The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  until they are as well. And because it's what we set out to do – it's what Mariah would have wanted. And because this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do?

  for a long moment before speaking aloud again, "I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the people of Alagaësia – of all races – who have suffered from Galbatorix's brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any student you've had before."

  She slammed her door closed, Nyx lying outside the door, whimpering. The door opened momentarily, only long enough to let the wolf in before slamming shut again.

  They glanced at one another before Trevin stood up and walked down the hall. Rowan shook his head at the ginger archer and sighed. He tapped on the door gently, waiting silently

  for an answer. After minutes of standing still, where most people would have shouted or gave in, Trevin merely blinked and smiled slightly as the door finally opened. He stepped

  over the threshold and looked at Kendra, curled up against the wall with Nyx's head in her lap.

  "What happened?"

  She shuddered a little. "Galbatorix has already set his plans in motion… he… he already has Riders for his Forsworn again. I don't know how it happened so fast."

  "Where's Mark?"

  "Still alive. He went to the castle."

  "I'm sure everyone would like to hear about your trip Kendra."

  She flicked her dark eyes up toward him and nodded. Nyx pounced down onto the floor and led the way out, Trevin following with Kendra behind him. He slipped down into a chair

  and waited as she paced around the room, speaking rapidly of their exploits to the spies' den.

  "You met with Nasuada?" Rowan stared at her for a moment. "And she didn't have you arrested?"

  "Mark clearly has more pull than I initially thought. She wouldn't do anything if he asked her not to. She seemed fully ready to cooperate with me, which gives us more room to maneuver. Let's just continue with what our initial plans were and go from there."

  "If it comes to a fight," Rowan said, "Are you going to oppose the Empire on your own or are you going to battle alongside the Varden?"

  "Why would you ask me such a thing?"

  He watched her, "Are you siding with them then? Or are you still set on your earlier goal of simply freeing the people of the Empire?"

  "Nasuada is no queen… I couldn't stand to see her sitting atop a throne. If the Varden mean to take over the Empire, I'm certainly not siding with them. In any case, it's not to that

  point yet. When the time comes I'll make my decision."

  "Yes, we all know, you'll make your decision half a moment before the enemy steps foot on the battlefield." Rowan scoffed a bit at her, shaking his head.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, "You know better than anyone that is not how I decide my fate. A person does not get this far in their life with these types of goals in mind without

  years of hard work and planning. Don't act like a split second decision is how I'm going to end it – throw it all away. I am still on my own side; there is nothing more important to me than seeing my people free of my father's grasp. The fact that he has Forsworn Riders coming to his hand means we are going to have a harder time of it. Unless you wish to

  quit on me now, we have much more work to do before the day of that battle arrives."

  He looked at Glaedr for a moment, then said, "Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you are made of."

  After a few exercises that left Eragon riddled with pain, they broke for lunch and entered Oromis' house. On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a flat

  panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was

  bisected by the horizon and appeared to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain. The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to

  be a magical window; it was only when he saw the image was indeed static that he could accept it as a piece of art.

  "Where is this?" he asked.

  Oromis's slanted features tightened for an instant. "You would do well to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your misery. You see what was once our city

  of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned during Du Fyrn Skulblaka an d became the capital of the Broddring Kingdom and now is the black city of Uru'baen. I made that fairth on the

  night that I and the others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix arrived."

  "You painted this… fairth?"

  "No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The landscape upon that door is exactly

  how Ilirea presented itself to me at the moment I uttered my spell."

  "And," said Eragon, unable to stop the flow of questions, "what was the Broodring Kingdom?"

  Oromis's eyes widened with dismay. "You don't know?" Eragon shook his head. "How can you not? Considering your circumstances and the fear that Galbatorix wields among your

  people, I might understand that you were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subject that

  even the youngest elf or dwarf knows. The children of your Varden could tell me more about the past."

  "Brom was more concerned with keeping me alive than teaching me about people who are already dead," retorted Eragon.

  This drew silence from Oromis. Finally, he said, "Forgive me. I did not mean to impugn Brom's judgment, only I am impatience beyond reason; we have too little time, and each

  new thing you must learn reduces that which you can master during your tenure here." He opened a series of cupboards hidden within the curved wall and removed bread rolls and

  bowls of fruit, which he rowed out onto the table. He paused for a moment over the food with his eyes closed before beginning to eat. "The Broddring Kingdom was the human's

  country before the Riders fell. After Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring

  Kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix's conquests. He added Vroenguard and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the empire you are familiar with.

  Technically, the Broddring Kingdom still exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on royal decrees."

  Afraid to pester the elf with further inquiries, Eragon concentrated on his food. His face must have betrayed him, though, because Oromis said, "You remind me of Bom when I

  chose him as my apprentice. He was younger than you, only ten, but his curiosity was just as great. I doubt I heard aught from him for a year but how, what, when, and, above all

  else, why. Do not be shy to ask what lies in your heart."

  "I want to know so much," whispered Eragon. "Who are you? Where do you come from?... Where did Brom come from? What was Morzan like? How, what, when, why?

  to know everything about Vroengard and the Riders. Maybe then my own path will be clear."

  "What were you thinking about earlier anyway Mariah?"

  She sat silently for a moment, leaning into him and feeling him twirl her hair around his finger. Kieran had nearly killed her, as was always the case when battling with Kieran. Murtagh had helped her back to her room, sitting and assisting her in healing up all her bleeding wounds. By the time she was healed back up, they were both borderline exhausted

  and had simply sat together, leaning against the chair in front of the fireplace. She was getting used to being so close to him so much, it was nice and felt comfortable at last. More

  than anything she felt secure knowing he was with her, for both their sakes. "I suppose I was just worried about fighting…" she lied.

  "You?" He blinked and glanced d
own at her, "Worried about fighting? You must be joking."

  "I donno, I just sort of drifted off."

  "Right before a spar?" He scoffed. "People don't just drift off like that."

  Mariah sighed. "Pearce then… I get the feeling he's a lot like me. The others are more like Kieran… or you. They all know how to fight well because they've been formally trained.

  They're from wealthy, but broken families. Pearce though… he doesn't seem like that. I think he had to teach himself how to fight, as a survival skill."

  "Perceptive," he said, smiling a bit. "I would assume you're right."

  "Why so?"

  "The others have family names, or at least their parents are influential enough where their children use their names as a title. Reikena, for example, is a family name. Pearce has

  neither."

  "I don't understand what you mean," Mariah said.

  "They all have surnames. Mine, since my father was a Rider and member of the Forsworn, is Morzansson. Camilla on the other hand has a family surname, passed down from her, most likely, father's side of the family. It's that simple. Usually, wealthy families have a surname. Commoners usually don't…"

  She let it sink in for a moment, mulling the thought over. "Do you think less of me because I have no lineage?"

  "No," he said in assurance. "There is nothing more special about anyone with a surname than there is about you. If anything I would believe you to think less of me because of my

  title…"

  "Your father is no concern of mine."

  "I believe you would say differently if he were still alive."

  "Perhaps," she said, yawning a little.

  He smiled, "So you were thinking about Pearce earlier?"

  Mariah nodded. "I was, just before we started battling. I thought it odd he uses a shield and then digressed from there. His fighting style just isn't much like the others."

  "I understand how you reached that decision. But it doesn't mean he's any less capable than the rest of them. They are all equally dangerous, even that frail girl with the bow"

  "Odette"

  "yes her. She is possibly more frightening than Camilla. It's clear what a wolf will do to you, it's a frightened dog I'm always more cautious of."

  They say quietly for a long while. Murtagh stretched out a little and leaned his head back, humming quietly as he spun her hair around his fingers. Mariah listened quietly, content

  leaning her head against his shoulder, watching the flames lick the sides of the fireplace. She closed her eyes and mouthed the words to the song he was humming, thinking of

  home.

  Silence fell between them as Oromis meticulously disassembled a blackberry, prying out one plump segment at a time. When the last corpuscle vanished between his portred lips,

  he rubbed his hands flat together – "polishing his palms," as Garrow used to say – and said, "Know this about me, then: I was born some centuries past in our city of Luthivira,

  which stood in the woods by Lake Tudosten. At the age of twenty, life all elf children, I was presented to the eggs that the dragons had given the Riders, and Glaedr hatched for me. We were trained as Riders, and for near a century, we traveled the world over, doing Vrael's will. Eventually, the day arrived when it was deemed appropriate for us to retire and

  pass on our experience to the next generation, so we took a position in Ilirea and taught new Riders, one or two at a time, until Galbatorix destroyed us."

  "And Brom?"

  "Brom came from a family of illuminators in Kuasta. His mother was Nelda and his father Holcomb. Kuasta is so isolated by the Spine from the rest of Alagaesia, it has become a

  peculiar place, full of strange customs and superstitions. When he was still new to Ilirea, Brom would knock on a door frame three times before entering or leaving a room. The

  human students teased him about it until he abandoned the practice along with some of his other habits.

  "Morzan was my greatest failure. Brom idolized him. He never left his side, never contradicted him, and never believed that he could best Morzan in any venture. Morzan, I'm

  ashamed to admit – for it was within my power to stop – was aware of this and took advantage of Brom's devotion in a hundred different ways. He grew so proud and cruel that I

  considered separating him from Brom. But before I could, Morzan helped Galbatorix to steal a dragon hatchling, Shruikan, to replace the one Galbatorix had lost, killing the dragon's

  original Rider in the process. Morzan and Galbatorix then fled together, sealing our doom.

  "You cannot begin to fathom the effect Morzan's betrayal had on Brom until you understand the depth of Brom's affection for him. And when Galbatorix at last revealed himself and

  the Forsworn killed Brom's dragon, Brom focused all of his anger and pain on the one who he felt was responsible for the destruction of his world: Morzan."

  Oromis paused, his face grave. "Do you know why losing your dragon, or vice versa, usually kills the survivor?"

  "I can imagine," said Eragon. He quailed at the thought.

  "The pain is shock enough – although it isn't always a factor – but what really causes the damage is feeling part of your mind, part of your identity, die. When it happened to Brom,

  I fear that he went mad for a time. After I was captured and escaped, I brought him to Ellesmera for safety, but he refused to stay, instead marching with our army to the plains of

  Ilirea, where King Evandar was slain.

  "The confusion then was indescribable. Galbatorix was busy consolidating his power, the dwarves were in retreat, the southwest was a mass of war as the humans rebelled and

  fought to create Surda, and we had just lost our king. Driven by his desire for vengeance, Brom sought to use the turmoil to his advantage. He gathered together many of those

  who had been exiled, freed some who had been imprisoned, an with them he formed the Varden. He led them for a few years, then surrendered the position to another so that he

  was free to pursue his true passion, which was Morzan's downfall. Brom personally killed three of the Forsworn, including Morzan, and he was responsible for the deaths of five

  others. He was rarely happy during his life, but he was a good Rider and a good man, and I am honored to have known him."

  "I never head his name mentioned in connection to the Forsworn's deaths," objected Eragon.

  "Galbatorix did not want to publicize the fact that any still existed who could defeat his servants. Much of his power resides in the appearance of invulnerability."

  Once again, Eragon was forced to revise his conception of Brom, from the village storyteller that Eragon had first taken him to be, to the warrior and magician he had traveled with,

  to the Rider he was at least revealed as, and now firebrand, revolutionary leader, and assassin. It was hard to reconcile all of those roles. I feel as if I barely knew him. I wish we

  had a chance to talk about all of this at least once. Perhaps Mark knows more about all of this. I'm sure he would have at least mentioned it to him one or twice. "He was a good man," agreed Eragon.

  "Ah, Marcus, it's good to see you!"

  "Angela." He said, walking into her room and looking around. "Looks like you've made yourself comfortable." The small room was overgrown, cluttered and smelled like something

  was nearly ready to burn. A cackling cauldron over a spitting fire was the most likely culprit. He noted to steer away from it.

  "I have dear, but it seems as though you haven't. Sit down."

  He sighed and did so, listening to a hiss and a snarl. The werecat sniffed at him and padded off into the clutter.

  "Oh, don't mind him. Go on; tell me what's on your mind this time." She said, perching herself atop a stool.

  Mark tapped his fingers together. Why was it whenever he was bothered he ended up at Angela's spilling his guts out? He shook the thought away and sighed again. "Riders."

  "That much is apparent darling."
>
  "Galbatorix is likely to have a half dozen of them by the time the battle starts."

  She grinned, "Sounds like you should get the jump on him and attack now then."

  "If only it were that simple."

  "But it is! All you have to do is march straight up to that castle, knock on the door and draw your sword. Not the most lifesaving strategy but definitely the most effective."

  He smiled a bit at her. "And it's Mariah too… if she's with Galbatorix, as I suspect. She's likely now a member of his Forsworn. I don't want to believe it, I don't want it to be true,

  but I think it's the only scenario that is possible in my head. I just… if she's alive that's what's happened. If not, she would have contacted me by now."

  "Perhaps you're right Mark," Angela said. "But perhaps you're wrong as well. One can, after all, be both right and wrong at the same time."

  "That's not possible."

  "Oh it is!" She insisted. "Things are sometimes not as black and white as they appear, there is much gray in this world. Miserable color if you ask me." Angela narrowed her eyes at

  him, "You have a new companion since last I saw you. A woman. She's strong and influential… much like Nasuada. What is her name?"

  "Kendra. And she is the second thing on my mind." He assured her.

  Angela smiled, "At least you admit it and care enough about those around you to keep them on your thoughts. Most men I know wouldn't spend more than a fleeting moment

  thinking about those women closest to him. They would much rather spend it on more manly things, such as hunting or fighting."

  Mark's smile broadened and it brought relief. This was why he always ended up at Angela's. "You are quite possibly the most amazing witch that has ever lived."

  "I do try darling, I really do." She insisted. "Now, is there anything else that's lingering on your mind?"

  He thought about it and shook his head, "No. Thank you for asking and listening, as usual."

  "You have to tell someone sometime, and I prefer it be me instead of someone else. I do enjoy a bit of gossip now and then," she teased. Mark stood with a chuckle, knowing she

  wouldn't say a word to anyone about his innermost problems. "Don't be such a stranger either. I am good for reasons than just an open pair of ears. You should take advantage of it