The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

Eragon nearly choked as Arya stepped through the doorway. She had abandoned the leather clothes usually wore in favor of a soft green tunic cinched at the waist with a girdle

  adorned with moonstones. She had also removed her customary headband, allowing her hair to tumble around her face and over her shoulders. The biggest change, however, was

  not so much in her dress but her bearing; the brittle tension that had permeated her demeanor ever since Eragon first met her was now gone.

  She seemed to have finally relaxed.

  He scrambled to his feet, noticing that her own were bare. "Arya! Why are you here?"

  Touching her first two fingers to her lips, she said, "Do you plan on spending another evening inside?"

  "I"

  "You have been in Ellesméra for three days now, if and yet you have seen nothing of our city. I know that you always wished to explore it. Set aside you weariness this once and

  accompany me." Gliding toward him, she took Zar'roc from where it lay by his side and beckoned to him.

  He rose from the bed and followed her into the vestibule, Where they descended through the trap door and down the precipitous staircase that wound around the rough tree trunk.

  Overhead, the gathering clouds glowed with the sun's last rays before it was extinguished by the edge of the world.

  A piece of bark fell on Eragon's head and he looked up to see Saphira leaning out of their bedroom, gripping the wood with her claws. Without opening her wings, she sprang into

  the air and dropped the hundred or so feet to the ground, landing in a thunderous cloud of dirt. I'm coming.

  "Of course," said Arya, as if she expected nothing less. Eragon scowled; he had wanted to be alone with her, but he knew better than to complain.

  They walked under the trees, where dusk already extended its tendrils from inside hollow logs, dark crevices in boulders, in the underside of knobby eaves. Here and there, a

  gemlike lantern twinkled within the side of a tree or at the end of a branch, casting gentle pools of light on either side of the path.

  Elves worked on various projects in and around the lanterns' radius, solitary except for a few, rare couples. Several elves set high in the trees, playing mellifluous tunes on their

  reed pipes, while others stared at the sky with peaceful expressions – neither awake nor asleep. One elf sat crosslegged before a pottery wheel that whirled around and round with

  a steady rhythm while a delicate urn took form beneath his hands. The werecat, Maud, crouched beside him in the shadows watching his progress. Her eyes flared silver as she

  looked at Eragon and Saphira. The elf followed her gaze and nodded to them without halting his work.

  Through the trees, Eragon glimpsed an elf – man or woman, he could not tell – squatting on a rock in the middle of a stream, muttering a spell over the orb of glass clutched in its

  hands. He twisted his neck in an attempt to get an unobstructed view, but the spectacle had already vanished into the dark.

  "What," asked Eragon, keeping his voice low so as to not disturb anyone, "do most elves do for a living or profession?"

  Arya answered just as quietly. "Our strength with magic grants us as much leisure as we desire. We neither hunt nor farm, and, as a result, we spend our days working to master

  our interests, whatever they might be. Very little exists that we must strive for."

  Through a tunnel of dogwood draped with creepers, they entered the enclosed atrium of a house grown out of a ring of trees. An openwalled hut occupied the center of the atrium,

  which sheltered a forge and an assortment of tools that Eragon knew even Horst would covet.

  An elf woman held a pair of small tongs in a nest of molten coals, working bellows with her right hand. With uncanny speed, she pulled the tongs from the fire – revealing a ring of

  whitehot steel clamped in the pincers' jaws – looped the ring through the edge of an incomplete mail corselet hung over the anvil, grasped a hammer, and welded shut the open

  ends of the ring with a blow and a burst of sparks.

  Only then did Arya approach. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

  The elf faced them, her neck and cheek lit from underneath by the coals' bloody light. Like taut wires embedded in her skin, her face was scribed with a delicate pattern of lines –

  the greatest display of age Eragon had seen in an elf. She gave no response to Arya, which he knew was offensive and discourteous, especially since the queen's daughter had

  honored her by speaking first.

  "Rhunönelda, I have brought you the newest Rider, Eragon Shadeslayer."

  "I heard you were dead," said Rhunön to Arya. Rhunön's voice guttered and rasped unlike any other elf's. It reminded Eragon of the old men of Carvahall who sat on the porches

  outside of their houses, smoking pipes and telling stories.

  Arya smiled. "When did you last leave your house, Rhunön?"

  "You should know. It was that Midsummer's Feast you forced me to attend."

  "That was three years ago."

  "Was it?" Rhunön frowned as she banked the coals and covered them with a grated lid. "Well, what of it? I find company trying. A gaggle of meaningless chatter that…" She glared

  at Arya. "Why are we speaking this foul language? I suppose you want me to forge a sword for him? You know I swore to never create instruments of death again, not after that

  traitor of a Rider and the destruction he wreaked with my blade."

  "Eragon already has a sword," said Arya. She raised her arm and presented Zar'roc to the smith."

  Rhunön took Zar'roc with a look of wonder. She caressed the winered sheath, lingered on the black symbol etched into it, rubbed a bit of dirt from the hilt, then wrapped her

  fingers around the handle and drew the sword with all the authority of a warrior. She sighted down each of Zar'roc's edges and flexed the blade between her hands until Eragon

  feared it might break. Then, in a single movement, Rhunön swung Zar'roc over her head and brought it down on the tongs on her anvil, riving them in half with a resounding ring.

  "Zar'roc," said Rhunön. "I remember thee." She cradled the weapon like a mother would her firstborn. "As perfect as the day you were finished." Turning her back, she looked up at

  the knotted branches while she traced the curves of the pommel. "My entire life I spent hammering these swords out of ore. Then he came and destroyed them. Centuries of effort

  obliterated in an instant. So far as I knew, only four examples of my art still existed. His sword, Oromis's, and two others guarded by families who managed to rescue them from

  the Wyrdfell."

  Wyrdfell? Eragon dared ask Arya with his mind.

  Another name for the Forsworn.

  Rhunön turned on Eragon. "Now Zar'roc has returned to me. Of call my creations, this I least expected to hold again, save for his. How came you to possess Morzan's sword?"

  "It was given to me by Brom."

  "Brom?" She hefted Zar'roc. "Brom… I remember Brom. He begged me to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had already taken my oath. My refusal

  angered him beyond reason. Oromis had to knock him unconscious before he would leave."

  Eragon seized on the information with interest. "Your handiwork has served me well, Rhunönelda. I would be long dead were it not for Zar'roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it."

  "Did you now? Then some good has come of it." Sheathing Zar'roc, Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked past him to Saphira. "Ah. Well met,

  Skulblaka."

  Well met, Rhunönelda.

  Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira's shoulder and tapped on a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her head from side to side in an attempt

  to peer into the translucent pebble. "Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly speaking, a Rider's sword should match the hue of his dr
agon, and this

  blue would have made a gorgeous blade…" The thought seemed to drain the energy from her. She returned to the anvil and stared at the wrecked tongs, as if the will to replace

  them had deserted her.

  Eragon felt that it would be wrong to end the conversation on such a depressing note, but he could not think of a tactful way to change the subject. The glimmering corselet caught

  his attention and, as he studied it, he was astonished to see that every ring with welded shut. Because the tiny links cooled so quickly, they usually had to be welded before being

  attached to the main piece of mail, which meant that the finest mail – such as Eragon's hauberk – was composed of links that were alternately welded and riveted closed. Unless, it

  seemed, the smith possessed an elf's speed and precision.

  Eragon said, "I've never seen the equal of your mail, not even among the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why don't you just use magic and save

  yourself the work?"

  He hardy expected the burst of passion that animated Rhunön. She tossed her shortcropped hair and said, "And rob myself of all pleasure in this task? Aye, every other elf and I

  could use magic to satisfy our desires – and some do – but then what meaning is there in life? How would you fill your time? Tell me."

  "I don't know," he confessed.

  "By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the journey to it. A lesson for you. You'll face

  the same dilemma one day, if you live long enough… Now begone! I am weary of this talk." With that Rhunön plucked the lid off the forge, retrieved a new pair of tongs, and

  immersed a ring in the coals while she worked the bellows with singleminded intensity.

  "Rhunönelda," said Arya, "remember, I will return for you on the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren." A grunt was her only reply.

  The rhythmic peal of steel on steel, as lonely as the cry of a death bird in the night, accompanied them back through the dogwood tunnel and onto the path. Behind them, Rhunön

  was no more than a black figure bowed over the sullen glow of her forge.

  "She made all the Riders' swords?" asked Eragon. "Every last one?"

  "That and more. She's the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought that you should meet her, for her sake and yours."

  "Thank you."

  Is she always so bruque? asked Saphira

  Arya laughed. "Always. For her, nothing matters expect her craft, and she's famously impatient with anything – or anyone – that interferes with it. Her eccentricities are well

  tolerated, though, because of her incredible skill and accomplishments."

  While she spoke, Eragon tried to work out the meaning of Agaetí Blödhren. He was fairly sure that blödh stood for blood and, as a result, that blödhren was bloodoath,

  never heard of agateí.

  "Celebration," explained Arya when he asked. "We hold the Bloodoath Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both of you are fortunate to be here now,

  for it is nigh upon us…" Her slanted eyebrows met as she frowned. "Fate has indeed arranged a most auspicious coincidence."

  "There you are," he smiled at her, sitting back on his heels. "I was getting a little worried; you've been out for quite some time…"

  Mariah sat up gingerly, looking around, "Where's Kieran?"

  "Hunting something down for dinner last I knew," he admitted, brushing her hair back. "You're feeling better?"

  "Yes, I'm fine, thank you," she said.

  "Well good. Andrar was insisting that you were fine, but I was waiting to see for myself." He helped her to her feet and watched as she dusted off her pants.

  She looked around for a moment, "Did we fly back?" Mariah asked as he tended to the fire.

  He swore under his breath as a hot spark hit his finger, "Yes. Kieran thought it best, considering our timeline. We're due back tomorrow morning."

  "Of course," she said, trying her best to keep the bitter tone out of her voice. Andrar snorted at her, tucking his nose under his forepaw to avoid chuckling. "Are we going to be on

  time?"

  "As long as that storm doesn't get any closer, yes."

  She turned her gaze upward and narrowed toward the east, where dark storm clouds were looming. Behind her the bushes rustled and Kieran stepped out of the forest, dropping a

  small wild boar onto the ground next to Murtagh. He exchanged glances with the princess, who sniffed a bit and walked over to Nasreen, leaving him to prep their food.

  Mariah shook her head a bit and went to sit next to him, keeping him company while they waited. Her eyes lingered on the storm clouds as she leaned against Andrar's scales,

  twisting the fabric of her torn tunic between her fingers. When offered food, she refocused her attention and smiled slightly, eating quietly while the other two talked about how

  tomorrow would likely end up going. Finally, the darkness settled in, leaving them only with the option of sleeping.

  As her senses succumbed to the night, she felt herself slipping into an uneasy sleep. It started out black, like every other night, and gradually progressed into something darker.

  Her first flicker of a thought was to wake herself back up, but she'd already placed a silencing ward upon herself, and the dream wouldn't end until she started it.

  The sky was black with an oncoming storm and the grim drizzle was frigid on her skin. This time, she was in the castle courtyard. She was alone and walking with her arms folded

  across her chest in a pathetic attempt to keep herself warm. The blood red skirts she wore were dragging the ground behind her, collecting mud as the rain splattered up her boots.

  Her breathing hitched a few times, but stayed asleep, able to hear thunderclaps in the distance as the storm rolled by.

  A horse whinnied from ahead and, when she lifted her gaze, saw a white mare stamping in the puddles. Aluora. She hurried over and brushed her fingers over her nose. She

  scrambled onto her back and turned her around, rushing the gate to leave. With no guards around to stop them, they surged away from the castle with all the speed the horse could muster. As soon as the castle was out of sight, digging her hooves into the muddy road the mare reared up onto her hind legs, whinnying loudly as another thunderclap sounded

  overhead. Mariah gripped a handful of her mane, but soon found herself thrown off the shehorse, and coated with mire.

  The jolt woke her for a moment before she twisted and curled back up against Andrar's warm stomach, hoping to relieve some of the fright.

  She looked up to see what had startled the bold mare and saw a group of dragons blocking the road with Riders atop their backs. Though their faces were shadowed, she could have

  named them all without difficulty. Camille drew her rapier, stepping down from the dragon she was saddled in, walking over to her without hesitation. Her brother, Cederic, jumped

  off his mount and followed her, the blade in his hand already dripping with blood. The rapier tapped against Mariah's neck, forcing her to lift her face up.

  She sat straight up this time; her lips parted with a scream, and would have woken the other two, if not for the ward upon herself. Mariah blinked, rubbing her eyes and tried to

  collect her thoughts, when her eyes wouldn't stay open any longer however, she was forced to lie back down and resubmit herself to her nightmares.

  Camille's brown eyes met her own for a fleeting moment before a flash of silver blocked her view. The woman stepped back to retrieve her rapier, glaring toward Kieran as she

  stepped in front of Mariah. With a loud thud, Thorn dropped to the ground beside Nasreen, Murtagh rushing to Kieran's side with his own handandahalf sword drawn, staring down

  Cederic. The rain slid down their profiles, dripping from the tip of Kieran's nose, and gliding down Murtagh's jawline as they stood in fron
t of her, shielding her from the others. She

  sat on the ground, covered with mud, watching as they gazed at one another, waiting for the fight to start.

  Mariah woke up to prodding from a boot at her back. She blinked her eyes a few times, the sun rising up behind Kieran blinding her for a moment, before staring blearily up at the

  princess.

  "Glad to see you're finally awake. Let's get going, before we're late." Kieran said, climbing atop Nasreen.

  "Well, if you ask me they should have been back by now." She insisted, looking over her nails.

  "Don't get your panties in a bunch Camille," Cederic said. "I'm sure they'll be back soon enough."

  "I don't really want them to. I hope they fail their little quest to be honest. Pathetic really, I mean, why send all three of them out together? Surely one would have been enough. I

  probably could have found it on my own."

  The main room for the southeastern wing of the castle was spacious enough for all six of them to sit comfortably. It was vastly over decorated, with heavy drapes surrounding the multitude of windows overlooking the courtyards. Normally, the area was reserved for guests visiting the castle on business of some sort, since their arrival however, they had

  each been given residency of a room adjacent to one another. When not training or sleeping, they spent most of their time waiting in the main room.

  The open fireplace was crackling with a magicinfused fire that Innes had started before going to the large table against the wall where several books were sprawled out on top of maps, quills and other bits of parchment. He was leaning over to read out of a leatherbound journal while scribbling with his left hand, half listening to the rest of them bickering.

  Innes didn't bother sparing her a glance, "Oh yes, we all know Camille. You would have been there and back in just half an hour, because you're so much better than Kieran at

  everything you set your mind to."

  "Thank you Innes," she smiled brilliantly. He paused, blinked, and rolled his eyes, turning the page in the book he was reading. Camille's furcuffed coattails were dripping off the

  sides of the chair she was sitting in, one leg crossed perfectly over the other, balanced on the edge of her seat. The heel of her boots tapered down into a point that made it appear