The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions weaker than ours. Unprotected, your risk losing yourself in the web of our magic. I have seen it happen. Even

  with these precautions, you must take care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad – wonderfully,

  gloriously mad, but mad all the same."

  Dripping from the storm, Kieran flung open the doors to the castle, drained. Innes had put up a good fight, a good, long fight. She had to knock him unconscious to win, and even

  that had been difficult considering his silver tongue.

  Nearly back to her room, she saw Mariah barreling towards her in panic, slamming into her, holding onto her forearms, sweating. "I need you to wipe my memory."

  "What?" She recoiled, looking over her face. Her hair was hanging wildly around her face as beads of sweat dripped from her brow. Her hands were shaky on Kieran's arms, in

  response, she gripped Mariah's hands. "What are you talking about?"

  "Please. Murtagh's gone. He usually does it for me. But I can't remember this time, please."

  The princess watched her panicked breathing, narrowing her eyes. "What did you do?"

  Mariah shook her head, nearly in tears. "If he finds out… please Kieran!"

  "I don't know... you said Murtagh's done this before?"

  "Yes! If you don't he will kill me."

  She set her jaw, watching Mariah fidgeting and groaned, pressing her fingers to her forehead and speaking the spell aloud, wiping her memory. Kieran caught her as she collapsed,

  holding her against her chest. Her mouth parted in shock as she glanced over the events Mariah was trying to escape. The brush against her consciousness had felt bare of so much; however, bright in the flash was a blond man, and Kieran instantly knew he was the reason why Mariah and Murtagh had been fighting.

  Picking her up off the floor, Kieran carried Mariah to her room, setting her down in her bed gently. Brushing Mariah's hair out of her face, she sighed, kissing her forehead. The

  princess went to leave, pausing when her gaze caught the small stack of books on the table nearby. Moving to it, she picked up the first thin volume and started reading through it,

  shifting her weight onto her left leg.

  "Nailah Moonsinger…" Kieran muttered, reading closely. She moved to the chair placed next to the table and sat with her legs crossed, bouncing her heel as she went through the

  book. She looked up when Mariah woke, smiling. "Is this what you stay up all night reading?"

  "Yes." She said, rubbing her forehead. "Which one is that?"

  "It looks like it's just some basic information about the Forsworn, names and dates are listed, some of them are torn or blackened out. It's difficult to make any of this out… how are

  you getting through them?"

  "I'm satisfied with whatever I can learn about my parents… I still can't figure out who my father is though. My mother was Brom's daughter, from what I've found. They mentioned

  her training with him once… I'm sure he never told me because he was so ashamed of what she had become."

  "She became a Rider, and he should have told you that much. There are few positions more honorable than that."

  Mariah smiled, "True."

  Looking up at her, Kieran sighed, shaking her head. "We should get back to training; I came up to get you and was distracted. You must have fallen back asleep after running about

  this morning."

  "I don't remember getting up yet…" she said, looking over her clothing.

  "I knew it; you are sleep walking, aren't you? Tell me, how do you scale down the side of the castle in the dark without being awake?" Kieran stood as she asked, snapping the book

  shut and leading the way out of her room.

  On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren – which was to last three days – Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a host of elves were assembled, their

  black and silver hair flickering in the lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen's left

  shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there, as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recognized, such as Lifaen and Narí and,

  to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the stars glittered in the velvet sky.

  "Wait here," said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Eragon greeted her, and she nodded to him

  and Saphira. "Well met, Brightscales and Shadeslayer." Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwarvish, to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to converse

  with someone in the rough speech of his native land.

  "What did she say?" asked Eragon, bending down.

  "She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal working." Awe crossed Orik's face. "Eragon, she first learned her craft from Fûthark himself, one of the legendary

  grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum! What I would give to have met him."

  Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a marble spear. A soft white orb gathered

  itself above her palm from the light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hollow in

  the bark, where it remained, pulsing.

  Eragon turned to Arya. "Is it begun?"

  "It is begun!" She laughed. "Any it will end when the werelight expends itself."

  The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the forest and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere, they produced tables laden high with

  fantastic dishes, which from their appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers' handiwork as the cooks'.

  Then the elves began to sing in their clear, fluelike voices. They sang many songs, yet each was but part of a large melody that wove an enchantment over the dreamy night,

  heightening senses, removing inhibitions, and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the

  sorrow of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.

  What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall. It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He could remember certain incidents with

  vivid clarity – bright, pungent flashes filled with merriment – but it was beyond him to reconstruct the order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or night, for

  no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the celebration.

  Galbatorix walked past them all, lined up in the middle of the courtyard at the first light of day. Each of their dragon hatchlings were curled around them, sitting at their sides

  obediently. He surveyed the group a moment before pointing at the largest one. "Cederic first."

  He smirked and stepped forward, the smoky dragon standing and walking with him, lashing his tail.

  "What did you name it?"

  "Reaper," said Cederic. From behind him, Camilla smirked, unable to believe her brother's brilliance.

  "Excellent, now, do hold still…" He said, reaching his hand out and speaking aloud in Elvish. The pain that coursed through Cederic was unexpected, blasting from his every muscle

  he shouted out in agony, writhing on the floor as the smoky dragon croaked out. The squealing soon turned into a deafening roar beside him as the dragon g
rew. As suddenly as it

  had begun, it was over. Looking up, Cedric was in tears, reaching out and touching Reaper's nose.

  He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elfmaid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of juniper in the air…

  Pearce hesitated, watching what unfolded in front of him. Reaper was now half the size of Thorn, and he anticipated more to come. The copper dragon at his ankles quickly twined

  around behind him, shivering. Reaching down, Pearce held Talath to his chest, speaking quietly to soothe their troubled thoughts.

  "Unless you wish to be crushed, you would do well to set him down." Galbatorix said, turning his outstretched hand towards them, repeating the phrase once more.

  Quickly, the dragon jumped down from his arms and scurried a ways away. Pearce felt a mental snap, the dragon blocking off his thoughts as the spell took effect. He watched muscles ripple and bones snap helplessly, rushing after his dragon. Talath's long tail pushed him aside before another spasm attacked the dragon, after which he fell to the grass

  with a halfhearted growl.

  "Please let me back in," he begged, kneeling next to the head of his dragon, stroking scales that would now scarcely have fit in his palm. "I don't care if it hurts me…" Pearce muttered shakily. "Talath… please."

  He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed gold harps and called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and

  then, pointed a finger at the sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various shapes before fading away…

  Hal scoffed at the two of them. "Pathetic. You two can't deal with a little pain."

  Galbatorix turned on him, "You wish to be next then?" Before Hal could respond, he choked and watched as Deíron writhed beside him. He braced himself for the pain, feeling the

  rush as his muscles were tearing apart and reforming all at once. His dragon thrashed, knocking him to the floor. Hal groaned, clenching his hands, sweating in agony. After several minutes of lying there being tormented, the pain let up. He crawled over and leaned on Deíron's tail, panting.

  He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching the same elfmaid sway before a rapt audience while she sang. He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful – mostly both. He heard Arya's poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islanzadí's, which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to listen

  to those two works…

  Camilla watched in horror while Belladonna encircled her throat, at all three of the men grounded next to their dragons. When Galbatorix turned to her, she took a step back. "No.

  Please… I don't need her to get so big so quickly…"

  "You will need a mount when going into battle, and there is nothing better for a Dragon Rider than a dragon. This is what I chose you for Camilla. Are you going to reject your

  destiny now, after everything? I have seen you broken and bleeding on these stones in the past months. Are you telling me you don't want this? You once claimed this as your fate…

  how you would become one of the most powerful beings ever lived. And you're going to let a few moments of suffering ruin everything for you?"

  She faltered, looking at Belladonna at her cheek. The dragoness chirped and dipped her head. This is what you want Camilla.

  Not like this. I never wanted it to be like this.

  This is what has to be done.

  I want to be strong.

  Then we will be strong together.

  She turned her gaze back to Galbatorix, waiting for her answer. "I… alright."

  "Magnificent," he assured her, straightening slightly as Belladonna dropped from her shoulder, sitting daintily in front of her.

  Don't cry Camilla.

  She turned her head away as the king spoke, hiding her face in her hands. Her spiraling hair fell over her as she crouched, curling up tightly, closing her eyes, trying to focus on

  breathing and not the screeches from her dragoness beside her.

  He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration, many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with the assistance of magic. Puzzles and

  toys, art and weapons, and items whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another elf

  had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from the throats of a hundred white lilies.

  Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead and other such items without harm, and a

  delicate sculpture of a wren in flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill that the bird seemed alive.

  A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fiftyeight interlocking pieces was Orik's offering, much to the elves' delight, who insisted upon disassembling and

  reassembling the pyramid as often as he would allow. "Master Longbeard," they called him, and said, "Clever fingers mean a clever mind."

  Innes paused when Galbatorix came to him. "I want to do it."

  He tipped his head with curiosity. "You can't control that kind of power."

  "Then finish it, but I want to try."

  "Very well, you will have to use the power stored in there." He pointed over at a locked chest the guards had carried out earlier. "It will provide you with the power that you need."

  Innes nodded, tapping into the abundance of magic within the chest. Ecaeris sniffed at him, twining around his legs and hissing at the others. She waited patiently for her Rider to

  speak, looking towards him with her full attention.

  He spoke and she shuddered, quickly growing in size, hissing at him as he did so. He felt some of her pain and attempted to ease it, rewording the spell as he went. Finally, when

  he could no longer hold the spell, he dropped to the ground, panting. Ecaeris moved to him and helped him stand with her tail, her large glossy black eye the size of his fist.

  He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and asking the elf, "What's wrong?"

  "You need to clear your mind." Oromis guided him to a fallen log and had him sit. "Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better."

  "I'm fine. I don't need to rest," protested Eragon.

  "You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you can list the spells of changing, great and minor, then you may rejoin us. Promise me this…"

  She surveyed the rest of them and whispered quietly to her dragon. Galbatorix picked up on her hushed voice and strode to her, reaching towards the dragon as she tried to hide

  him behind her back. "You are the last."

  "I can't let you do it. He just hatched yesterday." Pearce looked up from Talath and headed for Odette, hoping to help her ease her suffering.

  "So did Talath. Let's finish what we've started." He grabbed her dragon, which squirmed until he managed to bite Galbatorix's hand.

  "Cordis!" Dropping the dragon he swore and spat the cursed spell out from his mouth. Odette dashed towards him, unable to make it closer due to the flailing wings and tail. As

  Galbatorix spoke he writhed and twisted. Odette stilled as she felt something break. "…Cordis?" The dragon ceased moving and stared at her, jaw agape with glazed eyes. "No…"

  Tears welled and streamed down her cheeks, staring at the mass of wings and scales. "No!" She screeched, trying to run to him.

  Pearce was holding her, letting her kick and scream as he picked her up, biting his tongue. "Odette. There's nothing you can do."

  "I need him, let me go to him!"

  "He's gone."

  She twisted in his grip and scratched him with her nails, sinking her teeth into his hand holding her, drawing blood before finally break
ing free of his grasp. Hitting the stone, she

  heaved and gripped her stomach, vomiting and spitting blood. Picking herself up, she slowly crawled to her dead dragon, sobbing as she felt his cold scales. After he had hatched

  for her, she had realized her mind only ever felt half full. With his consciousness twined with hers, she had felt whole. As Odette wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his

  head onto her lap, her mind felt like the void. "Cordis… please… no."

  He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths of the forest. They majority were animals who had been altered by the accumulated spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find nourishment in the presence of the elves' magic. Most dared

  reveal themselves only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light. One animal that did expose itself was the shewolf – in the form of a whiterobed woman – that

  Eragon had encountered before. She lurked behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth barred in an amused grin, her yellow eyes darting from point to point.

  But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different ideal of beauty. An elf covered in

  brindled fur leaped over and Eragon and continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to

  his knees, and his longfingered hands had rough pads on the palm.

  Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They moved with languid grace, and when they touched their hands to their lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon

  saw that their fingers were joined by translucent webbing. "We have come far," they whispered. As they spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks,

  exposing pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.

  He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pallid flames that ever flickered in the

  pits of his flared nostrils. And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves who, when motionless, were indistinguishable from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even