Chapter Text
"Still intending to head north, then?" the innkeeper asks, and you nod, frowning as the man grimaces.
"It's damn late in the season for that," he says.
"I'm not worried about the cold," you say, running your hand over the fur coat you bought only a few weeks past. It's draped over your chair for now, the inside of the inn more than warm enough on its own.
But the innkeeper shakes his head and says, "Southerners. Being prepared for the cold is all well and good, but it's far from the only thing that kills a man in the north. We only get a few days of Evernight here, but it's more than enough that I don't care to venture further north."
"Evernight?" you repeat, for an explanation, for clarity - this far from the main part of Alagaesia, it can be difficult to understand the accents of the people with clarity, when they speak your language at all. You've been reduced once or twice to gestures alone to communicate, and the fact that this innkeeper speaks your language was a significant reason why you decided upon a room here.
"Evernight," the man repeats with a nod. "Far enough to the north, the sun doesn't rise in winter, nor set during summer. Summer is fine enough, but in winter, spirits travel the endless night, and any man with a grain of sense stays safely at home, lest he come back an Aezhai - a Shade, you southerners call them - if he comes back at all."
You shiver, though it's hardly because of the cold. You know more about Shades than the average person does - you've survived battle with one, and as nothing more than a regular human, and that is hardly something just anyone can claim - but you've never heard of them just happening like that. All the Shades you know of were the result of human sorcerers specifically creating them.
"Does that really happen?" you ask.
"Aye," the innkeeper says. "To the animals, too. If you ever hear stories of a Shlajra from the locals, avoid that area. That's an animal Shade made of resentful spirits."
"Thank you for the warning," you say, completely earnestly.
"I've seen plenty of southerners head out into the night thinking it's not a big deal," the innkeeper replies. He regards you seriously for a moment and then says, "But I see that you don't intend on stopping."
"There's someone in the north I have to find," you say. "If they're holing themselves up because of the spirits, then that's time I can use to catch up to them."
And if not - at least the gap won't grow further. Whoever the witch 'Bachel' is, about all that you've been able to confirm is that she travels from place to place, never stopping for longer than a few days. She headed north, and so you follow.
If a witch such as that can protect herself from spirits in the long night, then surely you can do likewise.
The innkeeper sighs, leaning forward and dipping a long, wax-tipped match in the flame of the candle lantern next to him so that he can light his pipe from it. "Can't say I didn't warn you," he says, shaking his head as he puts the tiny flame into the pipe bowl and shakes the match out. "Look. There's a man I know - a guide to the northlands - he might still be in town. Stay another night - I won't even charge you. Just give me the chance to see if he'd be willing to talk to you."
You roll the idea around in your mind - you don't much like the idea of traveling alongside a stranger, but it costs you nothing to stay another day and soothe this man's soul. Perhaps he lost someone to the Shades that occur here in the north.
"Another night, then," you say. "And I'll meet with this guide of yours. But there's no need to expend charity on my account; I can pay for the room."
"I'll take half and no more," the innkeeper says, leaving no opening for further negotiation. You nod, shift into your belt pouch to count out the coins, and accept a last mug of fire-warmed mead to accompany you upstairs to your room.
On the staircase, Thorn presses his mind against yours, a sensation not unlike having his nose investigatively press against your back. That was interesting, he says. Do you think there truly are Shades in these wilds?
I don't think it's a possibility we can afford to ignore, you send back, settling into the room's chair and taking a sip of your mead. If it turns out to be a scam, we can always leave on our own.
And if it isn't? Thorn probes.
You grimace into the mug, watching the ripples in the surface of the drink for a moment, the inside too dark to offer even distorted images of your own face. Then it depends on what kind of person this guide of his is, you say. If he's trustworthy enough, I might not object to having the help of an expert.
Thorn chuckles, warmer than the mead or the fire. Good, he sends. You need to get used to the company of two-legs again if you intend to rejoin Eragon.
You huff into the mug, and drain the rest of the mead. Not yet, you say, setting it down. Not until I have something to show for it.
Thorn's thoughts give a quiet acknowledgement with only a touch of fond eyeroll, which you ignore. You feel him settle down into the snow outside of town, hidden safely away in the trees, and send, I wish there was room enough for you to be warm as well.
Hmph. As though snow would be enough to harm me. A snort, a vision of white crystals blown up by Thorn's breath, already melting from the heat. A dragon who died in the snow would be unworthy of the name.
You say that, but it's only going to get colder as we go further north, you say. Thorn doesn't reply further, and you wish him a silent goodnight before you curl up into the blankets yourself.
One way or another, you'll be on the road again in the morning.
----
It's still dark when you wake, not entirely surprisingly. You've been in the north for long enough to be aware of how short the days grow up here; although it's still some weeks until the solstice, the daylight will be visible for only a few short hours. When you started your journey northward in the summer, the days were so long that you barely saw night at all. You've come a great deal further northward since then.
And yet you still encounter people living their lives, even this far north. There are still towns even here, where the ground is frostbound six months out of the year, and that in a good year. For now, the sky is just beginning to lighten when you come down the stairs, packed and bundled up save for the thick coat slung over your arm, to occupy a corner of the common room until the innkeeper returns, with or without that guide of his.
The man's eldest daughter is minding the counters, and she nods at you as you settle in, and when there's next a gap in her work she brings you by the same breakfast as yesterday, porridge with an egg cooked directly into the top of it, and you nod your thanks and settle in to eat after surreptitiously checking the meal for poison or drugs. None of them make themselves known, and so you eat while you wait, keeping half a mind on the intentions of the other patrons.
You prefer not to go rifling through thoughts unless you must, but it never hurts to keep a wary eye out, so to speak, especially here, where those who do speak your language do so in a heavy accent, and just as many don't speak it at all. Even among those who do, it's not the tongue they use in their day-to-day lives.
You've picked up a handful of words, mostly curses, but you haven't tried to study the language in depth. For today, you just focus on the words for Shads that you heard last night, keeping an ear open to hear if you hear them in the snatches of conversation and thoughts around the room.
It's properly dawn out, albeit a dawn that will last nearly two hours before the wan sun finally pokes over the horizon, by the time the innkeeper returns. Accompanying him is another man, you think, though it's hard to tell with the both of them bundled in coats. The guide is smaller than the innkeeper in every way, short and not as nearly round, though not exactly slim even when you mentally calculate out the volume of his coat. The combination of traits still gives you the impression of a stretched-out dwarf, not quite long enough to be a human but too tall to live under the mountains.
He nods at you as the innkeeper hangs his coat, making no move to remove his own, though he does undo the high collar that protects the lower half of his face from snow-and-wind. You're expecting to see a beard - every other man you've seen for the last several months has one - but there's only the hint of stubble along his jaw. He rubs one gloved hand against his cheek before pushing the slit snow goggles he's wearing up to the flap of hat that hangs over his forehead. His eyebrows are a rusty color over eyes that are a light enough brown to look almost gold, and his skin is pale enough to be notable, when you've noticed that the people began to grow darker again after a certain point as you went north.
He exchanges a few quick words with the innkeeper, who laughs, and the guide nods with a small smile as the larger man ducks behind the inn counter to relieve his daughter for the day. Then he turns and crosses the room towards your table in quick strides.
"So, you're the one who wants to brave the winter night?"
The accent isn't as strong on his words as it is on those of most natives to the town. You feel certain in saying that he is, in fact, from further south, and you wonder what it is that brought him out to the wilds of the north. You can't help but feel a certain kinship with that, considering the circumstances.
"'Tis I," you agree. "I hear that there are dangerous spirits in it, and that you are a man who can guide travelers safely through."
"You've heard right," the guide says, swinging a bundle off his back before pulling out the other chair at your table. The fur cover of the top of the bundle slips, revealing a trio of bone spearpoints attached to wooden hafts; you've seen the like quite often as you've traveled further north. There isn't much metal up here, nor many forges, and you're glad that you've stopped carrying your sword. It made you stick out too much.
"The question," the guide continues, as he settles in, "is if you're an idiot, or just that desperate."
You frown, though that is quite likely an accurate description of most who seek this man's services. "Desperate enough," you admit. "There's someone I'm seeking to find - a 'witch-woman' by the name of Bachel."
Before you can continue, the guide interrupts, "Ah. Fae yokh."
"You know of her, then," you say.
"And I wish I didn't," the guide agrees. "You're the desperate kind, all right. I've neer met anyone seeking her who isn't."
"Do you know how to find her?' you ask.
"I don't know where she is at the moment," he replies, "but I know where she'll be come Zaelverevi." At your confused expression, he clarifies, "Middlenight. The solstice."
"That's still weeks from now," you say.
"She goes to the same place every year," the guide says. "It's one of the only predictable things she does."
That, at least, is in line with what it's been like, trying to follow her northward so far. The path you've followed feels random, moving from settlement to settlement unpredictably but steadily northward. Sometimes, you're quite sure, your quarry followed no road at all.
"You certainly seem to know what you're talking about," you say, sending out a probing thought to see how his mind reacts to the words. Even a vague idea of the emotions you get in response has, thus far, been enough for you to gauge whether someone is lying about their knowledge or not.
Instead of open thoughts, you hit the edge of a blizzard, swirling and obscuring the thoughts beneath as effectively as any wall you've ever seen. The only clue to what lies beneath that you get is a suggestion of something as much bigger than you as the real storm would be, and a blast of snowflakes in your 'face' that feels a bit like a warning and a bit chiding. You withdraw immediately.
The guide's posture shifts, something more open in his shoulders and something approaching a smile on his face.
"Let's speak truly, then," he says in the Ancient Language, still accented in a way that sound somehow more foreign to your ears. You've heard all sorts of accents in your own tongue, but never in the Ancient Language, which all the races pronounce so carefully.
You grimace down at the table, but you have managed to catch yourself out - for the most part, only magicians are capable of reaching out to other minds. "Let's, then," you grudgingly agree. "I suppose it makes sense that a guide in a land full of spirits would be capable of magic."
The guide chuckles. "That is something of a requirement to move freely around the Thaejrazraellve," he agrees. The sudden intrusion of the foreign word makes you blink, but he's already continuing, "You can call me Erzhal."
"Tornac," you offer in return, grateful that you can carefully dodge the question of whether or not it's your actual name. You don't know how much rumor reached here of what happened in the Empire, but you would still rather avoid being recognized if you are able.
Erzhal raises his eyebrows and says, "I see. And you wouldn't have anything to do with the glittering drop of blood flying in the sunrise, would you?"
You freeze, which is unfortunately telling, because he continues, still smiling and relaxed, "From what I've heard of what happened to the south, I can't blame you for hiding behind another name, and I'm happy to call you whatever you desire. But there are dangers particular to the cold that can affect even dragons as we go further north, and I cannot guide effectively if I don't know how many people I'm guiding."
You relax only a little, and instead tug at your connection. Thorn? What do you think?
Thorn catches up on the conversation from your thoughts quickly, and then says, I would meet him in person before I make my decision. If he's untrustworthy, I can always eat him.
You should perhaps not eat someone known for the ability to survive in the wild, you send back. It would raise questions.
Maul him like a bear, then. If animals can become Shades here, surely it would be reasonable for even someone who knows what they're doing to die fighting one of those.
A terrifying thought, thank you. Out loud, you say, "He'd like to meet with you in person."
Erzhal tips his head in acknowledgement. "I would be honored," he says, and then adds, switching back to the common tongue, "I have no more errands in town, so we can leave whenever you're ready."
You nod, bending to pick up your pack from where you had stashed it under the table. "Then let's be off," you say.
Erzhal stands also, grabbing his bundle of spears, and then says, "If you don't have some yet, we should get you a set of skis and something to cover your face."
"I have the latter, but not ... skis?" you say, trying the word out.
Erzhal nods, and says, "Well, you'll be wanting them once we're out where the snow only falls and doesn't melt this time of year. We can grab those on our way out of town."
You nod, and follow him out the door. Outside, he pauses to pick up two pieces of wood, with leather straps, from a stand just outside the door. "These are skis," he says. "They're originally an Urgal invention, but people of all races use them in the north to avoid sinking in the deep snow." After a moment, he adds in the Ancient Language, in an undertone, "Unfortunately, we won't find any sized for dragons here."
It startles a laugh out of you that you mostly cut off by biting down on your lips, but apparently that's enough to please Erzhal, who bundles the skis onto his back with a grin, not even bothering to cover the bottom half of his face against the cold, only pulling his slit goggles down over his eyes. You cannot blame him for that, because even as dim as the sun is, weakly peeking through clouds, it is still blinding against the snow.
You follow Erzhal down to the markets - a few people wave or hail him on the way, more often in the language of the north than not, but it doesn't seem to be anything more than cursory greetings. One woman forces a leather sack into his arms, and they argue for a moment in a way that's clearly Erzhal trying to refuse the gift before giving up, sighing, and slinging the sack over his shoulder with the rest of his pack.
At your raised eyebrow as the two of you walk away, he just shrugs and says, "Snacks for the road, I suppose."
Well, you're hardly about to turn that down. You say, "How long do you expect we'll be traveling before the next settlement?"
"That depends on how you feel about Urgals," Erzhal returns.
You grimace, but say, "As long as they aren't attacking me, I don't bear them any grudge."
"Then four or five days, depending on how quickly you master skiing," Erzhal says. "There are a few lodges in between, so we won't be completely exposed to the cold."
You mull that over, poking Thorn with your mind, and after you get his consent, add, "And on dragonback?"
"...Two at most," Erzhal says, "but we're entering the season where we would have to dump most of our energy into warming wards to keep his wing membranes from getting frostbitten. The solstice is far enough away that I'm not altogether sure it would be worth it."
"Fair enough," you say. "If we're in no great rush, then the safer road may be for the better."
Erzhal nods. "Unfortunately, there's only one dragonhold in all of the north that's still habitable," he says. "Which is our intended destination after Ghralthek, and another two days beyond it, but I have enough business there that we would need to stay for two or three days, if you're interested in having me guide you the rest of the way."
"You are the one doing me a service," you say carefully. "If you have usual business with the Urgals, it's not my place to interfere."
The smile Erzhal throws your way is a little warmer. He says, "Plenty of southerners would just throw more coin at me to avoid it."
"If you think it's the best place to stop, then I'm not going to argue," you say. "Though I do plan to, as you say, throw coin at you."
"A price to be negotiated after I meet your partner," Erzhal says, before ducking into a tent with its front flap partially open. You follow after him, and are met with a variety of lengths of wood, all similar to the pair Erzhal has strapped to his back.
"Thuxheye, Kutsokh," Erzhal says to the merchant sitting behind the counter. He then gestures at you, and says, "A set for a beginner, for sae pikoubraz."
Kutsokh appraises you for a moment, before going to a rack of medium-length skis and starting to sort through them. He says something in the tongue of the north to Erzhal, who snorts and replies in kind. The merchant then gestures you to step forward, and you obligingly do so.
"Stand like this," Kutsokh says, widening his arms at the elbows and holding his fists a bit forward. You do, and the man tsks under his breath before pulling a set of wooden poles with leather grips from another rack and pressing them into your hands. The grips have leather loops coming from the top, which Kutsokh flicks with one finger. "Hands go through," he says.
You slide your hands through the loops so that they rest around your wrists, and he nods approval. He makes a series of gestures with his hands that seem like climbing stairs, and you imitate them with the poles, careful not to actually dig them into the floor of the tent. Kutsokh nods approval. Erzhal rolls his eyes, and says something in the northern tongue to the man that draws a laugh.
You're going to have to learn at least some of the language, you think. Something to fill the hours you're camping with your guide, perhaps.
"Boot up," Kutsokh orders, and you obligingly lift a foot for him to examine. He makes a few measurements using his hands as guides, which takes long enough that holding the position grows awkward and requires you to put your weight on the poles, which hold up surprisingly well considering how thin they are. Kutsokh returns to the racks and finally pulls out a set of skis with leather straps woven through the middle.
Then he pauses and pulls another pair of poles from the rack, the same length as the ones you're holding, and says, "Southerners. Always lose poles," which sends Erzhal into another barely-restrained bout of chuckling.
"Thank you," you say, freeing one hand from the pole to accept the rest of the gear. "What do I owe you?"
Kutsokh names a price, which seems a bit higher than is fair, but then says, "Half back if you return them when you go back south," which seems worthwhile enough. You still barter a bit, but the idea that you can return them sits a little easier with you.
"If he dies, you return skis for half," Kutsokh says to Erzhal, clearly intended for you to hear, and the guide just shakes his head and sighs. "Won't do him any good, will it?" Kutsokh says in response.
"I guess not," Erzhal agrees, and while you attempt to figure out a way to stow the skis without interfering too much with your pack, the two exchange goodbyes. After leaving the tent, Erzhal says, "He actually gave you a bit of a discount. Good wood for skis is harder to find than you might think, and his wife is a master of the craft."
"His wife?" you ask.
"She makes the skis," Erzhal confirms. "Kutsokh just makes the poles and minds the shop. Her family has been in this business for as long as anyone can remember. A ski-maker up here is more important than a smith."
When he puts it that way, the price seems a bit more fair. You say, "Then let's get moving."
"There's a frozen pond around a mile north of town," Erzhal says, "which should be visible from the air, if your partner would like to meet us there."
You pass the information to Thorn, and say, "He's amenable to that."
Erzhal nods, and says, "The road should be clear enough to walk that far, so you can learn to ski after."
----
There's a light dusting of snow on the road, but it's not even thick enough to stand over your boots, which you suppose counts enough for 'clear' around here. You've made your way through places where the snow is knee-deep or higher, and you aren't ashamed to admit that you did so primarily through the use of magic. It's less of a bother for Thorn because of his size, but it's made landing in the featureless-from-above snow a dangerous endeavor.
Which likely explains why he chooses to land on the frozen pond instead, after you've tested it with magic and found it to be nearly solid, wide but shallow. The sound of his claws skating across the ice is still enough to make you wince.
Still, you're unbearably warmed to see him. The vividness of his color is all the more stark against the white and grey of the forest, the green of the trees so dark as to appear black by contrast. Once he's found his footing, Thorn slides across the pond over to you, his extended head nearly knocking you over as he fails to come to a complete stop at the shore.
I missed you, he sends, thoughts soft against yours as he nudges the tip of his snout into your chest.
"It was only two nights," you say, reaching up to rub under his jaw. The scales there are warm to the touch, unlike many of the ones that are more functional as armor, which have taken on a chill that never seems entirely to leave. Thorn leans into the touch with a grumbling noise of approval.
A night longer than planned.
If we've found a guide who can deliver on his promises, it will be worthwhile, you send back to him, the words private. It could save us many months of wandering the wilderness.
I suppose I will allow it, if it means leaving this cold sooner. With a shiver of his wings, Thorn lifts his head out of your reach to look at the man standing behind you.
Erzhal has politely averted his gaze, to all appearances observing the road coming from the town, but he glances back at the sound of Thorn's shifting weight crunching in the snow. There's a certain wary intensity to his shoulders before he sweeps into a bow - a bow in a style that's old even by the standards of Galbatorix's court. You would know. You saw the king himself bow in that style, when he wanted to be particularly flattering to a lady of the court that he had his eye on, or, when he was in one of his better moods, particularly sarcastic to someone who had simply done their assigned duty and expected accolades for it.
It's an odd thing, seeing it here. Seeing it delivered with apparent complete sincerity, Erzhal's head and shoulders bent low enough that he must be keeping his fur cap on his head by means of magic, one arm over his chest. It's a sincerity you don't know what to do with.
In the Ancient Language, he says, "It is my unexpected joy to be the one to welcome a dragon and Rider to the north." Only then does Erzhal straighten and appraise Thorn more directly.
After a moment, Thorn says to you, His mind is impenetrable, but there is something old about his power. He is no simple traveling magician, that much is certain.
You send back, I suspected as much. Do you think he's trustworthy?
Thorn appraises Erzhal, raising his head on his neck before swinging it in close to the man, who doesn't flinch even when Thorn expels a great cloud of smoke-scented steam from his nostrils.
There is a great sorrow there, and many secrets, Thorn says at length, but I do not think he wishes us harm.
Good enough for me. Out loud, you say, "Thorn has decided you meet with his approval."
Erzhal inclines his head slightly to Thorn in acknowledgement, and then says to him, "We'll see how much you still approve when it comes time to throw a blanket over your wings. Even folded, they lose too much heat."
Thorn snorts lightly, a bit more smoke than steam, and pulls his head away from his careful inspection. I had already noticed that the chill sets in there first. It is no different from the dangers of frostbite for humans, then?
You repeat the question, and Erzhal nods without looking at you. It's another point of strangeness - not that you have had much chance to speak on Thorn's behalf in this way, but you recall well enough that only a few people looked at Saphira when Eragon repeated her words for her in the Varden. To not look at the person who seems to be speaking is a conscious decision.
He's familiar with dragons, you observe.
Perhaps, Thorn says. Though I would question how, seeing as he does not appear to be much older than you.
Out loud, you say, "I have a question of my own. It's clear that you have some idea of who we are." There are only three dragons old enough to be flightworthy; if any have hatched for the new Riders of Eragon's order, you haven't heard tell of them yet. "Is our history going to be a problem?"
Erzhal turns to you, and he draws in a deep breath. You almost aren't surprised that he replies in the Ancient Language, because that is the tongue used for things such as this, portentous and serious as oaths.
"You are not your father, and you didn't choose to grow up in his shadow. Who you choose to be is what will determine if we have problems."
It's not words that deserve such solemnity, you think.
(You also think that as many times as you've heard the first part - this is the first time in a long time that you've heard it in a way that wasn't begging you to do things you couldn't do.)
(You don't remember ever hearing the second part at all.)
(How many times, after all, has anyone offered you a choice on who to be?)
"Then we go north," you say. If there are any problems, you don't intend for them to be of your making.
"Then we go north," Erzhal agrees, and the deal is sealed.