Alternate Title: Arya Dröttining, Worst Teacher Ever
This chapter was a tricky one to write, largely because it involved condensing time while staying in the same place. It's always a bit easier to gloss over some time when you have something obvious to measure its passage by, and Verja's growth isn't quite as easy to use for that as the setting itself. At least I condense it, though; if Paolini had written this, it'd probably be at least ten chapters of boring philosophical discussion and repetitive, drawn-out swordfights.
Another difficult thing, not only for this chapter but for the fic in general, is that I'm often undecided about how intelligent Verja should be. She's supposed to be smart, but that's a hard mark to hit dead-on. In this case, it's especially difficult, since our only point of comparison for draconic intelligence is Saphira, who seriously seems to have been dropped as an egg. Thus, I feel it is necessary to point out one of my headcanons: Saphira is stupid. So if Verja ends up sounding like a genius in comparison, there's a fair chance it's because she and Saphira are on opposite sides of the bell curve.
Finally, notes on the Ancient Language. Skeipa,"creation, to create," is my own addition, being a combination of Old Norse skapa and Old English scieppan, though obviously the former more than the latter. The honorofic -nur, on the other hand, comes from this introduction to the Ancient Language, written by actual linguistics students. Its existence is slightly depressing, as it means that people who actually know something about languages went and put effort into studying Paolini's godawful excuse for a conlang and didn't stop being fans. Aargh. At least it gave me some ideas.
It quickly became apparent that Arya Dröttning was not an experienced teacher.
The morning after ascending the crags, Vanora woke feeling as though she had been mauled by a whole den of angry bears. Every movement sent a spasm of aches through her entire body, and the cuts on her hands burned. It felt like hours before her legs would finally accept her weight. Arya paced impatiently along the cliffs, watching as Vanora forced down her breakfast.
The painfully sweet taste of the wild berries was still clinging to Vanora’s tongue when Arya approached her. “Stand up straight and hold out your arms. I need to get a good look at you.”
It was not as hard to stand up a second time, but it was still painful. Arya paid Vanora’s discomfort little heed, if any. Instead, she busied herself with examining Vanora’s face, arms, hands, and shoulders far too closely for comfort. Verja eyed her suspiciously from her perch on a large rock, the end of her tail twitching.
Arya frowned as her fingers ran over Vanora’s upper arm. “You need to develop some muscle.”
“I thought that was already established,” Vanora muttered.
The elf ignored her. “Swordplay should get you into shape, or at least close enough. Show me how you hold your weapon.”
With some difficulty, Vanora slid the training sword from her belt and held it in front of her, trying to imitate the way she had seen her father’s commanders do it. The training sword was poorly balanced, she thought, obviously made for someone with a stronger arm than her. Vanora may have been tall, but she was thin and gangling, not at all built for power.
Arya studied Vanora’s posture, then drew her own sword and ran her hand along the edge, muttering words in the elven language. The blade was bright green, the same color as Fírnen’s scales, and obviously made for slashing. With a flourish, Arya gave the sword a test swing before turning to face Vanora. “Defend yourself.”
“What?”
“Part of becoming a Rider is learning to fight. The best way to learn to fight is by fighting. We’re going to spar.”
“Shouldn’t you be teaching me drills first?” Vanora stammered, thinking back to everything she had ever heard her father say about military training. “And... you're using a real sword! You’ll cut me to ribbons!”
“Drills would only waste time,” said Arya, dropping into a ready stance. “As for the blade, it’s been blunted with magic. Defend yourself.”
Vanora had barely put up her sword when the elf disappeared in a blur and pain erupted in her left arm. Crying out, she staggered back and dropped the training sword. Verja screeched and launched herself at Arya, but was stopped by a warning roar from Fírnen.
“Again,” Arya said, twirling her sword. “If you don’t want to get hit, learn to dodge or block.”
The ensuing sparring bouts were short, brutal, and entirely fruitless. Arya’s movements were too quick for Vanora to see, let alone evade, and she seemed thoroughly unwilling to check her speed. Each hit from her sword was like ten lashes with the strap. Verja growled and hissed from the sidelines, her mind brimming with anger. Often she sent Vanora the urge to dodge a certain way or an image of how Arya would attack, but her help could hardly close the gap in speed and skill.
Finally, at the end of one round, Arya’s sword hit Vanora’s side with a loud crack. Pain exploded in her ribs, and she crumpled, dropping the training sword. Verja shrieked and jumped between her and Arya, coiling protectively around her Rider. Stop!
Arya glared as Verja flared her wings. “Stand aside, Verja.”
Not until you promise not to hurt Vanora.
“Stand aside so that I can heal her,” Arya growled.
Verja snapped her jaws, but uncoiled her tail and stepped back just enough for Arya to kneel by Vanora’s side. Holding one hand over the broken ribs, she muttered, “Waíse heill.”
The pain subsided, replaced by an eerie tingling. Coughing, Vanora pulled away from the Rider-Queen’s hand and wrapped her arms around Verja’s neck. “I can’t do this.”
“A Rider cannot afford to be soft, Vanora.”
“It’s not a matter of being soft,” Vanora yelled, blinking back angry tears. “I can’t do it! What you’re doing is… is throwing someone into the ocean and expecting them to learn to swim!”
Arya sighed and shook her head, muttering something about the difficulties of training human Riders. After a moment of hesitation, she drew herself up to her full height with a curt nod. “Very well. We will hold off on swordplay for now. Get your things; we’ll head to Oromis’s hut for the rest of today’s lessons.”
As it turned out, holding off on swordplay for now only meant until Vanora and Verja could be separated. The next morning, after Fírnen had guided Verja away to practice flying, the swords were brought out once again, despite Vanora’s protests. There were no more broken ribs, but the relentless beating still served to cement both girls' deep hatred of Arya.
Thankfully, swordplay was not the only thing on Arya’s lesson plan. Vanora’s physical training also included stretches and long runs between bouts of sparring, and when she proved somewhat talented at archery, that became a regular feature of her schedule as well. In the evenings, when Fírnen brought Verja back to the hut, the Rider-Queen would take Vanora inside and instruct her in the elven language, or rather, the Ancient Language.
“Does it have a name?” Vanora asked the first time Arya referred to it as such. “One that isn’t just a description?”
“Yes, but few know what it is. Names have power, Vanora-skynsameyla. You will understand in time.”
That phrase, “you will understand in time,” quickly became Arya’s mantra. Vanora loathed it, for what it really meant was “I am not going to answer your question.”
Still, what she hated most was being kept away from Verja. Though Arya and Fírnen encouraged them to share as much of their thoughts as possible, the only time they were truly allowed to spend time together was at night, when both were so tired they could hardly keep their eyes open.
At the end of Verja’s first month, Vanora could put an arm around her shoulders without having to stretch or stoop. Her body was still narrow, but her tail was long and whippy, and her wings were large enough to serve as a small tent. She was, like Vanora, clearly not built for raw strength, but in her case it was far more apparent what she actually was built for: speed. Her impatience to take Vanora flying grew faster than her body, though she tried to quell it after Fírnen informed her that without a saddle, her scales would take the skin off Vanora’s legs. Being eager to start flying, not least because it would mean more time with Verja, Vanora asked Arya about saddlemaking that same day.
“I have an old saddle of Fírnen’s for your training in flight,” she said. “It will still be a few days before Verja is strong enough to carry you.”
The shudder that swept through Verja at the idea of wearing Fírnen’s saddle almost made Vanora shiver too. She swallowed heavily and said, “I think Verja would prefer to have her own.”
Arya pursed her lips, but her expression was resigned. “I suppose I should have expected such. I will have materials brought here tomorrow.”
Fashioning a simple dragon saddle somehow proved both faster and far more difficult than Vanora had expected. As they worked, she decided that if she ever had to make a new one, she would cut down on the number of straps for her legs. She understood the need to secure herself to Verja during flight, but with this many buckles it would be virtually impossible to mount or dismount quickly. She did not mention this criticism to Arya, however. The Rider-Queen was rarely open to suggestions, and agreeing to make Verja a new saddle had probably used far too much goodwill to expect a second concession.
That evening, Arya ended their lesson in the Ancient Language with the announcement that she would be spending the next day at a council meeting.
“I had informed the council that my time would be occupied training you, but Tronjheim has requested military aid, and none of the councilors have dealt with the dwarves as much as I have While I am gone, you should work on your vocabulary and read the bookmarked section of this.” She paced a large, well-worn book on the table between them. “It concerns the founding of the Riders, and will constitute your first lesson in our history. I want both you and Verja to be able to summarize it when I return.”
Vanora nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, asked, “Where is Tronjheim? Is that the dwarven capital?”
“Yes,” said Arya. “It lies deep in the Beor Mountains, in the peak they call Farthen Dûr.”
“I didn’t know the dwarves were at war.”
Arya’s gaze drifted toward the windows. “The state of their kingdom is hardly common knowledge. They would prefer for the outside world to see them as united in their halls of stone, particularly in this time of open friendship between all races, but in truth they are woefully divided. One of their clans, a group of radicals known as Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, harbors a deep hatred of the Riders. For a time they were banished from dwarven society, but once they returned with a new leader and found that the pact with the dragons had been rewritten to include their race…” She paused, shaking her head. “The idea of a dwarven Rider angered them deeply. They see it as a betrayal of everything their people stand for, and unfortunately they were able to find allies among the other clans. As such, the dwarves have been in a state of civil war for the past four years. I had thought the matter would be resolved soon enough, but it seems King Orik is losing ground.”
A tense silence hung over the table, and Vanora resisted the urge to crack her knuckles. Arya had taken to slapping her hands whenever she did so.
Finally, Arya stood. “Enough talk. Dwelling on the problems of the dwarves can only disrupt your training. Go now and sleep, and make sure to apply yourself tomorrow.”
Vanora watched her go, then left the hut and made her way to the rocky niche where Verja slept. The ground near the alcove was littered with shed scales, and a nearby boulder was covered in long, thin claw marks. Verja was sitting on top of it, preening the scales around her forelegs. As Vanora approached, she shook out her wings and slid down to greet her with a nudge on the forehead.
Smiling, Vanora scratched the base of the spikes on Verja’s jaw. Verja’s throat rumbled, and through their bond, Vanora felt a now-familiar determination tinged with rebellious glee.
That’s a bad idea, she thought.
Verja snorted. It’s perfect. The elf’s going to leave you alone, and if I can get away from Fírnen…
She gave me something to study; if I put it off to go flying, she’ll know, and you know what happens when she gets mad.
Anger flared in Verja’s mind. That’s exactly why she doesn’t deserve your obedience.
I know, said Vanora, but it’s not as if we can make them listen to us.
Then we should run away.
Vanora bit her lip and tried to keep her longing from reaching Verja. We can’t do that. As horrible as staying here is, we’re still learning. Besides, I have no idea how to survive on my own.
You wouldn’t be on your own.
I know, Vanora said, and hugged Verja around the neck. It’s still complicated, though. You might be able to hunt for me, but you can’t breathe fire yet and I don’t know how to make one. That puts cooking off our list of options, and without it, what would I eat? Wild berries? I wouldn’t know those sugar-things the elves keep feeding me from deadly poison that would kill me in ten seconds.
What about magic?
Vanora blinked. What about it?
That first day, when Arya hurt you, she healed you by saying “be healed” in the Ancient Language. That must be how magic is done. Try it!
Vanora frowned, but dug around in the underbrush until she found a twig. “Erm... “ She tried to imagine it bursting into flames. “Brisingr.”
Nothing happened. She tried again. “Brisingr!”
Still nothing. With an exasperated sigh, Vanora tossed the stick aside. It’s no use.
I think you have to… Verja’s search for words turned up all manner of mental sensations, but no exact terms. It’s hard to say, but magic is… it’s something you can feel.
I’ll just have to keep trying, Vanora thought. Right now, I’m tired.
Verja let out a puff of smoke and slumped dejectedly to the ground. Well if we aren’t going to leave, can we at least fly tomorrow? I don’t want to share our first flight together with them.
Vanora grimaced for a second, then smiled. All right. Let’s put the saddle on you now, so we can be off the ground before Fírnen notices.
Vanora woke at the crack of dawn to Verja’s nose pushing against her face. Get up! Get up! It’s time to go flying!
Excitement flooded Vanora’s chest, and she sat up, stifling a yawn as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. After a brief stretch, she checked the saddle to make sure it was still on correctly. Then, once they had exchanged a mental nod, Vanora pulled herself onto Verja’s back and fastened her legs into the straps.
Everything all right? Vanora asked, searching Verja’s mind for any sign of discomfort.
Perfect, was the reply, accompanied by giddy anticipation. You’re even lighter than I thought. You should eat more.
Vanora stifled a laugh, and Verja padded slowly toward the edge of the cliff. Though the movement was unfamiliar, there was something natural about riding with Verja that made it entirely different from trying to ride a horse. In a word, it felt right.
Gazing out at the forest below, Vanora took a deep breath and tried not to let her head spin. Let’s go.
With a screech of joy, Verja unfurled her wings and leapt.
Wind roared in Vanora’s ears and stung her cheeks as they hurtled into space. Her eyes watered, and her hair flew out behind her like a pennant. For a moment, it seemed that they were about to drop, but then Verja pushed down her wings, and with each beat they rose even higher above the trees. As they climbed, Vanora failed to keep her head from spinning, and in a last-ditch effort to keep herself from panic, immersed herself in her bond with Verja. Colors dimmed, shadows deepened, and she became intensely aware of the wind rushing past them, every tiny current different from the next. Dizziness and nausea were utterly lost, swept away by exhilaration more intense than she had ever imagined.
Her mind drifted back to the image Verja had sent her the day they had left Ilirea, and she laughed. If the idea of flight had seemed freeing then, that was nothing compared to how it felt now, soaring above the world with no restraints save the ones that bound them together. Grinning, Vanora stretched out her arms, trying to feel the air like Verja did.
Far below, the faint lights of Ellesméra glowed between the leaves. Vanora could not see the elves, but Verja could. A number of them had crowded onto the higher platforms, watching the sky and pointing as dragon and Rider soared overhead.
Vanora’s nausea suddenly returned. She did not need to put her thoughts into words, though, because Verja immediately banked left, sweeping back towards the cliffs.
As they came back to face the sheer stone, Vanora thought back to their first sight of the crags. Why don’t we try to find your nest?
It’s probably been gone for a long time, Verja thought, but… hold on!
Folding in her wings, Verja dived toward the cliffs. As the rock face rushed to meet them, she flared them once again, gliding alongside it at a frightening angle. Vanora held tightly to one of Verja’s spines and immersed herself once again in the dragon’s mind. When the crags began to turn northwards, Verja pulled out of their glide, beating her wings rapidly to ascend to the height of a huge, steep outcropping of dark rock. Its towering slopes were dotted with caves, and as they grew nearer, Vanora could make out huge gashes that made Vanora’s claw marks look like they had come from a small housecat.
Verja’s thoughts clouded over with fear as they began to descend toward the mountaintop. It’s so empty...
How many dragons lived here with you?
I don’t know. I remember my mother, and the one who carried me away, but everyone else is so blurry. Verja stretched out her legs and flared her wings, letting the air cushion their landing, but still touched down a bit too hard for Vanora's liking. I just know that there were many of us, especially the ones in our eggs.
Vanora unbuckled the straps on her legs as her head cleared, then slid down from Verja’s shoulders and looked out toward the horizon. To the west, the Crags of Tel’naeir cut the forest in half. A long way down their side, she thought she could make out the huge tree that towered over the southwestern corner of Ellesméra.
The fear in Verja’s mind flared higher as she looked around, her tail lashing violently. Vanora, I think something terrible happened here.
Vanora nodded, idly snapping her knuckles as she scanned the dark rock. It seemed that the dragons’ nesting grounds had been taken over by birds: twigs, moss, and various detritus littered the stone ground and spilled out of the mouths of caves, remnants of untold generations of nests. Dragon scales occasionally glittered among the debris, stripped of their color by long years under the sun’s glare. They ranged in size from as small as Vanora’s fingernails to larger than Verja’s head.
As she drifted back toward Verja, ready to suggest that they go home, something jagged caught Vanora’s eye. Carefully, she reached down and picked up a fragment of what looked like green rock. A lump rose in her throat. Verja, is this an eggshell?
Recognition and horror flooded through their bond as Verja suddenly went very still, the spines on her back standing on end. Vanora quickly crossed the remaining ground between them and hugged her, trying to climb back into the saddle as she did. The images in Verja’s mind were dark and indistinct save for the occasional unnatural flash of light, and her ears seemed filled with panicked roars and the terrifying shouts of elven voices. Once she was on the saddle, Vanora buckled one strap on each leg and gently stroked the scales on Verja’s neck.
Come on, she thought, doing her best to project calm and safety. Let’s get away from here.
Verja’s scales rippled as she jumped, frantically beating her wings until they were far enough from the mountain to fly freely. Vanora kept her arms around her as much as she could without losing skin or being stabbed by one of her spines.
A dull thump sounded in the air as they approached the Crags of Tel’naeir, and Fírnen leapt from the forest to join them. Come with me, he boomed. Vanora flinched, and Verja hesitated briefly before moving to follow him.
Fírnen led them back to Oromis’s hut and glared lividly at them while Verja landed and Vanora unbuckled herself from the saddle. Verja, come with me. You have much to answer for. Vanora, do your exercises and wait for my Rider. She is not pleased with you.
Vanora pressed her forehead against Verja’s snout. Be careful.
I’ll be fine, Verja said, but Vanora could feel the apprehension beneath the words. He wouldn’t hurt me… badly.
I don’t want you to get hurt at all.
Verja snorted soot into Vanora’s hair, then sprang into the air and was gone.
Shivering, Vanora made her way back to the hut, where she curled up in the corner and tried not to think of what Arya would say when she returned. The elf who had killed her father drifted into her thoughts, all cold gaze and dispassionate flourishes of his long sword, mingling with the blurs she had seen in Verja’s mind. Her eyes burned, and she wiped away the tears, dimly aware that Fírnen had begun to lecture Verja at length about something called “Du Fyrn Skulblaka.”
Taking a deep breath, she stood, crossed to the table and picked up the book. A tiny ribbon indicated that she should start reading at the section titled Skeipa abr du Shur’tugalar,“creation of the Riders.” Vanora sighed, took a dictionary from the shelves, and settled back into the corner to translate… then froze.
There, in the first sentence, was a reference to Du Fyrn Skulblaka.
The Dragon War, Vanora thought, and though she knew she was alone, she couldn’t help but glance around the room to make sure. The text seemed to be referencing the end of the Dragon War,” so she flipped back a couple of pages, searching for another reference.
It turned out to be the subject of the entire preceding section.
Not wanting to further anger Arya by neglecting the assigned lesson, Vanora left the bookmark on that page and turned back to where she was supposed to begin. With the dictionary open beside her, she began to read:
In the latter days of the Dragon War, the first Rider arose: Eragon, a young man from Ellesméra, who found the egg of a white dragon northeast of the Crags of Tel’naeir. Though he was not able to bond with the dragon upon first contact, as the pact between elf and dragon was not yet made, he formed a strong mental connection to the hatchling, and when he was old enough to think in the Ancient Language, named him Bid’Daum. With Bid'Daum's help, Eragon set about the long process of ending the Dragon War and making restitution…
Arya arrived that evening while Vanora was combing the dictionary for a particularly odd word that she suspected might have been misspelled. Had it been anyone else, she might have been grateful for the reprieve.
“Stand up,” the Rider-Queen barked. Vanora scrambled to her feet, hastily brushing the rumples out of her tunic. Arya paid no attention. “Every time I think you have started to respect me, Vanora, you do this. Flying, for the first time no less, on your own? Think, Vanora! If Verja had proven unable to carry you, you could have both been killed.”
Vanora wrapped her arms around her middle and looked down. “We made sure it would be all right before taking off.”
“You still should have been supervised.”
“We wanted to be alone,” Vanora mumbled. Arya’s eyebrows lowered, but something sparked in Vanora’s chest, and even as part of her mind screamed for her to back down, she knew that she couldn't. Clenching her hands into fists, she stared into Arya’s cold green eyes. “You never let us spend time together! You keep us apart, and then you make us work so hard that we’re too tired to talk at night! And I know why you do it, too. It’s because it makes it easier to control us! You don’t give us any freedom, and it’s all because you’re afraid we’ll—”
The back of Arya’s hand hit her cheek like the flat of a blade, sending her reeling. Blood coated her tongue, and she felt a jolt of alarm from Verja.
Arya crossed the room in a single step, knelt, and grabbed Vanora’s right ear, holding her down. “We separate you, Vanora-nur, so that we can teach you. You will understand eventually, provided there is anything between your ears capable of learning!”
Vanora spat blood on the floor by Arya’s feet and felt a twinge of perverse satisfaction at the elf’s disgusted expression. Her jaw clenched. “What you do isn't called teaching. It’s called lecturing and beating me half-senseless.”
A screeching roar sounded outside, and Vanora yelped as Arya flung her against the nearest wall and spun to face the sound. The next second, Verja’s claws bit through the top of the door and ripped it from its frame. Fírnen bellowed, and Arya raised her left hand.
“Letta,” she said.
Verja froze mid-screech, the sound cutting off into a choking wheeze. Terror rushed from her mind to Vanora’s, dull images of elves shouting incantations and twirling long swords…
Somewhere deep in Vanora’s consciousness, something shattered. Her mind, no, her entire being buzzed with energy, and as she reached out as if to push Arya, she heard herself scream, “Jierda!”
Arya went flying like a thrown ragdoll, recovering just quickly enough to land on her feet as Vanora collapsed on her elbows and knees, panting. The mark on her hand glowed like a small lantern. With another roar, Verja shook free and rushed to Vanora’s side, flaring her wings as much as she could in the enclosed space. Vanora smiled up at her, willing her eyes to keep their focus as stars spun in front of them.
The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Verja’s snout reaching down to touch her nose. Somewhere in the distance, as if through water, she heard Arya’s voice.
“Barzul,” it said. “This complicates things.”
As always, comments and critiques are most welcome!
This chapter was a tricky one to write, largely because it involved condensing time while staying in the same place. It's always a bit easier to gloss over some time when you have something obvious to measure its passage by, and Verja's growth isn't quite as easy to use for that as the setting itself. At least I condense it, though; if Paolini had written this, it'd probably be at least ten chapters of boring philosophical discussion and repetitive, drawn-out swordfights.
Another difficult thing, not only for this chapter but for the fic in general, is that I'm often undecided about how intelligent Verja should be. She's supposed to be smart, but that's a hard mark to hit dead-on. In this case, it's especially difficult, since our only point of comparison for draconic intelligence is Saphira, who seriously seems to have been dropped as an egg. Thus, I feel it is necessary to point out one of my headcanons: Saphira is stupid. So if Verja ends up sounding like a genius in comparison, there's a fair chance it's because she and Saphira are on opposite sides of the bell curve.
Finally, notes on the Ancient Language. Skeipa,"creation, to create," is my own addition, being a combination of Old Norse skapa and Old English scieppan, though obviously the former more than the latter. The honorofic -nur, on the other hand, comes from this introduction to the Ancient Language, written by actual linguistics students. Its existence is slightly depressing, as it means that people who actually know something about languages went and put effort into studying Paolini's godawful excuse for a conlang and didn't stop being fans. Aargh. At least it gave me some ideas.
It quickly became apparent that Arya Dröttning was not an experienced teacher.
The morning after ascending the crags, Vanora woke feeling as though she had been mauled by a whole den of angry bears. Every movement sent a spasm of aches through her entire body, and the cuts on her hands burned. It felt like hours before her legs would finally accept her weight. Arya paced impatiently along the cliffs, watching as Vanora forced down her breakfast.
The painfully sweet taste of the wild berries was still clinging to Vanora’s tongue when Arya approached her. “Stand up straight and hold out your arms. I need to get a good look at you.”
It was not as hard to stand up a second time, but it was still painful. Arya paid Vanora’s discomfort little heed, if any. Instead, she busied herself with examining Vanora’s face, arms, hands, and shoulders far too closely for comfort. Verja eyed her suspiciously from her perch on a large rock, the end of her tail twitching.
Arya frowned as her fingers ran over Vanora’s upper arm. “You need to develop some muscle.”
“I thought that was already established,” Vanora muttered.
The elf ignored her. “Swordplay should get you into shape, or at least close enough. Show me how you hold your weapon.”
With some difficulty, Vanora slid the training sword from her belt and held it in front of her, trying to imitate the way she had seen her father’s commanders do it. The training sword was poorly balanced, she thought, obviously made for someone with a stronger arm than her. Vanora may have been tall, but she was thin and gangling, not at all built for power.
Arya studied Vanora’s posture, then drew her own sword and ran her hand along the edge, muttering words in the elven language. The blade was bright green, the same color as Fírnen’s scales, and obviously made for slashing. With a flourish, Arya gave the sword a test swing before turning to face Vanora. “Defend yourself.”
“What?”
“Part of becoming a Rider is learning to fight. The best way to learn to fight is by fighting. We’re going to spar.”
“Shouldn’t you be teaching me drills first?” Vanora stammered, thinking back to everything she had ever heard her father say about military training. “And... you're using a real sword! You’ll cut me to ribbons!”
“Drills would only waste time,” said Arya, dropping into a ready stance. “As for the blade, it’s been blunted with magic. Defend yourself.”
Vanora had barely put up her sword when the elf disappeared in a blur and pain erupted in her left arm. Crying out, she staggered back and dropped the training sword. Verja screeched and launched herself at Arya, but was stopped by a warning roar from Fírnen.
“Again,” Arya said, twirling her sword. “If you don’t want to get hit, learn to dodge or block.”
The ensuing sparring bouts were short, brutal, and entirely fruitless. Arya’s movements were too quick for Vanora to see, let alone evade, and she seemed thoroughly unwilling to check her speed. Each hit from her sword was like ten lashes with the strap. Verja growled and hissed from the sidelines, her mind brimming with anger. Often she sent Vanora the urge to dodge a certain way or an image of how Arya would attack, but her help could hardly close the gap in speed and skill.
Finally, at the end of one round, Arya’s sword hit Vanora’s side with a loud crack. Pain exploded in her ribs, and she crumpled, dropping the training sword. Verja shrieked and jumped between her and Arya, coiling protectively around her Rider. Stop!
Arya glared as Verja flared her wings. “Stand aside, Verja.”
Not until you promise not to hurt Vanora.
“Stand aside so that I can heal her,” Arya growled.
Verja snapped her jaws, but uncoiled her tail and stepped back just enough for Arya to kneel by Vanora’s side. Holding one hand over the broken ribs, she muttered, “Waíse heill.”
The pain subsided, replaced by an eerie tingling. Coughing, Vanora pulled away from the Rider-Queen’s hand and wrapped her arms around Verja’s neck. “I can’t do this.”
“A Rider cannot afford to be soft, Vanora.”
“It’s not a matter of being soft,” Vanora yelled, blinking back angry tears. “I can’t do it! What you’re doing is… is throwing someone into the ocean and expecting them to learn to swim!”
Arya sighed and shook her head, muttering something about the difficulties of training human Riders. After a moment of hesitation, she drew herself up to her full height with a curt nod. “Very well. We will hold off on swordplay for now. Get your things; we’ll head to Oromis’s hut for the rest of today’s lessons.”
As it turned out, holding off on swordplay for now only meant until Vanora and Verja could be separated. The next morning, after Fírnen had guided Verja away to practice flying, the swords were brought out once again, despite Vanora’s protests. There were no more broken ribs, but the relentless beating still served to cement both girls' deep hatred of Arya.
Thankfully, swordplay was not the only thing on Arya’s lesson plan. Vanora’s physical training also included stretches and long runs between bouts of sparring, and when she proved somewhat talented at archery, that became a regular feature of her schedule as well. In the evenings, when Fírnen brought Verja back to the hut, the Rider-Queen would take Vanora inside and instruct her in the elven language, or rather, the Ancient Language.
“Does it have a name?” Vanora asked the first time Arya referred to it as such. “One that isn’t just a description?”
“Yes, but few know what it is. Names have power, Vanora-skynsameyla. You will understand in time.”
That phrase, “you will understand in time,” quickly became Arya’s mantra. Vanora loathed it, for what it really meant was “I am not going to answer your question.”
Still, what she hated most was being kept away from Verja. Though Arya and Fírnen encouraged them to share as much of their thoughts as possible, the only time they were truly allowed to spend time together was at night, when both were so tired they could hardly keep their eyes open.
At the end of Verja’s first month, Vanora could put an arm around her shoulders without having to stretch or stoop. Her body was still narrow, but her tail was long and whippy, and her wings were large enough to serve as a small tent. She was, like Vanora, clearly not built for raw strength, but in her case it was far more apparent what she actually was built for: speed. Her impatience to take Vanora flying grew faster than her body, though she tried to quell it after Fírnen informed her that without a saddle, her scales would take the skin off Vanora’s legs. Being eager to start flying, not least because it would mean more time with Verja, Vanora asked Arya about saddlemaking that same day.
“I have an old saddle of Fírnen’s for your training in flight,” she said. “It will still be a few days before Verja is strong enough to carry you.”
The shudder that swept through Verja at the idea of wearing Fírnen’s saddle almost made Vanora shiver too. She swallowed heavily and said, “I think Verja would prefer to have her own.”
Arya pursed her lips, but her expression was resigned. “I suppose I should have expected such. I will have materials brought here tomorrow.”
Fashioning a simple dragon saddle somehow proved both faster and far more difficult than Vanora had expected. As they worked, she decided that if she ever had to make a new one, she would cut down on the number of straps for her legs. She understood the need to secure herself to Verja during flight, but with this many buckles it would be virtually impossible to mount or dismount quickly. She did not mention this criticism to Arya, however. The Rider-Queen was rarely open to suggestions, and agreeing to make Verja a new saddle had probably used far too much goodwill to expect a second concession.
That evening, Arya ended their lesson in the Ancient Language with the announcement that she would be spending the next day at a council meeting.
“I had informed the council that my time would be occupied training you, but Tronjheim has requested military aid, and none of the councilors have dealt with the dwarves as much as I have While I am gone, you should work on your vocabulary and read the bookmarked section of this.” She paced a large, well-worn book on the table between them. “It concerns the founding of the Riders, and will constitute your first lesson in our history. I want both you and Verja to be able to summarize it when I return.”
Vanora nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, asked, “Where is Tronjheim? Is that the dwarven capital?”
“Yes,” said Arya. “It lies deep in the Beor Mountains, in the peak they call Farthen Dûr.”
“I didn’t know the dwarves were at war.”
Arya’s gaze drifted toward the windows. “The state of their kingdom is hardly common knowledge. They would prefer for the outside world to see them as united in their halls of stone, particularly in this time of open friendship between all races, but in truth they are woefully divided. One of their clans, a group of radicals known as Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, harbors a deep hatred of the Riders. For a time they were banished from dwarven society, but once they returned with a new leader and found that the pact with the dragons had been rewritten to include their race…” She paused, shaking her head. “The idea of a dwarven Rider angered them deeply. They see it as a betrayal of everything their people stand for, and unfortunately they were able to find allies among the other clans. As such, the dwarves have been in a state of civil war for the past four years. I had thought the matter would be resolved soon enough, but it seems King Orik is losing ground.”
A tense silence hung over the table, and Vanora resisted the urge to crack her knuckles. Arya had taken to slapping her hands whenever she did so.
Finally, Arya stood. “Enough talk. Dwelling on the problems of the dwarves can only disrupt your training. Go now and sleep, and make sure to apply yourself tomorrow.”
Vanora watched her go, then left the hut and made her way to the rocky niche where Verja slept. The ground near the alcove was littered with shed scales, and a nearby boulder was covered in long, thin claw marks. Verja was sitting on top of it, preening the scales around her forelegs. As Vanora approached, she shook out her wings and slid down to greet her with a nudge on the forehead.
Smiling, Vanora scratched the base of the spikes on Verja’s jaw. Verja’s throat rumbled, and through their bond, Vanora felt a now-familiar determination tinged with rebellious glee.
That’s a bad idea, she thought.
Verja snorted. It’s perfect. The elf’s going to leave you alone, and if I can get away from Fírnen…
She gave me something to study; if I put it off to go flying, she’ll know, and you know what happens when she gets mad.
Anger flared in Verja’s mind. That’s exactly why she doesn’t deserve your obedience.
I know, said Vanora, but it’s not as if we can make them listen to us.
Then we should run away.
Vanora bit her lip and tried to keep her longing from reaching Verja. We can’t do that. As horrible as staying here is, we’re still learning. Besides, I have no idea how to survive on my own.
You wouldn’t be on your own.
I know, Vanora said, and hugged Verja around the neck. It’s still complicated, though. You might be able to hunt for me, but you can’t breathe fire yet and I don’t know how to make one. That puts cooking off our list of options, and without it, what would I eat? Wild berries? I wouldn’t know those sugar-things the elves keep feeding me from deadly poison that would kill me in ten seconds.
What about magic?
Vanora blinked. What about it?
That first day, when Arya hurt you, she healed you by saying “be healed” in the Ancient Language. That must be how magic is done. Try it!
Vanora frowned, but dug around in the underbrush until she found a twig. “Erm... “ She tried to imagine it bursting into flames. “Brisingr.”
Nothing happened. She tried again. “Brisingr!”
Still nothing. With an exasperated sigh, Vanora tossed the stick aside. It’s no use.
I think you have to… Verja’s search for words turned up all manner of mental sensations, but no exact terms. It’s hard to say, but magic is… it’s something you can feel.
I’ll just have to keep trying, Vanora thought. Right now, I’m tired.
Verja let out a puff of smoke and slumped dejectedly to the ground. Well if we aren’t going to leave, can we at least fly tomorrow? I don’t want to share our first flight together with them.
Vanora grimaced for a second, then smiled. All right. Let’s put the saddle on you now, so we can be off the ground before Fírnen notices.
Vanora woke at the crack of dawn to Verja’s nose pushing against her face. Get up! Get up! It’s time to go flying!
Excitement flooded Vanora’s chest, and she sat up, stifling a yawn as she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. After a brief stretch, she checked the saddle to make sure it was still on correctly. Then, once they had exchanged a mental nod, Vanora pulled herself onto Verja’s back and fastened her legs into the straps.
Everything all right? Vanora asked, searching Verja’s mind for any sign of discomfort.
Perfect, was the reply, accompanied by giddy anticipation. You’re even lighter than I thought. You should eat more.
Vanora stifled a laugh, and Verja padded slowly toward the edge of the cliff. Though the movement was unfamiliar, there was something natural about riding with Verja that made it entirely different from trying to ride a horse. In a word, it felt right.
Gazing out at the forest below, Vanora took a deep breath and tried not to let her head spin. Let’s go.
With a screech of joy, Verja unfurled her wings and leapt.
Wind roared in Vanora’s ears and stung her cheeks as they hurtled into space. Her eyes watered, and her hair flew out behind her like a pennant. For a moment, it seemed that they were about to drop, but then Verja pushed down her wings, and with each beat they rose even higher above the trees. As they climbed, Vanora failed to keep her head from spinning, and in a last-ditch effort to keep herself from panic, immersed herself in her bond with Verja. Colors dimmed, shadows deepened, and she became intensely aware of the wind rushing past them, every tiny current different from the next. Dizziness and nausea were utterly lost, swept away by exhilaration more intense than she had ever imagined.
Her mind drifted back to the image Verja had sent her the day they had left Ilirea, and she laughed. If the idea of flight had seemed freeing then, that was nothing compared to how it felt now, soaring above the world with no restraints save the ones that bound them together. Grinning, Vanora stretched out her arms, trying to feel the air like Verja did.
Far below, the faint lights of Ellesméra glowed between the leaves. Vanora could not see the elves, but Verja could. A number of them had crowded onto the higher platforms, watching the sky and pointing as dragon and Rider soared overhead.
Vanora’s nausea suddenly returned. She did not need to put her thoughts into words, though, because Verja immediately banked left, sweeping back towards the cliffs.
As they came back to face the sheer stone, Vanora thought back to their first sight of the crags. Why don’t we try to find your nest?
It’s probably been gone for a long time, Verja thought, but… hold on!
Folding in her wings, Verja dived toward the cliffs. As the rock face rushed to meet them, she flared them once again, gliding alongside it at a frightening angle. Vanora held tightly to one of Verja’s spines and immersed herself once again in the dragon’s mind. When the crags began to turn northwards, Verja pulled out of their glide, beating her wings rapidly to ascend to the height of a huge, steep outcropping of dark rock. Its towering slopes were dotted with caves, and as they grew nearer, Vanora could make out huge gashes that made Vanora’s claw marks look like they had come from a small housecat.
Verja’s thoughts clouded over with fear as they began to descend toward the mountaintop. It’s so empty...
How many dragons lived here with you?
I don’t know. I remember my mother, and the one who carried me away, but everyone else is so blurry. Verja stretched out her legs and flared her wings, letting the air cushion their landing, but still touched down a bit too hard for Vanora's liking. I just know that there were many of us, especially the ones in our eggs.
Vanora unbuckled the straps on her legs as her head cleared, then slid down from Verja’s shoulders and looked out toward the horizon. To the west, the Crags of Tel’naeir cut the forest in half. A long way down their side, she thought she could make out the huge tree that towered over the southwestern corner of Ellesméra.
The fear in Verja’s mind flared higher as she looked around, her tail lashing violently. Vanora, I think something terrible happened here.
Vanora nodded, idly snapping her knuckles as she scanned the dark rock. It seemed that the dragons’ nesting grounds had been taken over by birds: twigs, moss, and various detritus littered the stone ground and spilled out of the mouths of caves, remnants of untold generations of nests. Dragon scales occasionally glittered among the debris, stripped of their color by long years under the sun’s glare. They ranged in size from as small as Vanora’s fingernails to larger than Verja’s head.
As she drifted back toward Verja, ready to suggest that they go home, something jagged caught Vanora’s eye. Carefully, she reached down and picked up a fragment of what looked like green rock. A lump rose in her throat. Verja, is this an eggshell?
Recognition and horror flooded through their bond as Verja suddenly went very still, the spines on her back standing on end. Vanora quickly crossed the remaining ground between them and hugged her, trying to climb back into the saddle as she did. The images in Verja’s mind were dark and indistinct save for the occasional unnatural flash of light, and her ears seemed filled with panicked roars and the terrifying shouts of elven voices. Once she was on the saddle, Vanora buckled one strap on each leg and gently stroked the scales on Verja’s neck.
Come on, she thought, doing her best to project calm and safety. Let’s get away from here.
Verja’s scales rippled as she jumped, frantically beating her wings until they were far enough from the mountain to fly freely. Vanora kept her arms around her as much as she could without losing skin or being stabbed by one of her spines.
A dull thump sounded in the air as they approached the Crags of Tel’naeir, and Fírnen leapt from the forest to join them. Come with me, he boomed. Vanora flinched, and Verja hesitated briefly before moving to follow him.
Fírnen led them back to Oromis’s hut and glared lividly at them while Verja landed and Vanora unbuckled herself from the saddle. Verja, come with me. You have much to answer for. Vanora, do your exercises and wait for my Rider. She is not pleased with you.
Vanora pressed her forehead against Verja’s snout. Be careful.
I’ll be fine, Verja said, but Vanora could feel the apprehension beneath the words. He wouldn’t hurt me… badly.
I don’t want you to get hurt at all.
Verja snorted soot into Vanora’s hair, then sprang into the air and was gone.
Shivering, Vanora made her way back to the hut, where she curled up in the corner and tried not to think of what Arya would say when she returned. The elf who had killed her father drifted into her thoughts, all cold gaze and dispassionate flourishes of his long sword, mingling with the blurs she had seen in Verja’s mind. Her eyes burned, and she wiped away the tears, dimly aware that Fírnen had begun to lecture Verja at length about something called “Du Fyrn Skulblaka.”
Taking a deep breath, she stood, crossed to the table and picked up the book. A tiny ribbon indicated that she should start reading at the section titled Skeipa abr du Shur’tugalar,“creation of the Riders.” Vanora sighed, took a dictionary from the shelves, and settled back into the corner to translate… then froze.
There, in the first sentence, was a reference to Du Fyrn Skulblaka.
The Dragon War, Vanora thought, and though she knew she was alone, she couldn’t help but glance around the room to make sure. The text seemed to be referencing the end of the Dragon War,” so she flipped back a couple of pages, searching for another reference.
It turned out to be the subject of the entire preceding section.
Not wanting to further anger Arya by neglecting the assigned lesson, Vanora left the bookmark on that page and turned back to where she was supposed to begin. With the dictionary open beside her, she began to read:
In the latter days of the Dragon War, the first Rider arose: Eragon, a young man from Ellesméra, who found the egg of a white dragon northeast of the Crags of Tel’naeir. Though he was not able to bond with the dragon upon first contact, as the pact between elf and dragon was not yet made, he formed a strong mental connection to the hatchling, and when he was old enough to think in the Ancient Language, named him Bid’Daum. With Bid'Daum's help, Eragon set about the long process of ending the Dragon War and making restitution…
Arya arrived that evening while Vanora was combing the dictionary for a particularly odd word that she suspected might have been misspelled. Had it been anyone else, she might have been grateful for the reprieve.
“Stand up,” the Rider-Queen barked. Vanora scrambled to her feet, hastily brushing the rumples out of her tunic. Arya paid no attention. “Every time I think you have started to respect me, Vanora, you do this. Flying, for the first time no less, on your own? Think, Vanora! If Verja had proven unable to carry you, you could have both been killed.”
Vanora wrapped her arms around her middle and looked down. “We made sure it would be all right before taking off.”
“You still should have been supervised.”
“We wanted to be alone,” Vanora mumbled. Arya’s eyebrows lowered, but something sparked in Vanora’s chest, and even as part of her mind screamed for her to back down, she knew that she couldn't. Clenching her hands into fists, she stared into Arya’s cold green eyes. “You never let us spend time together! You keep us apart, and then you make us work so hard that we’re too tired to talk at night! And I know why you do it, too. It’s because it makes it easier to control us! You don’t give us any freedom, and it’s all because you’re afraid we’ll—”
The back of Arya’s hand hit her cheek like the flat of a blade, sending her reeling. Blood coated her tongue, and she felt a jolt of alarm from Verja.
Arya crossed the room in a single step, knelt, and grabbed Vanora’s right ear, holding her down. “We separate you, Vanora-nur, so that we can teach you. You will understand eventually, provided there is anything between your ears capable of learning!”
Vanora spat blood on the floor by Arya’s feet and felt a twinge of perverse satisfaction at the elf’s disgusted expression. Her jaw clenched. “What you do isn't called teaching. It’s called lecturing and beating me half-senseless.”
A screeching roar sounded outside, and Vanora yelped as Arya flung her against the nearest wall and spun to face the sound. The next second, Verja’s claws bit through the top of the door and ripped it from its frame. Fírnen bellowed, and Arya raised her left hand.
“Letta,” she said.
Verja froze mid-screech, the sound cutting off into a choking wheeze. Terror rushed from her mind to Vanora’s, dull images of elves shouting incantations and twirling long swords…
Somewhere deep in Vanora’s consciousness, something shattered. Her mind, no, her entire being buzzed with energy, and as she reached out as if to push Arya, she heard herself scream, “Jierda!”
Arya went flying like a thrown ragdoll, recovering just quickly enough to land on her feet as Vanora collapsed on her elbows and knees, panting. The mark on her hand glowed like a small lantern. With another roar, Verja shook free and rushed to Vanora’s side, flaring her wings as much as she could in the enclosed space. Vanora smiled up at her, willing her eyes to keep their focus as stars spun in front of them.
The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Verja’s snout reaching down to touch her nose. Somewhere in the distance, as if through water, she heard Arya’s voice.
“Barzul,” it said. “This complicates things.”
As always, comments and critiques are most welcome!