The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  like they would likely break if she stood too hard on them. Tossing back her long brown hair she looked over towards Odette sitting idly in the windowsill, staring outside.

  "Let's hope they do come back Camille, otherwise you'll be forced to train with us rather than Kieran. It would be a shame to let all your talent go to waste sparring with us day in

  and day out, wouldn't it?" Hal asked running his finger over his knife, watching his blood pool to the surface of his skin. He flipped the knife in his hand once before shooting it

  across the room into a wooden shield Cederic had hung on the wall. He smirked at the other boy as the knife landed nearly dead center.

  She turned her gaze back towards him, paused a moment to think, and then nodded, "You do have a good point there." Her eyes watched Cederic throw another dagger deep into

  the wooden shield and clapped for him gingerly.

  "You don't have to wonder about them any longer, they're back now." Odette said as she gazed out the window. Picking up her skirts to stand, she headed toward the door to meet

  them. Camille blinked and stood as well, striding after the girl with the three boys on her heel.

  "Back on time I see."

  "Yes father," Kieran said, bowing to him quickly before retrieving the second Rider's sword at her waist and offering it to him.

  Galbatorix took the blade, looking over the hilt and tapping into its power for a few moments, looking solemn for a moment. He turned his gaze back to Kieran and nodded, pleased.

  "Good, and you had no trouble I see."

  "None," she insisted. "There is, however the matter of the necromancy I found that I am eager to share with you." Her eyes flickered to the other riders walking into the throne

  room. "In private, if possible."

  He nodded again and beckoned her to follow, proceeding into his study. The riders standing in the doorway turned their gaze to Murtagh and Mariah questioningly.

  "Well, stop gawking like a bunch of dumb ducklings," she said, shaking her head at them. "

  "We just wanted to know how your trip went," Camilla said, heading the pack. She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she walked over to Mariah. "Seems to me like you had a

  rough time of it, considering the state you're in."

  Mariah paused and looked down at herself briefly, realizing how tattered and torn her clothes were. She huffed a little at the older girl and turned towards the staircase, heading up

  to her room, leaving Camilla with the satisfaction of having run her off. She ran her fingers along the wall as she walked to her room, pausing only momentarily when she heard

  someone behind her. She sighed and turned slightly, "I'll be fine, just let me go change, alright?"

  "You don't look fine." His gray eyes stared at her through his blond bangs.

  She blinked at Pearce and watched him warily for a moment. He hadn't been in the throne room a few minutes ago. "Are you following me?"

  "Not really," he said. "I can only take so much of Camilla's voice before I have to leave the room. I was on my way back from the kitchen when I saw you'd returned."

  "Just a moment ago actually."

  He nodded. "As I said before, you don't look fine."

  "I will be. It was a difficult trip."

  "I see, well," he reached into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and tossed an apple to her. "You're probably hungry."

  She caught the apple and blinked at him, "Thank you."

  Pearce nodded again and continued down the hall to his room. Mariah waited a minute for him to leave before continuing down the hall. She reached her room, locking the door

  behind her. Once safely inside, she quickly stripped her clothes, checking over her wounds to make sure they were all healing properly before changing into more suitable attire. Mariah glanced in the mirror and ran her fingers over her face, rubbing under her eyes where dark circles had formed from her lack of sleep the night prior.

  "Why do I always look so tired now?" She muttered, glancing at the apple on her dresser, snatching it up and going to her bookshelf. Tracing a finger over the spines for a few moments she finally pulled a thick volume down and returned to her bed, opening it to the middle and reading as she chomped down on the red piece of fruit.

  "Kendra!"

  She flicked her gaze through the trees, honing in on where the voice was coming from. "Damn them. They know better than to come after us like this." Nyx growled a little from

  beside her. She turned, stepping through the shallow river and to the other side, taking off at a brisk trot, hoping to lose them. "They'll get tired of looking eventually, huh?" She

  looked down at the wolf and smiled.

  With her bow strapped to her back, she slipped through the woods, startling a small herd of deer and scattering them like leaves on a windy autumn morning. Her gaze turned

  forwards as she heard the water rushing louder. She smirked and stopped on the edge of the cliff, sitting with her legs dangling over the edge. Nyx slipped over and sat beside her,

  lying down after a moment and setting his head on her lap.

  Overlooking the landscape below as the sun reached its highest point for the day, she hummed quietly to herself, finding the rushing waterfall beside her calming. Her fingers

  stroked through Nyx's fur slowly, feeling his heart beating through his chest. Surda's view was a thousand times more beautiful than Urû'baen ever had been. If it had been before

  the war, she wasn't sure, but she could hardly imagine something as open and aweinspiring as this spot was at the moment.

  "I guess I don't need to call in the search party." Her eyes closed slowly as she heard his voice, turning her head a bit as Mark walked over to her. "We've been looking for you all morning."

  "Did the thought ever occur to you that I don't want to be found?" She asked. Nyx growled up at them.

  He smiled, "Of course. I told them to leave it well enough alone, but they were insistent." Mark stretched a bit, "Took me long enough though, you must be a great hunter. You

  barely left any trail to follow."

  "Your compliments are useless, I'll have you know." Kendra told him. "I know I'm a good hunter, probably one of the best. I'll track anything you want and find it in half as much

  time as anyone else you can think of."

  Mark folded his arms, "Well then Huntress, would you mind finding the way to Rowan? We've been separated and I don't believe I can find him in this forest."

  She stood and turned to look at him, "You should have just used magic, or have you forgotten you possess such talents?"

  "My priority was finding you, not him. Now, if you please." He motioned for her to start ahead of him.

  Shaking her head, Kendra walked past him, Nyx growling towards Mark as he followed. "He shouldn't be that difficult to find… where did you last see him?"

  "In that split in the path, by that large boulder before you come to the stream," he said. "He suggested we part and look for you separately and I agreed."

  She said nothing and turned north, trotting through the forest briskly and quickly coming upon the small path curving through the trees. Ahead, she could hear Rowan calling out for

  her. Rolling her eyes, she led them towards his voice. "He should know better than to go shouting for people who don't want to be found. I'm over here Rowan."

  He twisted around and waved toward them, hustling over. "The others were getting worried about you."

  "I'm sure they were, now let's head back, yes boys?" She rolled her eyes slightly and headed back towards Surda.

  She surprised Eragon by leading them deeper into Du Weldenvarden, down paths tangled with nettles and currant bushes, until the lights around them vanished and they entered the

  restless wilderness. In the darkness, Eragon had to rely on Saphira's keen night vision so as to not lose his way. The craggy trees increased in width, crowding closer and closer

  together and threatening to form and impenetrable
barrio. Just when it appeared that they could go no farther, the forest ended and they entered a clearing washed with moonlight

  form the bright sickle low in the eastern sky.

  A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the clearing. No taller than the rest of its brethren, it was thicker than a hundred regular trees combined; in comparison, they looked as puny

  as windblown saplings. A blanket of roots radiated from the tree's massive trunk, covering the ground with barksheathed veins that made it seem as if the entire forest flowed out

  from the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. The tree presided over the woods like a benevolent matriarch, protecting its inhabitants under the shelter of her

  branches.

  "Behold the Menoa tree," whispered Arya. "We observe the Agaetí Blödhren in her shade."

  A cold tingle crawled down Eragon's side as he recognized the name. After Angela told his fortune in Teirm, Solembum had come up to him and said, When the time comes and you

  need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault

  of Souls. Eragon could not imagine what kind of weapon might be buried under the tree, nor how he would go about finding it.

  Do you see anything? He asked Saphira.

  No, but then I doubt that Solembum's words will make sense until our need is clear.

  Eragon told Arya about both parts of the werecat's counsel, although – as he had with Ajihad and Islanzadí – he kept Angela's prophecy a secret because of its personal nature.

  When he finished, Arya said, "Werecats rarely offer help, and when they do, it's not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden here, not even in song or legend. As for

  the Rock of Kuthian… the name echoes in my head like a voice from a halfforgotten dream, familiar yet strange. I've heard it before, though I cannot recall where."

  As they approached the Menoa tree, Eragon's attention was caught by the multitude of ants crawling over the roots. Faint black smudges were all he could see of the insects, but

  Oromis's assignment had sensitized him to the currents of life around him, and he could feel the ants' primitive consciousness with his mind. He lowered his defenses and allowed

  his awareness to flood outward, lightly touching Saphira and Arya and then expanding beyond them to see what else lived in the clearing.

  With unexpected suddenness, he encountered an immense entity, a sentient being of such a colossal nature, he could not grasp the limits of its psyche. Even Oromis's vast intellect,

  which Eragon had been in contact with in the Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence. The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that emanated

  from… the tree?

  The source was unmistakable.

  Deliberate and inexorable, the tree's thoughts moved at a measured pace as slow as the creep of ice over granite. It took no notice of Eragon nor, he was sure, of any single

  individual. It was entirely concerned with the affairs of things that grow and flourish in the bright sunlight, with the dogbane and the lily, the evening primrose and the silky foxglove

  and the yellow mustard tall beside the crabapple with its purple blossoms.

  "It's awake!" exclaimed Eragon, shocked into speaking. "I mean… it's intelligent." He knew that Saphira felt it too; she cocked her head toward the Menoa tree, as if listening, then

  flew to one of its branches, which were as thick as the road from Carvahall to Therinsford. There she perched with her tail hanging free, waving the tip of it back and forth, ever so

  gracefully. It was such an odd sight, a dragon in a tree, that Eragon almost laughed.

  "Of course she's awake," said Arya. Her voice was low and mellow in the night air. "Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?"

  "It'd like that."

  A flash of white streaked across the sky, like a banished specter, and resolved itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven's narrow shoulder and crooked neck gave him

  the appearance of a miser basking in the radiance of a pure of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and uttered his ominous cry, Wyrda!"

  "This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became as immortal as any beings still

  composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Linnëa had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with

  the art of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His affections woke a part of

  Linnëa that she had never suspected existed, a craving to experience the things that she had unknowingly sacrificed. The offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for

  her to ignore. She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a time, they were happy

  "But the young man was young, and he began to long for a mate closer to his own age. His eyes fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won her. And for a time, they too

  were happy.

  "When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst possible thing; he had given her a taste

  of the fullness of life, then torn it away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him to

  death.

  "Linnëa knew that what she had done was evil. She also knew that even if she was exonerated of the murder, she could not return to her previous existence. Life had lost all joy for

  her. So she went to the oldest tree in Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and

  three nights she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved plants. And through all the millennia since she has kept watch over the forest… Thus was the Menoa tree created."

  At the conclusion of her tale, Arya and Eragon sat side by side on the crest of a huge root, twelve feet off the ground. Eragon bounced his heels against the tree and wondered if

  Arya had intended the story as a warning to him or if it was merely an innocent piece of history.

  His doubt hardened into certainty when she asked, "Do you think that the young man was to blame for the tragedy?"

  "I think," he said, knowing that a clumsy reply could turn her against him, "that what he did was cruel … and that Linnëa overreacted. They were both at fault.

  Arya stared at him until he was forced to avert his gaze. "They weren't suited for each other."

  Eragon began to deny it but then stopped himself. She was right. And she had maneuvered him so that he had to say it out loud, so that he had to say it to her. "Perhaps," he

  admitted.

  Silence accumulated between them like sand piling into a wall that neither of them was willing to breach. The highpitched hum of cicadas echoed from the edge of the clearing. At

  last he said, "Being home seems to agree with you."

  "It does." With unconscious ease, she leaned over and picked up a thin branch that had fallen from the Menoa tree and began to weave the clips of needles into a small basket.

  Hot blood rushed to Eragon's face as he watched her. He hoped that the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks hat turned mottled red. "Where… where do you live?

  Do you and Islanzadí have a palace or castle…?"

  "We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family's ancestral buildings, in the western part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you."

  "Ah." A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon's muddled thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. "Arya, do you have any siblings?" She shook her head. "Then you arer />
  the sole heir to the elven throne?'

  "Of course. Why do you ask?" She sounded bemused by his curiosity.

  "I don't understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira's egg from here to Tronjheim. It's too dangerous an errand

  for a princess, much less the queeninwaiting."

  "You mean it's too dangerous for a human woman. I told you before that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that we view our monarchs differently

  than you or the dwarves. TO us, a king or queen's highest responsibility is to serve their people however and wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we

  welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to – as the dwarves say – hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then a replacement successor would have

  been chosen from among our various Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling to

  devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation." She hesitated, then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on them. "I had many years to perfect those

  arguments with my mother." For a minute, the wheetwheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the clearing. Then she asked, "How go your studies with Oromis?"

  Eragon grunted as his foul temper returned on a wave of unpleasant memories, souring his pleasure at being with Arya. All he had wanted to do was crawl into bed, go to sleep,

  and forget the day. "Oromiselda," he said, working each word around his mouth before letting it escape, "is quite thorough."

  He winced as she gripped his upper arm with bruising strength. "What has gone amiss?'

  He tried to shrug her hand off. "Nothing."

  "I've traveled with you long enough to know when you're happy, angry… or in pain. Did something happen between you and Oromis? If so, you have to tell me so that it can be

  rectified as soon as possible. Or was it your back? We could"

  "It's not my training!" Despite his pique, Eragon noted that she seemed genuinely concerned, which pleased him. "Ask Saphira. She can tell you."