Alternate Title: The Snark Dragon Cometh
Writing this chapter was practically a study in discovering lost potential. There was so much Paolini could have done with dragons and the bond they share with their Riders. Yet, all he did with Saphira was make her act like a cat, see mostly in blue, and refer to things using hyphen-overloaded descriptions. The first was occasionally cute, the second was bizarre, and the third was just annoying. As for her relationship with Eragon, it was meant to be one of pure, family-like love, but fell seriously short. Saphira constantly keeps secrets and belittles Eragon, calling him "little one," while Eragon treats Saphira like a large, scaly horse.
Since I do try to stick mostly to canon, I felt obliged to give Verja a kind of vision that correlated with her coloring. After toying with a few concepts, I eventually decided that as a white-eyed black dragon, she should be nearly colorblind, but have excellent perception of depth, contrast, and movement. I also added some detail to her development, because aside from changes in size, Paolini really didn't go into much detail about Saphira's growth.
For the bond, I looked outside of Inheritance for inspiration. Dragons and their Riders are supposed to share at least part of their minds, so in some respects, they are almost a dual being. Thus, I wrote Vanora and Verja with His Dark Materials in mind, doing my best to model their relationship on that between a person and their dæmon. Vanora and Verja are more or less aspects of each other: Vanora represents their more cautious, introspective side, prone to despair and rumination; while Verja represents their more confident side, determined and resilient, but a bit impulsive. This is also why I made their names alliterate with each other. Verja's name, for those of you who might want to know, is an old Norse word meaning "to defend."
One of the most frustrating parts of writing this chapter was the timing. As we all know, Paolini's travel times are wildly inconsistent. After looking at the timelines of Eragon and Eldest with regard to travel, I quickly came to the conclusion that basing any estimate on the map is a fool's errand. From the eastern edge of the spine to the town of Yazuac is four days on horseback in Eragon, but Eragon and Company can get all the way from Sílthrim to Ellesméra in about as much time in Eldest, even though the first journey is through plains and the second through forest? That makes no sense.
This chapter also contains my first non-canonical addition to the Ancient Language in the form of the honorific skynsameyla,"bright young woman." In true Inheritance tradition, it is taken from Old Norse. It's a portmanteau of skynsamliga,"intelligently," and meyla,"little girl." I essentially constructed it as a younger version of the canonical honorific svit-kona,"woman of great wisdom."
As my final note before beginning the story, I must point out that if Paolini had written this, it would probably be ten chapters of pointless travel and at least three of actual scenes.
The shadow of the shelf above Ilirea was just receding over the walls when they left. Squinting against the sun, Vanora looked back at the city with a deepening pit in her stomach. Never before had she set foot outside those walls.
At least I’m not alone, she thought, running her fingers along her dragon’s neck.
It amazed her how quickly she had come to love the dragon. She supposed the cause might lie in their mental bond, but it seemed that they would have gotten along regardless. The dragon was still awkward and clingy, but her overwhelming enthusiasm was endearing, and the way she curiously watched the elves and listened to Vanora’s words with clear understanding spoke to the underlying intelligence of her young mind. She had not yet formed any of her thoughts into words, but the images and emotions that she sent to Vanora had quickly become more distinct.
She was also growing at a truly alarming rate. It had only been two days since her hatching, and though her body was still barely bigger than a cat’s, her wings were now big enough to serve as small blankets. The pair of horns highest on her head had grown almost as long as her snout and curved like tiny scimitars. When she straightened her neck, they lay almost flush against it. Her scales were as smooth and glossy as polished obsidian, and nearly as sharp at the edges. Being sure to stroke her in the right direction was less a matter of avoiding her ire than it was self-preservation, though Vanora supposed that those could be considered synonymous eventually.
Vanora had hoped that the horses’ nervousness around the dragon would delay their departure, but the elves had been ready with an open wagon. At least, that was what they had called it. With its cushioned seats and intricate decoration around the edges, Vanora was more inclined to call it a carriage. The lack of walls had allowed her to wave goodbye to Serrill as they approached the gates, but now it only let her watch as her home faded into the distance.
Arya Dröttning flew ahead of them with Fírnen. Vanora’s dragon watched them jealously, and when Vanora allowed her curiosity to seep through their bond, sent her an image of them flying together when she grew bigger. Along with the image was the sensation of wind rushing past their faces and a deep feeling of freedom.
“Okay,” Vanora said quietly, “I see what you mean.”
The dragon nudged her snout into Vanora’s hand and chirped happily, but her mind radiated impatience. For a few minutes, she sat quietly, occasionally fluttering her wings as her thoughts turned again and again to flight. Then she caught sight of her tail out of the corner of her eye, and pounced sideways at it, spinning twice in a circle before stopping with its tip in her jaws.
Vanora stifled a laugh. The dragon looked at her as if to ask what was so funny, and she grinned. “You are a giant, scaly kitten with wings.”
The dragon sat up, her tail still in her mouth, and sent Vanora an image of a cat sitting atop a wall like a monarch surveying their kingdom. The image was proud and noble, but the emotions under it were colored strongly with annoyance.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Vanora said, scratching nervously at the back of her neck. “You’re a person, not an animal. Though if I had to be compared to an animal, a cat wouldn’t be the worst choice, right?”
The dragon dropped her tail and curled up around Vanora’s legs, humming.
When they stopped for the night, the elves put a canopy over the wagon, and Arya Dröttning joined her inside to talk. “It will take about a fortnight to reach Osilon, assuming the weather stays fair. If circumstances permit, we will stop in Bullridge to allow their youths a chance with the other two eggs. After Osilon, you and I will travel to Ellesméra, where further plans will be made for your training.” She paused, and when Vanora did not speak, added, “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Vanora said, a little less respectfully than was probably proper.
“If we do visit Bullridge, we will not stay for the night. A new Rider should always begin her training as quickly as possible. The two days we stayed in Ilirea were enough of a delay.”
Vanora nodded, then frowned as her dragon pushed nervously up against her side. Her wings had flared slightly, and the spines on her back seemed to have risen.
Another presence brushed against Vanora’s mind, this one so strong and powerful that she instinctively pulled away. Vanora, boomed Fírnen’s voice, loud and deep enough to make her wince, can you tell your dragon to calm down?
“Why don’t you tell her to calm down?” Vanora said, placing a hand protectively on her dragon’s shoulder.
I tried, and she refuses, he said. I think she is not overly fond of me.
“If she doesn’t like you, I don’t think there’s much I can do about that.”
The green dragon’s disapproval rested almost oppressively against her mind. Wincing, she turned to look at her own dragon. Humor him, she said reluctantly. You don’t have to listen to everything he says, but I don’t know what will happen if you refuse to hear him at all.
Her mind radiated disappointment, but she pulled her claws out of Vanora’s shirt and curled up by her leg, eyes flickering as she and Fírnen communicated wordlessly.
Vanora chewed on her lip. She doubted that Fírnen intended to hurt her dragon, but the idea of leaving him alone with her was still frightening. Swallowing, she turned back to Arya. “Is there anything I should know? Before I go to your kingdom, I mean?”
The Rider-Queen seemed pleased with the question. “I would not worry overmuch, since you are a child and under my protection, but you should at least begin to learn our language, and the right way to greet one of my people. Do you know your letters?”
Vanora nodded, trying not to bristle too much at being called a child.
“Then it should be simple enough for you to learn mine as well. I will also write you a list of some common words, so that you can study them while we ride.” She smiled, much more genuinely than she had back in Ilirea. “I suppose this will constitute the first part of your training, Vanora-skynsameyla.”
Vanora frowned at the honorific, and Arya laughed. “You will understand soon enough, young one.”
Vanora spent the next day studying the elven language while her dragon rested with her head in her lap. The letters were bizarre and daunting, so she turned her focus mostly to the words themselves. Among them was a list of honorifics, which told her that skynsameyla was an honorific for a bright young woman. It was hard for her to decide how to feel about that.
By the end of the day, she knew a few words, though she stumbled over their pronunciation. The elves were patronizingly amused by her progress, asking her to pose simple questions and answer yes-or-no questions in their native tongue, then smirking knowingly to each other when she did, as though they were watching the first fumbling steps of a baby. To make matters worse, they seemed completely unwilling to acknowledge her discomfort. It made her want to scream and throw her share of food into the bushes.
Elves, apparently, did not eat meat, which Vanora supposed to be the reason for their unnatural thinness. Still, she had to admit that their cooking was better than anything she had eaten in years.
Arya did not visit her that evening, but she was waiting outside Vanora’s wagon at sunrise. Vanora jumped slightly, then thought back to her reading. “A-atra esterní ono thelduin.”
“Atra du evarínya ono varda,” said the Rider-Queen with yet another condescending smile. Vanora tried not to twitch. “I see you have not neglected your studies, Vanora-skynsameyla.”
“I try not to, Arya…” Vanora searched for the correct honorific, then had to force herself to say it. “...elda?”
Thankfully, the queen took her hesitation for uncertainty. “‘Elda’ is correct, or ‘Dröttning’ if you wish to use my title. But while I am your teacher, you should call me ‘ebrithil’.”
Vanora nodded.
“I wished to ask whether I might aid in your studies today. Fírnen has agreed to fly without me should you accept.”
Not wishing to appear rude, Vanora nodded and stammered a weak thanks.
Elvish letters were only barely easier with Arya’s help, but Vanora did manage to learn their order in the alphabet and attach the more familiar ones to their sounds. From there, they moved on to reviewing the words.
Around midday, as Vanora’s dragon fluttered from the carriage to hunt among the surrounding brush, Arya changed the subject. “Have you given your dragon a name yet?”
Vanora blinked. “I was waiting for her to tell me.”
The look Arya gave her was almost as confused as it was condescending. “Interesting. I thought most human Riders liked to name their dragons.”
“She may be my dragon, but I’m her Rider,” Vanora said. “She might not think in words, but she’s a person, not my pet.”
“I’ve never known a rider not of my people to be patient enough to wait.”
Vanora tugged nervously at her hair. “It just didn’t feel right. Like I would be imposing something on her.”
Her dragon swooped back into the carriage with a large dead rabbit in her claws. Approval and gratitude filtered through their bond.
Verja.
Vanora started and stared down at the dragon, who ignored her in favor of tearing a chunk off of the rabbit’s leg. “Did you just…”
Yes. Call me Verja.
For the first time since leaving the city, Vanora grinned. “She says her name is Verja.”
Arya raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit early for her to be talking.”
“She’s smart,” said Vanora. “I once knew a girl who said her first word when she was five months old. Verja’s like her.”
The Rider-Queen’s expression was unreadable. “I know you are not used to the presence of nobles, Vanora-skynsameyla, but I feel I must remind you that you are talking to a Queen. My kin may not be as forgiving as I am.”
Perhaps your kin should stop being so high-and-mighty, Vanora wanted to say. Instead she paused, held up her list of words in the elven language, and said, “How do you pronounce ‘brisingr’?”
By the time they reached Bullridge, Vanora could hold simple conversations in the elves’ language and Verja had grown to more than twice her original size. Her horns had fully grown in, and the spikes along her back were noticeably longer. She had also begun to shed scales as new, larger ones grew in their place. According to Arya and Fírnen, this would be a regular occurrence for the next three months.
The elves left the horses and wagon tied to a couple of trees on a nearby hill. Vanora wanted to stay behind, but the elves insisted that she accompany them into the town. Verja, who had been flying, joined them on the way to walk beside her.
You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Vanora told her. They respect you more than me.
Verja shot her a glare with one eye, radiating determination and protectiveness.
As they walked, Vanora scanned the elves’ faces and frowned. The elf with the silver braid, the one who had insisted upon her joining the potential Riders in Ilirea, was not among them, nor could she be. None of their number had split off from the group, and only one, a man, had been left to watch the horses.
The people of Bullridge stared at her like a particularly fascinating circus attraction as they arrived. Vanora wanted to wrap herself in the biggest cloak she could find and curl into a corner.
Here, there was no elven embassy for children to file in and out of, so the elves simply held the eggs as children paraded slowly past them. A great many seemed cowed by the massive presence of Fírnen, who circled above the town like a great green vulture. Two or three of the braver ones attempted to approach Verja, who eyed them suspiciously and snapped lightly at a girl who tried to baby-talk her.
In the end, they left without another Rider. Fírnen seemed disappointed, and Arya went to comfort him as the elves untied the horses and hitched them to the carriage. Vanora watched with a questioning look, then failed to turn away quickly enough when Arya looked back.
“Worry not,” she said, turning to climb into Fírnen’s saddle. “He only wishes the smaller one had hatched. It’s one of his.”
Vanora blinked. “Fírnen has children?”
“With Saphira Bjartskular herself,” Arya said proudly. Fírnen puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “The others are with their dam.”
Vanora nodded and climbed into the carriage with Verja, feeling slightly dazed. She had known that dragons grew faster than humans, but Saphira and Fírnen were both younger than she was. Imagining a person becoming a parent at that age, even to eggs that might not hatch for years, disturbed her.
You’re not going to lay eggs on me, are you? she asked Verja, trying to sound joking.
Verja snorted, producing a puff of black smoke. Eww. No.
Wind buffeted the carriage as Fírnen took to the sky. Vanora leaned back in her seat and looked southward, searching for anything that might lead her back to Ilirea. She found only hills, scrub, and the occasional lonely tree.
They crossed the Ramr River that evening, and from there rode north with renewed speed. Vanora worried for the horses, but they seemed unnaturally strong and healthy. The elves occasionally sang to them in their language, and Vanora decided that they must be casting spells on the animals.
On the fourth day after passing through Bullridge, the green outline of Du Weldenvarden appeared on the horizon. A cheer went up from the elves, and a couple of them broke into song. They passed into the forest that afternoon. Vanora had never even been into the sparse forests around Ilirea, and the thick canopy of Du Weldenvarden seemed to her like the roof of a great leafy prison. Verja, who was starting to have trouble fitting in the wagon, seemed ill at ease as well, and Vanora saw several images in her mind of breaking through the leaves and flying freely into the open sky.
How long until I can go with you? Vanora asked her.
If I held you in my claws, I might be able to carry you. You’re light for a human.
Vanora imagined hanging loosely from Verja’s claws and didn’t know whether to laugh or wince. I think I like the idea of riding better… seeing as I am a Dragon Rider, and all.
Verja huffed. I think that name puts far too much emphasis on the riding.
Well, what else could you call us?
Dragon-bonded, perhaps. Something that doesn’t make us dragons sound like glorified horses.
Vanora nodded, and Verja rested her head on her shoulder. As much as I want to take you flying, I’m going to miss being small enough to do this.
I guess it’ll be my turn to curl up under your arm.
Verja’s humming was now more of a throaty rumble, but the sound still made Vanora feel safe, even as they drove deeper into the eldritch forest.
Another three days brought them to the elven city of Osilon. Their arrival was met with singing, a haunting sound that seemed to curl through the air like twisting vines. The local elves were unafraid of approaching Verja, even when she flared her wings and bared her teeth. Like the ones in Arya’s delegation, they greeted Vanora’s attempts to speak their language with patronizing smiles.
I don’t like it either, said Verja, flicking the tip of her tail impatiently. It’s why I didn’t hatch for any of them. They act as though the sun shines out of their arses.
Vanora nearly choked. Verja!
What? It’s accurate.
Yes, but where did you learn that word?
The tips of Verja’s wings fluttered. From your mind, of course.
As it turned out, Verja had gathered a rather impressive vocabulary of dirty words from Vanora’s memories. Vanora hardly even remembered where she had heard them all. Figuring out which ones best applied to the elves proved an excellent pastime while being gawked at, though occasionally it made Vanora chuckle at an inappropriate moment. The elves’ offended looks when she did only made it harder to stop laughing.
Eventually, Arya seized Vanora by the ear and dragged her away from the others. Verja followed, snarling, until Fírnen seized her by the tail and lifted her several feet above the ground. Verja shrieked, flapping her wings and scrabbling at the air as Arya spun Vanora to face her. Gripping her arms with terrifying strength, she growled, “What in all of Alagaësia are you playing at, girl?”
Vanora struggled against her grip and turned to Fírnen, angry tears clouding her vision. “Stop it! You’re hurting her!”
Fírnen loosened his grip somewhat, but Verja continued to struggle. Vanora wanted desperately to run to her, hug her, and tell her everything was going to be all right, but Arya’s grip was like a vice. The elf woman in Ilirea had at least tried not to be rough with her. “I said let her go!”
“He will release her when you answer my question,” Arya snapped.
The tears streamed down Vanora’s face, hot and sticky against her skin. “I was nervous, so Verja said something funny and I laughed! I’m sorry! Just let her go!”
Fírnen snorted and dropped Verja, who scrabbled towards Vanora with her body low to the ground. The spikes on her back stood up like the hair on a frightened cat. Arya waited for a moment before releasing Vanora, a clear expression of disgust on her face.
Still crying, Vanora threw her arms around Verja’s neck, not caring that the spines dug into her arm as she pulled her close. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so, so sorry—”
It’s him who should be sorry, Verja said, her mental voice almost a shriek. He nearly bit my tail off! I knew I was right not to trust him!
He’s a right bastard who doesn’t deserve to be called a dragon, Vanora thought, choking back sobs. I just thought Arya was kinder than the others… she was helping me learn her language and everything… I’m so sorry!
Verja’s anger and her own fear and guilt blended potently in the space between their minds. Vanora was barely aware that Arya was still watching them disapprovingly.
“We leave for Ellesméra in the morning,” she finally said. “Be ready at dawn, and I want you to be quiet and respectful from now on. Do you understand?”
Hugging Verja as tightly as she could, Vanora nodded.
The ride to Ellesméra was very different from the previous journey. The wagon was left behind, and Vanora was forced to ride on horseback. She had never done so before, but that was the least of her concerns even as the creature’s unfamiliar movements made her stomach churn and her legs ache.
Cold, crushing silence hung over the group like a shroud. They had shed most of the delegation, but two elven men whom Vanora took to be Arya’s guards stayed with them. It would have been bad enough to ride with the Queen alone, but with the gazes of three elves bearing down on her, Vanora could hardly think.
She felt helpless. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but in the face of the power she had experienced upon becoming a Rider, it was especially horrible. There was nothing she and Verja could have done against Arya and Fírnen, and nothing they could do if the elf and her dragon turned on them again.
Her thoughts drifted repeatedly back to the battle of Uru’baen, kneeling in the street with Meriel’s bleeding body in her arms. No, she told herself over and over, blinking back tears as she tried to push the image away, I won’t let that happen again. I won’t lose Verja too.
At times, she found some solace in letting go of her own mind, joining with Verja as she flew above them. It was, as Verja said, the closest she could get to riding as of yet. The forest air on her face smelled fresh and clean, and the sun on her wings was blissfully warm. Through Verja’s eyes, she could see every part of the forest in sharp relief. Colors were oddly dim, but shadows were deeper, highlights bolder, and perspective far clearer. Yet even there, the slight tingling in Verja’s tail would bring Vanora back to the realization that they were living in the shadow of grave danger.
Her quiet demeanor did, at least, stay the Rider-Queen’s wrath, and when they arrived in Ellesméra, she seemed willing to talk to Vanora without glaring. She led her to a comfortable, if oddly-styled, room that had been grown out of the side of a tree, told her not to wander far, and even used the honorific when she left. As soon as she was gone, Vanora crawled onto the dais that was obviously meant for Verja and pressed her face into the dragon’s shoulder.
Verja was now longer than Vanora was tall, though only by a couple of inches. She rubbed her nose against Vanora’s hair, then curled up around her, allowing Vanora to sit leaning against her flank.
Arya didn’t say what would happen next, Vanora said, just that they would "make arrangements." I hope we don’t have to stay here. I don’t think I can stand another minute with these elves.
Verja’s thoughts filled with sympathy. I wish I could scare them away.
Me too.
The wind outside rocked the branches of the tree, making Vanora feel like she was still riding in the elves’ carriage. Verja took a moment to pull some loose scales off of her back, then sat up, a trickle of smoke drifting from her nostrils. I think we should go look around.
Why?
Because the best way to defy a bully is to act like you aren’t scared of them. Verja slapped her tail against the floor, then bowed her head. Even if we are.
But what if they hurt you again?
I doubt they would want to punish us for taking a walk. It’s not as if we’re calling them rude names this time. Though we could do that too, if you promise to only laugh in your mind.
Vanora flinched and rubbed her ear. I’d rather not go that far. But… okay.
It was hard to tell where the city ended and the forest began. Trees that seemed entirely natural, if disturbingly large, from one side would have a house growing out of them on the other, or upon closer examination turned out to have staircases spiraling up their trunks to meet with platforms among their branches. Vanora wondered how often the trees’ growth had to be controlled to keep them from warping the buildings. Seeing how easily the elves had bent nature to their will only heightened her desire to leave.
As they rounded one of the staircase-trees, Verja’s nose pricked, and she raised her head curiously. Vanora tilted her head, and Verja said, I smell another human.
Where?
Verja inclined her head toward a nearby trunk. Vanora carefully stepped over the roots and saw an old man slouching against the bark. His skin looked thin and loose, as if he had once lost a great deal of weight very quickly and never fully regained it. Thin strands of white hair clung to his head and despair darkened his gaunt face, a sharp contrast to his strangely bright blue eyes.
Although they had never met, Vanora felt a strange connection to the man. The look on his face was one she recognized, for she had seen it many times on her mother around the time of Nasuada’s coronation. It was the look of a person who had lost someone who could never be replaced.
Vanora swallowed and lifted a hand in greeting. “H-hello.”
“Katrina?” the main said softly, then blinked and shook his head. “No, you’re… you’re one of those Riders! What are you doing here?”
“I just…” Vanora looked down at her hands and snapped a joint on her thumb. “You looked sad. Who is Katrina?”
“My daughter.” The man’s eyes filled with tears, and he collapsed, sobbing. “I tried to protect her… but she wanted to marry that Roran, so… what was I to do? I couldn’t let him take her, trap her in his house like his father did to his mother, like he did to those boys after she died, but… but she betrayed me!” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Then that cousin of his, he forced me to swear never to see her again, and he made me come here, then he brought her here and gave me my eyes back just to taunt me, and… and… and I thanked him for it!”
A sob shook his body, and Vanora tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but kept speaking. “And now I have to stay here, surrounded by these pompous bastards who barely give me a moment’s peace, while that warmonger raises my grandchildren in a castle built on the ashes of my home. I can’t even practice my trade, because who needs a butcher when nobody here eats meat?”
Vanora nodded solemnly. “What’s your name?”
“Sloan,” he croaked. “Sloan Aldensson.”
“I’m Vanora Orellasdaughter, and this is Verja.” Vanora swallowed. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“Thank you,” Sloan said. His eyes flicked back to her face. “You have the same color hair as her, the same as her mother. Such beautiful hair.”
Vanora looked down, then scanned the trees for any nearby elves. Seeing none, and not hearing otherwise from Verja, she said, “For what it’s worth… I don’t like the elves either, or the Varden.”
A hint of incredulity broke through the sadness on Sloan’s face. Fidgeting slightly with her hands, Vanora went on. “I lost people too because of them. My parents, and my little sister.” A tear welled up in her right eye, and she wiped it away. “She was only three years old.”
“And yet, you’ve become a Rider,” Sloan said acidly.
“Not all Riders think alike,” Vanora said. She started to speak again, but felt as if someone may be listening, and lowered her voice. “I want to make sure that Eragon Shadeslayer pays for his crimes. He needs to answer to the people whose lives he stole. And… and if I succeed, I promise I’ll find a way to release you from his control.”
I do, too, said Verja, and Vanora started. It was the first time she had spoken to anyone else.
Sloan seemed disturbed by Verja’s speech, but swallowed against his tears and clasped Vanora’s hand. “Thank you… Argetlam. If you do this, you’re more worthy of the Riders’ mantle than any other.”
“Just… just call me Vanora.”
Sloan became quiet after that, staring sadly into the air. After a moment of silence, they left him to his thoughts, and the rest of the walk passed without comment from dragon or Rider.
When they returned to their room, the sky was beginning to grow dark. Vanora sat by the bed with her arms around her knees and thought, Was it right to promise him that?
Why do you ask?
I don’t even know if it can be done, but I wanted to make him feel better. Now I just feel like a filthy liar.
Verja’s snout brushed against her forehead. You may not know whether it can be done, but I’m sure it can. Even if we can’t find a way at first, we’ll keep looking until we do, because whether we promised him or not, releasing him from that curse is the right thing to do.
In the morning, Arya came to their room with a backpack and a wooden training sword. “Finish your breakfast, then take these and meet me on the north side of the city. You have a long day ahead of you.”
Vanora wanted to delay, but decided that it would be unwise. Still, when she stepped outside the room with the pack slung over her shoulders and the sword stuck into her belt, she hesitated. With the sky covered by the canopy, she had no way of knowing which way was north.
That way, Verja said, and rather than indicating the direction, simply sent a strong urge to turn left. Vanora thanked her and began walking, scanning the tree trunks for any sign of Arya. She noticed a number of elves watching her with interest, peering around trees or leaning over the edges of platforms.
Arya and Fírnen were waiting in a clearing on a small hill covered in clover. A line of high cliffs jutted over the trees behind them, extending as far as Vanora could see in either direction. Her head spun as she looked up at the closest edge.
Verja’s wings flared excitedly. I know this place! This is close to where my egg was laid.
Vanora looked at her with surprise. You remember that?
Only barely, Verja said, gazing longingly at the edges of the crags. Everything before I hatched is a blur, but I remember my mother showing me this place, so that if I was ever lost, I could come home. It looked different then, though. Confusion seeped through their bond, and Vanora put a hand on her shoulder. I wonder how long I was in my egg?
“These are the Crags of Tel’naeir,” said Arya. “It was here that Eragon Shadeslayer was trained by Oromis, last of the old order of Dragon Riders; and it was here that I raised Fírnen after he hatched. It is only fitting that the new Riders should train here.”
Vanora swallowed heavily as she scanned the rocky wall. “Is there a way up?”
“Yes,” said Arya. “Fírnen and Verja will fly, and you and I will climb.”
“I don’t think I can climb that high.”
Arya drew herself up to her full height and tossed back a lock of hair. “If you wish to be a Rider, you will have to do things far more strenuous than climbing a mountain. You cannot remain a city girl who walks only on paved streets and beaten paths.”
Fírnen took off, followed reluctantly by Verja. I’ll try to spot you a path. Whatever you do, Vanora, don’t give up.
Vanora set her jaw and approached the sheer walls. Sweeping her gaze along the middle of the cliffs, she found a spot where it was slightly less steep than anywhere else. Keenly aware of Arya’s gaze on her back, she found a handhold and began to climb.
She was not even above the treetops before she reached the point of exhaustion. Her face was nearly as red as her hair and coated in sweat, and her arms felt as though they were on fire. Verja?
Move a little to your right, came the reply. I’ll try to lend you some of my strength. Keep your arms as close to your body as possible, and use your legs to move upward.
Biting her lip against the protests of her limbs, Vanora did her best to follow Verja’s instructions. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arya, hanging loosely from the rock face as if it were the most effortless thing in the world. Jealousy and anger bubbled in her chest. She doesn’t even have to work for it! Climbing a mountain doesn’t mean anything if you can do it without breaking a sweat from the very start!
With that realization came a creeping sense of horror. Is that what life is for elves?
As far as I can tell, yes, said Verja.
Vanora shuddered and pushed herself over a ledge with renewed determination. Then I would hate to be one. If you can already do everything, then where’s the fun in learning a new skill? How can you test your limits if you don’t have any? Their lives must be so boring… no wonder they act as if they’re better than everyone else. Lording their abilities over the rest of us is all they have.
Pride, warm and glowing, filtered through their bond. That kind of insight is why I picked you.
Bolstered by Verja’s words, Vanora continued to climb.
It was almost dark when she reached the top. Vanora’s hands and arms were covered in cuts, and her shoes were nearly shredded. She had nearly fallen twice, and had the scrapes to prove it. She was shaking worse than after the first time she had touched Verja. Stabbing pain flooded her limbs, hunger gnawed at her stomach, and a stitch burned in each of her sides. Still, she had made it, and that meant more for her than it ever could for Arya Dröttning.
“Good work, Vanora-skynsameyla,” the elf queen said dispassionately, shaking out her hair as she offered a piece of bread. Vanora snatched it, stuffed it into her mouth, and watched the stars as they glimmered into sight above the forest.
As always, comments and critiques are most welcome! It's been great hearing everyone's feedback so far, and I'm glad so many people seem to like the story. I hope it continues to satisfy.
Writing this chapter was practically a study in discovering lost potential. There was so much Paolini could have done with dragons and the bond they share with their Riders. Yet, all he did with Saphira was make her act like a cat, see mostly in blue, and refer to things using hyphen-overloaded descriptions. The first was occasionally cute, the second was bizarre, and the third was just annoying. As for her relationship with Eragon, it was meant to be one of pure, family-like love, but fell seriously short. Saphira constantly keeps secrets and belittles Eragon, calling him "little one," while Eragon treats Saphira like a large, scaly horse.
Since I do try to stick mostly to canon, I felt obliged to give Verja a kind of vision that correlated with her coloring. After toying with a few concepts, I eventually decided that as a white-eyed black dragon, she should be nearly colorblind, but have excellent perception of depth, contrast, and movement. I also added some detail to her development, because aside from changes in size, Paolini really didn't go into much detail about Saphira's growth.
For the bond, I looked outside of Inheritance for inspiration. Dragons and their Riders are supposed to share at least part of their minds, so in some respects, they are almost a dual being. Thus, I wrote Vanora and Verja with His Dark Materials in mind, doing my best to model their relationship on that between a person and their dæmon. Vanora and Verja are more or less aspects of each other: Vanora represents their more cautious, introspective side, prone to despair and rumination; while Verja represents their more confident side, determined and resilient, but a bit impulsive. This is also why I made their names alliterate with each other. Verja's name, for those of you who might want to know, is an old Norse word meaning "to defend."
One of the most frustrating parts of writing this chapter was the timing. As we all know, Paolini's travel times are wildly inconsistent. After looking at the timelines of Eragon and Eldest with regard to travel, I quickly came to the conclusion that basing any estimate on the map is a fool's errand. From the eastern edge of the spine to the town of Yazuac is four days on horseback in Eragon, but Eragon and Company can get all the way from Sílthrim to Ellesméra in about as much time in Eldest, even though the first journey is through plains and the second through forest? That makes no sense.
This chapter also contains my first non-canonical addition to the Ancient Language in the form of the honorific skynsameyla,"bright young woman." In true Inheritance tradition, it is taken from Old Norse. It's a portmanteau of skynsamliga,"intelligently," and meyla,"little girl." I essentially constructed it as a younger version of the canonical honorific svit-kona,"woman of great wisdom."
As my final note before beginning the story, I must point out that if Paolini had written this, it would probably be ten chapters of pointless travel and at least three of actual scenes.
The shadow of the shelf above Ilirea was just receding over the walls when they left. Squinting against the sun, Vanora looked back at the city with a deepening pit in her stomach. Never before had she set foot outside those walls.
At least I’m not alone, she thought, running her fingers along her dragon’s neck.
It amazed her how quickly she had come to love the dragon. She supposed the cause might lie in their mental bond, but it seemed that they would have gotten along regardless. The dragon was still awkward and clingy, but her overwhelming enthusiasm was endearing, and the way she curiously watched the elves and listened to Vanora’s words with clear understanding spoke to the underlying intelligence of her young mind. She had not yet formed any of her thoughts into words, but the images and emotions that she sent to Vanora had quickly become more distinct.
She was also growing at a truly alarming rate. It had only been two days since her hatching, and though her body was still barely bigger than a cat’s, her wings were now big enough to serve as small blankets. The pair of horns highest on her head had grown almost as long as her snout and curved like tiny scimitars. When she straightened her neck, they lay almost flush against it. Her scales were as smooth and glossy as polished obsidian, and nearly as sharp at the edges. Being sure to stroke her in the right direction was less a matter of avoiding her ire than it was self-preservation, though Vanora supposed that those could be considered synonymous eventually.
Vanora had hoped that the horses’ nervousness around the dragon would delay their departure, but the elves had been ready with an open wagon. At least, that was what they had called it. With its cushioned seats and intricate decoration around the edges, Vanora was more inclined to call it a carriage. The lack of walls had allowed her to wave goodbye to Serrill as they approached the gates, but now it only let her watch as her home faded into the distance.
Arya Dröttning flew ahead of them with Fírnen. Vanora’s dragon watched them jealously, and when Vanora allowed her curiosity to seep through their bond, sent her an image of them flying together when she grew bigger. Along with the image was the sensation of wind rushing past their faces and a deep feeling of freedom.
“Okay,” Vanora said quietly, “I see what you mean.”
The dragon nudged her snout into Vanora’s hand and chirped happily, but her mind radiated impatience. For a few minutes, she sat quietly, occasionally fluttering her wings as her thoughts turned again and again to flight. Then she caught sight of her tail out of the corner of her eye, and pounced sideways at it, spinning twice in a circle before stopping with its tip in her jaws.
Vanora stifled a laugh. The dragon looked at her as if to ask what was so funny, and she grinned. “You are a giant, scaly kitten with wings.”
The dragon sat up, her tail still in her mouth, and sent Vanora an image of a cat sitting atop a wall like a monarch surveying their kingdom. The image was proud and noble, but the emotions under it were colored strongly with annoyance.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Vanora said, scratching nervously at the back of her neck. “You’re a person, not an animal. Though if I had to be compared to an animal, a cat wouldn’t be the worst choice, right?”
The dragon dropped her tail and curled up around Vanora’s legs, humming.
When they stopped for the night, the elves put a canopy over the wagon, and Arya Dröttning joined her inside to talk. “It will take about a fortnight to reach Osilon, assuming the weather stays fair. If circumstances permit, we will stop in Bullridge to allow their youths a chance with the other two eggs. After Osilon, you and I will travel to Ellesméra, where further plans will be made for your training.” She paused, and when Vanora did not speak, added, “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Vanora said, a little less respectfully than was probably proper.
“If we do visit Bullridge, we will not stay for the night. A new Rider should always begin her training as quickly as possible. The two days we stayed in Ilirea were enough of a delay.”
Vanora nodded, then frowned as her dragon pushed nervously up against her side. Her wings had flared slightly, and the spines on her back seemed to have risen.
Another presence brushed against Vanora’s mind, this one so strong and powerful that she instinctively pulled away. Vanora, boomed Fírnen’s voice, loud and deep enough to make her wince, can you tell your dragon to calm down?
“Why don’t you tell her to calm down?” Vanora said, placing a hand protectively on her dragon’s shoulder.
I tried, and she refuses, he said. I think she is not overly fond of me.
“If she doesn’t like you, I don’t think there’s much I can do about that.”
The green dragon’s disapproval rested almost oppressively against her mind. Wincing, she turned to look at her own dragon. Humor him, she said reluctantly. You don’t have to listen to everything he says, but I don’t know what will happen if you refuse to hear him at all.
Her mind radiated disappointment, but she pulled her claws out of Vanora’s shirt and curled up by her leg, eyes flickering as she and Fírnen communicated wordlessly.
Vanora chewed on her lip. She doubted that Fírnen intended to hurt her dragon, but the idea of leaving him alone with her was still frightening. Swallowing, she turned back to Arya. “Is there anything I should know? Before I go to your kingdom, I mean?”
The Rider-Queen seemed pleased with the question. “I would not worry overmuch, since you are a child and under my protection, but you should at least begin to learn our language, and the right way to greet one of my people. Do you know your letters?”
Vanora nodded, trying not to bristle too much at being called a child.
“Then it should be simple enough for you to learn mine as well. I will also write you a list of some common words, so that you can study them while we ride.” She smiled, much more genuinely than she had back in Ilirea. “I suppose this will constitute the first part of your training, Vanora-skynsameyla.”
Vanora frowned at the honorific, and Arya laughed. “You will understand soon enough, young one.”
Vanora spent the next day studying the elven language while her dragon rested with her head in her lap. The letters were bizarre and daunting, so she turned her focus mostly to the words themselves. Among them was a list of honorifics, which told her that skynsameyla was an honorific for a bright young woman. It was hard for her to decide how to feel about that.
By the end of the day, she knew a few words, though she stumbled over their pronunciation. The elves were patronizingly amused by her progress, asking her to pose simple questions and answer yes-or-no questions in their native tongue, then smirking knowingly to each other when she did, as though they were watching the first fumbling steps of a baby. To make matters worse, they seemed completely unwilling to acknowledge her discomfort. It made her want to scream and throw her share of food into the bushes.
Elves, apparently, did not eat meat, which Vanora supposed to be the reason for their unnatural thinness. Still, she had to admit that their cooking was better than anything she had eaten in years.
Arya did not visit her that evening, but she was waiting outside Vanora’s wagon at sunrise. Vanora jumped slightly, then thought back to her reading. “A-atra esterní ono thelduin.”
“Atra du evarínya ono varda,” said the Rider-Queen with yet another condescending smile. Vanora tried not to twitch. “I see you have not neglected your studies, Vanora-skynsameyla.”
“I try not to, Arya…” Vanora searched for the correct honorific, then had to force herself to say it. “...elda?”
Thankfully, the queen took her hesitation for uncertainty. “‘Elda’ is correct, or ‘Dröttning’ if you wish to use my title. But while I am your teacher, you should call me ‘ebrithil’.”
Vanora nodded.
“I wished to ask whether I might aid in your studies today. Fírnen has agreed to fly without me should you accept.”
Not wishing to appear rude, Vanora nodded and stammered a weak thanks.
Elvish letters were only barely easier with Arya’s help, but Vanora did manage to learn their order in the alphabet and attach the more familiar ones to their sounds. From there, they moved on to reviewing the words.
Around midday, as Vanora’s dragon fluttered from the carriage to hunt among the surrounding brush, Arya changed the subject. “Have you given your dragon a name yet?”
Vanora blinked. “I was waiting for her to tell me.”
The look Arya gave her was almost as confused as it was condescending. “Interesting. I thought most human Riders liked to name their dragons.”
“She may be my dragon, but I’m her Rider,” Vanora said. “She might not think in words, but she’s a person, not my pet.”
“I’ve never known a rider not of my people to be patient enough to wait.”
Vanora tugged nervously at her hair. “It just didn’t feel right. Like I would be imposing something on her.”
Her dragon swooped back into the carriage with a large dead rabbit in her claws. Approval and gratitude filtered through their bond.
Verja.
Vanora started and stared down at the dragon, who ignored her in favor of tearing a chunk off of the rabbit’s leg. “Did you just…”
Yes. Call me Verja.
For the first time since leaving the city, Vanora grinned. “She says her name is Verja.”
Arya raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit early for her to be talking.”
“She’s smart,” said Vanora. “I once knew a girl who said her first word when she was five months old. Verja’s like her.”
The Rider-Queen’s expression was unreadable. “I know you are not used to the presence of nobles, Vanora-skynsameyla, but I feel I must remind you that you are talking to a Queen. My kin may not be as forgiving as I am.”
Perhaps your kin should stop being so high-and-mighty, Vanora wanted to say. Instead she paused, held up her list of words in the elven language, and said, “How do you pronounce ‘brisingr’?”
By the time they reached Bullridge, Vanora could hold simple conversations in the elves’ language and Verja had grown to more than twice her original size. Her horns had fully grown in, and the spikes along her back were noticeably longer. She had also begun to shed scales as new, larger ones grew in their place. According to Arya and Fírnen, this would be a regular occurrence for the next three months.
The elves left the horses and wagon tied to a couple of trees on a nearby hill. Vanora wanted to stay behind, but the elves insisted that she accompany them into the town. Verja, who had been flying, joined them on the way to walk beside her.
You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Vanora told her. They respect you more than me.
Verja shot her a glare with one eye, radiating determination and protectiveness.
As they walked, Vanora scanned the elves’ faces and frowned. The elf with the silver braid, the one who had insisted upon her joining the potential Riders in Ilirea, was not among them, nor could she be. None of their number had split off from the group, and only one, a man, had been left to watch the horses.
The people of Bullridge stared at her like a particularly fascinating circus attraction as they arrived. Vanora wanted to wrap herself in the biggest cloak she could find and curl into a corner.
Here, there was no elven embassy for children to file in and out of, so the elves simply held the eggs as children paraded slowly past them. A great many seemed cowed by the massive presence of Fírnen, who circled above the town like a great green vulture. Two or three of the braver ones attempted to approach Verja, who eyed them suspiciously and snapped lightly at a girl who tried to baby-talk her.
In the end, they left without another Rider. Fírnen seemed disappointed, and Arya went to comfort him as the elves untied the horses and hitched them to the carriage. Vanora watched with a questioning look, then failed to turn away quickly enough when Arya looked back.
“Worry not,” she said, turning to climb into Fírnen’s saddle. “He only wishes the smaller one had hatched. It’s one of his.”
Vanora blinked. “Fírnen has children?”
“With Saphira Bjartskular herself,” Arya said proudly. Fírnen puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “The others are with their dam.”
Vanora nodded and climbed into the carriage with Verja, feeling slightly dazed. She had known that dragons grew faster than humans, but Saphira and Fírnen were both younger than she was. Imagining a person becoming a parent at that age, even to eggs that might not hatch for years, disturbed her.
You’re not going to lay eggs on me, are you? she asked Verja, trying to sound joking.
Verja snorted, producing a puff of black smoke. Eww. No.
Wind buffeted the carriage as Fírnen took to the sky. Vanora leaned back in her seat and looked southward, searching for anything that might lead her back to Ilirea. She found only hills, scrub, and the occasional lonely tree.
They crossed the Ramr River that evening, and from there rode north with renewed speed. Vanora worried for the horses, but they seemed unnaturally strong and healthy. The elves occasionally sang to them in their language, and Vanora decided that they must be casting spells on the animals.
On the fourth day after passing through Bullridge, the green outline of Du Weldenvarden appeared on the horizon. A cheer went up from the elves, and a couple of them broke into song. They passed into the forest that afternoon. Vanora had never even been into the sparse forests around Ilirea, and the thick canopy of Du Weldenvarden seemed to her like the roof of a great leafy prison. Verja, who was starting to have trouble fitting in the wagon, seemed ill at ease as well, and Vanora saw several images in her mind of breaking through the leaves and flying freely into the open sky.
How long until I can go with you? Vanora asked her.
If I held you in my claws, I might be able to carry you. You’re light for a human.
Vanora imagined hanging loosely from Verja’s claws and didn’t know whether to laugh or wince. I think I like the idea of riding better… seeing as I am a Dragon Rider, and all.
Verja huffed. I think that name puts far too much emphasis on the riding.
Well, what else could you call us?
Dragon-bonded, perhaps. Something that doesn’t make us dragons sound like glorified horses.
Vanora nodded, and Verja rested her head on her shoulder. As much as I want to take you flying, I’m going to miss being small enough to do this.
I guess it’ll be my turn to curl up under your arm.
Verja’s humming was now more of a throaty rumble, but the sound still made Vanora feel safe, even as they drove deeper into the eldritch forest.
Another three days brought them to the elven city of Osilon. Their arrival was met with singing, a haunting sound that seemed to curl through the air like twisting vines. The local elves were unafraid of approaching Verja, even when she flared her wings and bared her teeth. Like the ones in Arya’s delegation, they greeted Vanora’s attempts to speak their language with patronizing smiles.
I don’t like it either, said Verja, flicking the tip of her tail impatiently. It’s why I didn’t hatch for any of them. They act as though the sun shines out of their arses.
Vanora nearly choked. Verja!
What? It’s accurate.
Yes, but where did you learn that word?
The tips of Verja’s wings fluttered. From your mind, of course.
As it turned out, Verja had gathered a rather impressive vocabulary of dirty words from Vanora’s memories. Vanora hardly even remembered where she had heard them all. Figuring out which ones best applied to the elves proved an excellent pastime while being gawked at, though occasionally it made Vanora chuckle at an inappropriate moment. The elves’ offended looks when she did only made it harder to stop laughing.
Eventually, Arya seized Vanora by the ear and dragged her away from the others. Verja followed, snarling, until Fírnen seized her by the tail and lifted her several feet above the ground. Verja shrieked, flapping her wings and scrabbling at the air as Arya spun Vanora to face her. Gripping her arms with terrifying strength, she growled, “What in all of Alagaësia are you playing at, girl?”
Vanora struggled against her grip and turned to Fírnen, angry tears clouding her vision. “Stop it! You’re hurting her!”
Fírnen loosened his grip somewhat, but Verja continued to struggle. Vanora wanted desperately to run to her, hug her, and tell her everything was going to be all right, but Arya’s grip was like a vice. The elf woman in Ilirea had at least tried not to be rough with her. “I said let her go!”
“He will release her when you answer my question,” Arya snapped.
The tears streamed down Vanora’s face, hot and sticky against her skin. “I was nervous, so Verja said something funny and I laughed! I’m sorry! Just let her go!”
Fírnen snorted and dropped Verja, who scrabbled towards Vanora with her body low to the ground. The spikes on her back stood up like the hair on a frightened cat. Arya waited for a moment before releasing Vanora, a clear expression of disgust on her face.
Still crying, Vanora threw her arms around Verja’s neck, not caring that the spines dug into her arm as she pulled her close. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so, so sorry—”
It’s him who should be sorry, Verja said, her mental voice almost a shriek. He nearly bit my tail off! I knew I was right not to trust him!
He’s a right bastard who doesn’t deserve to be called a dragon, Vanora thought, choking back sobs. I just thought Arya was kinder than the others… she was helping me learn her language and everything… I’m so sorry!
Verja’s anger and her own fear and guilt blended potently in the space between their minds. Vanora was barely aware that Arya was still watching them disapprovingly.
“We leave for Ellesméra in the morning,” she finally said. “Be ready at dawn, and I want you to be quiet and respectful from now on. Do you understand?”
Hugging Verja as tightly as she could, Vanora nodded.
The ride to Ellesméra was very different from the previous journey. The wagon was left behind, and Vanora was forced to ride on horseback. She had never done so before, but that was the least of her concerns even as the creature’s unfamiliar movements made her stomach churn and her legs ache.
Cold, crushing silence hung over the group like a shroud. They had shed most of the delegation, but two elven men whom Vanora took to be Arya’s guards stayed with them. It would have been bad enough to ride with the Queen alone, but with the gazes of three elves bearing down on her, Vanora could hardly think.
She felt helpless. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but in the face of the power she had experienced upon becoming a Rider, it was especially horrible. There was nothing she and Verja could have done against Arya and Fírnen, and nothing they could do if the elf and her dragon turned on them again.
Her thoughts drifted repeatedly back to the battle of Uru’baen, kneeling in the street with Meriel’s bleeding body in her arms. No, she told herself over and over, blinking back tears as she tried to push the image away, I won’t let that happen again. I won’t lose Verja too.
At times, she found some solace in letting go of her own mind, joining with Verja as she flew above them. It was, as Verja said, the closest she could get to riding as of yet. The forest air on her face smelled fresh and clean, and the sun on her wings was blissfully warm. Through Verja’s eyes, she could see every part of the forest in sharp relief. Colors were oddly dim, but shadows were deeper, highlights bolder, and perspective far clearer. Yet even there, the slight tingling in Verja’s tail would bring Vanora back to the realization that they were living in the shadow of grave danger.
Her quiet demeanor did, at least, stay the Rider-Queen’s wrath, and when they arrived in Ellesméra, she seemed willing to talk to Vanora without glaring. She led her to a comfortable, if oddly-styled, room that had been grown out of the side of a tree, told her not to wander far, and even used the honorific when she left. As soon as she was gone, Vanora crawled onto the dais that was obviously meant for Verja and pressed her face into the dragon’s shoulder.
Verja was now longer than Vanora was tall, though only by a couple of inches. She rubbed her nose against Vanora’s hair, then curled up around her, allowing Vanora to sit leaning against her flank.
Arya didn’t say what would happen next, Vanora said, just that they would "make arrangements." I hope we don’t have to stay here. I don’t think I can stand another minute with these elves.
Verja’s thoughts filled with sympathy. I wish I could scare them away.
Me too.
The wind outside rocked the branches of the tree, making Vanora feel like she was still riding in the elves’ carriage. Verja took a moment to pull some loose scales off of her back, then sat up, a trickle of smoke drifting from her nostrils. I think we should go look around.
Why?
Because the best way to defy a bully is to act like you aren’t scared of them. Verja slapped her tail against the floor, then bowed her head. Even if we are.
But what if they hurt you again?
I doubt they would want to punish us for taking a walk. It’s not as if we’re calling them rude names this time. Though we could do that too, if you promise to only laugh in your mind.
Vanora flinched and rubbed her ear. I’d rather not go that far. But… okay.
It was hard to tell where the city ended and the forest began. Trees that seemed entirely natural, if disturbingly large, from one side would have a house growing out of them on the other, or upon closer examination turned out to have staircases spiraling up their trunks to meet with platforms among their branches. Vanora wondered how often the trees’ growth had to be controlled to keep them from warping the buildings. Seeing how easily the elves had bent nature to their will only heightened her desire to leave.
As they rounded one of the staircase-trees, Verja’s nose pricked, and she raised her head curiously. Vanora tilted her head, and Verja said, I smell another human.
Where?
Verja inclined her head toward a nearby trunk. Vanora carefully stepped over the roots and saw an old man slouching against the bark. His skin looked thin and loose, as if he had once lost a great deal of weight very quickly and never fully regained it. Thin strands of white hair clung to his head and despair darkened his gaunt face, a sharp contrast to his strangely bright blue eyes.
Although they had never met, Vanora felt a strange connection to the man. The look on his face was one she recognized, for she had seen it many times on her mother around the time of Nasuada’s coronation. It was the look of a person who had lost someone who could never be replaced.
Vanora swallowed and lifted a hand in greeting. “H-hello.”
“Katrina?” the main said softly, then blinked and shook his head. “No, you’re… you’re one of those Riders! What are you doing here?”
“I just…” Vanora looked down at her hands and snapped a joint on her thumb. “You looked sad. Who is Katrina?”
“My daughter.” The man’s eyes filled with tears, and he collapsed, sobbing. “I tried to protect her… but she wanted to marry that Roran, so… what was I to do? I couldn’t let him take her, trap her in his house like his father did to his mother, like he did to those boys after she died, but… but she betrayed me!” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Then that cousin of his, he forced me to swear never to see her again, and he made me come here, then he brought her here and gave me my eyes back just to taunt me, and… and… and I thanked him for it!”
A sob shook his body, and Vanora tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but kept speaking. “And now I have to stay here, surrounded by these pompous bastards who barely give me a moment’s peace, while that warmonger raises my grandchildren in a castle built on the ashes of my home. I can’t even practice my trade, because who needs a butcher when nobody here eats meat?”
Vanora nodded solemnly. “What’s your name?”
“Sloan,” he croaked. “Sloan Aldensson.”
“I’m Vanora Orellasdaughter, and this is Verja.” Vanora swallowed. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“Thank you,” Sloan said. His eyes flicked back to her face. “You have the same color hair as her, the same as her mother. Such beautiful hair.”
Vanora looked down, then scanned the trees for any nearby elves. Seeing none, and not hearing otherwise from Verja, she said, “For what it’s worth… I don’t like the elves either, or the Varden.”
A hint of incredulity broke through the sadness on Sloan’s face. Fidgeting slightly with her hands, Vanora went on. “I lost people too because of them. My parents, and my little sister.” A tear welled up in her right eye, and she wiped it away. “She was only three years old.”
“And yet, you’ve become a Rider,” Sloan said acidly.
“Not all Riders think alike,” Vanora said. She started to speak again, but felt as if someone may be listening, and lowered her voice. “I want to make sure that Eragon Shadeslayer pays for his crimes. He needs to answer to the people whose lives he stole. And… and if I succeed, I promise I’ll find a way to release you from his control.”
I do, too, said Verja, and Vanora started. It was the first time she had spoken to anyone else.
Sloan seemed disturbed by Verja’s speech, but swallowed against his tears and clasped Vanora’s hand. “Thank you… Argetlam. If you do this, you’re more worthy of the Riders’ mantle than any other.”
“Just… just call me Vanora.”
Sloan became quiet after that, staring sadly into the air. After a moment of silence, they left him to his thoughts, and the rest of the walk passed without comment from dragon or Rider.
When they returned to their room, the sky was beginning to grow dark. Vanora sat by the bed with her arms around her knees and thought, Was it right to promise him that?
Why do you ask?
I don’t even know if it can be done, but I wanted to make him feel better. Now I just feel like a filthy liar.
Verja’s snout brushed against her forehead. You may not know whether it can be done, but I’m sure it can. Even if we can’t find a way at first, we’ll keep looking until we do, because whether we promised him or not, releasing him from that curse is the right thing to do.
In the morning, Arya came to their room with a backpack and a wooden training sword. “Finish your breakfast, then take these and meet me on the north side of the city. You have a long day ahead of you.”
Vanora wanted to delay, but decided that it would be unwise. Still, when she stepped outside the room with the pack slung over her shoulders and the sword stuck into her belt, she hesitated. With the sky covered by the canopy, she had no way of knowing which way was north.
That way, Verja said, and rather than indicating the direction, simply sent a strong urge to turn left. Vanora thanked her and began walking, scanning the tree trunks for any sign of Arya. She noticed a number of elves watching her with interest, peering around trees or leaning over the edges of platforms.
Arya and Fírnen were waiting in a clearing on a small hill covered in clover. A line of high cliffs jutted over the trees behind them, extending as far as Vanora could see in either direction. Her head spun as she looked up at the closest edge.
Verja’s wings flared excitedly. I know this place! This is close to where my egg was laid.
Vanora looked at her with surprise. You remember that?
Only barely, Verja said, gazing longingly at the edges of the crags. Everything before I hatched is a blur, but I remember my mother showing me this place, so that if I was ever lost, I could come home. It looked different then, though. Confusion seeped through their bond, and Vanora put a hand on her shoulder. I wonder how long I was in my egg?
“These are the Crags of Tel’naeir,” said Arya. “It was here that Eragon Shadeslayer was trained by Oromis, last of the old order of Dragon Riders; and it was here that I raised Fírnen after he hatched. It is only fitting that the new Riders should train here.”
Vanora swallowed heavily as she scanned the rocky wall. “Is there a way up?”
“Yes,” said Arya. “Fírnen and Verja will fly, and you and I will climb.”
“I don’t think I can climb that high.”
Arya drew herself up to her full height and tossed back a lock of hair. “If you wish to be a Rider, you will have to do things far more strenuous than climbing a mountain. You cannot remain a city girl who walks only on paved streets and beaten paths.”
Fírnen took off, followed reluctantly by Verja. I’ll try to spot you a path. Whatever you do, Vanora, don’t give up.
Vanora set her jaw and approached the sheer walls. Sweeping her gaze along the middle of the cliffs, she found a spot where it was slightly less steep than anywhere else. Keenly aware of Arya’s gaze on her back, she found a handhold and began to climb.
She was not even above the treetops before she reached the point of exhaustion. Her face was nearly as red as her hair and coated in sweat, and her arms felt as though they were on fire. Verja?
Move a little to your right, came the reply. I’ll try to lend you some of my strength. Keep your arms as close to your body as possible, and use your legs to move upward.
Biting her lip against the protests of her limbs, Vanora did her best to follow Verja’s instructions. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Arya, hanging loosely from the rock face as if it were the most effortless thing in the world. Jealousy and anger bubbled in her chest. She doesn’t even have to work for it! Climbing a mountain doesn’t mean anything if you can do it without breaking a sweat from the very start!
With that realization came a creeping sense of horror. Is that what life is for elves?
As far as I can tell, yes, said Verja.
Vanora shuddered and pushed herself over a ledge with renewed determination. Then I would hate to be one. If you can already do everything, then where’s the fun in learning a new skill? How can you test your limits if you don’t have any? Their lives must be so boring… no wonder they act as if they’re better than everyone else. Lording their abilities over the rest of us is all they have.
Pride, warm and glowing, filtered through their bond. That kind of insight is why I picked you.
Bolstered by Verja’s words, Vanora continued to climb.
It was almost dark when she reached the top. Vanora’s hands and arms were covered in cuts, and her shoes were nearly shredded. She had nearly fallen twice, and had the scrapes to prove it. She was shaking worse than after the first time she had touched Verja. Stabbing pain flooded her limbs, hunger gnawed at her stomach, and a stitch burned in each of her sides. Still, she had made it, and that meant more for her than it ever could for Arya Dröttning.
“Good work, Vanora-skynsameyla,” the elf queen said dispassionately, shaking out her hair as she offered a piece of bread. Vanora snatched it, stuffed it into her mouth, and watched the stars as they glimmered into sight above the forest.
As always, comments and critiques are most welcome! It's been great hearing everyone's feedback so far, and I'm glad so many people seem to like the story. I hope it continues to satisfy.