"I wouldn't have taken it…" He insisted, shaking his head and ruffling his hair, turning it black again, dropping into a chair across from the thief, kicking his feet up on the table. "I'd
never sit on a throne… your games are of little interest to me."
His gaze moved back down to the table, surveying his maps and planning. "You could have it you know… the brother of a Rider… grandson of Brom… even without them your power
is nigh unmatchable. You could take Nasuada's hand with no difficulty… or even Kendra possibly… and when this war is over, place yourself high above the rest of the men in this
world."
Mark threw his head back, letting out a loud laugh. "The day Nasuada sits on the throne we're all in trouble. And the day Kendra takes me as her husband she will be stepping over my dead body by sunset."
Rowan raised an eyebrow at him, surveying this man from the far north. He had little interest in anything besides helping – Kendra, Nasuada, himself – it was as though his own
aspirations were nonexistent. He wanted nothing, except favors and information. Both, Rowan knew from experience, were worth more than gold and titles. "What are you doing
after this war?"
"You mean if we live through it?" Mark asked, stretching his hands behind his back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
"Assuming we do, yes. If you want nothing… you have already turned down the notion of power, gold… titles. You seem to have very little interest in women, or your eyes are set
somewhere far away…"
"When you figure out what I'm doing here, then you can let me know," he insisted, standing and going off to find his noble set of clothing. Mark left the Black Palace with his new
uniform tucked underneath his arm. He walked through the dark, empty street and looked up at the stars, connecting them together with his eyes.
From around a corner, someone sprinted towards him in dark clothing, the hurried rush of guards clinking in the armor too far away. Mark turned as the thief leapt past him,
catching sight of the wolf patch. He pivoted, rushing to follow them, grabbing their arm and shoving them down a side ally; his hand pressed against their mouth, pinning them to
the wall, quickly muttering an invisibility charm. The guards slowed their march and cursed as they lost their target.
Mark turned and looked down at the woman in front of him, recognizing her from the underground, waiting until they'd left before speaking. "You probably would have gotten murdered you know."
"Thank you lord Marcus." She said, letting out a breath, holding herself up by hanging onto his wrists. "The guard saw me leaving the castle and I ran."
He nodded once. "You're fast, good. I'm glad you can outrun them, but don't always count on it. You're lucky they didn't have a good archer."
She paled and blinked. "Aye."
"You'd best get back down to the palace or change."
"They're guarding the entrance I know about," she muttered, casting her eyes down. "I don't know how to get back in."
"Then you'd best change," he insisted. "Find a shop and get a dress or something for you to wear and get somewhere safe for the night. Did they see your face?"
"No, my hood was up."
"Good. Now go, before they circle around." She nodded, checking around the corner before sneaking off. Mark watched her leave and sighed, shaking his head, moving again
towards the castle. He glanced down at the bundle of black clothing under his arm and the wolf patch when he heard hurried footsteps coming from behind him.
"Halt!"
He groaned inwardly and turned to face the guards, his expression less than thrilled. "Yes, captain?"
"Lord Marcus, our apologies sir."
"You're forgiven, now what is the meaning of this?"
"Those thieves are running about and unsupervised, they are causing mayhem in the city. It's worse every day, just now"
"Yes. I saw them, rushing away from you stomping after them. It's not surprising they slipped away from you. There are more pressing matters for you to attend to than a tiny
guild of young men thieving… assassins perhaps, inside your city's walls? I know I certainly would appreciate any extra help running them out of their holes like the rats they are."
"Ssir."
"I'm sure Lady Nasuada would gladly reward anyone who helped find any of them as well." Since her brilliant idea of creating lace to generate money for their cause, the Varden
had risen in standing with Aberon, and were now treated as full members of the city. They were also making significant loans and gifts to those they felt needed to be persuaded.
The guard captain saluted him, forcing his men to march off and leave him alone. Mark scoffed, finally making his way back into the castle and his room.
Once safely inside the confines of his cluttered room, he picked his way across to the bed, sitting on the edge. He put the uniform down beside him, rubbing at his face. Satisfied he
had rubbed the weariness from his eyes, he reached over, and grasping the small orb Angela had given him, holding it in his palm. "Arya."
The elven princess appeared in the cloud of green smoke. She was on horseback amongst a few other elves, a convoy. They were returning to the Varden. Mark watched her and
the other elves for a moment before letting the magic fade. It would be safer for Eragon to stay in Ellesméra. "It won't matter if there are six riders. It's better for him to stay alive
than to call him away from his training…"
He set the orb back down after attempting to scry his sister. The vision of her in his mind faded as soon as he attempted to find her, leaving the smoke to swirl infinitely inside its
glass prison.
The doors closed behind Galbatorix and Kieran stepped forward, pulling the knife from Mariah's hand, listening to it clatter on the stone floor. Shruikan rumbled heavily as he
breathed, watching her. "Stop staring you giant lizard." He growled and snapped towards her, ice blue flames trickling around his maw. His scales scraped against the floor as he
turned and lumbered to the balcony before flying out and away. The black dragon was all but a speck in the air within a few massive beats of his wings.
Guiding Mariah from the room, Kieran said nothing, holding her shoulders, catching her when she stumbled, until they reached her quarters.
"I warned you."
"I know." She sat idly where Kieran put her on the edge of her bed and watched as the older woman healed up her selfinflicted wound. Mariah watched her graceful fingers dance
across her bleeding palm. "I just couldn't…"
Kieran growled, "I know you couldn't. Mariah… you are just like my damned sister. To stubborn… doesn't know when to quit."
"Sorry." She stared across the room blankly, able to see the faint blue icing over the edges of her vision. It was unnerving and a constant reminder that she was not in full control
of herself. She shivered and fell silent.
"What are you sorry for now?" The princess asked, laughing slightly.
Mariah blinked. She was sorry for many things that she had done, the way she had treated Kieran prior, the way she had spoken to Murtagh before he left. He must hate her. Now,
for her reaction to Cordis's death, for it had led her into a worse situation still. Now, Galbatorix had taken matters into his own hands, and her freedom had been stripped from her
completely; in turn, Andrar, Murtagh, and Thorn as well. "You hate your sister… sorry you hate me too. I should just expect this of people now. I have done nothing but hurt those
around me."
She stopped, "I don't hate you on the contrary. And I don't think you're the doombringer you think you are. You are my friend… my only friend… aside from Nasreen."
"I'm sure your father will be thrilled to hear that."
Kieran grabbed her by the shoulders, her expression pained. "No more stupid ideas, okay? If he's got you
… ensorcelled or something, then he probably can figure out what you're
thinking ten times easier than before. Try not to let anything slip away. Alright? No more trying to escape or anything like that..."
Mariah dropped her head and stared at Kieran's feet. They looked so dainty even in their bloodspattered heels. "Alright Kieran."
"I don't want to lose you too." Her voice came out quietly and she hugged Mariah tightly, pulling her into her chest. Kieran pressed her nose to the top of Mariah's head, kissing her
hair. She blinked against Kieran's collarbone and sighed when she heard the princess hold in a hiccup, hugging the older woman back tightly.
Kieran gave her a tiny smile and let her go. "You should sleep… you're probably exhausted."
"I am."
"Go ahead… I'll make sure no one bothers you." Kieran brushed her hair back away from Mariah's cheek and walked out of her room slowly.
Mariah watched her go, falling onto her back and sighing into her blankets, closing her eyes in a halfhearted attempt of sleep.
She felt her stomach drop out and into her throat as she fell. In freefall, she watched several dragons above her swirling around in the air, fighting. The wind grasped at her clothes
and hair as she hurtled towards the ground, back first. Mariah twisted, throwing out her arms in an attempt to slow down, trying to call on her magic, but realizing she had no
energy to draw upon. She was swept to her left as a gale rushed over her, looking up, she clutched at the hand of the Rider to no avail. They flew out of reach and she closed her
eyes as the hard ground below cracked against her back.
Opening her eyes, she saw Eragon staring down at her. The battlefield was nowhere to be seen, and she felt fine, the pain from falling but a vague memory. He let a smile grace
his features, pulling her to her feet. Mariah touched his face gently and smiled back, hugging him tight. "I have something I have to tell you." She looked at his face and hesitated,
the words on her lips faltering as she realized she shouldn't say anything because someone might be listening.
Mariah opened her eyes as a door slammed in the hall. She crawled out of bed slowly, touching the doorknob to the adjacent room, able to hear footsteps. She pushed the door
open slowly, peering through the crack. She stood, watching Murtagh clutching at his face, leaning against his door, breathing heavily. She stared at him for a minute, debating
whether or not to go to him when she saw tears sliding down his cheeks. The ice invaded the edges of her vision again and she closed the door quickly.
The moment the sun appeared over the treelined horizon, Eragon deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes as he returned to full awareness. He had
not been asleep, for he had not slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memories, yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.
He watched the sunrise. The morning after the Agaetí Blödhren, two days before now, he had gone looking for Arya in Tialdarí Hall – intending to try and make amends for his
behavior – only to discover that she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? He wondered. In the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves' and
dragons' magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have acted a fool, but it wasn't entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for my conduct than if I were
drunk. Even in the state I was, Mariah would never have rejected me so vehemently.
Her rejection cut Eragon to the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between their
ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.
Eragon had heard the expression "heartbroken" before. Until then, he always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symptom. But now he felt a deep ache in his
chest – like that of a sore muscle – and each beat of his heart pained him the same it had the weeks after the battle of Farthen Dûr. Loss and rejection felt so alike.
His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time, lending him the
support of her companionship. She talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his shell of silence.
To keep himself form brooding, Eragon took Orik's puzzle ring from his nightstand and he rolled it between his fingers, marveling at how keen his senses had become. He could feel
every flaw in the twisted metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his instinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his observation. To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth
finger of his right hand, admiring how the woven bands caught the light.
You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the floor where she slept.
I can see many things that were once hidden to me.
Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions, including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the fact that he now closely resembled an
elf, he had retained the ability to grow a beard.
Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and display the completed puzzle ring. "You solved it,
then!"
"It took me longer than I expected," said Eragon, "but yes. Are you here to practice as well?"
"Eh. I already got in a bit o' ax work with an elf who took a rather fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No… I came to watch you fight."
"You've seen me fight before," pointed out Eragon.
"Not for a while, I haven't."
"You mean you're curious to see how I've changed." Orik shrugged in response.
Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, "Are you ready, Shadeslayer?" The elf's condescending demeanor had lessened since their last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren,
but not by much.
"I'm ready."
Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar'roc as fast as he could. To his surprise, the sword
felt as if it weighed no more than a willow wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon's arm snapped straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty
yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.
"Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?" demanded Vanir.
"I apologize, Vanirvodhr," gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rubbing the bruised joint to lessen the pain. "I misjudged my strength."
"See that it does not happen again." Going to the tree, Vanir gripped Zar'roc's hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained motionless. Vanir's eyebrows met as he
frowned at the unyielding crimson blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar'roc out of the
pine.
Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar'roc, troubled by how light it was. Something's wrong, he thought.
"Take your place!"
This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon's right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as
if the elf moved slower than usual, as if Vanir's reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human's. It was easy for
Eragon to deflect Vanir's sword, blue sparks flying from the metal as their blades grated against one another.
Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Eragon evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind. In quick succession, Vanir rained a
score of heavy blows upon Eragon, each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar'roc's sheath as often as the sword to foil Vanir's onslaught.
Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the elves' physical abilities. In strength
and speed, Eragon now matched even the most athletic elf.
Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped as high as he could. Zar'roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew skyward, soaring more than ten feet
above the ground before he flipped like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from which he had started.
A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the elves' contempt. No more would he
have to rely on Saphira or Arya to rescue him from enemies like Durza.
He charge Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The force of their blows created gusts of
wind that whipped their hair into tangled disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles. The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon's newfound
skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would not be denied. Playing Zar'roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir's guard and struck him upon the upper arm,
breaking the bone.
Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. "How swift is your sword," he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The Lay of Umhodan.
"By the gods!" exclaimed Orik. "That was the best swordsmanship I've ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr."
Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and bowed. "I beg your pardon for my earlier
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