Alternate Title: Some Dragons are Cuddly
I wasn't really expecting to have this chapter done so fast, but it seems that the huge amount of smoke in the Pacific Northwest as of late has done wonders for my productivity. The way it turns the light outside vaguely orange makes it feel like sunset for the entire day, and I tend to reach my creative peak around sunset. At least, that's my silly little hypothesis. It's also possible that I just had so much fun with this that I spent almost an entire day writing and editing it.
My cat's constant purring from acorss the room probably helped too.
Vanora held the handful of violets to her chest, willing the tears to stay safely in her eyes, then stepped forward to place the flowers on the small gravestone. Meriel had always loved violets. If she could still see what went on in the world of the living, Vanora hoped that the gift would make her happy.
The official line about the corrupted air in Uru’baen was that all magicians, Varden and Imperial alike, had attended to the sick. Vanora knew better. The vast majority of Uru’baen’s magicians had been imprisoned or killed during the battle, and the Varden had healed their own first. By the time they had moved on to the citizens, Meriel had been dead for hours, and Vanora had been well on her way to following her.
Whatever had caused the explosion in the citadel, it had spewed its horror across the entire city. Children, it seemed, had been especially vulnerable.
Vanora swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned away from Meriel’s grave, trying not to look at the similar dates on the other headstones. Moisture built on the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away as thoroughly and covetly as she could. Her nose was running and her lips felt swollen, but she could blame those on a cold. Nobody who knew her would believe it, but a stranger might be fooled.
As she left the graveyard, she wished her parents had graves too.
Imperial soldiers, Vanora had quickly learned, were not allowed the dignity of a personal resting place. Their corpses had been thrown into pits, occasionally marked with a common headstone. One of those probably contained her father’s body, but she had no idea which. In her mind, he was still lying in the street where she had last seen him.
Her mother, on the other hand, had no grave at all. She had tried to keep quiet and go about her life, but the sheer disrespect of the Varden for the people of Uru’baen had worn her down in so many ways. She had grown old before her time, and when the messenger from the Queen had come to buy her off, she had snapped.
“A gift?” she had said, shaking with rage as she stared at the gold coins in the messenger’s hand. “A handful of gold to make up for the slaughter of my husband and child? If that murderess on the throne wishes to make recompense, she will personally bow at my feet and beg forgiveness!”
Those convicted of treason, it turned out, were beheaded and thrown to the animals.
Serrill was waiting for Vanora a few paces down the street. She gave him a nod and a forced smile, and they started along the path back to the orphanage.
Serrill had first come to the city as a refugee from Belatona, accompanied by his two sisters, Ivetta and Emony. An inn down the street from Vanora’s house had offered them shelter. When the Varden took over, Serrill had stayed in the newly-renamed Ilirea, while his sisters were sent back to an orphanage in Belatona. He and Vanora had hardly spoken before the battle, but on their first day at the orphanage he had been badly beaten by two older boys, and she had helped him to the nearest herbalist. They had been friends ever since.
As they walked, the streets filled with people hanging wreaths and ribbons. Barely audible over the noise of the crowd was the voice of a crier, shouting that in three days’ time the city of Ilirea would celebrate the anniversary of Alagaësia’s liberation, as marked by the coronation of the good Queen Nasuada. Vanora fixed her gaze on the cobblestone, hoping that none would notice her disgust.
Beside her, Serrill cleared his throat several times before finally asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to go this year?”
Vanora suppressed a snort. “Why?”
“Well… I heard the elves will be bringing dragon eggs. It might be interesting.”
The silhouette of a thin man with pointed ears formed in Vanora’s mind, lazily flicking the blood off his sword as he walked away. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image to vanish, and nearly barrelled into a woman carrying a basket of apples. A few apologies later, the man was gone, but the sick feeling of vividly-remembered terror remained.
“I’d rather not,” she mumbled.
The following morning, the orphans’ breakfast was interrupted by the heavy thud of dragon wings. Vanora drifted outside with the other wards, just in time to see the huge green creature soaring over the walls. The sun shone through his wings as though through leaves as he circled the city, eventually landing somewhere behind the elven towers.
“That’s Queen Arya’s dragon,” said one of the girls. “She must be here for the celebration!”
Vanora and Serrill exchanged worried looks.
“Come back inside,” said Heiritha, waving to the door. “Breakfast is getting cold. You might see the dragon at the festival.”
A few of the younger children moved to obey, but most stayed in the yard. Heiritha had been one of the orphanage’s wards until the previous month, when she had turned sixteen and stayed as a caretaker. None of the older wards enjoyed taking orders from her.
Fortunately for Heiritha, she was quickly supported by Luilda, the old woman who ran the orphanage. “Everyone inside! Anyone out here a minute from now gets the strap!”
The wards quickly stepped into line. Many of the younger ones talked excitedly among themselves as they returned to their seats.
“Do you think we’ll get to see elves?”
“I heard that Queen Arya is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I heard she was there when Eragon Shadeslayer killed Galbatorix!”
Vanora pushed her porridge roughly around the bowl. The stuff was unappetizing at the best of times, and right now the thought of eating made her feel sick. Still, it was better than nothing, and her mother had always told her not to waste food.
After breakfast, she volunteered to clean up, more to give herself something to do than anything else. When she was done, she curled up in the corner of the girls’ bedroom and worked on her letters. Most of the city’s schoolhouses had been crushed or burned down during the battle of Uru’baen, and about half had been rebuilt into houses or guildhalls. Those few that remained were packed near bursting with children who still had families. The orphanage caretakers did their best, but books were in short supply as the Queen’s administration funneled resources into restoring the elven ruins and bribing her subjects.
At suppertime, the younger children were still buzzing with excitement. Serrill looked just as annoyed as Vanora as he nibbled at his pottage, carefully saving his piece of bread to wash away the taste. The porridge may have been bland, but pottage was truly disgusting. Vanora knew that she and Serrill were not alone in wishing for the days when their fathers' salaries had put something better on the family table.
“How can they celebrate her?” she muttered.
Serrill shrugged. “I guess most of them are too young to remember the battle.”
Vanora jerked her head toward a girl on the other end of the table. “She’s the same age as us, and she’s celebrating.”
“I guess she’s given in.” Serrill took a bite of the pottage, grimaced, and nibbled a bit off of his bread. “Maybe it’s easier that way.”
“My parents used to say that nothing worth doing is easy.”
“Mine too.”
Vanora held her breath and choked down a few mouthfuls. It still left an aftertaste. “I guess that means avoiding the celebration is worth doing, then, right?”
“Are you going to volunteer to stay with the babies again?” asked Serrill.
It was Vanora’s turn to grimace. “There is a difference between work and self-torture.”
“It wasn’t that bad…”
“My ears were ringing for weeks.”
Serrill stifled a laugh. “I guess that makes this even more worth doing, since that was probably the easiest way out you could have taken.”
Vanora shrugged. “I suppose I can always pretend to be ill.”
Of course, there is a difference between the ability to feign illness and the ability to feign illness convincingly, and the discerning eyes of the caretakers put a quick stop to Vanora’s attempt at acting. Becoming lost in the crowd, however, proved surprisingly easy. Hanging toward the back of their loosely-organized group and ducking her head, Vanora managed to escape the rest of the wards. From there, she allowed the throng to jostle her away from the square where Queen Nasuada would be making her appearance. She felt fairly safe once she lost sight of Luilda, but kept stooping just in case. Her red hair felt like a signal flag.
This far away from the Queen’s path, it was harder to tell whether the people were there in celebration or mourning. Some pushed forward excitedly, but just as many hung back with grim looks. For a moment, Vanora thought she had seen one of her father’s old squadmates, but the crowd shifted him out of her sight before she could be sure.
She was almost able to walk without pushing people when the trumpets sounded, and a page’s magically-amplified voice rang through the streets. “Presenting Her Imperial Majesty Queen Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad and Nadara, Leader of the Varden and Liberator of Alagaësia!”
Vanora bit her lip to keep it from curling as the crowd roared.
The people around her seemed to have stopped jockeying for position, and she found her path mostly blocked as the applause started to die down. As she squeezed carefully between two broad-shouldered men, the Queen finally spoke.
“My people,” she said, and this time Vanora’s lip did curl as she caught the distinct note of arrogance in the words. “Five years ago, this city was freed from the tyrannical rule of King Galbatorix. For too long, the citizens of this great land suffered under his yoke as he broke our alliances, tormented our families, and rewrote the names and history of our cities. Only with man, elf, dwarf, and Urgal united under the banner of the Varden was he brought to justice.
“In these past five years, we have worked tirelessly to restore this land to its former glory, and as I look upon the Empire today, I see that progress has been quick indeed! Ilirea has been rebuilt into a shining badge of our resilience, a monument to the unyielding spirit of our Empire and its people. Our alliances with Tierm and Surda and the friendship of the elves and dwarves brings us great prosperity, and never before have we seen such an extended period of peace with the Urgals.”
Vanora slid past a woman holding a baby and accidentally trod on the foot of a man in scholars’ robes. “Sorry,” she said, and backed around an expensively-dressed old lady, whose strong, rose-scented perfume nearly made her gag.
“Though the path to our peace and freedom has been long and arduous, it is one we should all be proud to have walked. I can personally vouch that every Varden hero who gave their life to the cause would look upon what we have built and feel that their sacrifice was honored. And as for those forced to fight in Galbatorix’s armies, I can only hope that their spirits are eased by their families’ newfound freedom.”
Rage surged through Vanora’s body. Biting back a curse, she gave up all pretense of slipping out of the crowd and began to shove.
“While we all had our parts to play in bringing peace to Alagaësia, one of the greatest contributions came from my friend and ally, Eragon Shadeslayer, the first of the new order of Dragon Riders. I may have been leader of the Varden, but it was by his hand that Galbatorix met his end. In so doing, he avenged the lives and honor of the ancient order. Thus, I would like to dedicate one special aspect of this year’s celebration to him.
“As you may have heard, a delegation from the court of Ellesméra has arrived in our city. With them are three dragon eggs, all dedicated to the Riders. I hereby encourage all youths above the age of ten to approach them, in the hopes that a new Rider might arise from our restored city. This test will be personally overseen by Arya Dröttning, Queen of Ellesméra and both Rider and Shadeslayer in her own right.
“But enough talk—we have a celebration to attend!”
Vanora forced her way through the last line of people as the crowd burst into applause. After a brief rest against the wall of a candle shop, she decided to take advantage of the relatively empty streets away from the festival square.
As she circled the base of one of the elven towers, someone rested a hand on her shoulder. Vanora yelped, spun, and came face to face with a smiling elven woman. Her silver hair was done up in a braid that coiled around her head like a snake, the better to expose her long, tapering ears.
“Peace,” she said, lifting her hands. “I merely wondered why a young lady such as yourself is wandering the streets alone instead of celebrating.”
Vanora tried not to gulp. “I… don’t like crowds.”
“Neither do I,” said the elf, her smile widening into an eerie grin. Standing on her toes, she stretched her arms to the sky and took a deep breath. “It really is wonderful to breathe in the fresh air away from everyone else… but if you stay here, you’ll miss the Choosing.”
“The what?”
“Of a new Rider! Assuming one of the dragons picks someone, that is. Who knows, we may even get more than one. Ah, what good fortune that would be… say, you look about the right age to give it a try yourself.”
Vanora had already started edging away. “I really don’t think I—”
The elf waved a hand lazily in front of her face. “Worry not! This is your opportunity for greatness. Come now, best not to wait!”
With that, she seized Vanora by the hand and began to drag her toward the festival square. Her grip was not tight, but it was strong, and Vanora found herself unable to break it.
“Let me go!”
“Just humor me, girl. Probably nothing will happen, but if a dragon is destined for you, it may never hatch for anyone else.” Her gray eyes sparkled as she looked over her shoulder at Vanora’s frown. “I usually wouldn’t bother, but you seem… different.”
Vanora struggled the whole way to the grounds. A few revelers looked askance at her as the elf dragged her through the crowd, stopping by a large house that Vanora recognized as the newly-finished elven embassy. A crowd of children and teenagers stretched from its gate to the middle of the square. Each minute, the door would open and one child would be shooed out, while another went in to take their place.
With a jolt, Vanora recognized one of the boys near the front of the disorganized line as Serrill. His head bobbed from side to side as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, and Vanora was fairly certain that his hands would be fidgeting as well. Looking to the children around him, it seemed that half of their fellow wards had lined up as well. Everyone over the age of ten, she though.
The elf who had dragged her there grinned once more, then released her iron grip and disappeared into the throng. Surrounded on all sides by what seemed to be the entire young population of Ilirea, Vanora found a second escape impossible.
It felt like hours before the first of her fellow wards was waved inside the embassy. Vanora recognized him as Jolanus, a quiet boy who had been found in the woods by two hunters. Alone, hopelessly lost, and close to death, he would not have lasted another day. By his name he was guessed to be from Dras-Leona, but he never said a word about his past.
Vanora’s heart raced as the door closed behind him. It was impossible to imagine Jolanus being able to cope with being chosen as a Rider. Really, it was hard to imagine anyone being able to cope with it. And why did it have to be youths? The only conclusion Vanora could come to was that the elves, Varden, and Riders were out to brainwash every new Rider.
If I’m chosen, she promised herself, I won’t let that happen to me. I will never let them break me.
The door opened, and Jolanus stepped out, looking shaken. Another fellow ward, a girl called Alditha, stepped up to take his place.
Two uneventful cycles later, it was Serrill’s turn.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Vanora prayed. Please, no, she thought. Don’t let them take Serrill. He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him to the Varden. Don’t let them take him.
When she looked up, he was walking out of the door. It had only been a minute, and there were no dragons in sight. Vanora sighed with relief and wrapped her arms around her middle as if to hold herself together.
As the line dwindled, she could see the expressions on the other children’s faces as they were all escorted out the door. The vast majority seemed disappointed, and most of the rest only seemed confused. A few looked relieved. Two or three of the disappointed ones, all easily recognizable as nobles, were outright angry. They stomped away from the elves, frowning and pouting as they joined their waiting families.
Soon, there were only a dozen children in front of her.
Vanora looked around for an escape route and promptly locked eyes with the silver-haired elf who had dragged her here, standing among the festival-goers only a few heads away. She flashed Vanora that same eerie grin, then disappeared once more. Vanora clenched her hands into fists and shuffled forward with the line.
Ten. Vanora cracked her knuckles, earning her a nasty glare from a nobleman who was comforting his angry son. Nine. The girl who had just left the embassy was wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Eight. She was now standing at the bottom of the short staircase that led to the door. Seven.
The nobleman’s son had started on a tirade.
“They don’t even give you any time, they just say ‘no’ and throw you out! If I was a dragon, I might want to think about who I wanted to be my Rider! I bet they only want elves to be Riders and that’s why they aren’t letting us stay near the eggs. Eragon Shadeslayer is one of us, though, so they should just get used to…”
Vanora tugged lightly at her bangs, trying to tune him out. All the healers had said her hair was fine, but she could have sworn it had been thicker before the explosion. Many others who had been exposed to the corruption had lost hair.
Three.
She was suddenly painfully aware of how many people were looking at her. It seemed that everyone within eyeshot wanted to know if someone would be chosen. Now that there were so few chances left, the mood of the crowd had dwindled from giddy anticipation to clinging desperately to hope.
Two.
Her knuckles refused to snap, so she clasped her hands behind her back and stretched her neck.instead.
One.
The combined gaze of everyone in the square felt like a thousand needles, all poised exactly on the surface of her skin. One move, and they would all sink deep into her flesh. The worst stares came from the elves on either side of the door, who seemed to eye every potential Rider with the most condescending suspicion they could muster.
The door to the elven embassy swung open, and the boy who had gone in before her walked out, staring at the floor. The elf who had guided him turned his gaze to Vanora and jerked his head towards the inside of the building. Her teeth and fists were clenched so tight that her jaw ached and her nails dug into her palms as she stepped inside. The dull thud as the door closed behind her nearly made her jump.
A few paces inside the embassy’s entrance hall, set upon an ornate pedestal, were three eggs. The one on the right was the color of tarnished copper and noticeably smaller than the others, the only one Vanora might have been able to pick up with one hand. The egg on the left was a deep red with veins of brown and looked unnervingly like blood. The one in the center was slightly larger than the red one, inky black in color, and speckled with tiny dots of silver.
Behind the eggs stood Arya Dröttning, tall and imperious. Her crown, a golden circlet set with a single diamond, glistened in the dim light of the candles as her raven hair fell in waves around her sharply-angled face. She was indeed beautiful, and stunningly so, but in the same way that a roaring tiger or a rampaging dragon was beautiful.
“Step forward,” she said, and before Vanora could consider whether to obey, she already had. She swallowed and tried to meet the elven queen’s dark eyes. Their expression was thoroughly unimpressed. “Your name?”
“Vanora.”
Arya nodded once and gestured to the eggs. “Go on.”
Feeling slightly ridiculous, Vanora reached out and lightly touched the black egg. It was warm to the touch and unnaturally smooth. She withdrew her hand and was just about to move on to the turquoise egg when she heard the black one squeak.
Vanora blinked in shock and looked back at the queen’s face. Her bearing was still perfectly poised, but Vanora thought she could see a hint of confusion in the set of her eyebrows. She turned back to the egg as it began to rock vigorously. It occurred to her that there was nothing in place to keep it from falling off the pedestal, and she moved to steady it.
A crack appeared in its middle, accompanied by a rough scraping noise as a piece of the shell flaked away from the rest. Underneath it were tiny claws, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth surface. Then, with a sound like stones splitting, the egg burst in two, revealing a black dragon about the size of a large cat. It shook its head, flapped its membrane-coated wings, then turned expectantly toward Vanora.
Tentatively, Vanora reached toward it, but hesitated midway. The dragon snorted insistently and closed the distance with its head.
It was as if she had been set on fire and plunged into an icy lake at the same time. Every muscle in Vanora’s body went rigid. Her vision went white, her ears rang, and her nose filled with the metallic scent of blood. Pain burned in her arms, her eyes, her heart, and even in parts of her innards she had never been aware of before. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped, leaving her tensed and shivering as her vision slowly returned. She became aware that the elf who had led her in was holding her on her feet, but lacked the strength to even attempt to push him away. As the shaking subsided, the middle of her right hand glimmered and turned silver.
The elf released her arms, and she stumbled forward, gasping for air. Straightening, she saw that the dragon was also stirring. It blinked, staring up at her with wide, white eyes that caught the light like a pair of tiny diamonds. The hair on the back of Vanora’s neck stood up as something brushed against her mind, first lightly, then with obvious determination. Behind it came excitement, along with the bizarrely-distant sensation of hunger.
Vanora regained her footing, and the dragon, after shaking its wings one more time, leapt onto her chest. Her arms went up reflexively, and she stumbled back as it flapped its wings, steadying them both. Its nose pressed lightly into her neck, and it—no, she, though Vanora couldn’t begin to describe how she knew that—started humming.
The mess of emotions in Vanora’s mind gave way to overwhelming confusion. Why? she thought. Why… any of this?
The dragon nuzzled her hair, and the cluster of emotions that pressed against her consciousness shifted oddly. It was hard to distill them into a single word: approval, interest, anticipation, sympathy, and a shockingly powerful mix of devotion and love all combined into the general impression, because I like you.
“Here,” said the elf who had led her in. Vanora jumped, then realized that he was offering her a handful of dried meat. “She’ll be hungry.”
Vanora blinked, took a piece of the meat, and offered it to the dragon, who snapped it up eagerly. Her white eyes narrowed as she eyed the elf’s hand, and Vanora felt a twinge of suspicion that, though not her own, was unnervingly familiar. She sighed and picked up another piece.
As the dragon finished the last bite, Arya moved to stand beside them. “That’s enough for now,” she said to the dragon. The words were met with a disapproving snort, and Arya chuckled. Turning to Vanora, she held out a hand, smiling in a way that Vanora found disturbingly devoid of actual feeling. “I believe it is time for you to make your first appearance as a Dragon Rider.”
Still in a daze, Vanora did not take Arya’s hand, but allowed herself to be led to the door. “Keep your head up,” the other elf said as they approached. Vanora tried, but her knees went weak, and she had to glance down again to hide her grimace. The dragon nudged her cheek reassuringly. Then the door swung open, and before Vanora could even hope to collect herself, they had stepped through.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Even with her downcast gaze, Vanora could still make out some of the nearest faces. She saw awe, jealousy, respect, confusion, and all manner of other emotions, some mingled, some alone. Risking a glance upward, she caught sight of Serrill. His face was set in a mask of shock that she was sure mirrored her own.
Then, abruptly, a pair of elves were leading her into the square behind their Queen. The dragon squeaked and nestled her head under Vanora’s chin as the crowd continued to cheer around them.
In the center of the square, they met Queen Nasuada, flanked by her guards and tailed by the witch-girl who accompanied her everywhere. If not for her purple eyes and the silvery mark in the shape of a star upon her brow, Vanora would never have believed that she was the same girl as the one she had seen in the days following the battle. Back then, the girl had been barely taller than Meriel; now, she looked the same age as Vanora. Her current appearance was significantly less disturbing than the miniature adult she had been, but that was hardly comforting.
Queen Nasuada was beaming, dark eyes bright as she clasped her hands in front of her chest. Her gold-trimmed sleeves cut off at the elbows to expose nine long scars on her forearms, six on one and three on the other. The edges of the sleeves were lined with intricate lace, along with every other border on the dress. Her crown was a startling contrast to Arya’s, large and intricate to the point of absurdity.
It was a strange feeling for Vanora to be so close to the woman ultimately responsible for her family’s deaths, and the haze of confusion that lingered in her mind made it even stranger. As Nasuada dropped her hands, holding one out in greeting, it almost seemed to Vanora that she had been disconnected from her own body. As with Arya, she made no move to take Nasuada’s hand, so the Queen faced the crowd, turning the greeting into an indication with the words, “Behold, a Rider!”
Vanora felt faint. Her legs threatened to give out. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to pretend that this was all some bizarre dream. The dragon, her dragon, nudged her face with her nose and flooded the connection between their minds with affection and worry.
As the elves once again pulled her into the crowd, Vanora caught sight of the purple-eyed girl staring at her. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and the girl’s mouth twisted in a slow, horrible smile, like the look of a predator as it observes its prey. Then the crowd closed behind them, and she and the Queen passed out of sight.
No other Riders were chosen that day. The elves put Vanora up in her own room somewhere in their embassy. Judging by the small cloth-lined alcove in one wall, it had probably been constructed specifically for new Riders and their dragons. As comfortable as the alcove looked, her dragon refused to touch it, and chose instead to curl up on Vanora’s arm as she lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
I am a Rider. The words repeated over and over in her mind, but no matter how many times she thought them, they were never any easier to believe.
As her incredulity faded into the back of her mind, a new question occurred to her: why had she not said anything to the Queen? Why, when confronted with the woman responsible for so much death, had she not done anything to make her answer for her crimes? If she truly was a Rider, then surely she could—
Realization washed over her like a splash of icy water. If she truly was a Rider, then she could bring the Varden to justice. Upholding justice was a Rider’s duty, after all, or at least it was supposed to be. Vanora looked down at the silvery mark on her palm and flexed her fingers. She would have to train, of course; there was no way she could defeat a trained Rider like Eragon Shadeslayer as she was, but once she learned how to fight, perhaps…
There was a knock on the door. Vanora sat up, irritating the dragon, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. “Yes?”
The door opened, and one of the elves leaned inside. “There’s a boy here to see you, Argetlam. He says he’s your friend.”
“Serrill?” she asked, brightening a little.
“Yes, that is his name,” said the elf, looking slightly displeased. “There was a whole crowd of them, but he was the most insistent.”
Vanora stood up and gave the dragon a warning look when she moved to clamber onto her back. Disappointed, she slid to the floor and wound her tail around Vanora’s leg. “He’s telling the truth. Can I see him?”
The elf nodded and gestured for her to follow. As they started down the hall, he said, “Usually a young Rider is allowed to see their friends and family immediately after being chosen, and again before their departure, but none of us saw anyone come forward at the square. Tell me, where are your parents?”
“Dead,” Vanora said, unable to keep the note of acid from her voice. “I live in an orphanage.”
“My apologies.”
Vanora wondered whether he would have apologized if she had mentioned her father’s career.
Serrill was waiting in the entrance hall, fidgeting nervously under the glares of the elven guards. He looked up as Vanora came in, and stepped forward with a smile as she ran across the room, throwing her arms around his shoulders in the tightest hug she could manage. Being about a head shorter than she was, he ended up pressing his face into her shoulder as he hugged her back.
When she finally let go, Serrill looked relieved, though he hid it well. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” Vanora said, glancing down at the dragon coiled around her feet. “Hardly anything makes sense anymore.”
“What happened?”
She told him about the egg hatching, and how it had felt when she first touched her dragon. “And now I have this,” she said, showing him the silvery oval on her palm. “I knew argetlam meant ‘silver hand,’ but I didn’t think it was, what’s that word…”
“Literal?”
Vanora nodded.
The dragon nudged her leg, and she bent down to scratch her behind the horns. Serrill smiled. “I guess I’m not your only friend anymore.”
“I wouldn't call her a friend,” Vanora said, frowning. “It’s more like… like she’s a second sister I never knew I had.”
“What’s her name?”
Vanora’s frown deepend. “I… don’t actually know yet.”
There was an awkward pause. Serrill scratched the back of his neck, while Vanora glanced apprehensively at the guards.
“This doesn’t seem like it should be real,” Serrill finally said. “Of all people, I never would have imagined you a Rider. You hate—”
Vanora gave him a pointed look.
“—heights,” he finished, giving the guards a worried look of his own.
The elves still looked suspicious. Vanora cracked two of her knuckles and tried to smile.
“I suppose I’ll have to figure something out,” she said, and for the first time that day she heard confidence in her own voice. “Like my parents always said, nothing worth doing is easy.”
As with the prologue, comments and critiques are highly appreciated!
I wasn't really expecting to have this chapter done so fast, but it seems that the huge amount of smoke in the Pacific Northwest as of late has done wonders for my productivity. The way it turns the light outside vaguely orange makes it feel like sunset for the entire day, and I tend to reach my creative peak around sunset. At least, that's my silly little hypothesis. It's also possible that I just had so much fun with this that I spent almost an entire day writing and editing it.
My cat's constant purring from acorss the room probably helped too.
Vanora held the handful of violets to her chest, willing the tears to stay safely in her eyes, then stepped forward to place the flowers on the small gravestone. Meriel had always loved violets. If she could still see what went on in the world of the living, Vanora hoped that the gift would make her happy.
The official line about the corrupted air in Uru’baen was that all magicians, Varden and Imperial alike, had attended to the sick. Vanora knew better. The vast majority of Uru’baen’s magicians had been imprisoned or killed during the battle, and the Varden had healed their own first. By the time they had moved on to the citizens, Meriel had been dead for hours, and Vanora had been well on her way to following her.
Whatever had caused the explosion in the citadel, it had spewed its horror across the entire city. Children, it seemed, had been especially vulnerable.
Vanora swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned away from Meriel’s grave, trying not to look at the similar dates on the other headstones. Moisture built on the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away as thoroughly and covetly as she could. Her nose was running and her lips felt swollen, but she could blame those on a cold. Nobody who knew her would believe it, but a stranger might be fooled.
As she left the graveyard, she wished her parents had graves too.
Imperial soldiers, Vanora had quickly learned, were not allowed the dignity of a personal resting place. Their corpses had been thrown into pits, occasionally marked with a common headstone. One of those probably contained her father’s body, but she had no idea which. In her mind, he was still lying in the street where she had last seen him.
Her mother, on the other hand, had no grave at all. She had tried to keep quiet and go about her life, but the sheer disrespect of the Varden for the people of Uru’baen had worn her down in so many ways. She had grown old before her time, and when the messenger from the Queen had come to buy her off, she had snapped.
“A gift?” she had said, shaking with rage as she stared at the gold coins in the messenger’s hand. “A handful of gold to make up for the slaughter of my husband and child? If that murderess on the throne wishes to make recompense, she will personally bow at my feet and beg forgiveness!”
Those convicted of treason, it turned out, were beheaded and thrown to the animals.
Serrill was waiting for Vanora a few paces down the street. She gave him a nod and a forced smile, and they started along the path back to the orphanage.
Serrill had first come to the city as a refugee from Belatona, accompanied by his two sisters, Ivetta and Emony. An inn down the street from Vanora’s house had offered them shelter. When the Varden took over, Serrill had stayed in the newly-renamed Ilirea, while his sisters were sent back to an orphanage in Belatona. He and Vanora had hardly spoken before the battle, but on their first day at the orphanage he had been badly beaten by two older boys, and she had helped him to the nearest herbalist. They had been friends ever since.
As they walked, the streets filled with people hanging wreaths and ribbons. Barely audible over the noise of the crowd was the voice of a crier, shouting that in three days’ time the city of Ilirea would celebrate the anniversary of Alagaësia’s liberation, as marked by the coronation of the good Queen Nasuada. Vanora fixed her gaze on the cobblestone, hoping that none would notice her disgust.
Beside her, Serrill cleared his throat several times before finally asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to go this year?”
Vanora suppressed a snort. “Why?”
“Well… I heard the elves will be bringing dragon eggs. It might be interesting.”
The silhouette of a thin man with pointed ears formed in Vanora’s mind, lazily flicking the blood off his sword as he walked away. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image to vanish, and nearly barrelled into a woman carrying a basket of apples. A few apologies later, the man was gone, but the sick feeling of vividly-remembered terror remained.
“I’d rather not,” she mumbled.
The following morning, the orphans’ breakfast was interrupted by the heavy thud of dragon wings. Vanora drifted outside with the other wards, just in time to see the huge green creature soaring over the walls. The sun shone through his wings as though through leaves as he circled the city, eventually landing somewhere behind the elven towers.
“That’s Queen Arya’s dragon,” said one of the girls. “She must be here for the celebration!”
Vanora and Serrill exchanged worried looks.
“Come back inside,” said Heiritha, waving to the door. “Breakfast is getting cold. You might see the dragon at the festival.”
A few of the younger children moved to obey, but most stayed in the yard. Heiritha had been one of the orphanage’s wards until the previous month, when she had turned sixteen and stayed as a caretaker. None of the older wards enjoyed taking orders from her.
Fortunately for Heiritha, she was quickly supported by Luilda, the old woman who ran the orphanage. “Everyone inside! Anyone out here a minute from now gets the strap!”
The wards quickly stepped into line. Many of the younger ones talked excitedly among themselves as they returned to their seats.
“Do you think we’ll get to see elves?”
“I heard that Queen Arya is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I heard she was there when Eragon Shadeslayer killed Galbatorix!”
Vanora pushed her porridge roughly around the bowl. The stuff was unappetizing at the best of times, and right now the thought of eating made her feel sick. Still, it was better than nothing, and her mother had always told her not to waste food.
After breakfast, she volunteered to clean up, more to give herself something to do than anything else. When she was done, she curled up in the corner of the girls’ bedroom and worked on her letters. Most of the city’s schoolhouses had been crushed or burned down during the battle of Uru’baen, and about half had been rebuilt into houses or guildhalls. Those few that remained were packed near bursting with children who still had families. The orphanage caretakers did their best, but books were in short supply as the Queen’s administration funneled resources into restoring the elven ruins and bribing her subjects.
At suppertime, the younger children were still buzzing with excitement. Serrill looked just as annoyed as Vanora as he nibbled at his pottage, carefully saving his piece of bread to wash away the taste. The porridge may have been bland, but pottage was truly disgusting. Vanora knew that she and Serrill were not alone in wishing for the days when their fathers' salaries had put something better on the family table.
“How can they celebrate her?” she muttered.
Serrill shrugged. “I guess most of them are too young to remember the battle.”
Vanora jerked her head toward a girl on the other end of the table. “She’s the same age as us, and she’s celebrating.”
“I guess she’s given in.” Serrill took a bite of the pottage, grimaced, and nibbled a bit off of his bread. “Maybe it’s easier that way.”
“My parents used to say that nothing worth doing is easy.”
“Mine too.”
Vanora held her breath and choked down a few mouthfuls. It still left an aftertaste. “I guess that means avoiding the celebration is worth doing, then, right?”
“Are you going to volunteer to stay with the babies again?” asked Serrill.
It was Vanora’s turn to grimace. “There is a difference between work and self-torture.”
“It wasn’t that bad…”
“My ears were ringing for weeks.”
Serrill stifled a laugh. “I guess that makes this even more worth doing, since that was probably the easiest way out you could have taken.”
Vanora shrugged. “I suppose I can always pretend to be ill.”
Of course, there is a difference between the ability to feign illness and the ability to feign illness convincingly, and the discerning eyes of the caretakers put a quick stop to Vanora’s attempt at acting. Becoming lost in the crowd, however, proved surprisingly easy. Hanging toward the back of their loosely-organized group and ducking her head, Vanora managed to escape the rest of the wards. From there, she allowed the throng to jostle her away from the square where Queen Nasuada would be making her appearance. She felt fairly safe once she lost sight of Luilda, but kept stooping just in case. Her red hair felt like a signal flag.
This far away from the Queen’s path, it was harder to tell whether the people were there in celebration or mourning. Some pushed forward excitedly, but just as many hung back with grim looks. For a moment, Vanora thought she had seen one of her father’s old squadmates, but the crowd shifted him out of her sight before she could be sure.
She was almost able to walk without pushing people when the trumpets sounded, and a page’s magically-amplified voice rang through the streets. “Presenting Her Imperial Majesty Queen Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad and Nadara, Leader of the Varden and Liberator of Alagaësia!”
Vanora bit her lip to keep it from curling as the crowd roared.
The people around her seemed to have stopped jockeying for position, and she found her path mostly blocked as the applause started to die down. As she squeezed carefully between two broad-shouldered men, the Queen finally spoke.
“My people,” she said, and this time Vanora’s lip did curl as she caught the distinct note of arrogance in the words. “Five years ago, this city was freed from the tyrannical rule of King Galbatorix. For too long, the citizens of this great land suffered under his yoke as he broke our alliances, tormented our families, and rewrote the names and history of our cities. Only with man, elf, dwarf, and Urgal united under the banner of the Varden was he brought to justice.
“In these past five years, we have worked tirelessly to restore this land to its former glory, and as I look upon the Empire today, I see that progress has been quick indeed! Ilirea has been rebuilt into a shining badge of our resilience, a monument to the unyielding spirit of our Empire and its people. Our alliances with Tierm and Surda and the friendship of the elves and dwarves brings us great prosperity, and never before have we seen such an extended period of peace with the Urgals.”
Vanora slid past a woman holding a baby and accidentally trod on the foot of a man in scholars’ robes. “Sorry,” she said, and backed around an expensively-dressed old lady, whose strong, rose-scented perfume nearly made her gag.
“Though the path to our peace and freedom has been long and arduous, it is one we should all be proud to have walked. I can personally vouch that every Varden hero who gave their life to the cause would look upon what we have built and feel that their sacrifice was honored. And as for those forced to fight in Galbatorix’s armies, I can only hope that their spirits are eased by their families’ newfound freedom.”
Rage surged through Vanora’s body. Biting back a curse, she gave up all pretense of slipping out of the crowd and began to shove.
“While we all had our parts to play in bringing peace to Alagaësia, one of the greatest contributions came from my friend and ally, Eragon Shadeslayer, the first of the new order of Dragon Riders. I may have been leader of the Varden, but it was by his hand that Galbatorix met his end. In so doing, he avenged the lives and honor of the ancient order. Thus, I would like to dedicate one special aspect of this year’s celebration to him.
“As you may have heard, a delegation from the court of Ellesméra has arrived in our city. With them are three dragon eggs, all dedicated to the Riders. I hereby encourage all youths above the age of ten to approach them, in the hopes that a new Rider might arise from our restored city. This test will be personally overseen by Arya Dröttning, Queen of Ellesméra and both Rider and Shadeslayer in her own right.
“But enough talk—we have a celebration to attend!”
Vanora forced her way through the last line of people as the crowd burst into applause. After a brief rest against the wall of a candle shop, she decided to take advantage of the relatively empty streets away from the festival square.
As she circled the base of one of the elven towers, someone rested a hand on her shoulder. Vanora yelped, spun, and came face to face with a smiling elven woman. Her silver hair was done up in a braid that coiled around her head like a snake, the better to expose her long, tapering ears.
“Peace,” she said, lifting her hands. “I merely wondered why a young lady such as yourself is wandering the streets alone instead of celebrating.”
Vanora tried not to gulp. “I… don’t like crowds.”
“Neither do I,” said the elf, her smile widening into an eerie grin. Standing on her toes, she stretched her arms to the sky and took a deep breath. “It really is wonderful to breathe in the fresh air away from everyone else… but if you stay here, you’ll miss the Choosing.”
“The what?”
“Of a new Rider! Assuming one of the dragons picks someone, that is. Who knows, we may even get more than one. Ah, what good fortune that would be… say, you look about the right age to give it a try yourself.”
Vanora had already started edging away. “I really don’t think I—”
The elf waved a hand lazily in front of her face. “Worry not! This is your opportunity for greatness. Come now, best not to wait!”
With that, she seized Vanora by the hand and began to drag her toward the festival square. Her grip was not tight, but it was strong, and Vanora found herself unable to break it.
“Let me go!”
“Just humor me, girl. Probably nothing will happen, but if a dragon is destined for you, it may never hatch for anyone else.” Her gray eyes sparkled as she looked over her shoulder at Vanora’s frown. “I usually wouldn’t bother, but you seem… different.”
Vanora struggled the whole way to the grounds. A few revelers looked askance at her as the elf dragged her through the crowd, stopping by a large house that Vanora recognized as the newly-finished elven embassy. A crowd of children and teenagers stretched from its gate to the middle of the square. Each minute, the door would open and one child would be shooed out, while another went in to take their place.
With a jolt, Vanora recognized one of the boys near the front of the disorganized line as Serrill. His head bobbed from side to side as he shifted his weight from one foot to another, and Vanora was fairly certain that his hands would be fidgeting as well. Looking to the children around him, it seemed that half of their fellow wards had lined up as well. Everyone over the age of ten, she though.
The elf who had dragged her there grinned once more, then released her iron grip and disappeared into the throng. Surrounded on all sides by what seemed to be the entire young population of Ilirea, Vanora found a second escape impossible.
It felt like hours before the first of her fellow wards was waved inside the embassy. Vanora recognized him as Jolanus, a quiet boy who had been found in the woods by two hunters. Alone, hopelessly lost, and close to death, he would not have lasted another day. By his name he was guessed to be from Dras-Leona, but he never said a word about his past.
Vanora’s heart raced as the door closed behind him. It was impossible to imagine Jolanus being able to cope with being chosen as a Rider. Really, it was hard to imagine anyone being able to cope with it. And why did it have to be youths? The only conclusion Vanora could come to was that the elves, Varden, and Riders were out to brainwash every new Rider.
If I’m chosen, she promised herself, I won’t let that happen to me. I will never let them break me.
The door opened, and Jolanus stepped out, looking shaken. Another fellow ward, a girl called Alditha, stepped up to take his place.
Two uneventful cycles later, it was Serrill’s turn.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Vanora prayed. Please, no, she thought. Don’t let them take Serrill. He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him to the Varden. Don’t let them take him.
When she looked up, he was walking out of the door. It had only been a minute, and there were no dragons in sight. Vanora sighed with relief and wrapped her arms around her middle as if to hold herself together.
As the line dwindled, she could see the expressions on the other children’s faces as they were all escorted out the door. The vast majority seemed disappointed, and most of the rest only seemed confused. A few looked relieved. Two or three of the disappointed ones, all easily recognizable as nobles, were outright angry. They stomped away from the elves, frowning and pouting as they joined their waiting families.
Soon, there were only a dozen children in front of her.
Vanora looked around for an escape route and promptly locked eyes with the silver-haired elf who had dragged her here, standing among the festival-goers only a few heads away. She flashed Vanora that same eerie grin, then disappeared once more. Vanora clenched her hands into fists and shuffled forward with the line.
Ten. Vanora cracked her knuckles, earning her a nasty glare from a nobleman who was comforting his angry son. Nine. The girl who had just left the embassy was wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Eight. She was now standing at the bottom of the short staircase that led to the door. Seven.
The nobleman’s son had started on a tirade.
“They don’t even give you any time, they just say ‘no’ and throw you out! If I was a dragon, I might want to think about who I wanted to be my Rider! I bet they only want elves to be Riders and that’s why they aren’t letting us stay near the eggs. Eragon Shadeslayer is one of us, though, so they should just get used to…”
Vanora tugged lightly at her bangs, trying to tune him out. All the healers had said her hair was fine, but she could have sworn it had been thicker before the explosion. Many others who had been exposed to the corruption had lost hair.
Three.
She was suddenly painfully aware of how many people were looking at her. It seemed that everyone within eyeshot wanted to know if someone would be chosen. Now that there were so few chances left, the mood of the crowd had dwindled from giddy anticipation to clinging desperately to hope.
Two.
Her knuckles refused to snap, so she clasped her hands behind her back and stretched her neck.instead.
One.
The combined gaze of everyone in the square felt like a thousand needles, all poised exactly on the surface of her skin. One move, and they would all sink deep into her flesh. The worst stares came from the elves on either side of the door, who seemed to eye every potential Rider with the most condescending suspicion they could muster.
The door to the elven embassy swung open, and the boy who had gone in before her walked out, staring at the floor. The elf who had guided him turned his gaze to Vanora and jerked his head towards the inside of the building. Her teeth and fists were clenched so tight that her jaw ached and her nails dug into her palms as she stepped inside. The dull thud as the door closed behind her nearly made her jump.
A few paces inside the embassy’s entrance hall, set upon an ornate pedestal, were three eggs. The one on the right was the color of tarnished copper and noticeably smaller than the others, the only one Vanora might have been able to pick up with one hand. The egg on the left was a deep red with veins of brown and looked unnervingly like blood. The one in the center was slightly larger than the red one, inky black in color, and speckled with tiny dots of silver.
Behind the eggs stood Arya Dröttning, tall and imperious. Her crown, a golden circlet set with a single diamond, glistened in the dim light of the candles as her raven hair fell in waves around her sharply-angled face. She was indeed beautiful, and stunningly so, but in the same way that a roaring tiger or a rampaging dragon was beautiful.
“Step forward,” she said, and before Vanora could consider whether to obey, she already had. She swallowed and tried to meet the elven queen’s dark eyes. Their expression was thoroughly unimpressed. “Your name?”
“Vanora.”
Arya nodded once and gestured to the eggs. “Go on.”
Feeling slightly ridiculous, Vanora reached out and lightly touched the black egg. It was warm to the touch and unnaturally smooth. She withdrew her hand and was just about to move on to the turquoise egg when she heard the black one squeak.
Vanora blinked in shock and looked back at the queen’s face. Her bearing was still perfectly poised, but Vanora thought she could see a hint of confusion in the set of her eyebrows. She turned back to the egg as it began to rock vigorously. It occurred to her that there was nothing in place to keep it from falling off the pedestal, and she moved to steady it.
A crack appeared in its middle, accompanied by a rough scraping noise as a piece of the shell flaked away from the rest. Underneath it were tiny claws, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth surface. Then, with a sound like stones splitting, the egg burst in two, revealing a black dragon about the size of a large cat. It shook its head, flapped its membrane-coated wings, then turned expectantly toward Vanora.
Tentatively, Vanora reached toward it, but hesitated midway. The dragon snorted insistently and closed the distance with its head.
It was as if she had been set on fire and plunged into an icy lake at the same time. Every muscle in Vanora’s body went rigid. Her vision went white, her ears rang, and her nose filled with the metallic scent of blood. Pain burned in her arms, her eyes, her heart, and even in parts of her innards she had never been aware of before. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped, leaving her tensed and shivering as her vision slowly returned. She became aware that the elf who had led her in was holding her on her feet, but lacked the strength to even attempt to push him away. As the shaking subsided, the middle of her right hand glimmered and turned silver.
The elf released her arms, and she stumbled forward, gasping for air. Straightening, she saw that the dragon was also stirring. It blinked, staring up at her with wide, white eyes that caught the light like a pair of tiny diamonds. The hair on the back of Vanora’s neck stood up as something brushed against her mind, first lightly, then with obvious determination. Behind it came excitement, along with the bizarrely-distant sensation of hunger.
Vanora regained her footing, and the dragon, after shaking its wings one more time, leapt onto her chest. Her arms went up reflexively, and she stumbled back as it flapped its wings, steadying them both. Its nose pressed lightly into her neck, and it—no, she, though Vanora couldn’t begin to describe how she knew that—started humming.
The mess of emotions in Vanora’s mind gave way to overwhelming confusion. Why? she thought. Why… any of this?
The dragon nuzzled her hair, and the cluster of emotions that pressed against her consciousness shifted oddly. It was hard to distill them into a single word: approval, interest, anticipation, sympathy, and a shockingly powerful mix of devotion and love all combined into the general impression, because I like you.
“Here,” said the elf who had led her in. Vanora jumped, then realized that he was offering her a handful of dried meat. “She’ll be hungry.”
Vanora blinked, took a piece of the meat, and offered it to the dragon, who snapped it up eagerly. Her white eyes narrowed as she eyed the elf’s hand, and Vanora felt a twinge of suspicion that, though not her own, was unnervingly familiar. She sighed and picked up another piece.
As the dragon finished the last bite, Arya moved to stand beside them. “That’s enough for now,” she said to the dragon. The words were met with a disapproving snort, and Arya chuckled. Turning to Vanora, she held out a hand, smiling in a way that Vanora found disturbingly devoid of actual feeling. “I believe it is time for you to make your first appearance as a Dragon Rider.”
Still in a daze, Vanora did not take Arya’s hand, but allowed herself to be led to the door. “Keep your head up,” the other elf said as they approached. Vanora tried, but her knees went weak, and she had to glance down again to hide her grimace. The dragon nudged her cheek reassuringly. Then the door swung open, and before Vanora could even hope to collect herself, they had stepped through.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Even with her downcast gaze, Vanora could still make out some of the nearest faces. She saw awe, jealousy, respect, confusion, and all manner of other emotions, some mingled, some alone. Risking a glance upward, she caught sight of Serrill. His face was set in a mask of shock that she was sure mirrored her own.
Then, abruptly, a pair of elves were leading her into the square behind their Queen. The dragon squeaked and nestled her head under Vanora’s chin as the crowd continued to cheer around them.
In the center of the square, they met Queen Nasuada, flanked by her guards and tailed by the witch-girl who accompanied her everywhere. If not for her purple eyes and the silvery mark in the shape of a star upon her brow, Vanora would never have believed that she was the same girl as the one she had seen in the days following the battle. Back then, the girl had been barely taller than Meriel; now, she looked the same age as Vanora. Her current appearance was significantly less disturbing than the miniature adult she had been, but that was hardly comforting.
Queen Nasuada was beaming, dark eyes bright as she clasped her hands in front of her chest. Her gold-trimmed sleeves cut off at the elbows to expose nine long scars on her forearms, six on one and three on the other. The edges of the sleeves were lined with intricate lace, along with every other border on the dress. Her crown was a startling contrast to Arya’s, large and intricate to the point of absurdity.
It was a strange feeling for Vanora to be so close to the woman ultimately responsible for her family’s deaths, and the haze of confusion that lingered in her mind made it even stranger. As Nasuada dropped her hands, holding one out in greeting, it almost seemed to Vanora that she had been disconnected from her own body. As with Arya, she made no move to take Nasuada’s hand, so the Queen faced the crowd, turning the greeting into an indication with the words, “Behold, a Rider!”
Vanora felt faint. Her legs threatened to give out. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to pretend that this was all some bizarre dream. The dragon, her dragon, nudged her face with her nose and flooded the connection between their minds with affection and worry.
As the elves once again pulled her into the crowd, Vanora caught sight of the purple-eyed girl staring at her. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and the girl’s mouth twisted in a slow, horrible smile, like the look of a predator as it observes its prey. Then the crowd closed behind them, and she and the Queen passed out of sight.
No other Riders were chosen that day. The elves put Vanora up in her own room somewhere in their embassy. Judging by the small cloth-lined alcove in one wall, it had probably been constructed specifically for new Riders and their dragons. As comfortable as the alcove looked, her dragon refused to touch it, and chose instead to curl up on Vanora’s arm as she lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
I am a Rider. The words repeated over and over in her mind, but no matter how many times she thought them, they were never any easier to believe.
As her incredulity faded into the back of her mind, a new question occurred to her: why had she not said anything to the Queen? Why, when confronted with the woman responsible for so much death, had she not done anything to make her answer for her crimes? If she truly was a Rider, then surely she could—
Realization washed over her like a splash of icy water. If she truly was a Rider, then she could bring the Varden to justice. Upholding justice was a Rider’s duty, after all, or at least it was supposed to be. Vanora looked down at the silvery mark on her palm and flexed her fingers. She would have to train, of course; there was no way she could defeat a trained Rider like Eragon Shadeslayer as she was, but once she learned how to fight, perhaps…
There was a knock on the door. Vanora sat up, irritating the dragon, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. “Yes?”
The door opened, and one of the elves leaned inside. “There’s a boy here to see you, Argetlam. He says he’s your friend.”
“Serrill?” she asked, brightening a little.
“Yes, that is his name,” said the elf, looking slightly displeased. “There was a whole crowd of them, but he was the most insistent.”
Vanora stood up and gave the dragon a warning look when she moved to clamber onto her back. Disappointed, she slid to the floor and wound her tail around Vanora’s leg. “He’s telling the truth. Can I see him?”
The elf nodded and gestured for her to follow. As they started down the hall, he said, “Usually a young Rider is allowed to see their friends and family immediately after being chosen, and again before their departure, but none of us saw anyone come forward at the square. Tell me, where are your parents?”
“Dead,” Vanora said, unable to keep the note of acid from her voice. “I live in an orphanage.”
“My apologies.”
Vanora wondered whether he would have apologized if she had mentioned her father’s career.
Serrill was waiting in the entrance hall, fidgeting nervously under the glares of the elven guards. He looked up as Vanora came in, and stepped forward with a smile as she ran across the room, throwing her arms around his shoulders in the tightest hug she could manage. Being about a head shorter than she was, he ended up pressing his face into her shoulder as he hugged her back.
When she finally let go, Serrill looked relieved, though he hid it well. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” Vanora said, glancing down at the dragon coiled around her feet. “Hardly anything makes sense anymore.”
“What happened?”
She told him about the egg hatching, and how it had felt when she first touched her dragon. “And now I have this,” she said, showing him the silvery oval on her palm. “I knew argetlam meant ‘silver hand,’ but I didn’t think it was, what’s that word…”
“Literal?”
Vanora nodded.
The dragon nudged her leg, and she bent down to scratch her behind the horns. Serrill smiled. “I guess I’m not your only friend anymore.”
“I wouldn't call her a friend,” Vanora said, frowning. “It’s more like… like she’s a second sister I never knew I had.”
“What’s her name?”
Vanora’s frown deepend. “I… don’t actually know yet.”
There was an awkward pause. Serrill scratched the back of his neck, while Vanora glanced apprehensively at the guards.
“This doesn’t seem like it should be real,” Serrill finally said. “Of all people, I never would have imagined you a Rider. You hate—”
Vanora gave him a pointed look.
“—heights,” he finished, giving the guards a worried look of his own.
The elves still looked suspicious. Vanora cracked two of her knuckles and tried to smile.
“I suppose I’ll have to figure something out,” she said, and for the first time that day she heard confidence in her own voice. “Like my parents always said, nothing worth doing is easy.”
As with the prologue, comments and critiques are highly appreciated!