"Do… you know what happened to her?"
"No…" He swallowed, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for himself. "They spirited us, and the dragon, away. They had knocked us out, and while they were busy with the
dragon halfway back to Urû'baen I ran. There wasn't much more I could do."
Kendra nodded and sighed. "Mark thinks his sister is the new Rider for Galbatorix. You know, he would have tried to do the same to you if he'd captured you too."
"What do you mean?"
"The eggs we collected over the years, he would have tried to get one to hatch for you, and make you a Rider. You're like the son he never had. Kieran and I always were
disappointments to him for that reason." She observed the table again slowly. "I do not look forward to meeting her on the battlefield."
He hadn't even thought about that before. Murtagh watched her quietly, trying to imagine what it would be like to see the two of them fight now. The sound of clashing steel echoed
in his ears. He had seen them fight before, and it was fierce. Kieran had a dragon, yes, but she would insist on fighting her alone, without the advantage, just to prove to both of
them that she could beat her. The thought of seeing them fight, and the possibility of watching Kieran kill her twin was almost unbearable. "You aren't actually going to fight her,
are you?"
"I'll be on the front lines of any battle we have against Galbatorix; you should know me better than that by now." She said, avoiding his gaze, knowing where his mind had been.
"I'm not scared of my sister."
"I just don't want to see something happen. I can't imagine…"
She smirked. "I'm not gonna die. Not yet. I refuse to die until I see Galbatorix fall."
"You know it's not your choice…"
"Well maybe it wouldn't be such a concern if I had someone covering my back. I have only a handful of people I trust and they are all busy doing other things I trust no one else
with and you left me."
"I left because I couldn't become one of his pawns. You did the same."
"Only after you left me there!"
"You said it yourself; he was going to turn me into a Rider. If I hadn't escaped, then what?"
"Then he would have turned you into a Rider, just like my sister. He tried to convince me many times, and I always refused. I know you remember those days. When you left and
he had no one else to turn to, I was certain I was going to be forced into it. I never wanted that life, you know that. When I heard you had managed to escape, I left in the hopes
that I would be able to track you down. But obviously you fled too well. You never came back."
"You understand why I left, don't you? That was the hardest thing I ever had to do, leave you there. I couldn't have taken you with me; you would have died before we made it to
the gates."
"I nearly did, you leaving me like that!"
"I'm sorry!" He watched as she nearly broke into tears again, his voice softening. "I'm sorry… I left you there. I wanted to come back for you the second I left. Kendra…" Murtagh
watched as she turned and wiped at her face again. He sighed and stepped to her, setting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
She twisted into his shoulder and held onto him tightly, curling her fingers into his jerkin. "I know."
Murtagh pulled her closer and tipped her face up to look at him, brushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked down, wiping at her tears and sniffed as he rubbed her shoulders
gently, trying to calm her back down. He held her close and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Murtagh…"
The sudden rush to his chest felt like being in the middle of a battle. Aware of how close she was, Murtagh noted her eyelashes brushing against the tip of his nose and her breath
hot on his face. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he went ridged, unprepared as she pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Regaining himself he
responded, his gloved hands slipping up her neck and into her hair. She leaned back against the table when he pressed forward. Murtagh quickly used the table to steady himself,
throwing out his left hand, while his right lingered in her hair. Finally, there was a break and she inhaled shakily, her breath dancing on his lips. She turned her eyes upward,
watching him.
Leaning down, he set his head on her shoulder, turning his face into her neck. "I missed you."
"I missed you too." She held him tight against her and pressed her cheek against the stubble on his face, kissing his jaw. Kendra ran her fingers up his neck and twisted her fingers
into his hair. "You should rest… you look like you've been traveling." Pulling back slowly, dropping her arms around his neck, she gazed at him before cupping his face with one
hand, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone.
"I've been through worse and lived."
She smiled a little and blushed, bringing her hands down to toy with his collar. "You look like you were in a fight recently, that's all…"
Murtagh glanced down at her hands before turning his gaze back to her eyes. "I was, but I assure you I'm fine."
"One of my spies shot you earlier…"
"I'd honestly forgotten about that." He admitted, touching his side and finding fresh blood. Murtagh ducked under his bow and quiver, hanging them on the chair beside him. Wincing, he reached for his magic and was about to utter a spell when he stopped himself. She didn't know he could use magic. Murtagh's heart pulsed once harshly, knowing in the
back of his mind he had been hiding it from her the entire time. He refused to tell her the truth, not wanting to know what her reaction would be if she found out.
"Well, let me heal it for you, it's the least I can do," replied Kendra, taking his arm and making him sit down. She crouched beside him, looking over the tear in his jerkin. "I need
to see it." Without thinking, Kendra grabbed at the red fabric and tugged it over his head. He winced as she did so, watching her fling the tunic over the back of the chair.
"Kendra…"
"Shh, I'm trying to concentrate…" she muttered the spell, her fingers glowing slightly with magic the color of her eyes. Walking her fingers across his torso, she poked at the wound
and then slid her index and middle digits across the gash. His skin stitched back together seamlessly and the pain rushed away as the last of her magic seeped into the muscles.
Murtagh sat on the edge of the bed, watching her carefully. It was apparent with the level of concentration and chosen words that she was trying to do the best she knew how, not
just quickly, but thoroughly. Waiting until she was finished, he took her hand and pulled her down beside him. "Thanks…"
"You're welcome." Kendra glanced at him, watching as he leaned forward on his knees with a sigh. His back rippled as he did so, the scar glaring even in the dim candle light.
Instinctively, her fingers reached out, tracing along the center. Murtagh stilled at her touch. "Does it hurt?"
"No…" he insisted. "Very rarely does it give me trouble. It's just a reminder… that's all." Murtagh looked back at her as she removed her hand, shaking his head. "I can't believe I
ran into you like this…"
"Wasn't really your fault, I did assume you were an assassin and I did try to kill you first." She tipped her head, watching him as her hair fell into her eyes.
He let out a chuckle, smiling at her. "There are better ways to go." He laughed harder as she elbowed him in the side. "Sorry, I forgot, not supposed to upset the princess."
"Knights aren't supposed to upset their princesses," she insisted, her smile broad.
"Then I apologize again, your highness." Murtagh told her. "…you… really should sleep the rest of the night you know. I'll still be here in the morning." He stood and stretched, moving for his tunic.
Her smile dropped, reaching for his hand. "Don't leave m
e." Kendra twisted her fingers with his. "I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and think this was all a dream."
Murtagh leaned down, his nose brushing her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "I'll stay. Now sleep, please…"
"Okay," she agreed, watching as he removed his gloves, boots, and sword belt. After setting those on the chair nearby Murtagh turned again to her, pulling her back into a hug.
Kendra smiled as he brushed his nose against hers; leaving light kisses on her eyelids. "Don't let go…" she muttered quietly as she pulled him to lie down beside to her, setting her
head on his shoulder.
"I won't," Murtagh promised with his lips against her temple.
A week before the Agaetí Blödhren, when Eragon and Saphira were about the return to their quarters from the Crags of Tel'naeír, Oromis said, "You should both think about what
you can bring to the Bloodoath Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function, I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if
it's the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you each make a separate piece. That too is custom."
In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?
I might have one. But if you don't mind, I'd like to see if it works before I tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone protruding from the forest floor
before she concealed it from him.
He grinned. Won't you give me a hint?
Fire. Lots of fire.
Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know more about farming than anything else, but I don't see how I can turn that to my advantage. Nor can I hope
to compete with the elves with magic or match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their talent exceed that of the finest artisans in the Empire.
But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.
Oh?
Your identity. Your history, deeds and situation. Use those to shape your creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base it upon that which is most
important to you. Only then will it have depth and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.
He looked at her with surprise. I never realized you knew so much about art.
I don't, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a bit.
Ah, yes. I had forgotten.
After Saphira left to pursue her project, Eragon paced along the edge of the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What's important to me? He asked himself.
Saphira, Mariah… Arya of course, being a good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn't blindingly obvious? I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have
already expressed everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to determine what struck
the deepest, darkest chords within him. What stirred him with enough passion – of either love or hate – that he burned to share with others?
Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves' epics that so engrossed him.
A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting stairs – two at a time – to the study,
where he sat before the writing desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.
The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:
In the kingdom by the sea,
In the mountains mantled blue…
The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to transport it fully formed into the world.
Having never composed a work of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that accompanies new ventures – especially since, previously, he had not suspected
that he might enjoy being a bard.
He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from his quill by the wild force of his writing. So
intense was his concentration, he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the empty paper, and thought of nothing buy the phrases etched in lines of fire behind his
eyes.
An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand, pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay before him. It was the most he had ever
written at one time. Eragon knew that his poem could not match those of the elves' and dwarves' great authors, but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh at
his effort.
He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley. You would not recognize the untested
boy who first set out for vengeance, I think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a
hundred years.
He smiled. If I live that long.
Mark spun a gold coin on the table, sighing as he listened to Rowan divvying up his spies for their missions for the day. Each of them waited their turn in the meeting hall, moving
when their leader called their name. He watched a young woman step up next, her footsteps lighter on the polished ebony than the boys that had preceded her. Since Nasuada's
leadership had taken hold, and Mark had started to help Kendra, the number of female recruits had nearly doubled. He assumed it was because they weren't treated as fairly in the
Varden's army as they were in the underground of the Black Palace.
He glanced around at the walls and ceiling, admiring the details and designs on them. His coin dropped to the table and he lowered his attention once more, watching as the last of
Rowan's spies fled from the room. "Plans for the day?"
"I thought you had to babysit Nasuada?"
Rolling his eyes, Mark stood and stretched. "If I babysit anyone, it's your princess. But she's off who bloody knows where. I scryed Trevin early this morning and he said she's gone
off somewhere. That charm of hers is very strong if it can ward off even me trying to scry her."
"Yes, she worked on that one for weeks before she was satisfied. Had Eirika scry her several times to test it," replied Rowan. He watched Mark looking at the walls again before
shaking his head. "If you're not going to help Nasuada today, then you can make yourself useful for us. Lose the lordly attire, find a uniform. You can meet with one of my units and
convey back what they have to report about the southern coast. Think you can manage?"
"How far?"
"Just halfway to Reavestone."
Mark nodded and strolled off to the armory, gathering up a neatly stacked solid black uniform. A black wolf was embroidered into the left shoulder. He changed, pulling on the pants
and leather jerkin, pausing as he went to pull the hood up over his head. Mark glanced in the mirror nearby and swept his hand through his black hair, as his fingers released his
locks, they streaked a shade of gold, starting at the roots and flowing to the tips. Smirking a bit, he blinked twice and watched his eyes, suddenly liquid amber. After running his
palm over his face, his features softened slightly, shaving off a few years in a matter of moments. Satisfied, he turned, tucking his own clothes in a cubby. Mark picked up his
sword belt and tied it around his waist securely.
Returning to the main hall, he strode through the rest of the group members unnoticed. Rowan glanced up and watched him walk ac
ross the floor, eyeing Mark's sword and his
stride, still unmistakable to the assassin's trained eye. As soon as Mark hit the staircase, Rowan turned his gaze back to the map laid out before him.
Mark pushed the door open to the alleyway and headed to the stables to fetch Aluora. Bobbing through the crowd as they went about their day, shopping, he was hit in the shoulder
by a large man. He turned to apologize and met a scowl, the words on his tongue faltering. Mark moved to the side of the road and avoided most of the traffic. A guard nearby eyed
him and the patch on his arm. "Black Lightning, eh? Don't be causing any trouble now."
He met the guard's gaze and was surprised to see no fear in his eyes as he stared him down. Mark blinked, suddenly feeling exhilarated. No one was following him through the
streets. There wasn't anyone calling to him, asking questions or requesting things from him. No women flaunting themselves at him. He grinned at the guard and nodded. "Yessir,
you have a good day now."
Hurriedly, Mark turned and made his way to the soldier's stables, finding an unattended, armyowned horse and freeing him from his quarters. The stallion nickered at him a moment before Mark calmed him down and pulled himself up into the saddle. He twisted the horse around with his heels before heading out of town southward.
"Rough but true," was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the poem.
"Then you like it?"
" 'Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?"
"I suppose not."
"However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue. No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty arises when one attempts to speak it,
for that would require you to tell untruths, which the magic will not allow."
"I can say it," replied Eragon, "because I believe it's true."
"And that gives your writing far more power… I am impressed, Eragonfiniarel. Your poem will be a worth addition to the Bloodoath Celebration." Raising a finger, Oromis reached
within his robe and gave Eragon a scroll tied shut with ribbon. "Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I want you to place around yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered at
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