a little otherworldly, like the fading colors of the sky.

One of Izolsa's counterparts, the other Urgal elders who have contracted temporarily with spirits.You pause to give the most appropriate bow you can without showing the much taller Kull the top of your head, which could be taken for challenge. It mostly involves bending your knees, which would rile your old tutors endlessly.

"I was told by Isolza of the crimson-violet that it would be safe so long as I was wary," you say carefully. "I trust in her wisdom."

The old Kull huffs at that, and says, "One risk-taker advises another. But you are dragon-touched, so perhaps it is different for you. I know little of them. Be on your way with all speed and fortune."

Above you, the lamp turns on.

"Thank you," you say to him. "All speed and fortune to you as well." And you do pick up the pace, at least until you're out of his line of sight, and for some blocks thereafter. Other than those two, you see not a soul until you knock at the door Izolsa's directions - half mental impressions and images of the streets - lead you to.

There's no response at first. You are about to consider reaching out to the minds of those inside when the door cracks open. The first thing to come out of the gap is a spray of red powder with the scent of fruit - only once it's scattered on the snow and your coat does the door open enough for you to see a middle-aged Urgal woman through the door.

She takes you in, and you remember Izolsa's instructions to push your hood back from your head, so that it's clear that you aren't spirit-taken and trying to gain entry for malicious reasons. Only then does the woman nod, call out in an unfamiliar dialect of the Urgal language to someone else inside, and step back from the doorway so that you can enter.

It's a large group house, much as you'd expected. Rather than the feeling of individual quarters being on shelves the way they were in Erzhal's house and the cabin outside the city, there are actual rooms with closed doors leading off the central area, which is accordingly smaller, though it's still two Kull-sized stories in height.

It's also rather crowded. There's slightly more than a dozen Urgals of various ages inside, from an elder with a similar sharpened cane to the man you met outside, to a girl about the height of your waist who is perhaps four years old. (You have to estimate; you haven't seen enough Urgal children to be sure.) Divested of their outer clothes, they wear wool garments of red and the trademark purple dye of their clan, with occasional blue, yellow, and undyed pale grey and cream mixed in. Most faces have turned towards you, but more out of curiosity than anything.

In the time it takes you to shuck your shoes and coat, Lyruthk has pulled herself away from the group sitting around the fire and is standing by one of the side doors on the first floor. You pick your way across the snow-melt in your socks - there are a few pairs of leather slippers by the boots presumably for that purpose, but they are all far too large for you - to meet her.

If Erzhal had not told you that she was born a man, you would not have suspected it. Her jaw is too square and angular for you to think of it as feminine, but Urgals tend to have faces of such shape anyway. There is a definite bulge of breast below her red woolen overshirt (more of a robe, really, wrapped over her chest and tied at the waist) which you would find difficult not to notice, sitting as it does somewhat above your eye level. The only clear sign is the size of her horns - in both length and heft, they are a male Urgal's horns, and generously sized even for a Kull. There is a thick white slice of scar or damage running across the left one a few inches above where it rises out of her hair; a matching scar is visible on the left side of her brow, suggesting that she met some challenger's headbutt at something of an angle.

"I did not expect you to come to speak this soon," she says - her grasp of the Ancient Language is slightly more halting and accented than her mother's, definitely more so than her daughter's.

"I saw no reason to wait," you say, taking more care in pronouncing the words than you might otherwise.

Lyruthk nods, and opens the door for you. You duck inside, finding it to be little more than a sleeping room with a raised mattress and storage for clothes. A dressing stool that comes nearly to your crotch sits next to a wooden stand of armor crafted primarily of leather and wide, bent strips of bone. You hop up to it when Lyruthk gestures towards it, and she closes the door in turn before sitting on the bed.

(Your feet dangle a few inches above the floor, making you feel like a child. At least it gives you the chance to strip the damp from your socks with a word of magic, which doesn't seem to bother Lyruthk any.)

"Thank you for indulging my daughter," she says seriously. "You are an able warrior, and she is not - but you provided the kind of challenge she needs to grow, without being cruel to her in victory."

You blink, taken aback - and it must show in your face, because Lyruthk smiles in a way that makes you see Izolsa clearly in her eyes.

"Surprised? We are still people of the horns," she says. "We seek challenge to grow. And Zharai is twice a warrior's daughter, even if Erzhal takes to peace tasks now like the old man he is."

A warrior's daughter - the child of a Rider, like yourself and Eragon, if your suspicions are correct. Even if it isn't by blood, does it matter?

(The answer feels like a precipice. It feels like a you for which you do not yet have a name.)

But that's not a question you can rightly ask of anyone except Erzhal himself, so you don't. Instead you say, "Her strength is a credit to both her parents, though her reflexes still need work. But I expected that you would be angry with me for allowing it."

"The only wrong-doing was hers in taking that blade without permission. I have no reason to have anger with you." You nod your head at that; you cannot well argue with it. It is plain and straightforward when put in such language; you would believe it even if it was in a tongue that can tell lies. "Instead, there is something I would ask of you."

"What is it?" you ask.

Lyruthk smiles, a crinkle in her eyes. She looks at you like the old hunter she is - not in a way that makes you feel like prey, but one which is assessing the skills of another who plies the same trade. And while you have been a hunter of men, and she is a hunter of whales, you cannot truly decide which is the more dangerous prey; for while a man on a battlefield possesses equal wits and strength of arms, to hunt whales is to attempt to kill something infinitely better suited for that environment than you are. It is not so different from hunting the ocean itself.

"When our children are coming of age," she says, "they are set a trial that assesses how well they have learned from their family. While Zharai has spent the last several winters a novice in the dye-hall, those are the skills of our Ikrash and not of either of us. She is her father's daughter. I ask that you accompany her, both as a guardian to oversee the trial, and because it will be to your benefit as well."

"I am not unwilling," you say carefully, "but I do not understand. Zharai is no magician, and I have already tested her as a warrior - to what skill is her trial?"

Lyruthk huffs, and says, "For what task did you hire Erzhal?"

"As a guide to this land," you say, and with that piece falling in place - "You think she is ready for such a thing?"

"She is her father's daughter," Lyruthk repeats, but it's with a more somber fondness, this time. An almost-regret.

You almost ask her, then, if she wished that her child - the child for whom she sacrificed so much, the child she desired so desperately as to make a wish-bargain - resembled her, instead. But you do not think it would be appropriate.

(But the thought does make you respect Lyruthk more, because whatever her feelings may be, she has not pushed them on her daughter. Zharai has been free to grow into the person she is, which you think is a luxury the nobles of Uru'baen would never have been able to imagine. You certainly couldn't have, when you were growing up in the capital.)

"Then I will go with her," you say. "Does this request come from Erzhal as well?"

"Mm," Lyruthk hums, more agreeing-sounding than disagreeing. "He and I discussed it before he set out for Kribakliyi. He will await you there, though you may send for him if your course goes awry."

Though that would mean, in turn, that Zharai had failed her trial. You nod, and say, "When do we set out?"

"When she is ready," Lyruthk says. There's that smile again. "Zharai is not a patient girl, but she cannot be rushed into this. Part of the trial, for one who must know the ways of the world and guide others, is figuring out that a trial is even occurring. She will come to the conclusion of setting off herself, and if she is not a fool, she will ask your assistance."

You blink. "You know this for certain?"

"She is my daughter," Lyruthk says. "And she is strange to her peers and has few friends who she might ask to accompany her otherwise, none of whom are magicians. It will be you, of that I am certain."

You cannot disagree with that. Though you have hardly kept a watch on her through your time in the city, the only people you've seen Zharai spent much time with are her father, her grandmother, and Revneili. And she has vented to you about how ill-fit she feels among the other Urgals, smaller and treated as more fragile as a result.

You say, "Then I am honored by your request. I will keep her safe. And I'm sure Thorn will agree as well."

"That is good," Lyruthk says. "He is good fortune for all of us, but her especially. Many stars wander, but the star of the dragon is steadfast."

And now that you actually know the meaning of Zharai's name, you can nod to that as well. The reddish north star is a point of guidance from these far reaches all the way to Surda and back, but it is only here that it is associated with dragons.

You say, "Your mother is much-convinced that Erzhal will return to the south with me in the spring. If that happens, do you believe Zharai will go with him?"

"I do not know," Lyruthk says. "But at that time, she will be an adult, and it will be her decision to make. If she does make that choice, I ask that you repay the guidance that she has given you here in turn."

You think of how Urgals are received in the southlands, of the negative attention they attract. But then again, how different is that from the way you and Thorn are treated, the way Erzhal would be treated by anyone who saw the color of his eyes? If anything, Zharai will be less of a fright to the common person than you.

You say, "If that day comes, I will do so gladly."

----

You fall back into your relative routine after that. Thorn, to no surprise of yours, is in agreement on the matter of assisting in Zharai's coming of age challenge.

So you spend as much time in the smokehouse as you can stand, until the day when you are turned out by Thedru waving a poker at you and barking at you to take a rest day, and you spend much of the rest of your time pondering either the elven history book or your own changed true name. But the fractious nature of elven history for the first few centuries after the Riders doesn't hold your attention as much as you'd like - you'd skip to more recent developments, but by definition the book predates Galbatorix, and will provide no insight into the puzzle of Erzhal - and as ever there is only so much self-reflection you can stand.

For the next five days, the only excitement - as well as the only time you see Zharai - is when a group of Urgal shepherds brings their herd into one of the stables near yours. As it turns out, the group is the same one that you and Thorn encountered while Erzhal was dead. You understand enough of the common tongue now to fumble through the conversation without an interpreter, but as it winds up being, you don't spar the Urgal who had put a claim on you before.

Instead, the young man - Olkvar - winds up being beaten by Zharai, instead, despite her being a year his junior. He accepts it with good humor but no little surprise, clapping first her and then you on the back.

Discreetly, you ask, "Why did he accept your spar in place of mine?"

"I lost to you well," she says. "So if he cannot at least match me, there is no point in attempting to spar with you." There is a sort of feral smugness to her expression, a satisfaction to her that you think has less to do with her victory over Olkvar and more to do with the fact that it gives her any position among the warriors at all.

And it keeps you from being buried under a deluge of sparring requests from the young adult Urgals, who show their interest with some ferocity now that the doors have been opened. You do wind up sparring three others in the course of the next week, two who managed to secure victories over Zharai and one who prompts her to take one look and then shake her head.

(Given that that last is a young Kull who truly tests your limits, her assessment is accurate. You find out later that he is the expected successor to the position of hunt-leader for his clan, in a decade or so when his uncle has had enough of being such.)

Eight days pass in approximately this fashion. On your second enforced rest day, you are pacing again around the inside of the stable pondering your true nature (you've isolated down what changed in you in Uru'baen mostly to your satisfaction, only to have found that your nature has changed again since then; you wonder how anyone has the time to keep up with such things) when Zharai knocks on the doors.

Thorn, curled up with his head over his crossed forelegs much like a cat, sends a light Come in, before you can physically respond.

Zharai pushes one of the doors open and shuts it behind herself, but does not remove her boots before approaching your makeshift living area (the chairs Adaran brought along have remained set up around your fire beside the bed). She stops only long enough to kick the worst of the snow off by thunking her feet twice each against the wooden column that supports the hinges.

This is a sure sign of agitation if you have ever seen one, you think; wearing snowy shoes beyond the entryway is simply not done in Ghralthek, on account of how difficult it is to get anything truly dry once winter sets in. There are snowflakes scattered over her coat and in her hair, which is only half-covered by her hood.

Without preamble, she says, "They're testing me, aren't they? That's what my mother wanted to talk to you about."

You say, very intelligently, in a universal language, "Er..." while Thorn snorts his amusement at your reaction.

"It's my Tsuikvelir," Zharai says. "Isn't it? I'm supposed to figure out it's happening on my own, but..."

She scrunches her face up. "I just asked Grandmother, and she said that Patan sent her another excuse for staying in the city. He was supposed to be back days ago! And the reasons are only getting more ridiculous."

If it was, Thorn sends to her, what would you do?

Zharai pauses, and then sits down in one of your chairs with a huff. "Then I'd ask you to go with me," she says. "The both of you. I'm not foolish enough to try to go to the ice city by myself in the winter."

She tosses a chunk of the dried dung sitting beside the firepit into it, staring at the sparks. "But I'm not of age yet," she says. "I want to be. But the test is supposed to come after, or at least within the week of my birthday, and that's just before midwinter. So I keep circling around, trying to figure out if it is or not, and when I asked Grandmother about it, she just said that the trial is a reflection of the one going through it. And Manan just told me that she wouldn't be taking anyone out hunting until the spring. the spring! It will not be that long, surely."

"Is hunting what you want to do?" you ask carefully.

"No," Zharai says. "I can hunt, but it isn't what I'm called to do. I want to see the world; I want to know everything I can know. I want to eat that fruit that Uncle told me Patan loves, and see dragons fly in the sky, and..."

She trails off, staring into the fire. You stare into it, too.

It's not unlike figuring out one's true name, you send to Thorn privately.

Aye. She has to find her own answer. The most we can do is give her a nudge in the right direction.

Is that why I'm having such trouble? you ask him. Because it was something that was told to me in the first place, rather than something I figured out for myself?

Thorn simply hums in satisfaction, which is close enough to yes. For now, you set the matter of your own name well and truly aside, and turn your attention to the girl staring into your fire.

"Zharai," you say, and she looks up, which is awkward for a moment while you try to figure out how to phrase your thought. "When have you ever waited for the 'right' time, instead of doing things when you felt ready?"

She blinks, and then smiles, broader than you've ever seen, showing almost all of her teeth. They seem a little large for her face even by Urgal standards.

"Never. I didn't even wait to be born," she says, and it's firm, it's self-satisfied, and it gives you satisfaction to hear. "You will come, then?"

Yes, Thorn sends.

"It would be my honor," you say, and for once it isn't a half-meant platitude. This time, you well and truly mean it.

"Then tomorrow, with all speed and fortune, we will go," Zharai says. "There's no reason to wait any longer."

Chapter Text

I am beginning to truly loathe snow, Thorn says.

You huff a laugh, but don't disagree. The frost falls lightly on you at the moment, the bare traces of daylight just vanished from the sky, but it will only continue to get colder as you go further north and towards the elven city. Three days out of Ghralthek, you're beginning to understand why no one travels this path without purpose.

At least in Ghralthek, you were able to sleep in the shelter of the stable. As you'd suspected, you don't sleep well with another person crammed into the center of Thorn's circling form with you for warmth. In addition to the blankets that have been over Thorn's wings since you crossed over the mountains some weeks ago, there is now one tied around the tip of his tail and makeshift mittens wrapped around his feet.

Zharai, in contrast to both you and Thorn, seems to be thriving in the chill. Her movements over the snow on her wide skis are much more practiced than yours, and she often has to pause to wait for the two of you to catch up. At this moment, she's a little too far ahead for her voice to carry easily, so she sends back her thoughts instead.

We're getting close now, she says. This is the edge of the storm, I think.

The elven city of the north, Kribakliyi in the northern tongue and Svell Dras in the Ancient Language, both meaning 'ice city,' is surrounded by a perpetual storm that protects it from attack by outsiders. Over the winter, it is accessible only over a featureless plain of ice frozen over the sea, and the storm becomes a blizzard; in the summer, the ice breaks up, and the city is accessible only by skilled navigation by boat. According to what Erzhal told Zharai about the history of the city, this was not always the case; the storm was raised specifically when the war of the Riders began in the south.

Reaching it in the winter is actually easier than in the summer, if you have someone with you who knows how to navigate blizzards. But it requires a group of several people who are capable of communicating with their minds, as any vision or sound would be lost in the storm. Three is the minimum group, and you can only move one person at a time, using the other people in the group as landmarks.

It's no wonder that Galbatorix didn't bother with it, when he didn't even manage to make a dent in Du Weldenvarden, much nearer and more likely to attack him in turn. Even without the blizzard, getting to the city is an intense journey. Once the storm was raised, it probably became the safest place in the world if one wanted to hide from the King, even more so than the depths of the dwarven tunnels where the Varden had secreted themselves away.

Of course, you would have to get there, first, and even if you managed it, you'd have to learn to cope with the endless winter night and the eternal summer day. From what Zharai has told you, the latter causes as much or more strangeness in people's behaviour as the long night does, and the only thing the summer has over the winter is that the spirits are significantly less active. It's so cold in the north that sometimes it still snows at the height of summer.

If Erzhal was once a Rider, then you think that Zharai must know, as close as they are, but you haven't asked her, and she hasn't said anything. It's a strange contrast to your journey across the south with Eragon, and not just because of the weather. At that time, you barely talked to each other, far more concerned with the pressure of pursuit upon your necks, but even when you did have to stop for water, food, and checking the horses for injury, you barely spoke. Zharai speaks freely as you go, telling you stories from her people, from the elves, from her father, and she doesn't seem bothered that you don't return the consistent light flow of words in kind.

(You're glad for that; you have few stories that are as light as hers, as the way the snow flutters down from the sky.)

How much farther? you send to her. You could raise your voice, but you've noticed her aversion to raising her voice too loudly out on the ice. It's not absolutely solid yet at this point in the year - not with Thorn's weight - and the sound of loud voices could attract predators both on and below the ice.

Zharai pointed out a group fo xhusvekh on your way out of Ghralthek - 'dragon seals,' as the elves call them, for both their hunting skills (the way they move through the water compared to a dragon in flight) and the way they sparkle in the night as the seawater freezes in chunks in their fur, glittering like a dragon's scales. The males are large enough to even give Thorn pause, four times the height of a man in length and taking as many hunters to bring down.

And then there are the whales called srevik, which hunt xhusvekh (as well as anything else they can find) by lifting chunks of ice from below and tipping anything on the top into the water. You will be perfectly happy to not encounter any of those during your journey through the north.

We could be there by light if we forced the march,, but I would rather not, she sends back. Blizzards are not to be played with.

You nod, not that she can see it, and send your acknowledgement. It's her job to guide you; you'll trust her call.

Shall we camp, then? Thorn sends.

Another hour, Zharai says after a moment. I want to get as close to the blizzard as is safe. The less distance we have to cover in that part of the journey, the better.

----

Zharai calls a halt when the snowfall is thick enough that it's beginning to actively interfere with your vision, and the wind is starting to pick up. You and Thorn join her, and you use magic to double-check the thickness of the ice you're on before setting up camp.

Or what passes for camp, at any rate. Rather than a tent, you have only the largest tarp anyone in Ghralthek could provide, which you and Zharai unfold and pull over Thorn and tuck in around him as best you can before scurrying underneath. In this regard, at least, the snow is to your benefit, as it will pile up and help to insulate the tarp while you snatch a few hours of sleep, trading shifts between the three of you to ensure that no one sleeps so deeply that they don't wake up again.

You sleep only shallowly when it's your turn, anyway, tucked in a knot against Thorn's neck. When you wake and break your fast, using snowmelt from Thorn's breath to slake your thirst, it feels as though the only one of you with any energy is Fausa, who jumps and dances around the inside of the enclosed space as Zharai tosses scraps of meat for him to fetch.

"I never thought that I could miss solid ground so badly," you tell Zharai as you stretch your arms the best you can. This will be your third day on the ice, the fifth in total since you left Ghralthek.

"And you call yourself a Dragon Rider," she replies, with some humor, as she flicks the last bit of food to Fausa and starts on the ties of her boots. "Don't you spend a significant portion of your time in the sky in the south?"

"This is completely different from flying," you say. "When you're flying, you still know where the ground is. We're on ice over the ocean, and I am no sailor."

"Neither am I," Zharai says. "I still think you're just being a yeri about it."

It's not the first time she's called you that, a word for barnacle that also means someone who is impossible to detach from something. It's a bit on-the-nose in this instance, compared to how it's usually used for children who refuse to be separated from their parents.

"Any reasonable person would have concerns about going out into a blizzard on the ice," you say. "Even the whale-hunters among your people don't do it unless they can help it."

"That's because it's a blizzard," she counters. "Not because they're frightened of the ice itself. Yeri."

Thorn, wisely, stays silent, until it's time for you to pack up the tarp and go. Only once you've shaken the snow off of it and secured it over his back does he say, I also would rather not have to sleep without solid ground underneath me again.

You would give Zharai a triumphant look, but it's not like she would be able to see it anyway. The fluff of the hood around your face is too thick to make out expressions.

You can still see her shoulders slump as she shakes her head to herself before turning towards the deeper parts of the storm.

Besides, Thorn points out. Even if we did want to turn back for solid land, the closest is the island the city is built on, now.

"That's one way to look at it," Zharai says. "No turning back now."

"No turning back," you agree, and with that, you set off.

----

The three of you are connected by a rope as well as by remaining in contact with your minds - just in case one of you should slip on a cracking piece of ice, though it won't do any good if it's Thorn who falls into the ocean. You occupy the middle position, and part of your job is making sure that the rope between the three of you is still hanging in a straight line.

It is bitterly cold, and in any direction there is only white, streaked with the motion of snowflakes in the wind. Everything seems to be going according to plan when, ahead of you, Zharai stops moving and her thoughts become a flow of curses.

There is a gap in the ice, she sends. It may be too large to bridge - I cannot see to the other side in the blizzard.

You've been able to bridge gaps in the ice sheet with magic a few times, but there's a limit to your ability to do so. You can't afford to use all your strength on something like that, especially when you still have a good chunk of the blizzard to travel through. It's difficult to estimate how far you've gotten into the wall of storm at any given time, but the total distance you have to cross is somewhere between three and four miles, with a five-mile hole in the center of the storm that contains the city.

I'll come and see, you send to her, and start your progress across the ice in that direction. You may as well have your eyes closed for as much good as your vision is doing you, but you get close enough soon that you can see the brightly-colored figure standing at the precipice of the ice.

It truly is a fissure - you can see maybe five feet outwards, and there's no sign of the opposite edge. You and Zharai lash your ski poles together into a single long stick, about fifteen feet in length, but even when you swing that into the gap, you don't feel it hit the opposite edge.

You draw the poles back and start untying them.

Zharai says, We could try going around, but it's entirely possible that changing our direction will only serve to get us lost in the storm. And we might not find a better place to cross, anyway.

Erzhal and the others made it across somehow, didn't they? you ask.

That doesn't mean anything, Zharai says. Even if we discount that Patan won't run out of magic on something like this, it was over a week ago. That's a long time for how the ice shifts.

You nod dourly and hand over her poles. She takes them and sticks them in the snow aggressively beside her, instead sticking her hand into her coat to pet Fausa while she thinks.

Turning the beginning of an idea over in your head, you bend and unhook your feet from your skis. As soon as you step out of them, your feet sink to your ankles in the fresh snow. When you try to move, they sink further, halfway to your knees.

You were prepared for that, given how far Thorn's feet have been sinking regulary before reaching snow already compacted under its own weight. It doesn't matter anyway, because you drop onto your stomach to inch more safely up to the edge of the ice. Crawling on your belly, like the skis, at least keeps you near the top.

Zharai sends a wordless, questioning thought at you, while all Thorn says is, Be careful. He's still standing some distance back, but you have no doubt that if you were to fall, he'd leap for you in an instant.

You inch forward, feeling like one of the seals yourself, until you're able to dangle an arm off the edge. Hopefully that will be low enough.

Conjuring the brightest crimson red light you can manage, you say in the Ancient Language, "Move this ball forward until it hits solid ice, then end the light." You flick your wrist as though throwing something, trusting in your intent to move the light in a straight line at the level of your hand without you needing to word it to do that specifically.

With the way you've worded it, even if the end point is out of sight, you should at least be able to tell if it eventually hits ice when the spell stops. Fortunately, you don't need to wait on that - the light goes nearly to the furthest point in which you can see it in the dark, snowy gale, but it does wink out at what you estimate to be around fifty feet. If it had been daylight, you don't think you would have been able to see it at that distance, but the light is faint with even the stars blocked out by the clouds.

Definitely too far to bridge, you send to Zharai and Thorn both. Not without exhausting myself to passing out, at any rate. Any other ideas?

Zharai is quiet for a moment, but then something shifts in her mind, and she says, Can a dragon leap that far? It isn't ideal for navigation in the blizzard, but it may be our only option.

You had been half-thinking the same, but you weren't ready to voice it without getting thoughts from your supposed guide. If she wasn't willing to try, you weren't going to push it.

What do you think, Thorn? you send.

Catching your intent from your thoughts, your dragon smiles in your mind. Not too difficult, he says. Though the snow and these mitts will make the landing difficult.

We can take them off for a few minutes, surely, you send back. A dragon's claws are an important element of their traction when landing, whether it be from a great leap or actual flying.

We'll have to stop and use magic to dry his feet after, and make it quick, Zharai says. If we can only take off two instead of all four, that would be better. Which set is more important?

My hind feet, Thorn says. That is where the force for such a jump comes from. You feel him begin to move across the snow to catch up to you, the beacon of his presence growing warmer.

You push yourself off your belly and inch backwards on your knees to the approximate location of your skis, but don't put them back on.

Zharai sends, You should do the light trick again, at the highest point you can reach. If the next part of the ice is significantly higher, that may be a problem.

Good idea, you agree as Thorn gets close enough for you to make out against the snow. It's too dark to really see his color as anything more than a dark smear breaking up the white. I can do it from Thorn's back; that will be easier than trying to stand up in this.

Then I'll get his wraps, and you climb up, Zharai says.

You grunt, but send her a grudging agreement, conjuring a werelight to follow her through the snow so she can see enough to untie the knots. You make another light for yourself as you adjust the tied-down blankets over Thorn's back enough to climb into something like a saddle position and take hold of the front part of the saddle that isn't completely covered.

Zharai gives you your skis and poles, and then her own poles, before she goes to free Thorn's rear feet. She passes those up in turn, still mostly tied up in their ropes, and you secure them to the front of the saddle as best you can without unpacking the entire kit.

Skis? you send to her.

I've got it, she says, before launching herself at Thorn's flank. Her weight hits his spine directly on her stomach, and she balances there precariously for a moment before spinning herself - her feet, still in the skis, held high in the air by bent knees - so that she's sitting properly. You think you hear an "Oof," from her over the sound of the wind.

Impressive, you send, as she scoots forward up against your back, not quite taking a sitting position.

Thorn is taller than an utuur, but the same method works, she says. My people learn to do that as children.

Careful of my wings under the blankets, Thorn sends to her. Do your light trick, Murtagh.

You nod, and shoot two more dots of light, one from the top of Thorn's raised head and one from about the height of your shoulder. Both shoot off into the darkness until long after you've lost sight of them, and you end the spell.

It's not much taller than this one, if at all, you say. You dig your hands into the straps of the saddle. I'm ready when you are.

Zharai wraps her arms around your ribs, and agrees, Ready. The little light of Fausa's energy has climbed up into her hood, where the ermine runs no risk of being injured by the impact.

The thought of the impact has you glad for the extra layer of woolen blankets between you and the saddle. You've taken some rough landings before, and it's never a pleasant experience.

You can hardly feel the way Thorn's muscles bunch up under all the different layers, but you feel his warning and you tense just before he launches. There's one beat of the snow to gain momentum before you're sailing across the gap into the dark.

Landing. You wince as your weight slams down, but even in that moment, Thorn's thoughts, half crossed with yours, indicate something that you failed to account for - the size of the piece of ice he was jumping for. It's barely large enough on the top to hold him - not enough to safely stop his momentum, much less for you to continue your journey on.

Thorn readies his haunches and leaps again, in a decision too quick to verbalize. Again, you slam into the saddle, this time even less controlled. Zharai shouts a curse in your ear, which is fair and justified, and her grip feels as though it's going to squeeze your heart out of your ribs.

Thankfully, the second piece of ice that Thorn lands on is much closer, and large enough for him to actually come to a proper stop. All three of you breathe heavily from the near-fall into the ocean below. (You'd guess that Fausa does as well, but you aren't sure the ermine's mind can truly comprehend the danger in question.)

Zharai huffs into your shoulder and sends, Lesson learned: be certain of the landing space in the future.

Indeed, Thorn says unhappily. This piece of the ice should carry us some distance. It barely moved when I landed.

You nod, remembering the unpleasant feeling of the smaller piece of ice bobbing up and down as Thorn's weight hit it and caused it to sink in the water. That's good, you say. And we're still pointed the same direction, aren't we?

Close enough, I hope, Zharai sends, releasing your torso and starting to dismount from Thorn's back. Let's move quickly, before your toes freeze.

Mindful of how very literal that is, you free the wraps from the front of the saddle - thankfully you didn't lose anything - and very gingerly begin your own dismount. You add a few more werelights as you strip the melted snow from Thorn's feet with magic so that Zharai can cover them again as quickly as possible.

You spend the entire process leaning against Thorn and wincing, and you are well aware of how Zharai is watching you. Once the part of the process that requires speed is over, you stay there for a moment.

Are you well? Zharai asks.

Mindful of the delicacy of your situation, you simply send, I hate having to land suddenly like that.

Ah, she says. I see. The type of blow that brings an end to the Riders.

Against your will, you snort into the cold air. I can heal it with magic, you say. Just... Give me a moment.

Of course, she says, and there's a dip of concern in it that you're not used to having directed at you. But I must admit, I'm glad that I am not a man.

----

Once you are underway again, it isn't long before the rattle of the wind in your ears begins to decrease, and the snow begins to fall more vertically than horizontally. Slowly, with one more small bridge between pieces of ice, you make your way out of the blizzard.

It grows slightly lighter as you progress, as well, the kind of difference that you would hardly have noticed before now, but which you can recognize now as indicating clear skies ahead. Sure enough, hazy light ahead of you resolves into a moonlit scene just visible through the falling snow: a white-topped mountain island, glowing with light that isn't only reflected from the moon.

It takes some time for your destination to become anything more than a blurry glow, though, so you've stopped paying much attention to it by the time you get close enough to truly be 'out' of the storm. Thus, you're startled when you look up again and are able to see details in the white of the ice against the deep blue of the clouds on the far side.

Walls and towers, the peaks of vast rooftops - for a hazy moment, you think you're looking at Illirea again, the parts of it that were from before the Empire. It's difficult to be too sure of the details at this distance, but the general outline is the same. Elven architecture, from before the Riders, or close enough to make little difference; certainly, from before humans arrived to Alagaesia.

Except that the city before you, with its spindles and walls, is not made of stone. The whole thing, instead, is carved of ice. Svell Dras, not the city on the ice, but the ice in the shape of a city.

The place that elves go to to never return. The city that has only ever produced two Riders, both of whom will have their names go down in history as forever linked to Galbatorix. The city that the first Eragon went to, when he left Alagaesia behind.

You have to think that there is a certain resonance in that that is lost because you are the one standing here, rather than your brother. You wonder what that first Eragon thought, as he stood somewhere very like this, looking at the city he came so very far to reach.

Erzhal told you that accounts from back then said that he was looking for something. You wonder what it was. If that Eragon came north with a wish he wanted fulfilled, something that was worth reckoning with Shades for, even for someone as much power as the first Rider. You wonder if he found it, whatever he was looking for.

Thorn sends to you, It's beautiful, isn't it?.

The warm glow of the city set against the cold glow of the stars - except, just visible at the height of the sky, through the gap in the clouds, you see a familiar red star. High in the heavens as Urzharai is, you cannot imagine that there is much further north to go, in all the world.

It is, you agree.

A true marvel of a city, and a sight that few outsiders could ever hope to see - even more isolated than the mountain within a mountain of Farthen Dur, which you cannot imagine the dwarves will ever allow you to see again. Perhaps a year from now, you'll stand at the base of a different distant mountain, ready to shoulder your part of the legacy of the Riders, and that mountain too will take your breath away.

But as the snow continues to fall, you put that someday away, even as you accept it. The path there no longer seems so deep and difficult to tread, but you are still some distance from taking up that mantle. Right now, at this moment, you feel something loosen in your chest.

I'm glad we came, you say.

A pressure against your back. You hadn't realized that Thorn had gotten up close enough behind you to press his head against you. There is warmth in his thoughts, and an equal measure of awe for the sight that stretches out before you, even though what Thorn says is, I will be glad we came when there is a place to warm my toes before a fire. Keep moving.

You huff a laugh into your hood, and push forward with your skis, sliding across the snow quickly to resume your position approximately equidistant between Thorn and Zharai. From ahead of you, the Urgal girl sends, What do you think?

There is no place like it, you say. Being able to visit is a rare honor, even with all the struggle it took.

It's the things we have to struggle for that are worth it in the end, Zharai says. You feel her attention shift back to the city - she's still far enough out in the dark that you can't really see her.

I grew up spending most of every winter in this city, she says. After my nameday, Patan brought me here, and then every winter after until my seventh. We would spend a few days in Ghralthek before setting out, and then not return until the spring. This is the first time I've been back since then.

You try to imagine what that would be like.

(You try not to think of a childhood in a castle, both too full of your father and too empty, and how it would feel to return there now, years after his death, years after the King had you taken away from it.)

You don't say anything, as Zharai's thoughts ramble on, I always wondered if that's what made me so alien to the other children. If there was something I missed, something that made me different from them, because of that.

Not because of who your father is? you can't help but ask.

That, too, she says. But Patan never made me feel like there was a part of me that was somewhere else. Something about this city calls out to me, like a word I can almost remember. Something I'm trying to find.

You feel her shake her head, the phantom sensation of braids swinging under her hood. Sorry. I shouldn't be burdening you. You came all this way as a favor for my Tsuikvelir already.

You aren't sure if you should dismiss the apology or not - you weren't as uncomfortable with the heartfelt words as you would have been a year ago, but you still don't know how to receive them. Instead, you say, Congratulations, by the way.

It doesn't count until we reach the end, Zharai says. The ice could still break under us, after all. Don't put bad luck on us now.

Then let's get moving before we have to find out if my luck is going to hold, you tell her. You're the one of us who's lucky, so you'd better lead the way.

Zharai doesn't reply in words, but she sends something like thanks over her shoulder as she starts to move again.

Chapter Text

The ice of the last fifty feet before the shore is too broken to cross easily, but a wooden dock, rising and falling with the waves, sticks out far enough that you can easily make your way to it and cross the shifting shoreline that way. It's easy enough for you and Zharai, though it's narrow enough that Thorn has to balance carefully.

On top of the dock, you cross the broken ice, and then over a sheet of ice that sticks out slightly at the edge, a few inches between it and the lowered tide. To Zharai you ask, as much to hear the sound of your own voice as anything after so long in the roar of the wind, "Does it freeze over completely as winter gets deeper?"

"Panoukh," she says, her nod visible with all the light reflected off the snow. "I'm surprised it hasn't already. Perhaps the year is warm." The tone of her voice is uncertain.

Thorn says, You sound as though that worries you.

"If the ice here isn't fully frozen, then it may not be frozen over the open sea where the hunters have gone," she says. "That will make hunting difficult, as well as ice-fishing closer to Ghralthek."

You consider that. In Alagaesia, warmer winters are a boon; squeezing an extra week or two out of fall vegetables can be a boon that saves an entire town from hard times. But as reliant as the people of Ghralthek and the surrounding areas are upon the ice, you can see the problems it would cause.

"Hopefully it's colder out to sea," you say. The three of you are now fully over the shore ice; Zharai pauses to kneel down and poke at it with one of her ski poles, the drop between dock and ice only about as high as your waist if you discount the unpacked snow on the dock.

"Let us hope," she agrees. "I think this would bear people, but not Thorn or a hunted srevik. I suppose we'll be able to ask Patan's opinion soon."

You nod, offering a hand to help pull her up when you reach her. She takes it, ski pole dangling from the loop around her wrist, and you are once again impressed at the strength of her grip, even through the mitts you're both wearing. "Do the elves track the temperature?" you ask. "My understanding is that the Weldenbrazuiv - " The northern term is much quicker for casual conversation than wrapping your way around the elves who live in Du Weldenvarden. " - spend a great deal of time investigating natural history like that."

"They do," Zharai says. "At least a few of them. We can ask." She brushes the snow off her knees, then turns and uses her ski pole to point at a spot in the side of the stone that forms the foundation of the city. "That's the ground entrance," she says. "It's hidden by magic, but snow doesn't stick to the hiding place right."

You try to get a good look, but it doesn't look all that different to you. "I would never have seen it," you say.

Nor I, Thorn agrees. Even if a dragon's vision, I cannot tell there is anything different about the snow there.

"Well, I suppose that's the point, isn't it?" Zharai says. "Galbatorix and almost all his followers were southerners, too."

"True enough," you agree. Feeling nervous suddenly at the reminder of the king and how even this far north, the elves defended themselves from him, you shuffle along on your skis after Zharai.

She leaves you with your thoughts until about halfway there, once the three of you are off the dock and onto the beach. Then she asks, "What are you worried about?"

"The Weldenbrazuiv aren't exactly fond of me," you say. "As far as they're concerned, I killed the last of the old Riders."

You have to watch your words carefully, there. You didn't talk about that battle before, when you were telling the story of the king's downfall; Zharai comes to a stop at the words.

She says, "Did you choose to be there?"

You say, immediately, "No. I wanted to be anywhere else."

"Then you are not at fault," she says. "Galbatorix took your choices away from you. I'm sure Patan told the Kribakliyibraz leaders as much."

She pauses, and then adds, "And even if they do not believe him, you are not Galbatorix himself, so they would not turn you from the city in the depths of winter. It would violate their laws of hospitality. Only murderers are ever turned away, because being without shelter is certain death if a true blizzard comes."

"That's something, at least," you say.

Thorn, caught up with the two of you, nudges his snout into your back with some force - a gentler poke difficult to feel through the thick layers of fur. If they will not turn us away, the rest is a worry for later, he says. I want out of this cold.

"Dragons are wise," Zharai agrees. She starts moving again, but as she moves, she asks, "Did you tell Patan? About the old Rider?"

"It didn't come up," you say, "but I suspect he knows. He's been to the northern reaches of human lands enough to hear a good portion of the rumors."

"You should still talk to him about it," Zharai says. "Once we have the chance to get away from the attentions of the elves."

"I know," you say. You aren't quite willing to make a promise that you will, not when the Ancient Language is still your best common language. "There are some things I need to ask him, as well."

Zharai accepts that, thankfully, and doesn't say anything more until you're almost at the hidden entrance. Just outside it, she stops to point out what she meant about the snow - the way it only sticks to the major surfaces of the rock face, rather than clinging to the almost vertical sides of the cliff the way it does in other places.One of her ski poles goes through the stone as she's swinging it to point out features higher up.

You say, "Do they know we're here?"

Zharai says, "They will once we go through. The spellwork triggers if anything that isn't water crosses it."

You nod, and take a deep breath. "Together, then?"

"We can probably untie the blizzard rope," Zharai says, and you know that it's a stalling tactic to give her a moment to get herself prepared, but you don't begrudge it. You need the moment, too, and you have no objections to untying the rope from your waist, either. The two of you shed your skis as well and pile the bundle onto Thorn's saddle before you enter.

It's not the same as entering the tunnel behind the waterfall that led to Farthen Dur, but you can't help but think of the two moments in parallel. A Rider, their dragon, and the child of a Rider entering a tunnel that leads to a spectacular city... But unlike the dwarves, the elves don't have anyone posted at the doors, nor is there strictly speaking a door at all. You close your eyes and walk into the wall of stone as though it wasn't there.

Inside, the tunnel is tall enough that Thorn doesn't have to duck, though not wide enough for him to fly down. A dragon up to around triple his size could progress without too much trouble, but Shruikan would definitely have had problems. From your hazy memories of a red monster in the castle where you spent your earliest years, your father's dragon would have, too. The walls and floor are smooth, not in the precise way that the dwarven tunnels were, but in a bumpy way with twisting tracks that haven't yet been worn down by the centuries of feet and sleds going over them at the edges.

Pushing the hood back from your head - the air inside the tunnel just a slight bit warmer, but you need to take the snowshades off to be able to see a damn thing in the darkness - you say, "Is it a natural cavern?"

"I think so," Zharai says. "I never asked. It looks like an ice run, though." She also reaches up into her hood to pull her glasses off, and then the three of you start up the slope of the tunnel.

It widens at one point, enough to have low switchbacks that must be for the sleds the elven traders use; they're just tall enough that you and Zharai have to make use of them, but Thorn climbs over easily, even still wearing his snow shoes. Before too long, the natural darkness of the tunnel (which you have lit with another red werelight) begins to lighten, first slowly and then significantly.

There's a gate at the other end of the tunnel, but it stands open. Just on the other side are not quite a dozen people; you can recognize Erzhal's presence from a good distance away, and Zharai picks up the pace. Beyond the blaze that is the Shade, you can sense Revneili and Adaran; the latter stands towards the back of the group and slightly off to the side.

Wise enough to not poke too closely at the minds of elves, you withdraw slightly behind your barriers. It's unlikely that any of them will try to make any more than surface contact with you, but you can't forget that your arrival to the dwarven city was the most you ever got to see of it for a reason.

Zharai is well ahead of you and Thorn by now, and you let her dash ahead, settling for obserrving the reunion. She comes to a stop just before where the gate would stand if it were closed, takes a deep breath, and approaches her father. In the group of elves, Erzhal is still the shortest person, though not by as much as he was in Ghralthek. He's dressed not that differently from how he did in the Urgal city, though he's shed his coat and instead of his usual red wool, he's wearing a white shirt under a more structured vest the pale pink of dawn clouds. There are two swords hanging from his waist, one on either side; you can recognize the white sheath of Frostbite even at this distance.

He says something to her in the Urgal language of the north that you have no waypoint for even beginning to understand, and she says something back. The cadence of it, so far as you can tell, is something out of a ritual. You take the chance to glance over the rest of the group that's gathered up.

Most of the elves are in a cluster off to the side, and they're watching you more than they are the father and daughter who are front and center. They're dressed in furs similar to the Urgals of Ghrlathek, though it's clear that their frames underneath are elfishly slim. There's a slightly wider variety of hair colors among them than the elves of Du Weldenvarden that you've seen; the latter are almost exclusively dark- or silver-haired, but there's two elves out of the group that have hair of golden blond, and another whose hair is the reddish-brown of river clay. All of them have their hoods pushed back, and their long hair is tied up and ornamented extensively with metal, gems, and the white of bone.

Standing beside Erzhal is another elf woman, with the same chestnut brown hair as Adaran and something a little similar about her jawline. Unlike the other elves, who are dressed primarily in the natural colors of the skins that form their coats as far as you can tell, her clothes are practically snow white aside from embroidery at the cuffs. Even the ornaments of her hair are white gems and bone, with no trace of any metals. You mentally point her out to Thorn, and send, That must be Nadia.

She cuts quite a figure, Thorn observes. Anyone looking at this group would be able to tell that she holds some special position.

Indeed, you say. Next to Nadia, Revneili is dressed much the same as she was during the visit to Ghralthek. Adaran stands a short distance back, not a part of either group. You catch his eye as you come to a stop just outside the 'gate,' which has a masked guard posted to either side of it, and he gives you a nod that could mean damn near anything.

Erzhal and Zharai are finishing up their ritual - Nadia holds something out to Erzhal, and he takes it in one bare hand. You have just long enough to process that it's a thin needle before he presses it into his thumb, and then reaches up to smear the blood along Zharai's brow. You half-wonder if there's a magic to it, given what he's said about Shades and their use of the materials of the body for magic before.

Immediately after, Zharai reaches out and squeezes him around the waist, and he laughs - the sound ringing off the tunnel and the city walls in a way that makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise - as he embraces her in turn. Next to them, Nadia exclaims, "Sae foukh!"

This earns a laugh from Zharai and Revneili, the former setting her father down properly. Erzhal brandishes the needle at Nadia, who sighs at him before embracing Zharai herself; the two of them are almost identical in height, discounting Zharai's horns. Around their shoulders, Erzhal catches your eye and tosses an amused thought at you - What are you two lurking over there for?

I didn't want to interrupt your family moment, you send back, which gets no mental reply but a dismissive snort and a beckoning gesture. You sigh, but obey, crossing the last of the space, Thorn behind you. At least Adaran comes over equally awkwardly from the other side, glancing at the larger group of elves as he does.

You notice that one of the elves in that group looks a great deal like Nadia, insofar as you have any skill at picking out elven facial structures, and from the amount of ornament in her near-black hair, she might well be the leader of that group. The way she's looking at the mixed-race family in front of you, a twist of distaste to her lips, doesn't do anything to detract from your impression that she must be related to the siblings.

Adaran still stops an arm's length away, as Revneili releases Zharai from her turn at the embrace circle. You're close enough now to see the way he glances at Nadia, and she in turn glances at him, before sighing and looking at Erzhal.

Her voice is soft and musical as she says, in the Ancient Language (for your benefit, no doubt), "Now, we still owe you gifts."

Zharai straightens her shoulders and says, "You don't have to do anything, Nadia-chuue - "

"Too late," Nadia says. "It is already made, so don't reject it now." She takes the needle back from Erzhal and commands it, "Clean," and an almost invisible drop of blood falls from it. Then she reaches into her coat, storing the needle somewhere before she pulls out the gift, a metal disk with a shiny glass top, about two-thirds the size of her palm.

It's only when she presents it properly to Zharai that you get a good enough look at it to identify what it is. Sealed beneath a glass cover, a thin red arrow bobs in place over a circle of shell inlay; a compass.

Nadia says, "I hope that wherever you might go, it will help you find your way home again."

Zharai says, "Kizouz... I will treasure it."

The Urgal girl stops to peel away her mitts before taking the compass, turning it so that first Revneili and then you and Thorn can see the inlay clearly. The needle is red at what must be the northward end, and white pointing south; the underlying inlay has a red gem sparkling at the center of a star formed out of shell. There is a strangle bubble in the glass; it isn't until Zharai's hand tilts that you realize the compass is full of liquid, and the bubble a tiny pocket of air trapped inside.

Thorn leans forward to appraise the gift carefully, and then asks, What purpose does the bubble serve?

"You use it to make sure the compass is level," Zharai says, setting it in the flat of her palm until the air bubble is perfectly aligned with the smallest circle of the inlay, tight to where the needle swivels. "Otherwise you can get a bad reading."

"An important tool for a navigator," you say.

Zharai nods, and folds the compass into one of her innermost pockets carefully. His sleep disturbed, Fausa pokes his nose out of his preferred pocket as she does so, his nose twitching. Zharai tells him, "You're making me let the warm out," and after a moment the ermine turns himself to climb up the fur of the coat's lining to sit on her shoulder.

Nadia puts a hand in front of her mouth, her eyes crinkling with laughter. "A pleasure to finally meet you in person, Fausa," she says to the ermine, who twitches whiskers in her direction at the sound of his name.

"Here," Revneili says, "before your Patan steals the show." She hands Zharai a pair of gloves - slimmer than the mitts she was wearing, and with the first finger separated as well as the thumb. The cords used to pull them tight at the wrist are decorated with glass beads in the same colors as the sashes still tied over Zharai's torso.

"Oh! Sled gloves," Zharai says. "These will be useful, thank you." She tucks them into another of her pockets. "What's that about Patan's gift?" she asks, almost deliberately not looking at her father.

Erzhal snorts, and says, "Adaran first."

The elf at the border of the group sighs, but comes forward properly, his gift already fished out of some pocket when no one was looking. The pair of metal ornaments are small, in comparison to those many of the elves are wearing (even Adaran himself has an onyx-topped pin holding his ponytail in place, and he's the least adorned of all of them), and set with amethyst teardrops in thin wire. The pointed tips of the gems are almost white, while the body of them is dark purple; not quite the same color as the purple dye Zharai's people are known for, but close enough.

"Ah - " Zharai blushes and stutters slightly, before managing, "Tsoivle ukraie, Adaran."

The elf's perpetual displeased expression lightens a bit. He says, "Hold still. I'll put them in," and Zharai goes very still after nodding her assent. When he steps away, the jewels are set at the very base of her horns, against the ribbons that trail down into her braids.

They look wonderful, Thorn says.

Zharai reaches her bare hand up carefully to feel the ornaments, before her smile comes back, practically blazing, and she wraps Adaran in her arms. The elf freezes still as a statue, clearly not expecting the embrace, but Zharai doesn't draw it out long before releasing him.

"My turn," Erzhal says, and there's something portentous in the way he says it. It's not as intense as the moment before Thorn hatched for you, but there's something alike in the moment. You don't take your eyes off him, but you flick a thought at Thorn, something half-formed to see if he feels what you're feeling.

I do, he sends back. No wonder he was so emotional to hear that Urgals could become Riders.

He already knew, you send. The question is, how?

Hopefully, a question he'll be willing to answer in a little more privacy, Thorn sends back to you.

As you're sharing thoughts, Erzhal draws Frostbite from where it hangs at his waist, opposite a pink-sheathed sword with a rune of the Ancient Language worked on the scabbard, and presents it to his daughter, laid across his open palms. "Kriba'uzmuulva Lu'uzha has always been poorly suited to me," he says, "and I have no need of a second blade in any case. I know the blade has a poor history, but I would not entrust it to you unless I believed in your ability to shed its stigma and forge your own path."

"Patan..." Zharai says, staring at the sword. She makes no move to take it as of yet.

Something else prickles at the back of your neck. Thorn's head swings over yours just as one of the elves in the other group bursts out, "That blade is not yours to give!"

----

You turn. The speaker is, in fact, the woman who so resembles Adaran and Nadia; that she had an outburst seems to be of no surprise to Erzhal or the siblings, who glance at each other. You feel more than see the way Revneili and Zharai stiffen, however.

Erzhal says, his tone even, "Her kin have had eighty years to lay claim to the blade if they wanted it. That's thirty years more than is required by your laws, Kraevuluni."

"It is still a relic of our people," Kraevuluni insists, her tone sharp. "It is one thing for it to be in your keeping, as a Rider. But you cannot give it away. It is not your inheritance."

You inhale quietly, and say to Thorn, I admit, I didn't expect it to be confirmed that quickly.

Thorn, one eye on each group, says, Stay on your guard. There will be time to speculate later.

"No, it's mine by right of combat," Erzhal says. He flips the sword around in one hand. "But this isn't actually about Frostbite, is it? It's about Saevarothr."

"They are both treasures of our people," Kraevuluni insists. "The only time the dragons have acknowledged us... You have no right to take that away from us."

"I haven't taken anything away from you," Erzhal says. "You're the only person who wants to put a claim to one of the Forsworn. As for Saevarothr, I already gave you my terms. It's not my fault you refuse to meet them."

Kraevuluni draws herself up, and for a moment you think she's going to continue to argue. Instead, she fixes her gaze on Adaran and says, "And you? You're going to go along with this charade, after all these years?"

Adaran considers her for a moment, but eventually says, "Someone recently offered me surprising wisdom that forced me to reexamine my perspective. Although I have not settled my mind, I find that I can no longer see wisdom in yours, Mother."

One of the golden-blond elves standing at Kraevuluni's side gasps openly. You suppose it must be a graver insult to the elves than it seems to you, or perhaps you simply don't know what normal families are like. You get the feeling it's less of the latter, though.

You can't help but think that only a fool would want to claim the legacy of one of the Forsworn. For Zharai to inherit Frostbite from the man who killed its original bearer is one thing; there's still some honor in it, some kind of pride. Not like your relationship with Zar'roc, hidden in Thorn's saddlebags.

(As for Saevarothr... That must be Irvetsuni's sword, if it's mentioned in parallel to Frostbite. If that too is in Erzhal's keeping, then all the hypotheses you and Thorn had about his history would seem to be correct.)

The elves do not titter and discuss among themselves the way a similar group of human nobles would do - at least, not audibly. They're probably doing so within the safety of their minds, the way they glance at each other, Kraevuluni at the front of their group, Erzhal and Zharai, and finally, you and Thorn.

Finally, the elf woman turns to you, and says, "And you approve of this? As a representative of the new Order of the Riders?"

I hate politics, you say to Thorn, straightening your shoulders. "I did not come as a representative of the Riders," you say, "but as a traveler seeking to learn as much as I can about the world beyond Alagaesia."

It's as carefully neutral as you can make it. Thorn huffs at you in the back of your mind, and leans his head forward over yours.

But if it were up to us, he says, we would rather see that blade in the hands of someone who can cleanse it of the blood that it once shed, rather than sitting on a shelf somewhere. It is no honored relic; it is as much a burden to carry as it is a gift. If, as the last of the Riders of old, Erzhal believes his daughter capable of carrying that burden, then that is his decision alone to make.

That could make us enemies, you realize, you send to Thorn privately. In return, you get a scoff.

Perhaps so, but it cements our position here as one with allies. I consider that a worthwhile trade, Thorn replies in kind.

Kraevuluni regards you for a moment, but then seems to accept that this battle,a t least, is lost. She bows, and then says, "Regardless of your purpose, be welcome to our city. I hope that you find whatever it is you seek with all speed."

And then she and her group of elves turn almost as one and begin to walk off down the street, leaving you alone with Erzhal's family and the guards, who show nothing of their opinions of that exchange beneath their masks, nor in any other way.

Erzhal sighs. "I should have expected that," he says. "Likhvanloi otsousha iflaiv tsratha jriz chupuecho'ekh. My apologies to all of you; if I'd known that Kraevuluni was going to involve herself over the issue of the swords again, I would have waited until we were at home."

"Not all of us are happy with our ears," Adaran mutters, before turning towards Nadia. He says, "Sister. I still do not understand your decision, but I want to hear what you have to say about it. I cannot promise to accept it, but I have spent enough time refusing to try."

Nadia takes a breath, and then nods. "We will speak of it later," she says. "For right now, this is Zharai's day, and I think we would all like to go home and get a hot meal, at this point." She pauses, and then adds, "But it will be good to have you at my table again, brother."

"And for once, we won't have to cram Thorn into some ill-fitting space," Erzhal says, "which I'm sure you're looking forward to. Despite the rarity of Riders visiting this city, it does have a proper space for them. If anything, you're a little on the small side."

Thorn snorts. It has been some time since anyone even implied that, he says.

"Just you wait," Revneili says. "Come on - I want to see your faces when we come around the corner and you can see it."

You raise your eyebrows at Erzhal, who shrugs unhelpfully. "You're not going to get to see any good sightseeing sticking around the bottom part of the city," he agrees. "We live quite a bit further up."

He turns back to Zharai, looking her over, and says, "Thorn wasn't wrong when he said this sword was as much a burden as it is a gift. He and Murtagh would know. If you don't want to claim it..."

Without hesitation, Zharai steps forward and clasps her hand around the scabbard, just below her father's. "I can carry it," she affirms. "Once I get something in my stomach, anyway."

Erzhal grins, and lets his hand fall away from the sword. You take the moment to glance at the one still hanging on his hip - from the size of the scabbard, it is, if possible, an even lighter blade than Frostbite. The scabbard at least looks like it's seen its share of years (as it well should; the light pink leather is a century old, if it's the original), though the hilt you can see is in good repair and the pink gem set to the pommel sparkles in the light.

Aurori'a, reads the rune emblazoned upon it. Dawn.

Erzhal must catch you looking, because his thoughts brush against yours, windblown snow in your face. You don't seem too surprised. The tone is almost relieved, almost grateful, almost excited, or perhaps all of those things, given the tangle of emotions that is the Shade.

You send back, It was the only thing that lined up. Even if I don't understand how it could be possible, or why you came so far north.

I'll show you once Zharai is taken care of (has gone to bed) (takes her eyes off me for longer than a blink), Erzhal replies, the multiple thoughts layering together. And then, much more clearly and simply, Thank you for taking care of her. I was right to entrust her to you.

There's another one of those prickling feelings in the words. You just nod, breaking away from looking at him, and withdraw into the safety of only Thorn for mental company again. Why do I get the feeling, you send to your dragon, that she wasn't the only one being tested?

Because your feelings know more than your thoughts, if you let yourself listen to them, Thorn replies. But no matter how you prod at him as the two of you trail behind the family group moving upwards into the city proper, he refuses to elaborate.

Chapter Text

The wide street out of the mountain cave twists steadily upwards, coming around the side of the mountain into the relatively protected area of a narrow valley, almost a canyon. When you look up, the night sky is visible only directly upwards; clouds, the edges of the city's magic-driven blizzard, reflect the faint light of the city's lanterns back down, a flame-colored tint against the sky that makes it seem a deeper blue-black.

The color reminds you of the faint shape of Shruikan just outside the lights of the throne room, and you look back down.

Snow dusts the rooftops of most of the buildings, and frost sticks to the threadbare plants that are visible. Despite being outdoors and further to the north, the air is significantly warmer than it was in Ghralthek, though still far from pleasant. You still need the hat, for your part, but the rest of your little group, composed of people who are used to this weather, make no moves to cover their heads, and Thorn rolls his shoulders under the blankets that hang from his saddle to protect his wings from frostbite.

I almost think I could fly here, he says.

"The winds over the valley would be more dangerous than the cold itself, as long as you don't go too far," Erzhal agrees. "But the dragonhold overlooks the whole thing, and it's quite the view."

"Does that mean you'll allow us up there?" Revneili asks, pausing her steps to gaze at Erzhal with her eyes alight. A few steps past her, the others pause. Zharai and Nadia wear such similar expressions of familiar exasperation that you could almost believe that they actually were related by blood.

"That's not my decision, stop acting like a dog begging for scraps," Erzhal says with a huff. "It's Murtagh and Thorn who will be living there; I have a perfectly functional house appropriate to my size."

"It's small," Zharai stage-whispers to Thorn, who has come to a stop beside her, waiting for the rest of you to stop moving again so that his much-longer strides don't overtake you too badly.

All human buildings look small in comparison to those of the Urgals, Thorn replies to her, amused. I can't imagine elven buildings are much larger. There's no need to accommodate Kull in most of them.

"They're also more impressive when not covered in snow," Adaran observes dryly. He rather pointedly turns and nods his head at one wall of the valley. You follow his gesture and take a moment to understand what you're seeing.

The wall of the valley glows in tiers that seem too closely spaced to be windows - only when you squint at a shadow moving through them do you realize that they are fully enclosed, lit terraces. You've seen glass hothouses before, used for growing exotic plants that wouldn't withstand even the mild winters in the capital, but the scale of these is so much greater that it takes you some time to realize that that is in fact what you are seeing. Glass houses, mismatched in size, covering the entire eastern wall of the canyon where they'll catch the warmth of the sun, climbing back and forth like mountain paths.

Perhaps more than the magically conjured storm that protects this place, that is what truly makes you stop and realize the power the elves possess. The process of making glass clear and flat enough for any windows of size is difficult and expensive without magic; it was yet another luxury for which Galbatorix had a dedicated team of magicians. Unlike even most other producers of his personal fineries, the glassmakers worked day and night, because the glass had to be cooled at a controlled pace, and panels of the size he favored for the palace windows took three days to make from start to finish. More, if the king demanded any kind of color or design of them.

(You wonder how many of those panels, like stained glass but all of one piece, survived the Varden's attack on the city and the subsequent destruction of the castle.)

You say, "They are impressive enough as it is. That light is almost as bright as daylight."

"It had better be," Nadia says, something a little sharp in her voice. "That's where our food is grown."

You nod, finding it easier to accept such a display of power if it at least serves some practical purpose. Of course crops would not survive even the softened winter that you are currently standing in. And even if these elves are willing to eat meat, you cannot imagine that it composes the majority of their diets the way it does for the Urgals.

And even filtered through the snow, it provides enough light to the streets that there isn't much need for lanterns, at least at the moment.

At this distance and against the glare of the light, you can't see the details too clearly. It is Thorn who notices, a dragon's vision different from yours. He rumbles low in his chest, not quite a growl, and says, The wall beams of those hot houses... They are ribs.

You squint again, finding that he is correct. You had hardly been able to tell before it was pointed out, but the walls of the glass buildings are curved, though not so much that snow slides entirely free of them.

Only a handful of creatures exist with bodies large enough that someone the size of a human or elf could fit inside, and there are fewer still with chests large enough to fit a garden inside. In your life, you've only seen one in person, though if you're lucky, Thorn might someday reach that size.

Erzhal says, "I did tell you that nothing here goes to waste."

So you did, Thorn says, his tail - still wrapped in a blanket - flicking from side to side.

Privately, you say to him, Are you all right with this?

I am, he reassures you, though it is not the most convincing he has ever been. The war did not come here; any dragons who came this far north would have been accompanying Riders who were ready to die. He pauses, thoughtful and touched by some emotion, and adds, And there are worse things to have happen to one's body after death, than to have it become a place where new life can grow.

That much is true, you agree.

Thorn shifts his neck to point one eye directly at you; you're aware of it even though you aren't looking directly at him, your own gaze still locked on the ribcage hot houses. And you?

It's a strange form of gravekeeping, you say. But I see the practicality in it. We saw fewer and fewer trees north of Ghralthek, and wood would expand and contract too much in the cold and wet anyway. It would be too much risk of breaking the glass as the seasons changed, or shifting enough to let the warm air out.

You are not someone who gets particularly hung up on rituals for the dead. That isn't something you were able to afford, once you became an adult. (You do not know where, or even if, Tornac was buried. It seems more likely that his corpse was burned, as Galbatorix considered befitting to traitors. You've attended burials, but except for Brom and his crystalline coffin, they all blur together, and none of them matter, anyway.)

Thorn huffs at you in exasperation. You are allowed to form opinions on things based on something other than your pragmatic streak, he tells you.

You're the one of us that's fanciful, you counter. It's my job as your Rider to keep you anchored to the ground.

Thorn just huffs again, a little closer to the sound of a dragon's laugh, and you give him a huff yourself. When you return your attention to the rest of the group, you realize that the elves have almost deliberately given you space and turned their attention elsewhere.

To Erzhal you say, "Where to from here?"

"Up that way," he says, pointing to a hill road that climbs the opposite side of the valley from the hothouses. "Our house is at the top of the ridge, the closest to the dragonhold. We'll stop there for dinner - Nadia and I got the den started warming before we left, so there's enough room for Thorn - and I'll lead you there afterwards, once everyone else has settled down. Or tomorrow, if you're too tired for that - you've already had a long day."

You squint at the ridge in question, but you can't pick out which building he might be referring to from here. Still, you say, "Thank you. I know heating an area large enough for Thorn takes a lot of energy."

Erzhal smiles, and says, "Large as he is, he's the smallest dragon to have ever come here. Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you took a look at the dragonhold and decided to move into the den instead. It's... cavernous, to say the least."

You raise your eyebrows.

"You'll have to wait in suspense," Erzhal says, before turning and raising his voice slightly towards the rest of the group. "Neili, don't ruin it."

"I'd never!" the elf girl calls back over her shoulder from where she's wandered up the path. "Are you sure I can't come?"

"Yes," Erzhal and Adaran say at the same time. Revneili huffs, before taking Zharai's hand and leading her along, the two of them leading the way up the path.

A few windows in the stone houses around you have come on, but you don't see any curious faces peeking out of windows. When you risk extending your senses a little, there are very few minds around you, and they're mostly in clusters, the elves inside in small groups. You don't dare reach out far enough to judge more than that, pulling safely back inside your walls.

Thorn says, I'm surprised no one else came out to greet us.

"This is a pretty traditional district," Erzhal says with a shrug, as he starts up the path. "The oldest houses are at the valley bottom. To them, a dragon isn't worth coming out in the winter cold to see - it'll be the younger elves further up that are interested in you.

"But," he adds with a wink, "I haven't exactly been spreading around that you were coming, either. If you want, you can sneak past them entirely."

You find yourself caught by the conspiracy implied by his smile. You say, "Which house is yours?"

Erzhal sends you a mental impression - it's more of a concept than a visual, the location given based upon the shape of the valley as a whole and the mountain that overlooks it. It's more useful as directions for flying than an image from ground level, that's for certain.

Thorn makes a pleased rumble in his chest. We'll see you there, he sends.

"Don't get too distracted," Erzhal says, before turning away and following his family up the hill.

----

It only takes a moment to pull the blankets from Thorn's wings, a word of magic undoing the buckles that held them secure at the bottom, and then you can just pull them up once you're secure in the saddle. Getting his feet free of the makeshift snow wraps takes longer, but it works out, since you can do that while he stretches the muscles of his wings from their extended period of disuse.

Don't push yourself, you tell him, because you're well aware of the dangers of a flight muscle cramping in the air. But you don't hide your excitement, either. It's been too long since the two of you got to fly without worrying about the everpresent cold sapping too much of your strength.

Thorn huffs slightly as he stretches his wings upwards, straight vertical, to the full extent of their reach, but he agrees, Only a short loop to look around, and then to dinner. It's been a few days since I've eaten, anyway.

You chuckle, then take a few steps back to make the running jump up to his back that you need to get up there with the blankets covering most of the saddle. The air goes briefly out of your middle on impact, but you get enough of your weight high enough that you can pull yourself the rest of the way.

I'm sure they've thought of that, you send, starting to gather the blankets up and stuff them into the saddlebags. You can take them out and fold them properly once you've landed. After a moment's thought, you add, I suppose it makes sense now why Erzhal was so much more attentive to you than other people.

That it does, Thorn agrees. He settles his wings slightly open along his sides and arches his spine, which has the side effect of lifting you a good foot higher in the air, before settling back on his legs. The sound of his mental voice is melancholy. There's so much we don't know about how Riders are supposed to be trained, he says. Not only that, but simply how they lived. The Eldunari in Eragon's keeping are great sources of wisdom, but they could only ever give us half of the picture.

Because dragons are not elves nor humans. You nod (not that Thorn can truly see it, considering that you are sitting behind his head), and send, He'd have a very different perspective from them even aside from that. If we've estimated the timeline correctly, he would have been one of the youngest Riders, and most of the surviving Eldunari are ancient.

The ones that are sane, anyway, and that sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

Thorn, sensing your sudden spike of foreboding, sends you a wave of concern. Murtagh?

Erzhal's magic is pink, you send back to him. So is the sword at his side.

There was a pink Eldunari among the ones Galbatorix had subjugated. It was much smaller than the others; you remember it distinctly because it was one of the only ones small enough to carry on your person (rather than packed into a saddlebag), but the king had looked at it when he was giving them to you and had murmured to himself, Not that one. She's not fit to give a beginner.

Thorn stiffens as you recall the memory, the spines on the back of his neck going up. He says, Erzhal didn't recognize the term 'Eldunari' when you mentioned it before.

He didn't, you agree. It wasn't something that was revealed to younger Riders and their dragons casually. Galbatorix burdened you with the knowledge, as much to use it as a threat as so that you could make use of them to supplement your magical power. Thorn's heart remains where it should be, but forcing him to gurgitate it was one of several of the more nasty threats the king held over your head.

The two of you sit in the cold with this thought for almost a solid minute, before Thorn sends, Now we have even more reason to contact Eragon. That is something we must confirm one way or the other before we say anything about the matter to Erzhal.

There is no doubt in either of you that you will have to inform him about the Eldunari in general. They're too much a part of the new order of Riders Eragon has started, the only source of the knowledge that the dragons kept for themselves, not sharing even with their Riders. (You know that knowledge exists, because possessing it was one of the greatest triumphs Galbatorix had in breaking the Eldunari, and he was all too happy to tell you about it, even if he didn't share it with you.)

But whoever Erzhal's dragon was, and whatever happened to her - you cannot give him false hope for her survival in that form. You have to know one way or the other before you bring up the subject.

Thorn says, We can do nothing about it now. And we owe it to Zharai to not darken her celebration with these thoughts hanging over us when we can not change the facts, whatever they may be.

You nod agreement, shift your weight, and take hold of the forward part of the saddle in preparation for take-off. Let's fly, you send, hoping that it will serve to take your mind off the possibility, at least for a little while.

----

Being in the air, at least, still has the mixed effect of exhilaration and relaxation that makes your problems seem far away, even if you can tell that Thorn is working for it more than usual. He doesn't risk going too high above the valley, not wanting to risk approaching the storm and whatever magicks power it, but even the short distance he climbs is enough to give you a spectacular view.

The elven homes are staggered, just like the hothouses opposite, and from the look of it, many of the edifices are just that - entrances that lead further into the walls of the canyon behind them. Several roads, streaks of dark stone against the white of undisturbed snow on rooftops and in gardens, snake their way up and down the canyon wall in switchbacks. There are no streetlights, in contrast to Ghralthek, which makes it easy to spot the few groups of people who are moving around in the northern winter night; each of them is accompanied by the glow of at least one personal werelight. It doesn't take your eyes long to spot Erzhal's signature pink, which is a more saturated color than most of the lights the elves are using; it's accompanied by a pale grey that could belong to almost anyone else.

There are more traditional homes lining the streets at the bottom of the valley, along with some larger buildings that might be gathering halls or something else of that nature. Along the ridgetops, the houses are very small; perhaps they are partially below ground, like the facades that line the canyon. The roads are wider there, and the shapes of frozen trees stand up from the snow, along with stone pillars whose purpose you don't recognize.

You can't help but wonder how long it has been since the last time someone looked down at this valley from dragonback, but with an effort, you push the morbid thoughts from your mind. It doesn't last long, once you begin to look at the surrounding area and not just the canyon's tight strip of houses and lights.

As it turns out, the ribs used to make the hothouses are among the smaller remnants of deceased dragons. Beyond the line of houses along the top of the canyon on either side, the shapes of massive bones stick up from the snow, the most identifiable being the spikey curves of ribs, the shapes of horned skulls, and the thick ridges of pelvic bones and shoulder blades.

You shiver again, in spite of yourself, and send to Thorn, There are far more than I expected.

And far larger, he agrees. Some of them are large enough that they could have swallowed me whole.

I wonder if any of the Eldunari in Eragon's keeping left their flesh behind here, you muse.

It seems a likely possibility, Thorn sends. Elves have been coming to this city to die longer than we can comprehend. Even if only a tiny percentage of those were Riders, it makes sense that the island would be covered in our bones. The body of a dragon of that size would be nearly impossible to move after their death.

Even more so without other dragons to help, you reason. Elves may be magically powerful, but they are still only the size of men, and some of the larger skulls have teeth as tall as you are.

Thorn tosses his head, and says, It is quite interesting that the descendants of the elves who rejected living side-by-side with dragons eventually came to live alongside their bones.

You send a sense of agreement, and lean forward to look down around the beating of his wings. It looks like the others are almost to the crest of the ridge.

Alas, Thorn agrees. He beats his wings hard one more time, before dipping into a glide that carries you steadily towards the house set into the bottom of the mountain that overlooks Kirbakliyi's canyon. Though I suppose my shoulders will be sore at any rate. This is too long for a dragon to go without flying.

Well, it seems we'll be staying here for some time, you reassure him. Plenty of time to get back into shape.

Thorn just huffs again, the sound of it snatched away from your ears by the trailing wind.

----

The house where Erzhal and Nadia live is set just far enough away from its nearest neighbors to give the feeling that it is truly apart from the rest of the city, tucked behind a short bank of evergreen trees where the road twists as it winds around and upwards towards the climb up the mountain. There are the shapes of three other houses near it, such that they are paired two to either side of the road, but it is clear that the other three are in disuse. Only arches remain in place of rooftops on the other three, the snow falling as deeply outside as within.

A little neighborhood all its own, for those who came north to prepare for their deaths.

In contrast, the final house is lit up in bright welcome. Ghralthek-style colored lanterns in familiar shades of red and purple hang beside the front doors of the house, as well as over a section that the other three homes do not seem to possess. This space, no taller than the rest of the buildings at first glance, is just slightly separated from the main house; it sinks downward into the ground to lead to doors set into a hill under a snow-covered awning, and although it's slightly small for Thorn, it's significantly more finished and attractive than the stable you stayed at in Ghralthek. When you take a walk around the hill behind it, a handful of small windows and a chimney stick out.

I suppose that must be the den, you say to Thorn.

It must be, he agrees. If the dragonhold here is primarily built for those at the end of very long lives, I see why Erzhal thought we might prefer it to going up the mountain.

You nod. I certainly don't feel up to going up there tonight, you say. But it's interesting. There's no way this was built in the few days he came here ahead of us.

Thorn hums thoughtfully, leaning in close to examine the doors. The stone is not new, he agrees, but neither does it look particularly old. Neither of us is an expert, however.

"True enough," you say aloud. The bobbing werelights are within sight, so you turn in the direction of the arriving group.

Zharai has paused on the path leading around the main house towards the den, turning towards her father and saying something. You can tell from the way they interact that whatever she's asking, Erzhal doesn't give her a clear answer, because she folds her arms at him in a pout. Nadia sighs at the two of them, before coming the rest of the way up the path to you.

"Don't just stand there," she says. "Come on, help me with the doors and let's get out of this cold."

You bite back a reply about how the weight of the doors might be nothing to an elf, but you would have to use magic to enhance your strength to move even one of them. Indeed, before you can make any reply at all, Thorn makes an amused sound and says, As the lady of the house commands.

Then he reaches past you and hooks the digits of his forepaw into a large ring set at about your waist height in the door. It pulls open more easier than you would have expected, but you can't help glancing at Nadia with raised eyebrows.

She must see your look, because she says, "It is upon Erzhal to explain why he undertook this particular project to you. I only helped with the growing of the garden over the top - not that you can see it in the winter."

"That is low on the list of questions I want to ask him right now," you say.

Nadia looks you up and down, and you get the same feeling from her that you've gotten from Arya a few times, something like being measured for the tailor in a single glance, but not a measuring that's directed at your body. She says, "I'm sure you do. Though it seems like you weren't entirely surprised."

"He dropped more than a few hints," you agree.

Nadia smiles, and says, "He can be a bit heavy-handed when he wants someone to do something but wants them to think it's their own idea."

You nod, and ask, "How old is this building? We can tell it isn't original."

"He began planning it when Zharai was very young," Nadia replies, "but didn't start working on it until he gave her into the care of her mother and grandmother." She glances back at the others, and adds, "It's her first time seeing it."

That makes sense of her reaction.

Behind you, Erzhal's voice calls out, "What are you waiting for? The food's inside, and it connects to the main house underground. There's no reason to keep standing around."

Nadia smiles and ducks past you and Thorn, shaking snow off her boots as she goes. You follow her in, behind Thorn's wing as he slides through the doors, and discover that the inside is all a single large room, the floor recessed enough to be called underground. It's easily large enough for Thorn with room to spare, and it appears that it's been set up with him in mind, a large recess in the floor filled with undyed wool and covered in pelts and blankets.

Thorn pads across the floor and over to it without hesitation, rolling his wing-shoulder joints before he curls up. This is almost too comfortable, he says.

You look like a spoiled cat, you tell him, glancing around. There is a bench built into another portion of the wall, with two moderately sized tables and a few other chairs, and a largely empty set of shelves. The tables are loaded down with food, and in addition, there's a sheep's carcass, shaved of wool and cooked with the skin still on, roasting in a wide fireplace. A hefty pot sits alongside it.

Two tunnels lead off the side of the den towards the main house. You send to Thorn privately, It looks a lot like the quarters they set up for Eragon and Saphira in Tronjheim. This was definitely designed with a dragon in mind.

Mysteries tomorrow, Thorn admonishes. He rests his head on the wool, and instead says, Will you bring me my sleep?

You're perfectly capable of getting up, you say to him, peeling off your shoes and outer layers. It's quite warm in the den even aside from the fire.

"Finally," Revneili says beside you, putting up her own coat and gear next to yours. She takes a look at where Thorn is curled up, and says, "It's just like I thought."

"You knew about this?" you ask.

"And Erzhal made me swear an oath not to tell Zharai," she says, before looking at the Urgal girl in question and shrugging. "Sorry."

Zharai continues to look around, biting her lip. "Patan?" she asks Erzhal.

"Happy birthday, now let's eat your dinner," is his only reply as he comes down from closing the door. He's smiling, still, but there's an undercurrent to it that you can't parse. "We spent two days getting this all together."

"... All right," Zharai agrees. "But don't think you're off the hook yet."

Erzhal just grins at her and goes over to free the pot from the fire so that Thorn is free to take his meal without risk of knocking it over. Zharai, in turn, catches your eye, and sends, Do you have any idea what he's up to this time?

I've only known him a few weeks, you tell her. You're in a better position to know that than I am. He still clearly has many secrets.

She sighs. "Worth a try."

Chapter Text

For as tired as you are, you stay awake a long time at the celebratory dinner. The fare is only slightly more familiar than that of the Urgals - utuur meat and milk are still staples, and the root vegetables that simmer alongside the roast in Erzhal's big metal cookpot are still strange to you - but after a few days out in the snow and crossing the blizzard, any hot meal would be appealing.

Thorn, for his part, strips the meat from the bones of his sheep and promptly curls up to sleep, disregarding any attempts to converse with him. You can't exactly blame him, since you begin yawning even before you've finished using the rough-grain bread to mop the juices from your bowl. Neither of you is much required to make conversation at any rate, as the primary topic of the night seems to be telling stories of what Zharai got up to as a small child, which requires nothing more from you than chuckling at the ones that aren't too embarrassing and commiserating looks at the ones that are.

It's not long after you start yawning that Adaran makes excuses to leave, and he makes it a point of dragging Revneili with him, leaving you alone with Erzhal's strange, mixed immediate family. But they collect a decent portion of the food not long after, leaving you with enough for breakfast, and return to the main house via one of the underground doors.

(The other, to your immense relief, leads to a washroom.)

You grab a blanket and bunk down against Thorn's side in the pile of pelts and wool, and wake with the sensation of hardly any time having passed at all. Only the dimmed fire, which has burned down enough to hide what embers remain entirely under charcoal and ash, reveals the passage of time.

Thorn is still asleep, however, so you feel in no great rush to do anything. The washroom operates via a tank of water set in the wall above where the fireplace is on the other side, and it has not cooled as much as you might have expected it to, which makes it reek of luxury after your months on the road. You spend longer than entirely necessary washing yourself, long enough that your werelight begins to dim to red enough for you to correct the color not once but twice. Then you use the combination of warm water and magic to wash your clothes, which were beginning to smell concerning even by traveler standards.

Thorn is still asleep at that point, and you find that without any clear indicators of the time of day, you can't manage any particular investment in the idea of being awake, either. You take a roll from the table to sate the worst of your hunger, and then curl back up against your partner's side to let a few more hours pass by.

----

This time, for the first time in weeks, you are not so tired that your sleep passes dreamlessly. But for once, it isn't a nightmare, or at least not any kind of nightmare you recognize.

"Where has she gone, Nuthelin?" a man's voice asks, almost in your ear. His weight leans back against your chest, and one of your arms is wrapped close around him. Your sight is blurred, but you can make out the tip of a pointed ear.

"I don't know, my heart," replies a voice that might be your own, the way you feel it in your chest, but it sounds strange in your ears, unfamiliar.

The man in your embrace slides an arm down, his hand folding over yours, your forearms lying in parallel. "They say that she went into the snows. But surely that cannot be true. I cannot bring myself to say it. Not when even with all the magic at my call, I cannot find even a trace of her body."

"It has been a very long time," the voice from your chest says, knowing that the man in your arms won't like the thought, but forced to say it all the same.

Behind your back, there is the rumbling of a growl.

"No, he's right," says the man against your chest, and the growl stops. "But even so, I can't say it."

"I will, if you need me to."

A sigh, and a shift of body weight that digs an elbow under your ribs. "You shouldn't have followed me," the voice of the first man says.

The voice in your chest says, with a chuckle, "But where else would I go?"

And then he leans forward, tilting the chin of the first man up with his fingers, and -

----

You wake to the unfamiliar memory of the too-familiar kiss, the dream melting away with the impression of an act that in-the-dream you had done a thousand times before. You lie on your back, staring at the darkness above you, trying to reconcile the warmth of the dream with waking up and being nothing but yourself again. The details are already fading.

Murtagh? Thorn's snout swings into your view, the eye above it giving you a concerned look.

"Just a dream," you say, and allow yourself a slow count to ten longer of lying there before you toss the blanket off and crawl out of the pile of furs. The good thing about sleeping beside a dragon is that you never wake up too cold to move.

From the washroom while you take care of things, you send to Thorn, Do you have any idea what time it is?

No, but it hardly matters, he replies. Erzhal did tell me to tell you to just go over to the main house when you awoke, however, and it seemed that he had been waiting for some time.

You grunt and take a few moments to tame your hair and beard as much as you can.The mirror in the small washroom isn't large enough to be luxurious, but it's well-polished enough to get a decent idea of what you look like, and your beard is due for at least a trim.

(Every time you stop to think about it, Erzhal's words about you having gotten your jawline from your mother's family come back to haunt you.)

Your hair is long enough that you can secure it with a tie at the nape of your neck, so you do that to help prevent it from getting in your eyes while flying. Then you shuffle back to the den proper and go through a few stretches before making your way to the other underground door.

"I'll be back," you say to Thorn, who huffs.

You're hardly going anywhere at all, he replies, before starting to stretch his foreclaws in the woolen pad underneath him like a cat kneading a blanket.

The door opens to a short hallway, which is supported by a handful of beams that bring you to a distracted pause - dragon ribs again, but this time you're close enough to inspect them. From the amount of curve and your admittedly limited knowledge of draconic anatomy, you think they belonged to a dragon a little larger than Shruikan. They are also a pale green; if you factor in that bones and ivory grow yellow with age, then the dragon these bones belonged to was most likely blue, if you assume that the bones pick up a hint of the dragon's color the way their scales do.

You relay this to Thorn, who says in return, It's pragmatic, when they have so little wood.

You're right; there were hardly any trees large enough to provide beams in the valley, you send. I suppose the legends of elves singing trees into shape are unlikely to apply here.

You force yourself to abandon your examination of the bones and push open the door on the other side. Immediately, you're hit by the familiar smells of seared meat and root vegetables - it seems that the doorway on this side opens into the house's kitchen, or at least the dining area.

There's no immediate sign of Erzhal, but Nadia is seated at the table, scooping the insides of some vegetable out with a carved bone spoon that seems to be sharpened almost to the point of a knife around the tip.She's still wearing all white, but her hair is only loosely held back with a leather strap, not dissimilar to what you've done with yours. Without looking up at you, she says, "Good. If you hurry you can escape before Zharai gets up from her nap and asks why she can't go along."

You raise your eyebrows and say, "Is there some reason she shouldn't?"

"That's not mine to tell," Nadia answers, finally looking at you with an expression that has a hint of a smile. "You'll find out soon enough."

You are physically incapable of raising your eyebrows any further to emphasize your point. But before you can raise the question further, there's a gentle whumph of impact and Erzhal comes into view, wearing a pink vest over a pale linen shirt and sliding slightly in thick wool slippers. Aside from a coat and boots, he's fully dressed, complete with his sword belted at his waist. Your eyes linger again on the pink leather sheath.

Still without looking up from her meal, Nadia says, "I thought you weren't going to jump the stairs anymore."

"I made no binding promises," Erzhal replies. As he steps closer, you realize that his hair is done up again with the comb set with the polished pink gem.

Your eyes linger on it this time as they did not before. It's nearly the same color as the sheath at his side; allowing for the discoloration of the leather given its age, you imagine they were the same shade originally. "Is that...?" you finally manage to ask.

(You don't think of another place where you might have seen that color before, the pink of the light reflecting off clouds at sunrise. Aurori'a, as says the name of the blade on his hip.)

Erzhal reaches up and trails his first two fingers across the stone. "It's a piece of her eggshell," he says, voice distant and heavy and wistful.

That wasn't quite the answer you expected, and your words fumble for a moment before you say, "I'm impressed that you managed to keep track of such a fragment for so long." You have no idea what happened to Thorn's shell; you certainly weren't in any state of mind to think of it at the time.

"It wasn't in fashion at the time, but the egg-bearer who found me encouraged me to keep it anyway," Erzhal says. "I owe her a deep debt of gratitude."

You nod, all your questions briefly subdued. Erzhal continues to finger the ornament in his hair, until Nadia sighs heavily and says, "I thought you were hoping to go while Zharai is sleeping off breakfast."

"Right," Erzhal says, surprising you by dropping out of the Ancient Language. "Places to go and bones to meet. Come on, I left my boots over in the den anyway." He crosses the kitchen to you, stopping only to grab two large buns off a stone shelf that seems to radiate warmth.

"Right," you agree. Erzhal pushes one of the buns into your hands - it's heavier than you expect it to be - and takes off down the hallway, eating his as he goes. You follow, minding to pull the door closed behind you before you bite into the food. The inside is full of spiced meat ground up with some kind of root vegetable.

Thorn is watching the door with some amusement in his eyes when the two of you come out the other side. You didn't bother to fully remove his saddle the night before, but you can tell that it's come slightly loose from his rolling around in sleep. But before you can go to correct the straps, Erzhal waves you off, pointing at the table where the celebratory dinner was eaten the night before.

"Let me get my practice in," he says. "It's been a while." Then he looks to Thorn, waiting for your dragon's nod of agreement, before shoving the remaining chunk of his bun into his mouth to hold it while he uses both hands to tighten down the straps.

Figuring you may as well take direction to sit and eat your own meal, you send to Thorn, He seems quite pleased with himself.

Every time we have discovered something new about Erzhal, it has only become more apparent how difficult it is for him to not be all of himself, Thorn replies.At what must be a thought-sent direction, he stands so that Erzhal can check the straps under and around his chest. As you watch, the Shade ducks under the keel of Thorn's chest with flexibility that you yourself don't have, in order to look at the straps on the other side.

There's a bit of strap on this side that should be replaced (where the buckle tongue goes through is going to wear through within a month or two), Erzhal sends to the room at large, the thoughts layered over each other along with an image of the problematic area through his eyes. Really, the entire saddle should be redone (I can tell the straps are a bit of a patch job) (especially of Thorn is going to be bearing multiple riders with any frequency, the weight is too far forward) (Gods, that bastard's standards must have really slipped by the end). Have you only ever had the one saddle?

The extra layers of thought that come through have you blinking in surprise, and you force yourself to swallow the bite you're chewing and speak aloud rather than replying in kind. You don't want to reveal what the underlying chaotic mess of thoughts and emotions makes you think of. "We have," you say. 'You could tell that easily?"

"You had to lengthen the straps by just adding more leather, didn't you?" Erzhal asks in return, coming around from Thorn's other side. "Even if his growth is starting to slow significantly, it's not slowed down enough for a full-finished saddle like the one you have. The angle of how it sits on his back is sized for the one-to-three year range." He pauses, looking up at Thorn's face, and adds, "Which you technically are, but in size you're more in the five-year range."

You don't seem as out of practice at this as someone might expect after a century, Thorn replies. After a moment he adds, Nor do you seem especially surprised by my size.

"I know what he did to Shruikan," Erzhal answers. He grimaces. looks down at the last bit of bun he's holding in one hand, and deliberately takes a bite and swallows it, barely chewing, before he continues, "Some of which, ultimately, may be my fault. I was studying both dragon and human development in the latter part of my apprenticeship, and he asked to borrow some of my materials the last time he came to the headquarters of the order, after the Council had already turned down his petition for a second dragon. Foolishly, I gave them to him."

Unsure how to reply to that, you stare at the last few bites of your own meal. Thorn says, You are not to blame for what Galbatorix did with that knowledge.

"In my head I know," Erzhal replies, "but the heart rules the Shade. Fortunately, it is also fickle and easily distracted." And with that he shoves the last of his meal into his mouth and almost forcibly brightens his expression. "Anyway, we can worry about the saddle later, because it's not going to snap on us this time. Ready to go?"

You say, "Let me get my boots," and shove the last bite of the bun into your mouth. As many questions as you still have - as many as Erzhal avoided directly answering and simply seems to have assumed that you now know the answers to - if you start asking them now, you'll never manage to leave.

And clearly, there is something important at the dragonhold that he wants you to see. Just what bones are you going to 'meet'?

----

At least it is no longer surprising how easily Erzhal takes to sitting behind you on Thorn's saddle as he takes to the air, leaving the buried den and the little house behind. If anything, it's impressive that he held it together as well as he did the first time. You can barely imagine how it might feel to fly again after not being able to do so for a century; the only part you can imagine is how conflicting it would be to do so on the back of someone else's dragon.

Of course, that's not the only thing about the flight you can't imagine. The way Erzhal doesn't so much sit behind you as climb to his knees to the point that he's a hair's breadth from standing is another.

"Are you mad?" you ask, voice loud over the whipping winds as he straightens up fully, using one hand on your shoulder as a brief source of support.

"I already told you the answer to that!" comes the reply, half-laughed and carrying, and you can't very well counter that, because you did already know. This is just not a form of madness you've encountered very often. Even the soldiers Galbatorix enchanted to feel no more pain usually had more sense.

(Then again, of course Thorn would never have consented to bear them. Those men were never right again, even the handful that survived the battles they charged into. Who could be?)

Madness aside, there's no doubt that Erzhal is-or-was a skilled Rider, as far as the physical act itself. Even standing, he leans into the way Thorn banks to turn in towards the dragonhold easily; when you glance up and over your shoulder, you realize that Erzhal is flexing his body up and down with the motion of Thorn's wingbeats, such that the position of his head and shoulders hardly changes at all. You've seen a handful of people capable of doing so on horseback; it was a trick and showmanship in Galbatorix's court, but you know that there are desert tribes who train their archers that way, so that they can shoot accurately even at a gallop.

It simply never occurred to you that one might do so on dragonback. You've only had occasion to use a bow from Thorn's back a few times, and you had no choice but to do your best to compensate for the motion.

Erzhal slides back down into a proper seat as Thorn starts to descend, but the exhilaration and glee still radiates off him in waves. "Mad," you mutter again under your breath, but despite the wind, he must hear it, because there's laughter behind your head.

The dragonhold is set into the side of the mountain, turned about a third of the way away from the valley. It's surrounded by the towers and rooftops that you saw when approaching on the ground with Zharai. Broadcasting your thoughts to both Erzhal and Thorn, you mentally point at those and ask, If the elves live in the valley, who lives there?

Different set of elves, Erzhal replies. Those who live in the valley tend to be the more pragmatic sort. Those who live on the mountain are more reclusive and meditative (like if elves had monks) (they're tedious to deal with) (I am the world's most interesting bug).

You blink, catching that last thought and its tone of irritation. The most interesting bug? you repeat.

They want to study me, Erzhal clarifies, but the mental impression he sends along with it is not one of scholars, but one of a bunch of children gathered up around a particularly cool-looking bug that one of them found playing outside. Most of them had never met a Rider before I came here (much less a human one) (much less a Shade) (much less a Rider who had lost their dragon), and their curiosity can be (invasive) (overwhelming) (let a mourning man have his damn privacy).

"Ah," you say. "Thank you for the warning." Because no doubt they'll be just as interested in you and Thorn.

"We're avoiding them today," Erzhal says over the sound of the wind. "The part of the dragonhold I want you to see is forbidden to all who are not Riders except by invitation, and the only person who has ever violated that, to the best of my knowledge, was a six-year-old Revneili."

You remember how the young elven woman was practically beside herself trying to make a good impression on Thorn, and ask, "She's from this faction, then?"

"It's where she was born," Erzhal says. "I don't know that it's where she will end. She spends more time in the valley these days, and not just to follow me around."

He gives Thorn a more detailed indication of your destination, and Thorn banks low under the main balcony of a tower towards the dark opening of a more-natural-looking cavern. It's easily wide enough for him to descend with his wings fully extended; you think Shruikan would have handled it just as easily. The opening is so wide that you don't imagine that it actually truly gets fully dark inside in the seasons when the sun puts in its appearance.

But for now, the north is steeped in the darkness of night and the glitter of snow, which crunches under Thorn's feet as he lands. He takes a few steps further into the dragonhold to where it's dry before fully folding his wings and stopping so that you can dismount.

Immediately, you raise a dull red werelight, and give it a half-hearted glare before you brighten it. Despite your efforts, the pink one Erzhal summons still seems to be brighter.

He adjusts the color all the way to a pale white, and lifts it high into the cavern with a wave of his hand. "Behold," he says, and you are not particularly surprised, really, to see the light fall upon the skeleton of a massive dragon, curled up protectively over a smaller archway.

Unlike the ones down the hill beside the valley, however, you can tell from just a glance that this dragon's body has been left fully intact. No snow reaches so deep into the cavern, but the bones have not yellowed in the slightest with age. A dragon massive enough that Thorn could curl up in their mouth if not the socket of their eyeball, the skeleton reaches almost the entire way around the massive cavern from nose to tailtip. One wing, you realize as Erzhal's light rises higher, has even had its bones suspended and embedded into the ceiling, giving the impression that the ancient dragon has a wing open protectively over the span of the cave's ceiling.

"The very first of us," Erzhal says, and the tone of light joking is gone from his voice, replaced by one of genuine respect. "Bid'Daum of Eragon, who has watched over this place since his Rider went into the snows, never to return."

You cast your eyes over the whole of the cavern again, before settling your gaze on the empty white skull. There is nothing but natural shadows in the eyes of the skull, and you cannot sense the presence of an Eldunari in the vicinity.

Nonetheless, you bow your head respectfully anyway. Behind you, Thorn does likewise, touching the tip of his nose to the floor.

The moment remains solemn for the count of a few breaths, but around the time you are starting to feel that respects are satisfied, Erzhal's werelight changes from white to its usual pink. From the color of the ancient dragon to the color of his own, you realize, and resolve to spend at least a moment raising your own light to white the next time you come.

For now, Erzhal's light bobs slightly back in your direction, even as he sets off across the cavern in the direction of the doorway beneath Bid'Daum's body. One of the skeleton's forepaws is curled over it, once again giving the impression of protectiveness. "This way," Erzhal calls back to you. "Bid'Daum has been keeping something very important safe for me all this time, and it's what we came to see."

Curious, you follow after him, and Thorn after you - the archway, at least, is large enough to allow him passage with room to spare, though not as large as the one leading into the cavern. It's maybe large enough for Bid'Daum's skull; Shruikan would have had to wiggle in on his belly, something you know all too well the mad dragon would not have tolerated.

The passage narrows further as it turns a corner and heads upwards - into, you realize, Bid'Daum's great chest cavity. Though it is unlike the elven constructions below, in that the bones aren't visible as forming part of the walls, at least not from this side. Still, your intuition seems correct, as Erzhal brings you to a stop in front of a pair of impressive, ancient doors worked in the sigils of the Ancient Language, glowing faintly with the power of protective magic.

Words across the floor before the doors read:

My heart lies within this chamber.
Let those who seek entrance to this place
show that they too are worthy of the hearts of my kin.

The word used for 'heart' is cora, but unable to stop the feeling of suspicion, you reach your mind out again in search of an Eldunari, just in case. You find no sign of one.

You say, "It's sealed against all save Riders, then?"

Erzhal nods. He's removing one of his ever-present gloves as he speaks. "There is one other keystone, which was left with the elves here in case of emergencies," he says. "Or in case of a Rider coming to this chamber to take their own life, which has happened several times in the past. It's currently in Nadia's keeping, for reasons you might imagine."

Why go to such lengths to build and protect a chamber like this? Thorn asks.

"Good question. No one knows," Erzhal says. "After Eragon went into the snows, Bid'Daum laid down here and closed his eyes, to never move again. According to the records from that time, his flesh did not rot; it simply disappeared as though made of mist, and this chamber grew from the stone directly into his chest."

He pauses, and tucks the gloves into a pocket of his vest before showing his hands to you. "Not that you hadn't already figured it out," he says, "but let this stand as truth of my story, and all that I once was."

On his left palm is the swirled mark of a gedwëy ignasia, just as you had expected. The skin of Erzhal's hands is pale, but the area surrounding the mark is raised, and paler still, and the edges of it are criss-crossed with scars, one of which even crosses through the center, where the ethereal shine of the dragon-marked skin persists over the bumpy line.

It looks, you realize with pain and aching horror, as though someone had tried to carve the mark out of the flesh. Given what he has told you about his madness, the most likely culprit is Erzhal himself.

(Or, rather, the person that he was before he was Erzhal.)

Unable to muster any words to the sight in front of you, you look down at your own hands, and slowly, you peel away your own gloves, exposing your own marked palm to the open, chilled air. Thorn leans his snout over your shoulder, to press the tip of it to the mark, the way he so often did as a hatchling.

"Thank you for showing us," you say, voice quiet.

Erzhal curls his fingers into his hand, before turning away. "Some people turn their pain outward," he says, "and some inward. What separates Galbatorix from every other Rider who lost the other half of their soul is that he turned his so far outward that it became a weapon to force everyone else to experience that same pain. That's where, even mad as I am, I lose the ability to understand a man I once called friend."

He takes a deep breath and says, "And that's why I committed every fiber of my being to ensuring that he would fail," and presses his gedwëy ignasia to the center of the door.

Immediately, the dim light of the protective magicks sealing the door brightens, spreading outwards from his fingers. The doors swing open - not quite soundlessly, but with a quiet whisper instead of a deep groan. The chamber beyond lights up of its own accord, not needing either of the bobbing werelights beside you.

It is a small, round chamber, just large enough to hold Thorn if he were to lie on the floor and stretch out.Against the back wall, embedded in it and sticking out about a third of the way into the chamber floor, is one of the most unsettling sights you've ever seen - a giant, still heart, hjarta, the organ, encased completely in crystal. Dull red, it is perfectly preserved as it would have been in life, when it still beat in exactly this location in Bid'Daum's chest, and even from this distance, you can tell that it also radiates the heat that it would have had in life, keeping its sanctuary eternally warm.

And spread out in a circle around it, in two careful arcs where they will be warmed by its heat, are two-score dragon eggs, glittering innocently in their shells, waiting their chance to come to life.

Chapter Text

The half-circle of dragon eggs strikes any possible words from your mind; you blink and gape like a child, unable to see anything beyond the eggs, even the colorful blankets they are nested in. When you can think at all, you compulsively count them, noticing the little details all the more, how they're lined up in little groups of similar size and largely similar ranges of color.

Ten clutches, in all, most having four or five eggs but two having three and one having six. In total, forty-two eggs spread out before you.

Forty-two eggs. Forty-two more survivors of Galbatorix.

Behind you, Thorn makes a wretched noise that you have not heard since before the mad king died. He pushes past you and Erzhal, dropping down on his belly in the small chamber, to press the tip of his snout to the nearest of the eggs.

They're alive, he says, breaking the silence.

It takes you a moment longer to find your voice. Tears interfere with your first attempt, catching you by surprise, making you have to stop and wipe them away on your sleeve. "How?" you manage, meaning so many questions with the one word.

"Well, that's a long story," Erzhal says. Thorn had dashed between you, but he walks as he speaks, coming around the other side of your dragon and back into view, picking his way carefully between the eggs towards the heart at the center of the room. There is a low bench forming a circular wall around the heart, and it is lined with candles, incense burners, and other items that you imagine must be used to give offerings to the dead. You wonder if it was the elves that placed them there, or Erzhal himself; you realize that you know painfully little of how the elves mourn, for all that you've heard about how they come here to die.

You glance around. Aside from the eggs, the chamber is lined with shelves. The majority of these are lined with books, most of them looking ancient or beyond ancient in their leather covers. One gap in the shelving holds an equally-ancient looking writing desk, at a height for someone to write at it standing rather than sitting; despite this, there is a stool shoved under it that looks newer than almost anything else in the room, save the woolen blankets wrapped around the eggs.

Erzhal grabs a blanket off another stack set near the crystal and spreads it out on the floor in front of the stone bench. He sits there, his back against the stone, at the center of the ring of eggs like they're as much a part of his audience as you and Thorn.

You come up and take a seat beside Thorn's head, on the other side of the eggs, and stroke your hand along your dragon's brow. He doesn't make a sound, but the presence in your mind is comforted.

"I imagine that it would have to be," you say. "I suppose you'll just have to start at the beginning."

"I think we can start just a little bit after that," Erzhal says, smiling. "As... much as I would like to tell the story of my first years with Coryna, if I start on those memories, we won't be coming out of this chamber for three days, and I'd like to keep the warm air in. Thorn, mind your tail, if you would."

Thorn huffs slightly, more like a hiccup, and his tail drags along the floor as he pulls it around himself. At a word from Erzhal, the doors behind you close, and a few of the candles light. He dismisses his werelight, and you do likewise, not that the dim red glow was contributing much.

"The main thing you have to know about those years," he says, "is that Galbatorix was my senior student, nine years ahead of me, and thus finishing his education just as mine began..."

----

...As you've probably guessed, the two of us shared a common set of teachers in Irvetsuni and Zraihe. In those days, a Rider's education was a long, formal affair; the elves gave an abbreviated, by their standards, ten-year version of it to the human students, of whom there were one or two a year. It was impossible to make us stop and stay still for any longer than that; the apprenticeships of the elven Riders were much longer, thirty, maybe forty years, but they were much rarer than we were, comparatively, so the number of human and elven students was about the same.

Before you ask - in terms of who started first, I was between Morzan and Brom; however, Brom started unusually late, because the Riders only rarely bothered going to Kuasta, as isolated as it is, in their search for new Riders, and Coryna hatched for me when I was unusually young. So despite his being four years my elder, I was a year his senior; I don't think any of our elven instructors understood why it mattered or why we always argued about who should be calling who 'senior.'

The other thing that you should know is that... Well, our masters had a bit of a reputation. Irvetsuni was notorious for taking outcasts and troublemakers under her wings, and although humans had been able to become Riders for a long time at that point, she was unusual for her preference for human students. I think she knew that we were just as much outsiders in a strange culture as she was; even at that time, there weren't many human Riders who took on students of their own.

For my part, the person I was back then was small and the sort of person who hung to the back of the group. I would have been an easy target for bullying if it weren't for the fact that Coryna was ferocious well above her size and age. Morzan and his dragon liked to pick fights with anyone smaller than them, but that red dragon only tried it with Coryna once; the chunk she took out of his hide at the shoulder damaged his wing muscles enough that he was grounded for a month even after the healers took a look at him.

She was prickly and headstrong and everything I wasn't. My perfect thistle, covered in spikes unless you approached her with the very lightest touch. Her scales were the same color as the flower she named herself for, which only grows in the far south; the common name back then was 'crown thistle,' though that might have changed by now for all I know. I haven't seen one in a century. She loved battle and was my first and fiercest protector from the moment she hatched; when my father didn't want me to leave home with the elves, she bit him on the ankle. She wasn't even two days old.

I... It's fine. I've always been bad about going off down tangents, even back then. Everyone knew that despite how much of a fighter Coryna was, I was a scholar through and through. That was before there was any real organization to how the Riders fought; we weren't an organized military force, really, not until the very end. Some of our other teachers would talk about how much of a shame it was that the two of us had such different tendencies when it came to battle. If Zraihe heard, he would always admonish them for criticizing Coryna's choice of partner.

'Like she doesn't know what she needs,' he would say.

And he was right. Coryna was always getting into scrapes, with other dragons, with local wildlife, with cliffs. So I started learning healing and dragon anatomy to better take care of her as soon as I could.

Back then, human Riders weren't introduced to the possibility that they could do magic until halfway through their education. Even older apprentices were supposed to keep it from the younger. I suppose that you could say that that was the first sign of who Galbatorix was going to become; he practically flaunted that rule, even before he officially graduated. The elven instructors had to tell everyone that he was simply one of those rare people who could use magic on his own. Truthfully, I think they might have been right; that even if Jarnunvosk had never hatched for him, he would have found his way to magic eventually.

The point being, that he found me once patching up Coryna, just before he and Jarnunvosk graduated, and he saved me a great deal of energy and time by healing her wounds. And he told me that truth, and I... Well, it was impossible to hide much of anything from Irvetsuni. She knew that I knew maybe a month later, at most.

I remember her sighing and saying that she would never take on two students at the same time again.

Anyway, so I began to specialize a lot earlier than most of my peers, who didn't pick a field to specialize in usually until their seventh or eighth year, once they had a good command of magic under their belts. I didn't cast any magic until just before the beginning of my third year, even knowing so early that it was possible. I had trouble focusing enough to find that well of energy in order to cast a spell, so instead I studied medicine and the anatomy of any creature I could get my hands on, dragons included.

The year after that... Well. You know what happened to Jarnunvosk, don't you? I don't have to tell you that part of the story.

He came to the council to demand another dragon. There was no real deliberation about the decision; the hatching of dragons cannot be controlled. But they left him hanging for a month, pretending to discuss and deliberate his request, believing that it was kinder to give him time to adjust to his grief.

A month is so much longer for humans than it is for elves, especially when measured between a man of twenty-three and elves and dragons who were rarely less than a thousand years old.

And when the time came, it was our teachers who gave him the council's refusal. To let him down gently, to have a familiar face and a comforting voice break the bone again.

I've always thought that was why he killed them personally, with his own hands. I think he decided to do it there and then, in the hallway of her home, where Coryna and I were just on the other side of the wall, not supposed to be listening.

He left the next day. I remember that that morning, he actually came out for breakfast, for the first time since he had returned alone, and ate with us. On the surface, it was almost like those early days, when he was still a student and Coryna awkward and gangling and just barely not a hatchling.

Before he left, he asked me to go with him. This is the first time that I've told anyone that, other than Coryna. I bit my tongue on it, in front of Brom, when it came out what Morzan had done; no one else has ever known that he was Galbatorix's second choice.

After all, my skills would have been far better for what he wanted to do than Morzan's. I already knew as much or more about the life cycle of dragons as most of those who were finishing their educations. I was starting a book collection of my own, because Irvetsuni's knowledge of the subject wasn't exhaustive and was rapidly approaching exhaustion. Zraihe was handling my lessons with far more frequency than a dragon would normally, for the two-legged half of a pair of students. And even outside of lessons, I studied Coryna; by the time the war broke out, I knew her body better than I did my own.

It was the only thing that ever came easily to me. In every other subject I was scatterbrained and messy, and had to rely on Coryna to help keep my thoughts in order. But if you could relate it back to healing, it stuck a lot better.

More years passed. Morzan graduated his apprenticeship, the eighth year of my education, and he and his dragon flew off for parts unknown. As far as the council of the Riders knew, he was just eager to stretch his wings and explore the world; it was pretty typical of young human Riders to disappear for a bit after they graduated, and no one really worried if they went missing for over a year.

A few months later, I got a letter. It was written from a place of profound joy, by my younger brother, who still lived with our family in Ilirea.

It was full to brimming with excitement; his best friend, a stablemaid named Teana, had been attending to the horses when a pair of Riders carrying an egg had come to the city, and even before they could formally arrange for it to be presented to the local children, it had hatched for the girl who abandoned her duties brushing horses to come see the dragons land. Jormun was beside himself with excitement through the page; he asked me to take care of her.

You know how this ends already, don't you? The girl named Teana, who had dreamed of flying her whole life, and her little black dragon never made it to the Riders. They disappeared, and the letter my little brother sent me was the only proof they had ever existed.

----

"Then," you say, "the hint you gave us at the cabin..."

Erzhal smiles, not the wistful smile that's been on his face every time he stops to reminisce about his dragon, but something a little more vicious. "Irvetsuni took me directly to the council," he says, "because while the matter of the missing eggbearers was of some concern to them, they didn't know that the egg had hatched. They didn't report it before they disappeared. And Jormun was the only person Teana had told; she was an orphan who had been taken in by the palace after her father, one of the guards, died suddenly. He was the only person she had to tell; Galbatorix couldn't have asked for a more perfect victim."

Thorn growls, low in the back of his throat. And what did the council do with this information?

"Nothing." Erzhal's voice is dark. One of the candles near him sputters, and you feel like there's something crawling up your back. "Not that I knew that at the time - they poured over the letter, passing it around, and talked like there was going to be an investigation. But ultimately they did nothing, and I was never able to forgive them that. Even if it was too late for Teana and the Riders who found her... Perhaps if they'd acted, if they'd taken it seriously, we could have done something for Shruikan before he became what he was."

You let your gaze fall to your feet. "So what was the point of that hint, then? If she just disappeared, there's no way Thorn and I could have known of her."

"I suppose you could say that that was more of a test for any of the old guard who might have survived, and that you might have been in contact with," Erzhal says. You lift your head again sharply, narrowing your eyes, and he holds up a hand. "I'm not a total idiot,:" he says. "If Brom had been Eragon's only mentor... Well, let's just say that a head-on confrontation with Galbatorix, with two armies fighting in the background, the ways the rumors were saying even before you showed up and confirmed it? Not his style, and unlikely to be the style of any student he taught seriously."

You bite down on a chuckle. "I suppose you kept up with what he was doing, then," you say.

"Not closely," Erzhal says. "He didn't know that I survived. I... suppose I could say that I regret that. I didn't think he would last as long as he did, or do as much to be a thorn in Galbatorix's side. If I had known back then... I would have at least sought him out to let him know that I was alive, in a manner of speaking. But the Forsworn kept falling, and mostly by underhanded means, and before I knew it, I knew better than anyone left alive that Brom never refrained from fighting dirty if it meant he would win. Especially when it came to Morzan."

You've heard your father's name enough today to not flinch at the mention, and instead you say, "I suppose the king's announcement that Brom was at fault for his death reached this far north."

"And the huge bounty on his head, yes," Erzhal says. "The human towns to the south even had a bounty hunter come rolling through, thinking that maybe he'd gone to ground here in the far north. Can't fault the man for his instincts, I suppose, since he had the right concept and the wrong Rider."

"I assume he didn't come far enough north to be a problem," you say.

Erzhal shrugs one shoulder. "The north is dangerous for the unprepared," he says. "And even if the man had no chance of finding Brom up here, he was a risk I wasn't going to allow to continue. He knew just a little too much about Riders from the research he'd done on his quarry, and I wouldn't tolerate an agent of the king in these lands. The sea ate his bones."

"That's the only sensible course of action to take," you say.

Erzhal smiles sadly. "The person at the center of the story I'm telling you would have hated it," he says. "Coryna was the ruthless one; I was soft, even after the war started. It wasn't until she wasn't there to be vicious on my behalf that I went in search of an edge. But we're getting ahead of ourselves," he adds. "We were talking about Teana, and why I decided to bait any survivors of the old Riders when I told you her name as a hint."

The words you said then were very specific, Thorn says. 'Her name was Teana, and she was a stablemaid in Ilirea who dreamed of flying.' As you'd suspected, he remembered the phrase verbatim, even matching the cadence Erzhal said it, better than you could.

"Words I shouted at the council's faces after my teachers' deaths," Erzhal says. "Or screamed, perhaps more accurately. And then I graffiti'd them in numerous places around Vroengard, including the council chambers and over Irvetsuni's door when I sealed up her home, before I left. The chances of anyone from the old order not recognizing them is fairly low."

You bite the inside of your lips gently as you try to school your expression of disbelief. "You truly screamed at them and defaced their chambers?" you say.

"Irvetsuni's students are troublemakers at best and madmen at our worst," Erzhal replies, and there's a strange sort of pride in the way he says it. "I am no exception, despite what some of the other teachers thought of me before things began to fall apart. It was just that before Teana disappeared, I hadn't had a reason to be unhappy with the Riders, and so I was more of an ember than a fire-spitter."

"But I was getting on the council's nerves about that matter long before Galbatorix revealed himself..."

----

... since when Irvetsuni and Zraihe didn't have anything they could tell me, I started hassling other members of the council about it, starting with Oromis and Glaedr, who were at least tolerant of my antics. Most of the others weren't, but as it got to be longer and longer without any word from Morzan, I think they began to get suspicious as to where he had gone. Saphira too, though I suppose should call her Saphira of Brom in full, now, given her namesake. She was the sensible one, and she didn't get along as well with Morzan and his dragon as her Rider did.

I had gone out on flying maneuvers with the four of them that day - Brom was a gifted swordsman who I could never hope to beat on the ground, but he wasn't nearly so skilled in the air. A decent shot with a bow if he had the time to line it up, but no genius, and I knew the ways that dragons moved much better than he did from my study of anatomy, so we were well-matched up there. Oromis had us alternate between fighting each other and teaming up to fight against him and Glaedr.

In the midst of this, we spotted Morzan's dragon returning to Vroengard. Oromis put an end to the lesson there, knowing that Brom would be too distracted by Morzan's return, and likely worried for his former student himself. So Coryna and I left them and returned home to Irvetsuni's house, taking our time about it, believing that we had an unexpectedly free afternoon and making the most of it.

Imagine how surprised we were to find Galbatorix there. Coryna had a gift for sensing people by their minds, and could both sense and identify people from much further off than anyone else I knew back then. Sometimes I wonder...

At any rate. It seemed strange for Galbatorix to have returned, and Coryna had a bad feeling about it. So rather than rushing in and announcing ourselves, we landed some distance from the house, and Coryna waited there while I investigated.

That was our plan, at any rate. Things began to go wrong almost immediately, because before I had even reached the house, Irvetsuni's life sputtered and winked out, her mind disappearing from the house and half of the magics protecting it falling apart at her death. Galbatorix waited for her to come and embrace him, her lost and tormented student, before stabbing her through her ribs. How he managed to betray none of his intentions to her mentally... Well, he was gifted at the skills of the mind. I have to assume that was the method. And as much as he'd left in anger, she had no reason to distrust him.

I remember that Zraihe roared in rage, and threw himself at the walls of the house, shattering the windows, to get to them. It was a sturdy building, though, and the beams held. He pulled back, and I thought he was going to ram it again, but instead he drew his neck up to burn the entire thing down.

I wish he'd succeeded. As it was, his head rose over the house - he was larger than it was - and saw Coryna and I, half-hidden in the nearby trees.

He knew that there was something that wasn't right about Galbatorix, and he told us so - told us to run and hide. The distraction of doing so cost him his opportunity - Galbatorix had exited the house through the broken windows, sword-first, and drove his blade at its full extension into Zraihe's neck.

Zraihe cursed him, as he died. I told you this, before - May you understand someday what it is you've done, and may it be your undoing. Galbatorix laughed. While he was laughing, I threw myself at Coryna's side, not even bothering to mount the saddle properly - I clung to her side with magic and my hands around the straps as she took off.

I know that he saw us. His mind chased after ours through the air, like a pack of wolves nipping at our heels, trying to distract us enough that one or the other would falter - as I'm sure you know, Rider and dragon pairs are especially vulnerable to this, since getting a hold on one leaves an open door to interfere with the other. And I'll admit that my grip slipped more than once. That flight is still the most terrifying of my life.

But he hadn't revealed Shruikan, his secret weapon, yet, and so Galbatorix was grounded until Morzan, the traitor currently distracting the rest of the elder Riders until the murder was complete, returned. Coryna flew us out of his range, and the attacks on our minds eased.

Terrified, we hid in the mountainous parts of the island, left wild for the dragons to hunt, for three days, until we were sure that both the traitors had gone. Only then did we return, going immediately to the council chambers and telling them of what we had witnessed.

I still remember their faces. Disbelief, pity, suspicion. The expression on Oromis' face as he put together that Morzan - who had returned with a report of the missing eggbearers found dead, supposedly encountering their bodies on his travels - had been the agent through whom Galbatorix committed his crimes, bearing him to and from Vroengard in secret. The circular arguments.

At some point, I lost my temper. I don't think any of them expected it - Coryna was the spikey one, and I was mild-mannered and distracted easily, happy to be dismissed in favor of the stronger personalities of my senior students. But something in me snapped that day, because even if Zraihe hadn't burned the house, he may as well have, because I had still lost everything. My teachers. The student I'd thought of as an older brother.

Everything except Coryna, standing at my back.

So I took them to task for their inaction, their complacency, their lack of investigation into the disappeared eggbearers and their young charges. And most of all, the fact that they didn't even acknowledge that we had lost four Riders and their dragons to this betrayal, not three.

Her name was Teana, because they never used it, because the human girl who was only a Rider for a single, glorious day was beneath their concern, in comparison to two trusted eggbearering pairs and now Irvetsuni and Zraihe. Her name was Teana, and she was a stablemaid in Ilirea who dreamed of flying, and she was just as much a Rider as you or I.

----

"They kicked me out of the council chamber after that, as you can imagine," Erzhal says, shaking his head. "Luckily, Brom and Saphira were waiting outside, along with a few of the other students whose teachers were inside. Normally the council chambers were protected from eavesdropping, though it was something of an arms' race as younger Riders were continuously inventing new methods of doing so and then being blocked, but in this case, there was no need. I was still shouting when they had someone bodily carry me out and dump me on the steps. Earned myself a decade-long ban from the chamber and everyone knew what I'd said by the next morning."

A decade seems rather harsh, Thorn says.

Erzhal shrugs one shoulder. "Not to them," he says. "It was a long one - five years was the usual maximum, and most bans were only a year or two if you did something particularly bad. Galbatorix himself got a two year ban for his response to the council refusing his request for another dragon. If you were just kind of an ass, they'd have you removed from that session without a ban. But at that point..."

He sighs, and says, "There had always been tensions between elven Riders and human ones. A lot of the older elven Riders didn't think we belonged there, and a lot of human Riders hated how they treated us as a result. The fact that Galbatorix happened to be a human, and Irvetsuni an elf... It brought a lot of those tensions to the surface. Lots of elves thought that it would never have happened if humans hadn't been admitted to the Riders' pact, and in the days following that council session, they had no problem saying so. And me shouting at the council about how a human girl was just as valuable a Rider as they were didn't help, and it didn't make me a popular figure with the elves, either."

And the war hadn't even properly started at that point. You say, "So you left then?"

"Not quite, but Coryna wanted to," Erzhal says. "Especially as it became clear that Irvetsuni's death was Galbatorix's declaration of war. He and Morzan started picking off travelling Riders after that, either recruiting them or killing them, with a special focus on eggbearers." He nods his head at Thorn. "That's how he managed to get the three eggs he had in his possession - targeting those who were travelling to find potential Riders."

Thorn closes his eyes. So those who were entrusted with my egg died violently at his hands, he says. I had assumed as much, but there was no way of knowing for certain.

"After the third time eggbearers were openly targeted, the Riders recalled all of the eggs," Erzhal says. "Galbatorix was young, so he didn't know the location of most of the nesting grounds, and fortunately many of those eggs were able to be moved before he found them. But it was after the eggbearers were withdrawn that he started targeting wild dragons in particular - it was clear, at least to me, that he intended to start up an order of his own."

"He got it eventually," you say, darkly.

Erzhal shoots you a look, frowning, and says, "No, he didn't. One pair of Rider and dragon who were only his control because he stole your names isn't an order. It's nothing. He had no hope of accomplishing that goal without a steady supply of eggs - the old order of Riders was given more eggs by the dragons than actually hatched, even before they stashed the wild dragon eggs wherever they hid them. It was..."

His eyes go unfocused, and he looks at the eggs spread around you. "Dragons can wait a long time to hatch," he says, "but they can still die in their shells before they do. The life energy they have before they hatch isn't limitless, and the rate of that life fading out starts to increase sharply after about a hundred and twenty years, with larger eggs fading faster. So even with all of the care the Riders could provide, some eggs faded away before they found a partner, just like they would have as wild dragons if conditions for their hatching weren't right."

You look back and forth, up and down the rows of eggs. None of them move, but when you expand your senses, their faint flickers of life are present as though sleeping. Not a single egg has gone still and dark.

Unable to help yourself, you ask, "How many have you lost? It's been over a century, surely some have - "

"None," Erzhal interrupts. He looks smug for a moment, then deflates. "At least, none of the ones here. The others - "

Thorn lifts his head up in a sudden jerk, only just remembering himself before he smacks it into the ceiling. There are more? he asks.

"I was only able to retrieve around a third of the eggs I hid," Erzhal says. "The rest were too far south to retrieve easily without attracting notice."

A third. You feel your stomach drop this time, instead of your jaw. "That's over a hundred in total," you say.

"In an ideal world," Erzhal says. "But it's unlikely the others have fared as well as these." He looks around, sighs, and runs a hand over his hair, reaching for the comb with Coryna's eggshell and pulling it free.

"As Galbatorix and the Forsworn started their campaign of killing every dragon they came across, I decided that I had to do something, even if it meant breaking many of the taboos the Riders had regarding the secrets the dragon race kept for itself. So, with Coryna's help, I developed a spell..."

Chapter Text

The thing you have to understand is that dragons aren't like most creatures that lay eggs. They're more like mammals or the handful of other animals that give live birth - the hatchling develops almost completely inside of its mother before the eggshell forms, and hypothetically is capable of hatchling only a few days after being laid, and in fact the hatchlings are capable of leaving the nest only a few hours after that.

The spell I created... When cast on a female dragon, it alters the way her offspring develop, making them more similar to other creatures that lay eggs. Rather than the nearly two years it normally takes for hatchlings to reach the point where eggs can be laid, they develop their shells around a core of the physical matter they need to physically form their bodies, and then draw off their mother's energy directly to finish their development. It means that the eggs are viable after only a few weeks.

You understand, don't you? If an unaltered female dragon was killed before her eggs were ready, her young would die with her. With the spell I created, they could survive, if someone reached them in time, and provided them an alternate source of magical energy to replace their mother.

If I had told anyone, the Riders would remember me as a hero.

I didn't tell anyone, except Coryna. More than that, the condition of even making the offer of casting it on a dragon was that she allowed me to wipe her memory of the existence of the spell from her mind. That was the only way I knew to keep it safe from Galbatorix - to make it as though the spell never existed at all.

As a result, the way that I'm sure I've gone in history, if I'm anything more than a footnote, is as the worst kind of vulture.

Don't give me that sour look. I'd do it all again, reputation be damned. As it is, there were dozens of dragons who agreed to those terms, and I got to less than a quarter of their bodies in time.

The spell didn't cause the eggs to be laid early. That would have been too obvious, too risky. I had to cut them out myself.

That was what we did, during the war. Coryna and I would fly to the aftermath of battlefields and slaughters, and we tore open the dead to give their children a chance. And then we would fly away again and hide our prizes in small, scattered groups, in the mountains or in the fringes of Du Weldenvarden before anyone was the wiser. Galbatorix hated the Spine by then, and we used that to our advantage. I set traps that would drain the life force from wildlife and anyone who happened upon the eggs without knowing what they were, in the hope that it would provide enough to keep them alive, maybe even enough that they could develop fully and they'd someday be ready to hatch.

For two and a half years, that was what we did. We slept in the woods, treated any other Rider as our enemy if they came upon us no matter which faction they were from - almost all of the eggs I was able to save were from wild dragons. They were the ones who listened, who understood the vicious necessity of it.

Eventually, they caught up to us. It was almost three years since our teachers were murdered, four years since Teana and her hatchling went missing. Galbatorix put in a personal appearance; I think we would have been caught long before, if he hadn't put out word specifically that we were his to convince or hunt down.

It was the first and only time I saw Shruikan in the flesh. A lot of my books and papers on dragon anatomy and development were gone from the house after the murders - what he did to Shruikan's mind was entirely his own handiwork, but what he did to the dragon's body was done by twisting mine. At four years old, he was already the size of a dragon between fifty and a hundred, but not uniformly. His head and neck were too small, his feet and claws too big, his muscles not quite right - they're the kinds of details that only someone who had studied dragon anatomy closely would notice.

I can't say for sure, but I think by that point in the war, I was already the last remaining expert. It was very near the end; only a few weeks, maybe a month, before his final encounter with Vrael.

We were on the wing and saw them coming. It was in the foothills of the Spine, on the far side of Leona Lake from the city; for a blessing, we weren't carrying any eggs at the time. We were already tired, however, and had no hope of outflying them.

Instead, Coryna wheeled around to face them. By the time she met Shruikan in the air, I was already gone from her back. I'd jumped into the lake as she flew over.

Hitting Leona Lake at terminal velocity from dragonback isn't a picnic even if you break the surface tension with magic first. If it had been any lesser body of water, if I had come down any nearer the shore, I would have hit the lakebed, and that would have been the end of this story.

As it was, I hid in the lake the entire night, while he...

Coryna and I had built a failsafe with magic. She only remembered what we were doing as long as I was in close proximity to her. At least back then, Galbatorix wouldn't have been able to break through such magic, at least not without cooperation. Once I jumped from her back, the last thing Coryna could remember clearly was flying away from him, after Zraihe's death.

It was what we had to do. She wouldn't hear of doing otherwise. She knew that I was the one who was essential to our mission. And she...

Whatever he did to her, it took a long time. I stayed only close enough to feel that she was still alive, in the lake.

I don't know what he did to her, with my conscious mind. I don't know if that's better or worse, because I will swear for a thousand years that my soul knows. The nightmares... That's what drove me mad. Not the loss of her, not the breaking of our bond.

Every night from then on, I would dream about it. For almost a decade, until I threw myself upon the mercy of the spirits, I dreamt of it, never remembering the details but always awakening shaking if not screaming.

To this day, I don't know why he didn't lie in wait for me there, at her body. Perhaps he had some other, more pressing matter, or perhaps he simply didn't expect me to come running to her side in death after I went so far as to jump from her back in midair to escape. If there are gods, then it must have been them who called him away.

But he wasn't there, by the time I climbed out of the lake and reached her, and my gratitude to gods or the universe for that is matched only by the fact that she hatched for me in the first place.

Because thanks to that, I was able to save her children.

----

More and more as he's coming to that faltering stop, to the thing that seems to hang over his head like an executioner's blade, Erzhal's eyes are no longer on you and Thorn, nor are they lost in the empty space occupied by memory. Instead, they fall so repeatedly on a particular set of the eggs in front of him that you almost know the words before he says them.

I was able to save her children.

The eggs are one of the trios, and the smallest out of any of the ones surrounding you. One is a pale orange; the next is a darker, desaturated pink that looks halfway to grey; and the third is a darkish purple, trending slightly towards red. It's a familiar color that you've seen a lot of, lately, the color of fabric colored with a dye whose origins you so recently learned.

(You begin to have a feeling, because there are some times when even a blind fool can't miss the hands of fate at work, but it can wait until Erzhal is finished with his story.)

Erzhal stays silent for a long moment, when he realizes that you've noticed where his eyes were wandering. He closes his eyes, sighs like a man exhausted, and nods once, as though you had actually asked.

You remember what he said, about his spell being designed such that there were no signs that anything had changed inside of the mother's body until it was cut open after her death. You cannot blame any man for going mad, as a result of that, nor for having nightmares after.

(You would not blame him for having nightmares that would not cease, even if you did not know exactly what it was that would have provided Galbatorix to leave Coryna's body behind, bearing the most essential part of her to take and break to his will.)

Thorn nudges at your mind, expectant. Now? he asks.

Let him finish his tale, you send in return. Thorn cracks his eye open on the side where you sit beside his head, fixing it on you.

Do not avoid it too long, he says.

Before we leave this chamber, you promise. Out loud, you say, "So you left Alagaesia with her eggs."

Erzhal nods, and says, "At the time, I had no great plan. I thought that the nightmares and the pain would ease, in time, but mostly I wanted to get away. I sent a single message to Brom, asking him to report me as dead to the remnants of the Riders, telling him where Coryna's body lay so that he could report it as evidence. I let him think that I intended to commit suicide. And I turned around and started northwards without looking back. I didn't even have a clear destination in mind for almost a year, until I realized that I was further north than I had ever been. I might never have found my way here if not for a chance encounter with an elven trading group who recognized my sword for what it was."

He sighs. "And for a decade, I tried desperately to make myself care about... anything else. On my most lucid days, I knew that I was at my limit - without Coryna's strength to aid me, I was driving myself to exhaustion trying to provide her eggs with the energy they needed to develop properly. I was coming to the slow realization that even with a Rider's eternal lifespan, I might not live to see her children hatch."

"So you took the only avenue of power left to you," you say.

"That's one way of putting it," Erzhal says. "I went to the spiritground to which all compasses point, which Urgal legends say can grant the wishes of anyone who manages to reach it, for a price. So I entrusted them to this room, told Nadia to count me as dead if I did not return by the time the sun set - it was the beginning of summer - and I set off."

"You told me before that Bachel was the one who granted your wish," you say. "Was it there that you met her?"

"It was," Erzhal says. "Though in that instance she was subject to certain 'rules' of that place, which prevented her from going against the intentions of my wish. Rather than making a deal with me herself, she was serving as a sort of vessel for the collective will of the spirits there." He frowns, mouth twisting strongly to one side. "It's difficult to explain clearly; the spiritground has a sort of collective will derived from the spirits that dwell there."

"No, I understand perfectly," you say. Erzhal raises his eyebrows, and you say, "I'll explain in full once you're done with your story. There are some things I left out when I was telling the story of the king's death."

"What, more important than the name of the tongue of magic?" Erzhal says, and there's a light, teasing sound to his voice.

"To a Rider, yes," you say seriously.

Erzhal stops for a moment, and then says, "I'll finish my tale quickly, then. Bachel was waiting for me at the spiritground, and though she was serving as its voice and could not subvert any bargains thus made, she still had the ability to set the 'price,' and so she chose something that she thought I would never be willing to pay. Or, rather, she gave me a choice - which to gain, and which to lose."

Love, or revenge, Thorn says.

"Exactly so," Erzhal says. "There were two ways in which I could use the power of the spirits to ensure that Coryna's eggs would hatch. In one, I could allow myself to be taken by spirits of vengeance, and ride blazing back down to Alagaesia and bring all of that might to bear against Galbatorix, before he had the chance to grow his power further than he already had. It would be enough to defeat him, but it would also cost my life - she spoke with the certainty of prophecy in this matter, that it would destroy me, though at least not leave behind a Shade worse than Galbatorix in his place. But it would still force me to entrust everything else to those who might have survived, or those who came after me."

"And so you took the other option," you say. "Which brings us here, to today."

Erzhal nods. "And so I instead took the option that gave me the power I needed to ensure that Coryna's children could develop under my gaze," he says. "In exchange, I gave up every aspect of revenge: Not only the ability to feel a desire for it, but also the ability to harm Galbatorix in any material way. If he had appeared before me, I wouldn't have so much as been able to slap him with the flat of my hand. I could not work to foil his plans save in the ways in which I had already done so; even his agents were protected from me. I was only able to kill Raimizhre when she came north because she was acting in her own interests, in a way that ran directly counter to his; if she had been under his orders, I would have been helpless against her as well."

"That is a heavy price to pay," you say. "Though I suppose it explains why you never appeared to join hands with the Varden."

"It was a heavy price," Erzhal agrees, "and another way in which I'd probably be remembered as a coward if not a traitor."

"No," you say, firmly. You think of that moment when you first saw Glaedr taking wing over the battlefield, the mixture of betrayal and despair you felt when you learned that there had been other Riders, who had been in hiding for all of that century, and they hadn't helped you.

Perhaps it's because you're older now, or just because this isn't coming as a shock the way seeing another dragon on the battlefield was. Or maybe it's because this time, you're getting the chance to hear out the whole story, first.

Thorn nudges against your mind. You tip your head towards him, and send privately, What do you think?

It doesn't have to be a single one of those things in particular, he replies. Would you be willing to hear Glaedr out, if he offered to tell you why he and Oromis were hidden away?

I can guess at some of the reasons, you send in return. The image of Glaedr's stump leg flashes through your mind. ...But if he were willing to tell me, after everything, I owe him at least to listen. I can make my judgements after I've heard that story, as well.

Then that's all anyone can ask, Thorn says. Put it out of your mind for now. You can worry about it when it comes time to speak with Eragon.

Gods. Recounting even half of this to Eragon will take longer than you'd like. One thing at a time, you resolve.

"You said Raimizhre was working against Galbatorix's interests," you say aloud. "What do you mean? How do you know that?"

Erzhal's expression sours; his eyes narrow, and his head turns towards the end of the row of eggs to your left.

"She came north for a wish, as I've already told you," he says. "And she had an offering prepared, to pay the price for what she wanted. Her dragon was one of the few females among the Forsworn; I'm sure Galbatorix would have much rather she stayed at home. I suspect she hid the mating from him; that she managed to do so impresses me, as I'm fairly sure the fathering dragon was Morzan's."

You can't see the eggs he's looking at around Thorn's head, so you stand and pick your way between the clutches to make your way around your dragon's nose to that end of the row. You can guess which of the two clutches on the end is the one - the clutch of four is in shades of greens and dark blues, but the clutch of five is in shades of red, pink, and purple, not unlike the colors of Coryna's three eggs. It makes sense to have come from the pairing of a red dragon and one who was so pale a blue as to be white for all practical purposes.

Something inside of you clenches and aches at the sight of them. Five hatchlings, yet to be fully born into this world, who in some ways share the same damning parentage that you do. From what you've heard, Morzan's dragon was considered little more than an extension of its Rider's will by the end. You can't imagine that such a mating occurred without his knowledge and approval.

Staring down at them, what you say aloud is, "He hid my mother from the king, too. For a time, at least."

"Interesting. I suppose he wasn't content being under anyone's thumb in the end, even if it was as the second most powerful man in the world," Erzhal observes, which you think is a better grasp of the man's character than most of the people who told you stories about him. Those tales, after all, were always designed to flatter Morzan, in an attempt to curry favor with either you or Galbatorix or both.

Thorn blows smoke out his nose. Being willing to sacrifice the unborn for her own gains... The world is better off without her, but I did not think to pity those who betrayed their own kind.

You regard the eggs again, and then slowly unfold yourself to kneel beside them. "You're right," you say. "If Galbatorix had known, he would never have allowed her to leave. He was desperate to capture Eragon and Saphira, since as far as he knew, she was the last female dragon left capable of breeding."

"I imagine that he originally thought he would discover a huge cache of eggs on Vroengard, or elsewhere, after he had finished his conquest," Erzhal says. "Or that he would have more time to figure out how to manipulate the dragons of the Forsworn into breeding despite their madness. From what I can tell, Brom prioritized removing the Forsworn who had female dragons in his campaign against them; Raimizhre was the last."

"Well," you say, "the Riders did hide a cache of eggs. But they buried it under memory magic so deep that no one knew it was there until after he was dead."

"Great minds think alike, but the greatest minds share ideas," Erzhal says. "Before I left, I had been in conversation with several of the older Riders about the possibility of memory-erasure spells with external triggers - it was hardly my specialty, after all. I let them think that it was just so that Coryna and I could hide all evidence of her breeding until the eggs were ready, but I imagine those discussions led to whatever spell it was they eventually made there. There was already talk of modifying memories to hide the locations of outposts and the like when I left."

"Unpleasant to think about, but I suppose necessary when your enemy is best-known for his ability to break into people's minds," you agree. "Though by the time Thorn had hatched for me, I'm not sure that even that would have worked. Knowing that mental combat and mind magic were things that he specialized in even back then... It makes sense."

After all, he then took those skills and honed them against dragons for the better part of a century. The moment to proceed into that subject passes, however, as Erzhal continues, "I met Raimizhre near the border, as soon as I realized that she had come north - her dragon was several centuries old, and much harder to hide than Thorn," there's a faint smile in his voice, and you recall that he had been able to pick out the presence of your dragon from woodsigns alone, "but even mad creatures are wary of crossing a spiritground, so Raimizhre had to land there and make her way over the Thu'oivor on foot. I met her there and applied the spell to her dragon without her knowledge; since it isn't harmful to either the mother or the eggs, her wards didn't even respond to it."

But you must have gotten quite close to them in order to do so, Thorn observes.

"Close enough to even tell that there was new life growing in her dragon's body, yes," Erzhal agrees. "I confronted her directly - she was Irvetsuni's first student, and though they weren't kin, they may as well have been, the only two northern elves to become Riders. I wanted to hear from her own mouth how she could stand to swear allegiance to the murderer of her teachers and near-family."

A dark twist to his lips. "Family is also the place where the worst grudges are nurtured," he says. "As it turned out, she had hated Irvetsuni and Zraihe for a long time, and felt no remorse at their deaths. And she hated the rest of the Riders for perpetually treating her as an outsider, which I will admit was fair enough."

"What happened then?" you say. "I can't imagine any of the Forsworn would have been willing to let a Rider who had escaped them just walk away."

"Especially with Brom doing what he was doing, you mean?" Erzhal says. "I did know that it would come to a fight quite easily; that was what I planned on. Before I confronted her, I used magic to alter the corpse of an utuur to physically resemble my body, and set a spell to trigger on my death that would cause it to take the place of my body when I discorporated. Then I very deliberately let her kill me, so that I would have the element of surprise later, at the northern spiritground."

"I suppose that is one way to do it," you say. To be reckless with his life, as you saw in battle from him before, is one thing; to strategically plan his death in such a manner, using it for an advantage later on, is something else. Sometimes you almost forget why Shades are considered such implacable, dangerous foes.

"Nadia and Jormun were not happy with me for it, I will tell you that much," Erzhal says. "But with that already as my strategy, it meant that the most difficult part was getting the spell of alteration to stick on her dragon, since I couldn't target her in the Ancient Language due to the Banishing of her Name. It's significantly more difficult to talk about the dragons of the Forsworn in that language, even when one of them is right in front of you billowing white flames."

How did you manage it, then? Thorn asks.

"I had to touch her, and the easiest way to do that was to let her get her mouth on me," Erzhal says with a grimace. "Not a pleasant way to die, but at least it meant that my fake body wouldn't need to pass any kind of close examination."

You shudder. "At times, the way you understate things makes them worse," you tell him.

"Well, there's a reason I'm telling you this part of the story out loud," Erzhal says. "It's not exactly among my fondest memories, and I'm not cruel enough to inflict those on you and Thorn."

"Fair enough," you agree. "I appreciate the consideration, then."

Erzhal smiles weakly before continuing his tale. "With that done, I recorporated back here, and set out for the spiritground at the far north," he says. "I could have gone there directly, but then I would have been without any weapons or supplies save my magic and my wits, and that's a bad position to be in even for a Shade. Aurori'a is blooded to me with a Shade's magic; I can always return to wherever it is if I should happen to die."

You look at the sword hanging at his side, noting the use of the word 'blooded' rather than simply 'bonded,' and decide that now is not the time to ask.

Thorn asks, And I suppose you could return to the spiritground because it is where 'you' were born? Erzhal just nods in response.

"It was this time of year, so Raimizhre was grounded once she got north of the mountains, the same as you are," he says instead. "Not only was she aiming for the solstice, but the moon would also be full at that time in that year, which I imagine is why it took her twenty years after the Riders had fallen to make the trip - she was waiting for precisely that window of opportunity, when the power of the spiritground would be at its maximum and the number of spirits at its peak. But that also means that even though she was taking the most direct path she could, I had a significant head start on her and could travel more quickly, since I wasn't shepherding a very unhappy, cold, wet, mad dragon through the winter ice.

"So I had plenty of time to be ready to meet her there for a second round, which is what I did. She wasn't prepared for that, and I took advantage of that to kill her dragon quickly, before the creature had the chance to react, as sluggish with the cold as she was. Only after that did I reveal myself, both my presence and what I had become. Raimizhre sneered at me while we fought, before; this time she gave me a nod of respect, before she drew her blade. We both knew how it would end; she had already lost the thing she came to save, and so everything else was perfunctory and performance.

"She told me that she had wondered many times if it would have been better if her dragon had just died, instead of what happened." Erzhal's eyes and voice grow momentarily distant. "She told me that she had no intention of thanking me for giving her the answer. She... we fought for a long time, relatively speaking. A duel of elf and Shade isn't like any other kind of fight, because it doesn't end when one party makes a mistake; you have to either triumph mentally over each other, or wear down the other's energy until their wards crumble, and even without her dragon, Raimizhre had the stamina to draw it out for a long time.

"Eventually, her mental defenses slipped. But before I could get in too deep, she laughed and dropped her wards entirely, throwing herself on my blade. There must have been some secret that she still intended to protect, and I suppose she managed it, by swallowing it down into the grave with her. I performed final rites she did not deserve and put her body into the ocean, as is the way of the elves here, and claimed these eggs from her dragon's body." His gaze focuses again, on the eggs beside you, and he adds, "I suspect, when they hatch, that they will be spirit-touched, considering the place where they were 'born.' But thus far they've shown no indication of being any different from any of the others."

A secret Raimizhre was ready to die rather than allow a surviving Rider to have... You do not turn to Thorn physically, but mentally you exchange a look with him.

It sounds as close to confirmation as we'll get without speaking to Eragon about it, Thorn agrees. Galbatorix would have known the identities of all the Eldunari in his possession by then, and been hard at work on breaking their wills.

If she hadn't left without his approval, Raimizhre likely would have been carrying some herself. Perhaps she even was, and Erzhal missed them because he didn't know to look, you suggest, and Thorn rumbles unhappily at the thought but doesn't disagree. Out loud you say, "What happened to her dragon's body?"

"It's still there," Erzhal says. "In fact, between the cold and the power of the spiritground, it hasn't rotted. Normally the bodies of dragons that come north are cleaned of meat by predators or the elves, but neither entered that place even before whatever happened before my last visit to produce that spirit corpse in your saddlebag along with the others, and they certainly don't do so now. I've taken a few small portions for my own use, but there's far too much for me to move on my own. So... there it sits."

"The traders described the spirit corpse as originating from a hot place smelling of brimstone," you say. "Not somewhere frozen. So perhaps it's rotted by now."

"Perhaps, but I find it unlikely," Erzhal replies. "Though I doubt it's frozen solid anymore, either." He grimaces at that. "But rot is the work of living creatures - worms and mushrooms and others too small to see. In that place where nothing unwarded survives for long, it wouldn't decay at all."

That is perhaps a more unsettling fate than it being simply frozen, Thorn observes. It goes against the way of the world.

"The spiritground was warmer, then?" you ask.

"At least as far as I was willing to venture in," Erzhal agrees, "which wasn't all that close to where Raimizhre and I dueled. That was directly upon the site where the compass spins wildly and the spirits circle, which I'm all but certain is the epicenter of whatever has caused this."

You nod. That only makes sense - that whatever is happening there would have started at the place with the highest concentration of spirits.

Thorn says, You implied before that you intended to try and go there to discover the source this winter.

Erzhal nods. His gaze sweeps over the eggs, and he says, "With the return of Riders who are not bound by Galbatorix, and in particular your arrival here, all but one of my duties to my charges here is complete. These eggs will join the new generation of the Riders even if I meet with my final death there - not that I like the idea, but I can metaphorically live with it. Even if you decide to come with me to that place and it goes sideways for all of us, you are not the last, either, and either someone can be sent, or I can give Revneili permission to do what she has always longed to do and go south, taking these with her."

You cannot well argue with that - it's clear that he's given the risks plenty of thought. Instead you find yourself asking, "Revneili, is she...?"

Erzhal smiles slightly. "Wise to that, are you?" he asks. "Your intuition isn't completely wrong - there's usually signs that someone will become a Rider before they even meet an egg, if they've been around the kind of people who know how to look for them. I'm sure that Galbatorix saw them in you, and that's why he was so intent on keeping you close. With Revneili... I've never been sure if she's meant for it or if she's just that obsessed with dragons and the Riders, the way elves from the scholarly faction here can often get about whatever interest snatches their hearts, but if she is, then it is not for one of these."

You nod. Thorn rumbles meaningfully, in the back of his throat, a sound akin to a human going hmm in thought. You glance at him, and he blinks his eye slowly at you.

Eventually he says, Zharai is her father's daughter.

Erzhal, in turn, sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging. "That she is," he agrees.

Your eyes go to the egg closest to him, the one that is the deep purple of the very dye his daughter has made with her own hands. You say, "You knew that already. But you didn't know that the pact had been expanded to include the Urgals."

Erzhal tilts his head upward, saying, "There was no pact when Bid'daum hatched for the first Eragon, was there? The magic the Riders worked made the bond easier and tied the fates of the races of elves and dragons together, but it didn't require the pact to happen the first time, and so it could happen again without it just as well."

You look upward, too, and then lower your gaze slightly towards the heavy crystallized heart that sits behind Erzhal. You say, "I concede the point. How long have you known, then?"

"Oh, since she was an infant," Erzhal says. "When she was still reliant on my magic, I came to this chamber with her strapped to my chest, and this little one perked up and all but rattled in her shell." He reaches out and lays a hand on the exact egg you suspected as he speaks, a wistful note in his voice turning to laughter. "I immediately fled in a panic - there was no way I could have handled both a hatchling and an Urgal infant at the same time, not to mention the possible complications to their development that might have resulted. But almost as long as she's lived, I've known, so I prepared her as best I was able."

And your home as well, Thorn observes, lifting his head and twisting it on his neck so he can focus one eye down on the egg in question. That 'den' of yours was dug for her, and just happened to be convenient when we arrived.

"Exactly right," Erzhal says. "I couldn't have counted on Galbatorix being defeated just before Zharai came of age, opening up the possibility for her and her dragon to grow and train in freedom, so I made what preparations I was capable of to train her here, myself, in this secret part of the world. It was a possibility I had in the back of my mind from the beginning, really, but naturally I would have expected a Rider born here to be an elfchild."

You nod, pushing down the emotions that threaten to rise up inside you. No matter what you tell yourself about it only being rational for someone as prone to perhaps even over-preparation as Erzhal to have made plans for this, no matter what you tell yourself about his cunning, you know better in your heart. It isn't cunning that drove Erzhal to dig a secret hideout in which a dragon could grow, here in the north where they can barely fly.

You say, "When are you going to tell her?"

Erzhal replies, "It's her real coming of age present. There's little to do with a hatchling for the first few weeks except give them affection and food, which gives me a window of opportunity to deal with the spiritground at the solstice and return. She won't like me leaving, but... she'll understand. I have a duty to the spirits as well, after all, to repay them for their help in ensuring that any of this could come to pass."

You nod, and close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment of thought.

To Thorn, you finally say, He hasn't asked us for our aid, formally, in either training Zharai or dealing with the spiritground.

Thorn returns, Does he have to?

You look down into yourself, to the place where your name is a constantly shifting, growing thing, and you say, No.

Thorn makes a pleased rumble, and says, I will enjoy teaching a hatchling to fly.

He must not have said that privately, because Erzhal chuckles. "Good luck with that," he says. "If the little one takes after her mother, she'll be throwing herself off cliffs as soon as we take our eyes off her."

"All the more reason to make sure you come back," you say. "I know next to nothing about dragon anatomy and development. She'll need the expert on hand."

Erzhal smiles again at that, looking down fondly at the egg. You trade a thought with Thorn, who acknowledges it and agrees, and then swallow a breath to plow onwards.

"...There is one thing about it that I know and you don't, though," you say. "And unless I'm very much mistaken, it's the same secret that Raimizhre died rather than allow you to have."

Erzhal looks up slowly. His eyes are more deeply red than you usually notice them to be; most of the time they almost fade back into the brown you thought they were, rather than the maroon that they are, but right now they're leaning in the opposite direction, almost a true red.

"Tell me," he says.

Chapter Text

You begin, "There is a critical piece which I have omit from every telling of the tale in your hearing thus far." Throat tightening, you soldier on, "Every other Rider living knows it. To keep it from you would be unpardonable, both as a survivor of the war and as the one who knows best the anatomy and care of growing dragons."

You do not trip on your tongue, but your hesitation must still be clear; you can see it in Erzhal's face, even if he keeps his voice light as he says, "You say it as though I should be expecting a blow to the heart."

It's all too keenly on the mark, especially if you allow the thought to resonate with there's only one way to kill a Shade for good. You say, "Bachel was not wrong to prophecy that it had the power to destroy you. It might still yet. And I... I do not want to see that happen."

Somehow, that has become the easier admission. You cannot remember a time when you admit such a thing openly, save perhaps that first day when you meet Eragon after descending from Thorn's back. It's equally weighty; once again you are the one forced to bear words of Galbatorix's sins, even after his death.

"I like to think," Erzhal says, "that the person I am now, the kind of Shade that I chose to become that day, is a bit more resilient than a mostly-mad young man bundled together with spirits of vengeance and destruction."

You hope he's right.

Thorn, aching for you and tired of your dithering by equal measure, takes the beginning out of your hands. He says, You are surely aware of the structure above a dragon's hjarta, composed of similar material to our scales and eggshells.

"Of course," Erzhal says, for a moment in his element. "The pearl. It's an organ used in the production of a dragon's magick, and linked to their mental abilities, perhaps even more so than their actual brains. There are similar structures in - " He pauses, shakes his head. "Nevermind. Not important at the moment. I know of it, yes."

"Then I imagine that you also know that they can cough it up," you say.

"Hypothetically, sure, there are muscles that would allow that," Erzhal says. "It's right beside the place where the esophagus turns downward and stops paralleling the spinal column to move down into the abdominal cavity. The pearl itself is formed of secretions related to draconic digestion - hence the name, for its similarity to shellfish pearls in that regard. But because of the link it has with their magic, doing so would almost certainly kill them, the same way it would for any creature to be able to cough up a vital organ."

You can feel how his attention is split, you realize. Even as he speaks about his first passion - for the first time in who knows how long - there is a part of him that is watching you warily, tensed for the blow.

Someone has to deliver it, and fate has always made that someone you.

"Its proper name is the Eldunari," you say, "most often translated into the common tongue as heart-of-hearts. Under normal circumstances, in a living dragon, it's just as you describe - or rather, I'm sure you know its nature in that position better than I do." You didn't make much of a study of dragon anatomy or care; just the bare minimums you would need to make sure that Thorn could get back on his feet and on the wing again after a battle, and whatever other tidbits Galbatorix threw your way that would be things to think about on longer journeys between the fronts of the war.

(He didn't tell you anything that you would need to survive after him, because of course he never thought that you would need it.)

"It is however possible for a dragon to expel it safely," you say. "In that instance, it is as though the dragon exists in two places at once. No matter how distant the two are, their mind exists in both their body and their Eldunari. Destroying it will kill their body, for it is as you said, the anchor of both their mind and magic. But if the dragon's body should die, and their Eldunari still exist..."

You feel more than see the direction his thoughts are going, because the emotion is palpable. A grief with weight; rather than making the hair on your arms and the back of your neck rise, it feels pressed down, smothered.

Aloud, Erzhal says, "No wonder he too was on the battlefields like a vulture."

But those words are only a scrap of ice visible above the surface. You can feel the blizzard threatening against your mind, the thoughts which slip out seemingly not even with intent - the nightmares never stopped and that's why he left and the blast of skin-piercingly frigid wind that is I left her, I left her with him.

You don't know how to help, or even if there is anything you can say or do to make it better. Perhaps this storm, too, has to be travelled through.

Disjointedly, Erzhal suddenly moves - you would call it a stumble if not for the exquisite care that he takes between the eggs and around Thorn. The thoughts he flings in your direction are more intentional now - Tell Nadia what you told me/I have to go/I can't feel this in here, a trailing implication that the strength of his emotions might hurt someone, most especially the eggs.

It isn't until he's gone down the tunnel that you realize that the chill wind was physical as well as mental. You push your hair back out of your eyes and shiver.

Being clever enough to put it together isn't to his benefit, it seems, you observe to Thorn, with no real humor. The weight of the knowledge is heavy in your stomach.

Not that you can exactly blame him. Even without any explicit confirmation, even without knowing that forcing dragons to yield to him was the method Galbatorix used to grow his strength... Erzhal had nightmares of Coryna's torture that crossed their bond even when the two of them were an entire continent apart. It was only the logic of it missing, something that could provide an explanation for what his heart already knew.

Though the chamber isn't chill, you still pick your way through the eggs on the floor to tuck yourself up under Thorn's neck as though it were. He, in turn, folds his head around you, and like that you remain for some time, until the aching of your own heart eases.

----

When you finally make to leave, you seal the doors again - pushing them closed, you feel the faintest pressure of magic in the gedwëy ignasia in your palm as the seal settles back into place.

Coming out, the great cavern is significantly darker than it was before, and chillier, too. You can hear the wind whipping past the entrance, and fresh snowfall is scattered around, flakes glittering with reflections of your werelight.

You doubt that it is coincidence, the sudden arrival of this blizzard. You shiver and press closer to Thorn for reasons unrelated to even the thought of the cold.

I almost forget, you send to him, watching the dim storm beyond. I start to see the red of his hair and eyes as though they're any natural color, until something like this...

Thorn, who is every bit as red-eyed as Erzhal if not more so, huffs lightly. You smack your hand against the side of his neck. "You know well what I mean," you say aloud.

But you said it most amusingly, he replies. Getting back down the mountain in this will be quite the task, however.

"...Aye," you agree. "Though better out there than in that enclosed chamber, if this is truly the result of Erzhal's emotions gone wild." Which has to be what Erzhal himself was thinking, given the speed with which he left. Even if his power only generates the chill wind and not the snow that accompanies it...

As you're musing, thorn suddenly shifts his weight, head swivelling as he goes on the alert. There are elves coming, he sends. Slowly but steadily. They are not individuals we have yet met.

I would expect anyone to be moving slowly in this, you reply, but if they're willing to lead us out of the cavern in this storm, I'll accept their aid if they're giving it.

Then hopefully they aren't a group with a poor disposition towards Riders, Thorn says, his agreement evident.

Let us hope, you agree. They're close enough to sense distinctly now with your own senses, a trio of them, who have oriented themselves towards the presence of your minds in turn. Soon, their lights are almost visible through the winds; you wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if you did not know it was there, with how the blowing snow scatters light, but they resolve more and more clearly by the moment.

They don't attempt to make contact with your minds directly, either, which you appreciate. Instead, once they're close enough that their lights are distinctive colors - a pastel purple, a bluish green, and an orange the color of natural firelight - one of them calls out, in the Ancient Language, using magic to make the words carry. "Master Rider! Honored dragon! Please allow us to guide you through the blizzard back to the cliff-keep!"

You murmur an appropriate spell under your breath, and then call back, "Our thanks! It is much appreciated!" before setting off in that direction, intentionally brightening the red of your own light against its tendency to grow dim.

Thorn, keeping pace with you, observes, Cliffkeep? So these must be the elves Erzhal was hoping to avoid earlier.

They must be, you agree. His description did not make it seem as though they have untoward intentions, at least.

You can handle being stared at for a little while, if it means a safe way out of this storm. It can't be any worse than the eyes of Galbatorix's court, or your nightmares of Nasuada's successor to it.

As you approach, it becomes clear that at least one of the elves has used magic to erect a barrier around the trio against the wind; the hems of their winter cloaks and a few strands of hair still flap in the wind, but it is less of a gale and more of a breeze, and the snow around the edges of their group beings to settle under its own weight again. You recognize the same sort of principle as the wards that keep the chill wind from sucking all the heat from Thorn's wings; by the same token, it must be rather draining to maintain.

Of course, that's less of a problem for even the least of the elves than it is for you, and with three of them, you imagine they can go for quite some time, searching with just the three of them. Expanding the barrier to include Thorn's bulk, however, does seem enough to make the elf in the most ornate-looking cloak take a steadying breath.

"Good," he - you think - says. "We were concerned that you might still be in the sanctum - Lord Erzhal's message was quite disjointed as he passed by."

You raise your eyebrows slightly at the mode of address, but say, "Given the state he was in, I think us fortunate that he thought to send anyone a message at all."

What you can see of the elf's face under the hood softens slightly into a smile. "Seven minds is many opportunities for such thoughts to occur to him," he replies, which you suppose is true enough, though a bit more flattering than Erzhal's own descriptions of the inside of his thoughts. "Is it appropriate to ask what it is that has caused him such distress? I," he hesitates, and the carefully chosen respect in his tone loosens a hair. "I have not known him to take flight so recklessly from the sanctum, or indeed from any place, save in the most dire of circumstances."

You consider, and then say, "It is no immediate crisis, but there was information about the war between Galbatorix and the Riders that I could not leave unspoken, nor speak without causing him pain."

It's a carefully chosen answer, but one which the elf accepts without apparent fuss. He blows out a sigh in a carefully controlled stream of air. "I understand. Then I suppose it may be some hours until this lets up, so please accept our hospitality for the time being."

We would be glad to, Thorn replies, nosing his way into the conversation. I respect the power of the cold, but I am getting rather tired of being caught out in it.

"You're hardly the first," agrees one of the other elves, the shortest of the trio. You can't begin to guess if they are man or woman from the sound of their voice alone, and their hood raised against the blizzard is accompanied by a scarf wound over the lower half of their face, only their eyes visible.

The first elf huffs lightly and says, "Alas, controlling a spirit-wrought storm such as this is beyond us, all the more so when it grows out of our own work to safeguard this city."

Ah, the blizzard surrounding us, Thorn observes, casting his gaze skyward. One could say we are familiar with it.

"Quite impressive, is it not?" the elf says. "Ah, forgive me, I've quite forgotten to make introductions - one meets new people so rarely in an enclosed city of elves, of course - "

"Let us go inside and get warm first, Grandfather," says the last elf. When you give him a better look over, he's enough younger than the others that you can put the beginnings of an age to him; he looks close to the same stage of life as you, which from what you know now puts him anywhere from fifty to a hundred-and-fifty, though probably at the younger end. Perhaps he wasn't even born the last time there were Riders in the world.

"Ah, yes, exactly so. Allow me to lead the way." With a bow to you, the older elf turns and begins to make his way through the storm, up the hill. As you saw Erzhal do briefly at the cabin where you waited for him to return from death, he steps lightly on top of the snow, as though he weighs nothing; the scarf-wrapped elf imitates him.

You and Thorn, unfortunately, have to climb through the snow in the traditional manner. At least you aren't the only ones; the elf-grandson is not capable of the light steps of his companions, and makes his way back through his own track of broken snow ahead of you.

----

The path up to the base of the cliff-hanging buildings is, fortunately, not as long as you feared, and the entrance is large enough for Thorn to come inside with only a little ducking of his head at the entrance. Like the tunnel you passed through when you arrived, the floor inside is natural stone carved and polished to make an angled floor, one that icemelt will flow down and off to the sides rather than coming deeper into the stronghold. The air is warmed, though it isn't kept in the way Erzhal did with his home with wards, and the elves shut the doors as soon as the tip of Thorn's tail is through.

A dozen paces up from the doors, the cavern opens up, and further on, it becomes a winding track up the side of the mountain. The construction would give dwarves reason to feel envy, and the wonder of its construction feels wasted on you. An entire town seems to be built along this single strip, winding up and around with switchbacks, the front faces of the homes decorated with brightly colored stoneware tiles that have unfamiliar designs glazed in at the time of their firing, which could have been ten years or ten centuries ago.

At what seems to be a crossroads or square of some sort, lit by a circle of flameless lanterns in a white like intensified moonlight, the leader of your group brings you all to a stop. Although it's still theoretically 'outside,' the lanterns provide warmth as well as light, enough that Thorn is able to relax the wings held tightly to his body and you can push your hood back. The elves have also pushed back their hoods, and the young one is taking off his gloves and tucking them into a pocket on the inside of his cloak.

The older elf nods to the short one and says, "I think we can manage from here, droizrue. Thank you for your help." The words are a bit more stiff and formal than before. You wonder if they're in the Ancient Language for your benefit; you've been told that the elves all speak the Ancient Language as their daily tongue, but you aren't about to apply that to these north-dwellers without further evidence.

The short elf nods and turns off, taking another path downwards that you didn't notice until their figure retreated down it - you would barely call it an alleyway, sloping back downwards, and Thorn certainly wouldn't fit down it.

That done, the older elf turns back to you, and says, "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. I am called Vindmildr, and this is my second youngest grandchild, Hae'ai." He smiles slightly, then, and adds, "I believe you've already met my youngest; Revnelli has spent a great deal of time running in Lord Erzhal's shadow."

You take a closer look at his face - despite there being threads of grey in his hair, Vindmildr doesn't have the face of a man old enough to have grandchildren who are nearly adults, though you suppose that's simply what you should expect with elves. Still, you see no obvious signs of relation to Revnelli there.

Hae'ai is a different story - there is definitely something similar in the shape of their cheeks, their eyebrows, and the color of their hair, a deep black that doesn't so much as shine in the lights. Vindmildr, in contrast, has a far plainer hair color that was likely a dark brown before the grey took root in it.

Come to think, the elves we saw in battle from Du Weldenvarden always had either black or silver hair, you observe to Thorn, who doesn't snort aloud but does so against your mind.

That is what your mind dwells on at this moment?

"We have," you answer Vindmildr aloud. "She's taken a great interest in us, as well."

"She would," Vindmildr agrees, while his grandson rolls his eyes very slightly. "When she first began to trail after the only Rider who has ever brought eggs to us, and with such intensity, I had my hopes... But Erzhal has said that none of the eggs in his keeping, at least, will wake for her, and so I thought that it might come to nothing, even as undeterred as she seems to be. But he has told me only a passing half-moon ago that Galbatorix is dead, and that the Riders are being rebuilt using eggs that are not those spared through his efforts."

How direct, Thorn says to you in private, humming, before he spreads his thoughts to include the elves as well. This is the truth, he says. Though we do not know how many eggs were hidden away by the leadership of the old order, it is not an insignificant number, and several have already hatched. In addition, the eldest of our generation, Saphira of Eragon, is preparing to bear a clutch of her own.

Both of the elves relax a tension you hadn't consciously realized was in their shoulders. "Good," Vindmildr says. "Though the both of them have long been captivated by stories of the Riders, as most children are, Revnelli is unusual in that she did not grow out of the interest, nor settle into any kind or other interest as she entered her dagr-aran. But as time continued to pass... Few indeed are the Riders among our race who bonded to the partners of their heart after their fiftieth year."

"You were afraid that she would be too old," you say, and he nods. You say, "I don't think you need to worry. Arya of Firnen - " Erzhal's favored construction pairing the names of Riders and dragons feels more natural on your tongue than the alternative. " - became a Rider at a century of age, so there is still plenty of time."

Vindmildr raises one of his eyebrows. "So Islanzadi's child became a Rider after all," he says, which draws your eyebrows up in turn.

"'After all'?" you repeat.

"Arya-rinanyel was born some years before the war," Vindmildr says, "and though I was not blessed with the chance to meet her in person, my grandmother was her father's great-grandsire. When Evandar was still alive, I am proud to say that we were friends despite the distance, and he showed Arya to me a few times over a mirror."

Arya's father, who was king of the elves before his death. You nod distantly, feeling the weight of the passage of time. You barely know more of Evandar than his name and position; not the kind of ruler he was, nor the kind of father.

Thorn says, And it was suspected that Arya might become a Rider then?

Vindmildr smiles and says, "Not as strongly as Revnelli, perhaps, but she had a tendency to be... out of step with how most elven children behave as they grow. She spoke with her mind first, as dragons do; her father introduced us, in fact, to convince her that there were times when speaking aloud was the only option. I doubt that she remembers such a thing now - everyone loses the memories of childhood to growing up."

"Perhaps, but I do not think she would turn away the chance to speak to a friend of her father's, even if she cannot remember you," you say. Perhaps you are only projecting your own desires, your wish to have something of your mother other than the vague shapes of arms around you and the existence of Eragon, but you don't think you are that far off the mark.

"Perhaps," Vindmildr says, but it is more thoughtful than dismissive. "The future is more open than I believed it would be for a long time. Regardless - is there aught we can do for you? I fear the storm may not wane for some time; I do not think I can remember sensing such an outpouring of energy from Lord Erzhal since his brother's death, and before that not at all."

There is some genuine concern in his voice. You say, "Is it possible to contact Nadia from here? Before he rushed out, Erzhal requested that we tell her also of what we told him."

"That seems prudent," Vindmildr agrees. "I am afraid you will have to scry her, however; their cottage is too far from the lower part of the city. There are tunnels from here that wind down inside of the mountain to the main quarter, but they won't take you far enough."

"That is fine," you say. "I was going to ask if there was a mirror I could borrow at any rate; I also need to get in contact with Eragon."

"I will bring you my own," Vindmildr says. "Hae'ai, would you lead our guests to..." He pauses to think, and then says, "Well, I suppose one of the gardens. Those are the only spaces that will be both large enough for a dragon and relatively private."

"I would be glad to," Hae'ai says. He looks you over, and says, "Though I'm afraid the gardens are still further up. I understand if you would like to take some time to rest before continuing the climb."

You touch your mind to Thorn's to confirm that you are of the same mind, and then shake your head. "I think it would be best to contact Nadia as soon as possible," you say.

Hae'ai nods. "We go up, then," he says. "The bramble garden, do you think, Grandfather?"

"That should be large enough," Vindmildr says with a nod. "I shall meet you there, with the mirror," he says. "And perhaps after you have concluded your business with it, we will be able to show you around properly," he adds. "There are many relics and other items left in our keeping by the Riders of the past; I'm sure at least some of them will catch your interest, though they are not as impressive as what is in Erzhal's keeping."

"Thank you for the offer," you say, uncertain if you'll take him up on it. You would hope that you won't be here that long, but the way the elves are behaving gives the impression that you might be stuck here for some time. May as well make the most of it, you say to Thorn privately.

It is a rare chance, Thorn agrees. Though I doubt that the places such relics are stored have enough space for me, so you'll have to inspect them on my behalf.

If I must, you send in return, but you cannot hide the warmth in your thoughts. I would be perfectly content with somewhere warm to read, myself.

Thorn flares his nostrils, repressing the urge to snort only because it might be taken as bad manners by the elves. He moves his head deliberately to address Hae'ai, and says, Please lead the way. I am curious what sort of garden you keep this far north, even if little grows in the depths of winter.

Hae'ai brightens, and to your surprise, he immediately begins to speak at some speed. "Many of the gardens are quite warm and bright even at this time of year," he says. "Though the upper gardens are usually allowed to go fallow through the dark season, as providing them with sufficient light once the sun disappears is a difficult task - I imagine you saw the city gardens when you arrived?"

You think back, and say, "The glass hothouses?"

"Yes, though the upper gardens are not glass. It would be too sensitive to temperature," Hae'ai says. "Though it would ruin the surprise if I told you what the upper gardens use instead."

Curiosity now raised, you glance at Thorn with raised eyebrows, then follow the young elf as he leads you further up the winding street, leaving his grandfather behind.

----

The uppermost parts of the keep are wider open and emptier; personal homes seem to be fewer here, and instead large sealed doors line the pathway. None of them have signage or any indications of their contents, though a good number have marks in the Ancient Language that ward away humidity. You suppose that there is no point in having signage for visitors when everyone who walks through these halls has had decades if not centuries to learn where they're going.

It's even warmer than it was below, which is a relief to Thorn; you yourself are beginning to reach the point where you would consider taking your coat off. In the south, this would qualify as chilly, but compared to the temperatures you've been in recently, it has the warmth of springtime.

Indeed, that is not the only element of spring; the smell of growing plants soon becomes more than an imagined whisper in your nose. You can tell that you've reached the gardens even before Hae'ai pulls away from the main street to one of the big doors, this one carved with twisted thorns, leaves, and berries.

I suppose bramble garden was literal, you observe to Thorn.

The elven talent for growing things is not limited to Du Weldenvarden, Thorn observes. Though I doubt they could survive without it, even if they do not limit themselves from eating meat. Even we dragons require some few other things in our diets.

You nod, as Hae'ai pushes the doors open, and follow the elf through. The chamber beyond is fairly large, though only barely lit before the two of you summon lights. It is the sound you notice first - the wind beyond the windows still blows loudly and frantically, a cry of grief and failure born not of nature. Gusts smash snowflakes against the clear surface, the pinpricks of white catching the glow of your werelights.

It is that clear surface that catches your attention, after Hae'ai made such a point of speaking of it. You take a few curious steps towards where the window is built into the mountain,feeling the chill in the air grow as you approach. The pane is thick enough that even the storm raging outside should be kept well back, though on closer examination, each pane is in fact a small stack of them, with air between.

When the snowflakes hit, they melt into the surface, but no water ever runs down the outside (not that you would expect it to, as cold as it must be beyond that barrier). Beginning to build a hypothesis, you pull off one of your gloves and touch your fingers to the surface.

It feels unlike glass, and wet as well as cold, though your fingers are dry when you pull them away.

"It's ice?" you say, incredulous.

Hae'ai grins. "In the days before the keep was dug out of the cliffs, it's said that all of the buildings were made of ice like this, though not of such clarity. It is a spirit-touched ice that does not melt unless heated all the way to boiling, at least as long as it stays upon this island."

"Incredible," you say, backing away from the window. Even if it does not melt, or perhaps because it does not melt, the ice is still quite cold. "And your people do not have to sustain it with magical energy themselves?"

"Only to freeze two pieces back together after they have been broken," Hae'ai says. "Otherwise, the ice sustains itself. It is why our ancestors chose to settle here when they left the forest; at that time, there was only the mountain and the sea."

You blow on your fingers to warm them, and say, "You are right, I would not have guessed this. I am not sure that anyone from the south would believe me if I told them."

"It's said that there were many places with such natural magic once," Hae'ai says, "before thinking races came to this land. I don't know how true that is, but the ice has persisted for thousands of years, despite all of the pieces carved from it and tunnels dug through it."

Thorn huffs. At the end of the day, it is still ice, he says. Ignoring the windows, he winds his way around largely-empty garden beds, many of them full of wilted wintering brambles, to curl up in a wide space between two benches, up against the back wall. I have seen enough of it for a thousand years at this point.

"Dragons are not fans of the cold," you say simply to Hae'ai, hoping that he takes no offense. Usually Thorn is the one with manners, but you can feel how tired he is from the chill.

"So I have heard," he says, seemingly unbothered, perhaps even amused. "At great lengths. I think at times, my sister knows more about dragons than do the dragons themselves."

So he and Revenelli are siblings. That does not especially surprise you.

After a moment, Thorn says, almost a concession, The view would be stunning, if not for the storm.

"It would be," you agree. "In either night or day, I should think. There cannot be anywhere better to see the stars in the entire world."

"You are likely right," Hae'ai agrees. "Though the storm around the island has raged without stop since before I was born. ... Perhaps now that there is peace in the south, I will finally be able to see it."

Chewing the inside of your lip, you nod. "Let us hope for that," you agree.