The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  "Your sister sounds amazing."

  "She was." Odette told her, returning to her archery stance and firing off arrows, one after another.

  Mariah paused, thinking it better not to ask questions. She readied her bow and carefully started shooting towards the targets. The silence between them returned, broken only by

  the whistling arrows cutting through the air. Once their quivers were empty again, Odette dropped her arm, staring slightly at her perfectly aimed projectiles.

  "You have a brother." It wasn't really a question, but Mariah answered with a yes anyway. "He… must be very proud of you."

  She blinked, staring at her. There was no way Mark was proud of her. "I've nothing for him to be proud of me for. I've done nothing to earn his praise. If anything he should hate me… that is, if he even knows I'm alive."

  "One would think." Odette said, "But siblings have a way of forgiving each other in a way no one else can, not even lovers. No matter what happens, they will always be there for

  you – being bound in blood means more than being bound by emotions… in some cases."

  Night lay heavy on the sky. The sun had been down for nearly an hour and the stars were shining brightly overhead. Odette stared upward, looking lost in thought, a pained

  expression slipping over her features. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded broken, "My sister, she forgave me. I didn't deserve it. She had left home to join the war for

  Galbatorix and all I did was yell at her for leaving me as she walked out the door. When she returned home, her battle wounds so severe that she would die within a few hours, all

  she did was forgive me. I should have been thanking her for doing what she had to in order to protect me."

  She looked toward Mariah, "Believe me when I say it, little girl, that your brother must be very proud of you. No matter what you've done, he's the one who will be by your side."

  Mariah watched as she walked back into the castle, her trail of fiery hair floating behind her.

  Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before: how to counter someone else's spells. He could sever his invisible bonds using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he knew how Oromis had immobilized him – whether by affecting his body directly or using an external source – for then he could redirect the element or

  force to disperse Oromis's power. Or he could use a generic, vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest

  of strength between them. It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope of prevailing against an elf.

  Assembling the required phrase, he said, "Losna kalfya iet." Release my calves.

  The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had anticipated; he went from being moderately tired from the day's pains and exertions to feeling as if he had hiked

  over rough terrain since morn. Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he regained his balance.

  Oromis shook his head. "Foolish," he said, "very foolish. If I had committed more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never use absolutes."

  "Absolutes?"

  "Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: success or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger than you then you would have

  expended all of your energy trying to break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the attempt once you realized that it was futile."

  "How do I avoid that?" asked Eragon.

  "It's safer to make the spell a process that you can terminate at your discretion. Instead of saying release my calves, which is an absolute, you could say reduce the magic

  imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you could then decide how much you wanted t your opponent's spell decreased and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again."

  The pressure returned to Eragon's legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could provide much opposition. Nevertheless,

  he reached for the magic.

  Before the ancient language left Eragon's mouth, he became aware of a curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady rate. It tickled and felt like he was

  being pulled out of a mire of cold, slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf's face scribed by passion, as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A

  vein throbbed at one of Oromis's temples.

  When Eragon's arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two hands, his thin chest heaving. For

  perhaps a minute, he remained thus, then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of Tel'naeir, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.

  Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon – the same emotions that had gripped him when he first saw Glaedr's mutilated foreleg. He cursed himself for being so arrogant with Oromis,

  so oblivious to his infirmities, and for not placing more confidence in the elf's judgment. I'm not the only one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not full comprehended

  what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis's situation and the pain that it must cause him,

  especially for one of his race, who was born and bred with magic.

  Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. "Ebrithil, I beg your pardon."

  The elf gave no indication that he had heard.

  The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew cool and moist. From the north came

  the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira and Glaedr's wing strokes as the returned for the day.

  In a low, distant voice, Oromis said, "We will begin anew tomorrow, with this and other subjects." From his profile, Eragon could tell that Oromis had regained his customary

  expression of impassive reserve. "Is that agreeable to you?"

  "Yes, Master," said Eragon, grateful for the question.

  "I think it best if, from now on, you endeavor to speak only in the ancient language. We have little time at our disposal, and this is the fastest way for you to learn."

  "Even when I talk to Saphira?"

  "Even then."

  Adopting the elven tongue, Eragon vowed, "Then I will work ceaselessly until I not only think, but dream, in your language."

  "If you achieve that," said Oromis, replying in kind, "our venture may yet succeed. He paused. "Instead of flying directly here in the morning, you will accompany the elf I send to

  guide you. He will take you to where those of Ellesméra practice swordplay. Stay for an hour, then continue as normal."

  "Won't you teach me yourself?" asked Eragon, feeling slighted.

  "I have naught to teach. You are as good a swordsman as ever I have met. I know no more of fighting than you, and that which I possess and you do not, I cannot give you. All that

  remains for you is to preserve your current level of skill."

  "Why can't I do that with you… Master?"

  "Because I do not appreciate beginning the day with alarum and conflict."

  It took all of ten seconds for Mariah to react to her door being slammed open. Kieran was tackling her to off her bed, daggers clashing against one another, and the sun wasn't even

  up yet. Snarling, she kicked the princess off of her and regained her footing. The woman brushed off her skirts and blinked at Mariah. "You live to fight another day, or at least the

  remainder of the day. I need you to be in the courtyard within half an hour."

  "Wouldn't it have been easier just to yell at me through the door?!" Mariah shouted as she walked out. The door slammed shut and she mutte
red under her breath, dressing quickly

  and running down to the courtyard, brushing past guards on her way. She hurried to Andrar and hugged him around his snout. "How does your wing feel?"

  Better than yesterday, yet far worse than usual. He assured her, looking over at it. Andrar watched as Mariah moved towards it, running her fingers over the fractured areas and

  letting her magic soak into it. In the mornings, she would use up much of the day's energy on repairing his wing, leaving her drained until nightfall when she finally collapsed.

  "You keep that up, you'll be snapping at people all day," Murtagh insisted, folding his arms. "No energy means you'll be tired, which means I'm getting yelled at for doing nothing."

  "Shut up," she rolled her eyes, finishing up the healing spells.

  "Yes, just like that," he insisted, turning to Thorn as he landed heavily on the ground, licking at his jaws to clear them of blood. "So, are you and Kieran on speaking terms again

  yet?"

  Mariah blinked, "She attacked me while I was sleeping this morning." Looking over at him finally, she couldn't help but notice the small cut on his jaw where he'd nicked himself

  shaving earlier. Clearly, he hadn't noticed it enough to heal it, as blood was just ever so slightly sliding down his neck.

  "…so that's a yes?"

  She shot him a glare and huffed a sigh. "I wouldn't consider it speaking. More like a voluntary exchange of words that right now are meaningless because she broke my dragon's wing!"

  "I told you I'm getting yelled at for doing nothing…" Murtagh shook his head, "You know… it's not really her fault."

  "No, it's mine, I know." Mariah said, "It's always my fault Murtagh, I'm the one to blame when stuff like this happens, I know. Hell, if it's the only thing I know it's that."

  He blinked, "That reminds me… come here." He waved her over, smiling vaguely at her exaggerated groan. When she was within reach, he gave her a hug, muttering under his

  breath.

  "What are you" he cut her off with a kiss. She closed her eyes for a minute and opened them again, blinking rapidly. "What was that?"

  He smirked, "What? I can't kiss you anymore?" He pressed his lips to her forehead, "Good morning by the way. And I am sorry Kieran tackled you awake."

  Hugging him tightly, she sighed against his chest, "I should know better than to leave my door unlocked at night."

  "Yes, yes you should. Who knows what kind of crazy person could sneak into your room and… you know… stab you or something?" He asked rhetorically. Andrar snorted and

  chuckled a bit. "Well, I suppose we should go join Kieran… before she actually decides to stab one of us."

  "Might not be a bad idea," she agreed, looking up at him. Licking her thumb, she wiped away the drying blood from his face, receiving a confused look in return. Pulling away from

  Murtagh and patting Andrar's nose. The dragon blinked once at her, humming as she walked off towards the middle of the courtyard where the princess was waiting to begin

  practice, leaving Murtagh to follow.

  Kieran smiled at them as they approached, "Are we ready for some training?"

  "The sun's not even up yet Kieran."

  "Has that ever stopped me before? No. Okay, so let's get started."

  As she drew her sword, Mariah and Murtagh exchanged glances, wondering what had her so excited already.

  Saphira and Glaedr glided across the flat disk of the sun. First came Glaedr with a roar of wind, blotting out the sky with his massive bulk before he settled on the grass and folded

  his golden wings, then Saphira, as quick and agile as a sparrow beside an eagle.

  After their usual questioning, Glaedr bent his gaze toward Eragon, You an I will have to train together soon.

  "Of course, Skulblaka."

  The old dragon snorted and crawled alongside Oromis, half hopping with his front leg to compensate for his missing limb. After a quick reminder of the following days' schedule,

  Eragon climbed onto Saphira's back and together they returned to Ellesméra.

  Back in their eyrie, Eragon ate a light supper and was just about to open one of Oromis's scrolls when a knock on the screen door disturbed his quiet.

  "Enter," he said, hoping that Arya had returned to see him.

  She had.

  Arya greeted Eragon and Saphira, then said, "I thought that you might appreciate an opportunity to visit Tialdari Hall and the adjacent gardens, since you expressed interest in them

  yesterday. That is, if you aren't too tired." She wore a flowing red kirtle trimmed and decorated with intricate designs wrought in black thread. The color scheme echoed the queen's

  robes and emphasized the strong resemblance between mother and daughter.

  Eragon pushed aside the scrolls. "I'd be delighted to see them."

  He means we'd be delighted, added Saphira.

  Arya looked surprised when both of them spoke in the ancient language, so Eragon explained Oromis's command. "An excellent idea," said Arya, joining them in the same language.

  "And it is more appropriate to speak thus while you stay here."

  When all three of them had descended from the tree, Arya directed them westward toward an unfamiliar quadrant of Ellesméra. They encountered many elves on the path, all of

  whom stopped to bow to Saphira.

  Eragon noticed once again that no elf children were to be seen. He mentioned this to Arya, and she said, "Aye, we have few children. Only two are in Ellesméra at the present,

  Dusan and Alanna. We treasure children above all else because they are so rare. To have a child is the greatest honor and responsibility that can be bestowed upon any living

  being."

  At last they arrived at a ribbed lancet arch – grown between two trees – which served as the entrance for a wide compound. Still in the ancient language, Arya changed, "Root of

  tree, fruit of vine, let me pass by this blood of mine."

  The two archway doors trembled, then swung outward, releasing five monarch butterflies that fluttered toward the dusky sky. Through the archway lay a vast flower garden

  arranged to look as pristine and natural as a wild meadow. The only element that betrayed artifice was the sheer variety of plants; many of the species were blooming out of

  season, or came from hotter or colder climates and would never have flourished without the elves' magic. The scene was lit with the gemlike flameless lanterns, augmented by

  constellations of swirling fireflies.

  To Saphira, Arya said, "Mind you tail, that it does not sweep across the beds."

  Advancing, they crossed the garden and pressed deep into a line of scattered trees. Before Eragon quite knew where he was, the trees became more numerous and then thickened

  into a wall. He found himself standing on the threshold of a burnished wood hall without ever being conscious of having gone inside.

  The hall was warm and homey – a place of peace, reflection, and comfort. Its shape was determined by the tree trunks, which one the inside of the hall had been stripped of their

  bark, polished and rubbed with oil until the wood gleamed like amber. Regular gaps between the trunks acted as windows. The scent of crushed pine needles perfumed the air. A

  number of elves occupied the hall, reading, writing, and, in one dark corner, playing a set of reed pipes. They all paused and inclined their heads to acknowledge Saphira's

  presence.

  "Here you would stay," said Arya, "were you not Rider and dragon."

  "It's magnificent," replied Eragon.

  Arya guided him and Saphira everywhere in the compound that was accessible to dragons. Each new room was a surprise; no two were alike, and each chamber found different

  ways to incorporate the forest in its construction. In one room, a silver brook trickled down the gnarled wall and flowed across the floor on a vein of pebbles and back out under the

  sky. In another, creepers blanketed the entire r
oom, except for the floor, in a leafy green pelt adorned with trumpetshaped flowers with the most delicate pink and white colors.

  Arya called it the Liani Vine.

  They saw many great works of art, from fairths and paintings to sculptures and radiant mosaics of stained glass – all based on the curved shapes of plants and animals.

  Izlanzadi met with them for a short time in an open pavilion joined to two other bui9ldings by covered pathways. She inquired about the progress of Eragon's training and the state

  of his back, both of which he described with brief, polite phrases. This seemed to satisfy the queen, who exchanged a few words with Sahpira and then departed.

  In the end, they returned to the garden. Eragon walked beside Arya – Saphira trailing behind – entranced by the sound of her voice as she told him about the different varieties of

  flowers, where they originated, how they were maintained, and, in many instances, how they had been altered with magic. She also pointed out the flowers that only opened their

  petals during the night, like a white datura.

  "Which one is your favorite?" he asked.

  Arya smiled and escorted him to a tree on the ege of the garden, by a pond lined with rushes. Around the tree's lowest branch coiled a morning glory with three velvety black

  blossoms that were clenched shut.

  Blowing on them, Arya whispered, "Open."

  The petals rustled as they unfurled, fanning their inky robes to expose the hoard of nectar in their centers. A starburst of royal blue filled the flowers' throats, diffusing into the

  sable corolla like the vestiges of day into night.

  "Is it not the most perfect and lovely flower?" asked Arya.

  Eragon gazed at her, exquisitely aware of how close they were, and said, "Yes… it is." Before his courage deserted him, he added, "As are you."

  Eragon! exclaimed Saphira.

  Arya fixed her eyes upon him, studying him until he was forced to look away. When he dared face her again, he was mortified to see her wearing a faint smile, as if amused by his

  reaction. "You are too kind," she murmured. Reaching up, she touched the rim of a blossom and glanced from it to him. "Faolin created this especially for me one summer solstice,