The deed was done, and Eragon sat next to the buried grave, far from the reaches of Helgrind. Though he may not have liked Sloan, he did not want to bury the man near such a place. The sun was ending its journey through the sky, the last few rays of light peaking over the horizon, and Eragon contemplated how life had changed so much in such a short time.
He did not regret condemning Sloan to death, nor even carrying out the sentence himself, but the mere fact that he could stirred something inside of him. Ever since he first became a Rider, Eragon never liked having the lives of others directly in the palm of his hand, but recent events had a way of forcing his hand more times than he would have liked. Now, he was the new Leader of the Riders, small though they were, and he knew he would be called upon to make such judgements again.
Still, judging someone's life was not something he wanted to do. Perhaps Saphira was right, as she nearly always was. The fact that he knew the power and responsibilities he held, and that he was hesitant to become like Galbatorix, made all the difference. He would not become like the Black King, subjecting others to cruelty and death, but neither was he able to skirt his duties and avoid doing acts that were necessary.
Letting out a sigh, Eragon took stock of his position. He was far enough away from Dras-Leona that he was not worried of patrols, and he hadn't seen any sign that Murtagh and Thorn were near about. Which was good, since he wouldn't be able to fight his half-brother now. Speed was of the essence, so Eragon stood from the freshly covered grave.
A single stone marked Sloan's rest, which only read:
Sloan, of Carvahall.
Judged and Executed for the murder of an innocent.
Eragon pulled the small saddlebag over his shoulders, tying it tight to his back. After making sure that it would not bounce around, Eragon took off south at run. At night, with the low light aiding him, Eragon would be able to run for leagues unseen. Still, he would need to stop at some point, so Eragon decided that resting in the day would be better.
Faster than a horse could match, Eragon ran, his legs pumping against the earth as he headed back to the Varden.
Days had passed, in which Eragon often avoided any roads he could. He instead felt the land itself, listening to its whispers. It told him of Saphira's passage, of how the very fabric of Alagaësia sung its joy from her presence. To the east, near Urû'baen, the whispers grew darker, telling him of the madness that plagued the land. What was most surprising to him, however, was when he caught wind of Thorn. The land did not ring with the tones of madness, or even danger. Instead, the whispers mourned Thorn, as though the red dragon was blocked from being a part of its melody.
There was no doubt in Eragon's mind that the King knew of his presence in Helgrind, for the seldom patrols of the first day were a thing of the past. Each day more soldiers patrolled the Empire, and from them he was able to glean enough information to help him avoid others. He had passed numerous villages during the night, the light of the torches a beacon of warning for him. Running at night had its advantages, and during the day Eragon had to find any place adequate for him to rest.
The other night, Eragon had climbed a large tree and slept in its branches, and when he had awoken, he had found himself surrounded by soldiers. Luckily, they had not spotted him, and once they passed Eragon had left the tree quickly.
Now, the early signs of light were making itself apparent over the horizon, and Eragon began his hunt again for another temporary shelter. To the south of him were five small hills, with the center hill displaying the only signs of shelter. Tall oak trees were growing from the hill, and after a moment Eragon was able to make out the crumbling remains of a building.
After debating for a moment, Eragon decided to risk it. Even if the abandoned building was occupied, Eragon grew tired of being alone with himself for so long. It had been decades since he could remember the last time he was truly alone, cut off from the world and Saphira. His thoughts were beginning to run wild, and he needed a break to calm the storm that was building inside.
When he approached the first hill, Eragon paused at the strange ancient road paving the way. The square stones that lined the road were unlike any of the race's normal constructions, though they were so old that Eragon wondered if the elves even knew about them. He spent a moment examining the architecture, but it revealed nothing else to him.
With a shrug to no one, Eragon stepped onto the road and climbed the hill. As he correctly guessed, the road led right for the ancient ruins, and Eragon followed it all the while keeping his senses open. When he had summitted the central hill, the road leveled off and dumped into a large glade. The tower that stood in the center was long since broken, with the upper half of the tower laying on the ground beside it, shattered into pieces. The remaining part of the tower was wide and ribbed, reminding Eragon of a tree, and Eragon could finally see that it was at least like some elven towers he had seen before.
When he moved closer to the tower, Eragon spotted a vegetable garden at the opposite end of the glade, and a man hunched over a row of plants. Freezing, he took in the long gray beard that coiled in the man's lap, as well as the robes he was wearing, and a chord of familiarity struck.
The man grunted, and without looking up said, "Well are you going to help me finish with these peas or not?"
Blinking, Eragon realized at once who the hermit was. "Tenga?"
The eccentric old man finally turned to Eragon, though he could see a scowl rising on the man's face. "Who else would I be? Help me finish, and there's a meal in it for you."
Letting out a sigh, Eragon did as the magician bid. He dropped his pack down to the ground, and for next hour or so the two of them labored in the gardens. It had been a long time since he had tended to plants in such a way, and for a time he let the mindless task consume him.
When the weeding was done, Tenga had stood and brushed off the dirt from his robes. Without a word Eragon followed the old magician to a narrow door that led into the tower, through which led to a spacious kitchen and living room. In the center of the room stood a circular staircase, which winded its way up towards the second story. When Eragon glanced around the living area, he found only books, scrolls, and sheaves of loose-bound pages covering nearly every surface available.
Tenga pointed to a pile of branches inside the fireplace, and without a word the wood burst into brilliant flame. He then moved into the kitchen, and Eragon sat at the lone table as Tenga gathered plates of food, as well as two tankards of ale.
There wasn't much room available on the table, and Eragon did not wish to disturb Tenga's research, so he instead held the ale in one hand and set the plate of food down in the only open space. Together, the two of them ate the cold meat pie, as well as a few slices of bread and cheese. When he was done, and after he drained the last bit of ale, Eragon said, "Thank you."
Tenga grunted, but did not say anything else.
"I didn't know you had returned to Alagaësia," Eragon continued after a moment.
Tenga fixed him with a pointed gaze, though Eragon mostly ignored it. "I didn't know you returned either, Rider, until you stumbled upon my home."
"Did you find the answer to your question?" Eragon asked.
Tenga nodded his head, though he did not fill Eragon in even when Eragon let the silence between them grow.
"Do you search for another answer?"
"There is always a question, though many do not know how to ask." Tenga's eyes narrowed at Eragon, and for the first time it felt like Tenga finally acknowledged who he was. "You seek the answer to a question too, don't you?"
Eragon nodded. "For a long time, I thought my question was whether or not I should return to Alagaësia. Now I know that my answer was correct, but I am left still with only more questions. And I fear that there are others who search for the same answer, and if they find it before I do…"
"The road leading to the answers we seek are paved with sacrifices. You know this, fellow pilgrim, for you have already done more than many have in seeking your answer."
"I have," Eragon agreed with a sighed. "What is the question you seek to answer now?"
"The key to the unopened door, the secret of the trees and the plants!" Tenga exclaimed, "Fire, heat, lightning, light!"
Eragon's brows narrowed briefly in thought, before the answer presented itself to him. "You seek to know how to harness heat as an energy source."
"Not just heat," Tenga explained. "Heat is light, and light is nothing more than a wave. If I can understand this wave better, I would be able to extract an untold amount of energy from it! Imagine, an age of light!"
Light is a wave? For a moment Eragon was taken back, and he felt more confused than before. If he hadn't already met Tenga, and learned of his eccentricities, he would have declared the man demented and left. Of all the people in the world to declare something like that, Eragon had to admit that Tenga was perhaps the only one Eragon would have believed. Still, it was a strange idea, that light could be something like a wave, and that heat was simply light.
Though Eragon did suppose that the last part made some strange sense to him.
"An age of light," Eragon muttered. "Harnessing such power would usher in a new age indeed."
Tenga nodded, and for the first time since he arrived seemed pleased. "Yes, finally, one who understands!" The old magician downed the last of his ale, before setting the tankard down on the table. "Now, I have told you my question, so you must tell me yours."
"The Name." Eragon answered. He felt a shiver run up his spine briefly when he spoke, but he pushed the feeling aside.
Tenga frowned, and murmured to himself briefly. "The name… ah yes. The Name." Critical eyes met Eragon's own, and for moment Eragon feared Tenga would lash out in anger.
Thankfully, the magician calmed himself with a deep breath. "Why do you seek The Name of Names?"
"Because Galbatorix does," Eragon explained quietly. "How much of the war do you know about?"
"Enough," Tenga answered. "Normally, the struggles of man are unimportant to me. But even I have felt the shift in the land of late. But if what you say is true…"
"Madman!" Tenga exclaimed suddenly. "Tangling with forces he does not understand. Thinking he can gain true power through exploitation, and simple words. Only those who study, and learn as we have, can truly gain the answers they seek."
"Do you know the Name?" Eragon asked. "If there is anyone in all of Alagaësia who would know surely it would be you."
"I do not," Tenga answered. "For it is not a question I have asked. The language of the Grey Folk is but a crutch in studies such as mine, and I am careful in my application of it. Understanding the nature of reality requires more than just words, and can skew the reality we seek to perceive."
Eragon tilted his head in thought. "How can we seek to perceive a reality that is anything but the truth of the world?"
"Perception is relative, as is everything else," Tenga explained, and Eragon sensed that the man was excited to have someone listen to him. "You seek the Name, because it is your perception of reality that is threatened. Discard that perception, and the Name will have no sway over you."
Eragon sat in silence for a few minutes, his mind racing as he thought about what Tenga said. He barely managed a nod at Tenga, who without a word refilled Eragon's tankard of ale.
His perception of reality? And what exactly did it mean that perception was relative? Did it mean that the world only looked a certain way to him because he expected it to? It was true enough, Eragon thought, that many were often blind to the truth, simply because they did not know any other way to see it. So, what was he missing?
The Name of Names controlled the ancient language, that much Eragon knew, both from Tenga and Oromis. Without the ancient language, fighting Galbatorix would be nearly impossible, and everything the Varden, elves, and dwarves had strived for this last century would be for naught. How was he to discard the ancient language?
With a sudden realization, Eragon knew what it was, and at his startled expression Tenga smiled widely at him. "You see the answer now."
"Aye," Eragon said quietly. "The Name does not control magic itself, only the language used to apply it."
Tenga nodded his head. "Wordless Magic comes not from the mind, but from the heart, and cannot be dissuaded by mere words."
"Non-verbal casting is dangerous, and if for any reason the casters thoughts stray it can completely alter the spell," Eragon recited from his memories of Oromis's lectures.
Tenga cut a hand through the air, a scowl appearing on his bearded face. "Not non-verbal magic. Listen. Wordless. A spell without thought, words, only the will of the caster."
"Like the Grey Folk, before they bound the ancient language."
Tenga's face flashed at the mention of the Grey Folk, his eyes darkening for a moment before clearing. "Yes, like the Old Ones. Magic as it was originally used. Dangerous and unpredictable, it takes a strong mind to stay their thoughts, and an even stronger will to use properly."
"And the Name would have no effect," Eragon surmised, before taking another sip of ale. The barley flavor washed over his tongue as he contemplated Tenga's words. If he could master wordless magic, it would aid him immensely in his battle with Galbatorix, especially if the Black King discovered the Name of Names.
With a sigh, Eragon muttered, "It would take me too long to master such magic, however. Time is something I do not have right now."
Tenga studied him for a long time, his eyes roaming over Eragon's features. The old man seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, for a sudden crazed look came into Tenga's eyes. The hermit stood from the table and moved towards his collections of scrolls and Compendiums, muttering to himself as he went. Tenga pulled various scrolls and books down, examining them briefly before replacing them carefully, his murmuring growing louder as he continued his search. After nearly ten whole minutes of search, Tenga returned to the table, one of his Compendiums in hand, as well as a nondescript brown book, its covering worn and frayed.
The hermit placed the Compendium and book before Eragon, gesturing for him to take them. Blinking, Eragon pulled the Compendium closer, examining the title scrawled on the outside.
The Compendium of Tenga, son of Ingvar, Second Edition: The Origin of Grey Folk Magic.
Blinking widely, Eragon glanced wide eyes up to Tenga. "Is this…"
Tenga's crazed expression stretched, his mouth smiling wide at the Rider. "Aye. Everything I know about the Old Ones Magic, from before they cast the Naming Spell."
"How did you get this?" Eragon asked, his fingers tracing the Compendium softly.
The crazed expression fell away from Tenga at once, and a deep sorrow seemed to replace it. "That is personal, and not something I wish to share. Know that the knowledge came firsthand, if that would be enough to convince you of its authenticity."
Firsthand? As in Tenga knew a Grey Folk? Or…
He did not finish the thought, nor did he push the issue with Tenga. Instead, his eyes moved over to the book, the lettering barely legible on its frayed cover.
Time and all its Applications Relating to Reality
With a glance at Tenga, Eragon opened the book to a random page, and began to read the first passage his eyes found:
Entry 243
The issue with time is not how it relates to gravity, but how much the influence of mass effects the fabric of the reality. If what … believed is true, then all that makes up the world and space is one and the same with time. Time then, is not a constant, but something that can change in relation to the mass of an object. Such discoveries show that time is relative for each frame of reference, and neither observer can differentiate the others.
The words washed over Eragon; the meaning of the passage nearly lost completely. He understood perhaps a third of the passage at best, but the mentions of frames of reference confused him entirely.
Turning to another page, Eragon read:
Entry 458
If time is not the constant of the universe that we believe it to be, then what is? From the extensive studies I have conducted, both magical and non, it seems evident to me that the rules of the universe require something to be held constant for all frames of refence, else the paradox of time for two different observers would break casualty. In this, I believe that it must be light that is the constant. More specifically, the speed at which light travels. Attempts at deriving the speed of something that has no mass has so far offered no direct readings, but I believe in time the answer to my question will be made apparent, so long as she does not interfere with my work.
Eragon closed the book, and he felt the beginning of a headache start to appear. The words were clearly written by Tenga, as his flowing script was obvious to Eragon. It seemed to be some sort of journal that the hermit had made, though it only seemed to deal with how time worked. Glancing up at Tenga, Eragon stated, "This makes no sense to me. I do not understand what you have written, and my knowledge of such things is limited."
Tenga waved his worries away with a hand, his eyes tracking Eragon intently. "The beginning of the journal is much easier to understand, as it chronologically follows my growing understanding of time. By the end, you should have a firm grasp of how time works, though there is much left out."
Eragon's eyes moved between the book and the Compendium, before returning to Tenga. "I do not have much to trade with you this time. Last time you wished to study Saphira's scales for a glance at one of your Compendium's, but I do not have anything of value on me. Nor do I have the time I did in the past to glean any important information that I can from it. I need to return to the Varden immediately."
Tenga displayed his palms to Eragon, "I do not wish for such things in return. Take them and go."
"What?" Eragon said, stunned. "You would allow me to leave with something of such value? Why?"
Tenga looked away from Eragon, his eyes moving to one of the few windows inside the elven tower. Outside, Eragon could see the open glade, as well as the ancient path leading away from Tenga's home. "I may be a hermit, Rider, but that does not mean I do not understand the events that flow around me. Or you. If what you have said is true, and that this Black King wishes to find the Name of Names, it will only mean more difficulty for me in the future. My studies and research will be for naught, and the golden age of light I wish for will be destroyed. This much I know."
"What do you want instead?" Eragon asked. "Compendiums such as this are not something that anyone would part with easily. I have heard my fair share of magicians who have died defending their notes rather than part with them."
"It is true," Tenga said quietly. "Such knowledge is highly coveted. You asked what I wish for instead, Rider, and I will tell you this: I want your word that these items will be returned to me, and that you will not share these texts with anyone. This is knowledge that is best left to the ages, save for only when it is needed. After you are finished with them, you will give them to Angela. Then, if you emerge victorious in the war, you will tell me all that these texts have shown you."
Ah right. Eragon remembered. Angela had once been Tenga's apprentice.
"On my word as a Rider," Eragon swore. When Tenga nodded in approval, Eragon asked, "Why Angela? Why not have me return them to you?"
"Because you will not have the time," Tenga smiled, then seemingly chuckled to himself lightly. "Which is ironic, of course, since time is something that will be made available to you. When the witch and I parted, it was under less-than-ideal circumstances, but she will understand the importance of the knowledge you hold. If anyone can assure me of their safety, it will be her."
Eragon lightly grasped the Compendium and journal, stowing them in his bag. He placed a few wards around them, as well as his bag, only to discover that other wards had been placed upon them already. Upon examination, he found that they were nothing to be wary of, though a few of them simply would alert Tenga anytime someone other than the hermit touched them.
"Take this as well," Tenga said, withdrawing a blank piece of parchment from nowhere and handing it to Eragon. Confused, Eragon examined the parchment as he took it. It was completely blank on both sides, though Eragon could see old scratch marks that showed someone had previously written on it, though the ink was long since removed. The markings were indecipherable to Eragon, and he glance up at Tenga curiously.
"What is this for?"
"Questions," Tenga stated. He seemed to be growing more tense as their conversation went on, though Eragon did not know if it was because of his dislike for conversations or because of Eragon's constant questions.
When Tenga offered nothing more, Eragon shrugged and placed it in his bag as well. A few whispered spells told him of the magic that exuded from the parchment, but none of them were known to Eragon. They didn't seem intent to harm him in any way, and from what Eragon knew of Tenga, he was not one to use such underhanded methods.
Tenga glanced outside again, and Eragon saw that sun was at its highest position in the sky. "Stay until night, Rider. I can offer you a place to rest for the time being. The Black King's soldiers will not dare come near here, nor will his subjugated Rider."
"Thank you, Tenga," Eragon bowed to the hermit. "For both your hospitality and the knowledge you have shared with me."
"Knowledge shared is knowledge grown," Tenga grunted. "As before, I ask that any knowledge you may learn in pursuit of my question be shared with me."
"Of course," Eragon said.
Tenga gestured for Eragon to follow him, leading him up the stairs that spiraled towards the second floor. Inside, Eragon found a simple bed and a nightstand which was also covered in scrolls and pieces of parchment. There was nothing else besides a mirror in the room on another table, and before Tenga left Eragon asked, "May I use your mirror to scry someone?"
Tenga stared at him for a moment, before muttering, "So long as you do not tell anyone where you are, you are free to do as you wish."
Eragon thanked the hermit, who left without another word. It seemed that Tenga was done with their talks. Perhaps Tenga had simply lived alone for too long, not knowing how to interact with people anymore.
With a sigh, Eragon placed his bag down beside the bed, and unstrapped Brisingr from his waist. Placing it down gently beside his pack, Eragon walked over to the mirror on the stand. After placing a few wards around him, though he suspected Tenga was not one to snoop, Eragon intoned the words of scrying.
Arya was sitting in her tent, bent over a scroll, her face marred with a frown. Her eyes were scanning the page quickly, and from the look on her face he guessed it was a report from her mother. His spell had connected him directly to her own scrying mirror on her table, one that she used on occasion to report back to the elves.
Clearing his throat, Eragon watched as Arya jumped slightly in surprise, her eyes moving quickly to the mirror to her side.
"Eragon!" She exclaimed, her face transforming from frustration to surprise, then Eragon watched as a smile bloomed on her face before it too disappeared.
"Arya," Eragon greeted.
"Your safe," she noted, and he could hear her voice grow tense with every word. "Saphira told us how you decided to stay behind in the Empire."
Eragon scratched the back of his neck, Arya's green eyes tracking him through her own mirror. "Aye," Eragon began slowly. "I needed to tie up a few loose ends, I'm afraid."
"You said you wouldn't do anything foolish," Arya said. "And yet…"
Gracing her with a smile, Eragon joked, "You know me, Arya. Can never stay away from trouble."
"I can see that." Arya sighed, her hand rubbing her forehead as though to relieve an ache. "Saphira warned me long ago about you, but I did not heed her warnings," she mumbled.
"How are Roran and Katrina?" Eragon asked. He did not wish to delve too deep into whatever Saphira had told Arya about him.
"Well. Roran sustained minimal injury from his escapade with you, and Katrina has been looked over by a physician at Nasuada's behest. With some rest and food, they claim she will be fine."
"And Saphira?" he asked quietly, and he felt a sudden lump in his throat. The separation from Saphira was starting to get to him. Never had he been so cut off from her, and though Arya's face was a welcomed sight, it could not quell the feeling of loneliness that threatened to consume him.
"I healed the rest of her injuries that you did not. Right now, I'm afraid she is off hunting with Fírnen," Arya informed him. "I told Fírnen to occupy her to keep her busy." Arya's face softened, her eyes tracing over him. "Are you alright? I know being away from her cannot be easy."
Eragon tried to smile, but failed miserably. The ancient language prevented him from lying, so instead he thought about his physical wellbeing instead of his emotional. "I'm fine."
Arya clearly did not believe him, going by the look on her face, but she was too polite to pry. "Where are you now? I cannot see your surroundings."
"About four days from the Varden, if Nasuada has not yet ordered you to move. More than that, I cannot say, at least until I return."
Arya nodded, her brow furrowing. "Any trouble from Murtagh? We have reports of them active in the region, especially since Saphira returned alone."
That Galbatorix knew he did not return with Saphira troubled him, though he knew the Black King had to have spies inside the Varden. "I've avoided my brother as best I could, choosing to run at night instead of day. Easier to stay away from villages and patrols that way."
"A wise move."
"I've been known to make them, from time to time."
Eragon saw her mouth twitch upwards. "They must be exceedingly rare, since your decision to stay in the Empire clearly was not something I would consider wise."
"I've been known to make those as well." She really didn't approve of me staying, I guess, Eragon thought to himself.
A huff left her lips, and Eragon was heartened for a moment that he amused her with his words. "Saphira told us of how you stayed behind to deal with Katrina's father, and the Ra'zac."
"The Ra'zac are no more," Eragon said, his eyes moving away from her. "And Sloan has been dealt with."
When he told her of what he had done with Sloan, Arya only nodded her head. "I understand. There was little time, and Sloan deserved death for his actions."
Eragon said nothing, letting the silence fill between them.
"Anything interesting happen while I've been gone?" Eragon asked after a moment.
Arya nodded. "Nasuada was challenged by Fadawar, a chief of one of the Wandering Tribes, to the Trial of Long Knives."
It took Eragon a moment to remember the tradition, seeing as he had never witnessed one in person before. "Isn't that when a chief challenges for the right to lead a tribe?"
"Yes," Arya explained. "Fadawar is Nasuada's cousin, and by their laws he had a right to challenge her."
"I see," Eragon said. "How did the Trial go?"
"Nasuada was proclaimed the victor. Her wounds cannot be healed with magic according to the tradition, but Brom has been tending to her as best he can."
Eragon nodded his understanding to Arya. Nasuada was a strong-willed woman, as much as her father, and Eragon was glad that she was able to overcome the pain of the Trial.
Tracing his eyes over Arya, he could see that she was still slightly tense, though her posture had relaxed some since their conversation had started. "Is there something amiss, Arya? You still seem tense."
"No, I.." she broke off, though he did not think it was the ancient language stopping her words. Arya's gaze shifted away from him for a moment, as though she was collecting herself. "There is something I wish to tell you, but in person."
Whatever she wished him to know, Arya obviously feared being overhead. Even with his wards, and the care he took in scrying, it was still possible for a powerful enough magician to intercept their communications. "There is much for me to say that I cannot here as well."
Her gaze returned to him, and he felt as though his skin was burning from her piercing eyes even over the distance that separated them. All she gave him was a sharp nod in reply.
A knock at her tent drew her attention, breaking the moment between them. "Yes?" Arya called out, her face turned away from him and towards the opening of her tent. Eragon's eyes traced over her raven hair, held up behind her head, and Eragon marveled as the light danced across its surface.
"Brom wishes for you to join him in Nasuada's tent, Lady Arya," a messenger spoke, his voice muffled and low to Eragon.
"I will be there shortly, thank you."
The messenger must have left, for Arya returned her gaze to him, and Eragon fought to keep from jumping at being caught. If she saw his lingering stare, Arya did not comment on it. "I must go, Eragon. I will give the others an update on your position. I only ask that you contact me when you can."
"I promise," Eragon swore. "So long as I am able."
Arya nodded her understanding. "Is there anything you wish to for me to relay to the others?"
"Tell Saphira that I am well, and that I will be back as soon as I am able. And that I miss her, and I love her."
Arya's face softened again. "I will tell her. I cannot imagine being separated from Fírnen, even after only a few months. The two of you have been bonded for centuries."
"I will endure," Eragon said softly.
Arya's eyes traced over his features, even as his did the same. Whatever was between them, Eragon could feel the tension growing more as the seconds ticked by. "I must go," Arya said.
Eragon nodded. "I will return soon."
"Safe travel, Eragon. And do not do anything else too reckless."
Eragon chuckled lightly. Arya smiled at him briefly, and he watched as the image of her disappeared from the mirror, leaving him staring at his own reflection.
Eragon awoke when Tenga opened the door to the room, his hand finding Brisingr and holding it up before him as he stood from the bed.
Tenga, it seemed, was not fazed at Eragon's reaction, instead moving to gather a scroll from the nightstand. Relaxing, Eragon placed his sword down on the bed, rubbing at his tired eyes. Tenga paid him no mind, his hands picking up scrolls only to discard them moments later.
"Night has fallen upon us, Rider. Time for you to seek the answer you need."
Letting out a sigh, Eragon stretched lightly, feeling his body protest at the movements. His feet ached from the constant running, and when he returned to the Varden he knew he would need to replace his boots before long. Magic could sustain them a while longer, but even spells and wards had their limits.
The hermit seemed to find the scroll he was looking for, turning away and leaving the room without another word. Eragon packed quickly, making sure had everything in order.
When he was done, he descended the stairs, finding Tenga bent over at least three scrolls, muttering to himself as he went. When Eragon moved towards the door, the hermit muttered, "Eat first, then take what supplies you need."
Thanking the magician, Eragon ate the rest of the meat pie that Tenga had left out, as well as some fruit that was prepared for him. Tenga did not speak to him as he ate, nor did the hermit seem interested in eating as well.
With a glance at Tenga, Eragon gathered some spare fruit and bread, as well as cutting a piece of cheese for himself. When he was satisfied, Eragon moved towards the door again, turning around to face the hermit before he left.
"Thank you, Tenga, son of Ingvar, for sharing your hospitality and wisdom."
Tenga said nothing to him, though he did see the hermit's hand twitch as he wrote silently on one of the scrolls. When he was offered nothing else, Eragon opened the door and left the tower, shaking his head at the eccentric hermit.
Without looking back, Eragon continued down the ancient stone path, his feet sure, even as his mind wandered. He had learned much from Tenga, but he knew he would need to find the time to study the scroll and journal gifted to him. If it could aid him against Galbatorix, no matter how dangerous, Eragon had to do it.
Still, the thought of wielding magic that even the Grey Folk thought too dangerous made him worry. The ancient race had bound the ancient language to magic for a reason, and any who used wordless magic could pay a steep price for their efforts. Too often the mind strayed, and it could cause repercussions to both the magician and their surroundings.
If Galbatorix learns of a way to control the ancient language, though, Eragon thought as he continued walking, then I may not have a choice but to use magic without the ancient language. Oromis will not like it, but I think he will understand the necessity of it.
With a sigh, Eragon tightened the pack on his back, and after moment took off at a steady run.
For the next few days Eragon continued his habit of only traveling at night, relying on his memory of Alagaësia and the maps he had pored over before leaving to guide him. Luckily, many of the maps were current renditions of the state of Alagaësia, giving Eragon foreknowledge on the best routes to use. More than once, Eragon had needed to veer off early from the well-worn in route that the Empire used to supply the villages, avoiding patrols and refugees who were making their way north.
He had paused by a village by the name of Eastcroft, whose gates were firmly shut in the dead of night. They were holding up for a siege, it seemed to Eragon, though from what he knew the Varden were still a long way off from making it to the small village. The movement of troops would be a slow, dull affair, but Eragon did not fault them their sense of security. These were troubled times, and though the Varden did not wish to destroy villages in its war, Eragon knew Nasuada would do anything necessary to ensure their victory.
As will I¸ Eragon thought, standing on the small hill far outside Eastcroft to admire the village.
It had been centuries since he last lived in a human village, and the sight of it stirred something briefly inside of him. Flashes of his mother's face appeared before his mind, as well as the child-like feeling of glee that often accompanied him throughout his youngest years. Murtagh was there as well, years after he had received the devastating scar on his back from Morzan. For a moment he missed the simpler times in life, when all he and Murtagh had to worry about was the late summer sun when their mother would beckon them home for supper.
Eragon shook himself from the memories, checking his surroundings once more before picking up his trek.
When he had passed Eastcroft he followed the road for some time, before angling himself southwest towards the Varden.
For some reason he slowed his gait down in a field of lilies, and he strained his senses to find the disturbance. Night was beginning to wane, the first signs of the sun making itself apparent to him as he walked amongst the flowers. Something about them called to him, but whatever it was had missed him entirely. An image of Arya appeared in his mind, but Eragon shook it away as he looked around the open grass field.
For an inexplicable moment, Eragon suddenly felt entirely alone in the world.
Not finding anything that stood out to him, Eragon let out a sigh and continued his journey. He was not far now from the Varden, and he estimated that it would only take until midday. Though his feet ached, and his knees throbbed from the constant running, Eragon did not want to waste any more time away from Saphira and the others. Without a backwards glance, Eragon took off through the lilies, the wind stirring them as he ran.