Chapter Sixty-Two

Dark Endings

The destruction of Ilirea took a month, in the end. Under the direction of the Forsworn and with their help, the rebels demolished every major building, including the six towers, now stripped of all their supplies and valuables. Only a few of the dwellings and the outer walls were left more or less untouched. The way was now clear for the new city to be built. But by now it was plain that the people who had first marched on Ilirea were ready to go home. The war was over and they had lives to return to, and there was too little food in the city to support them all.

Galbatorix knew it already, and brought the surviving Forsworn together on the evening of the day the last tower was thrown down. 'It's time for us to go our separate ways,' he told them.

'Yes, Sire,' said Orwyne.

'You'll start preparing to leave tomorrow,' Galbatorix said briefly. 'Lead the people back to their homes. Your new provinces need you now.'

'So we're all to go, Sire?' Morzan ventured. 'What about you?'

'I'll stay here and oversee the building. Send all the workmen you can find here. The sooner the city's finished the better. And anyone who wants to stay here can do so.'

Vander glanced at the others. 'Will you… be all right on your own, Sire?'

Galbatorix's expression did not change. 'Your people are waiting for you, Lord Vander.'

Vander bowed rather stiffly and left. The rest of the Forsworn followed him, some glancing back at Galbatorix. He watched them wordlessly, his stare impassive. As the last of them left, he longed to run after them, to talk to them, to beg them not to abandon him, but the words died inside him and he turned away, head bowed.

Over the next day or so the Forsworn gathered their new subjects and left Ilirea's ruins. Galbatorix saw them off, but the farewells were brief and formal. Tranah departed in the small hours of the morning without even waiting to say goodbye, and Orwyne and Tuomas left together on the following day. Vander and Ana were already gone.

Morzan was last to leave. He and Galbatorix met on the city wall as the people below began their march Northward, carrying their possessions on their backs like so many ants.

'We shouldn't have too much trouble,' said Morzan, watching them. 'I'll send a bird once I'm there. Sire,' he added.

'You don't have to call me that, Morzan.'

'Well, I guess it's all over, then,' said Morzan, ignoring him. 'Time to get back to our duties. I'm not sure…' he glanced toward the horizon, where Gil'ead waited. 'I'm not sure how good of a ruler I'll be, but I'll do my best for you, Sire.'

Galbatorix watched him. Saw how tired he looked. 'You're a good man, Morzan,' he said at last. 'You're stronger than you think.'

'I'm a rider,' Morzan said briefly. 'We're all strong. But I'll never be as strong as you, and I never will be either.'

'I'm not strong, Morzan.'

'Yes you are,' said Morzan. 'It's just as well,' he added. 'A King has to be strong.'

Galbatorix said nothing.

Morzan looked down over the wall. The last of the Gil'eadians were out of the city and moving out onto the road heading Northwards. He sighed. 'Well, looks like I'd better go. See you later, Sire.' He bowed and turned away to where Idün waited.

As he was adjusting the saddle, Galbatorix finally forced himself to speak. 'Morzan-,'

Morzan turned. 'Yes, Sire?'

'Morzan, I-,' Galbatorix fell silent, staring at the ground.

'What is it, Sire?' said Morzan.

Galbatorix looked up. 'Good luck.'

'Yes, Sire,' said Morzan. 'And good luck to you too, Sire.'

Galbatorix watched him climb into the saddle with a strange and terrible sense of helplessness, as if he were seeing his friend for the last time. And he knew that, in a sense, he was – even if they did meet again. Morzan was Lord Morzan of Gil'ead now.

Morzan had strapped himself into the saddle, and Idün tensed in readiness to take off. He looked down at Galbatorix and seemed about to say something, but then the red dragon launched herself from the wall and glided away over the heads of the departing column.

Galbatorix turned to watch her, his hands resting on the parapet, the wind ruffling his hair. Behind him, Shruikan raised his head and howled – a loud, lonely, bitter cry that rose into the sky like a ghostly dragon taking flight. It followed Idün a she flew away, but neither she nor Morzan looked back.

Galbatorix said nothing to Shruikan. He touched the black dragon's snout briefly and turned away toward the steps leading down from the wall and back into the city.

As he walked through the ruined streets, his robe swirling, the people he passed stopped and turned to watch him. And they knelt, bowing their heads to him. He could hear their voices, murmuring softly. Sire. My Lord.

He could hardly bear to look at them. Quite suddenly, as he made for the place where the towers had been and where he had made a temporary home for himself, he was gripped by an urge to turn back. He wanted to go back to Shruikan – to run back to him, and to fly away with him, away from Ilirea, away from Alagaësia, away over the sea.

He clenched his fists and fought the feeling, turning his back on it just as he had turned his back on Morzan. It left him slowly, and once it had gone, leaden despair thudded into his chest. On his head, the crown suddenly felt like a dead weight, dragging him down, and he took it off and stuffed it into his robe.

He reached his camp and sat down by the heap of charcoal from the previous night's fire, head in his hands.

He didn't move for a long time. When he did, it was to take a small dagger from his belt. He held it between his hands, watching the light move over the blade. He ran a thumb along its edge to test its sharpness, and stared blankly at the blood that beaded on his skin. If anyone had been watching him, they would have seen no hint of his thoughts showing on his face. His eyes, as black and glittering as always, were cold and distant, his angular face expressionless. He did not look like a man who understood weakness, or felt any hint of it himself, and there was an aura about him now – something, some presence, that enhanced the natural darkness in him, making the sunlight that touched him look somehow dull and faint. It was something that would define him in the eyes of his people, and in the eyes of all those who would ever see or speak of him for the next one hundred years: fear.

Night lay over the land of Alagaësia; black, eyeless night. It was a new moon, and even the stars seemed subdued. Somewhere in a forest, huddled at the base of a tree, a young man stared into the darkness, transfixed by a wavering image only he could see, his once-bright blue eyes dim and glazed. He saw a strange, pale-faced man – one clad in a black robe, his face framed by neat black curls – a man whose black, glittering eyes stared straight back at him as he threw back his head and laughed; a faint, crazed, cruel and evil laugh.

'I'll kill you,' the boy whispered, again and again. 'I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you…' he closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face, tearing at the skin with his fingernails, his heart a gaping wound inside him. 'Saphira. I'll kill him. Saphira I'll kill him I'll kill him, Saphira…'

And in Ellesméra, on a rocky crag high above the Stone of Broken Eggs, Oromis sat with Glaedr by his side and stared at the gedwëy ignaesia on his hand. 'He must die,' he murmured aloud. 'He must die for his crimes.'

'We will see him dead,' Glaedr whispered. 'One day we shall see him dead. One day…'

And in the ruins of the city that had once been Ilirea, King Galbatorix Taranisäii lay awake in his hammock, clutching his sword tightly by the hilt, his hands trembling. His face was as still and cold as marble. He was exhausted, but he could not sleep. When he slept, he heard the screams echoing in his mind. Voices screaming his name. I saw you, I saw a great King, I saw, I saw, I saw a Great King, saw a Great King, Galbatorix Taranisäii the Great King, I saw you, I saw…

Galbatorix shuddered. He tried to distract himself by recalling the dark elvish lament he had once shared with his friends. 'A' cur dallaidh air a léir…' but the words wouldn't come right any more. He had lost them. He closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in thoughts of Laela, but she too was beyond his grasp now. His memory whispered to him, tormenting him, forcing him to stay awake. He wondered if he was going mad.

The thought made him want to laugh. Who would care if he did?

He did not sleep that night. Or the next.

And, far away, in his fine room in Gil'ead's castle, Morzan sat alone in the dim light of a single candle. He picked up a flagon and rather unsteadily poured himself another cup of wine. He downed it in a few gulps and slumped in his chair, letting the cup fall to the floor. On the table in front of him was a sword; its blade a pale shade of ice-blue. Its hilt, silver and studded with sapphires, was engraved with the name Íssbrandr.

Morzan's big hands closed around the sword-hilt, and he held the weapon tightly, his back shaking with suppressed sobs. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, tears slowly leaking from his eyes. 'I'm so sorry.'

Far away from Alagaësia, in a land that lay over the sea, a big silver dragon lay curled up on a clifftop, her golden eyes watching over the five young dragons as they slept nearby, wings and tails entwined. All strong hatchlings, all with the promise of powerful adulthood to come. But she knew what she had not told them, or her father, why there was something not quite entirely dragonlike about them. Something quiet, something curious and eager, something almost gentle. Something almost… human.

Skade looked up at the sky and let out a deep, rumbling sigh. She had found the thing she had been seeking all her life, and reached the place she had nearly died to reach. Her long search and her sufferings along the way had not been in vain, and she had the home she had always longed for, and the family as well. She knew her father would not let her return to Alagaësia, and she knew, too, that she should not want to return to it.

But somehow, somewhere deep inside her, a part of her would not let her forget it, or allow her to let go of what she had left there. She closed her eyes and dreamed of a time, years ago, when she had looked through different eyes and heard through different ears, a time when she had known something and someone she could not forget. Even now it was in her mind every day and every night, and she could not shake off the feeling that had stayed with her since the day she flew away over the sea – a feeling that she had left something behind, something she needed.

She let the memory fill her mind, cherishing it, filling her heart with its sweet sadness and longing. I will not forget, she promised it. I will never forget. I will return. One day, I will return.

After that she slept. And dreamed distant, loving dreams.

The new city took a long time to form, but it did, little by little. The Forsworn had sent builders, architects, craftsmen and stonemasons, and, working together under the direct supervision of Galbatorix himself, they set to work and the city began to take shape. A quarry was dug, and stone blocks were brought to the site to be the beginnings of a castle - an ordinary, human castle. Beneath its foundations were the old catacombs of Ilirea, and its store-rooms and dungeons, and the city itself retained some of the warehouses, stables and houses. Others sprang up around them, built of mud-brick and thatch, just as humans preferred. There were even a few urgal longhouses, for those of Nar Kvarn's people who had chosen to stay.

And, as the work continued on steadily, there was one thing that remained a constant in the lives of all those who had chosen to stay: Galbatorix. The newly crowned King of Alagaësia spent all his time in the growing city, and soon became a familiar presence among its streets. He chose to walk here and there as the mood took him, overseeing the building, talking to the workers, giving commands. From time to time he even helped with the work; using magic to lift heavy stones, offering advice and solving quandaries. He was rarely seen wearing the crown, and unlike most nobles he was not accompanied by guards. But, of course, everyone knew that he was perfectly capable of defending himself. He was quickly accepted by the people, who watched out for him with as much excitement as nervousness. Not that he was particularly friendly, or a soothing presence. His look now was unreadable, his eyes distant, his voice cold and steady – accustomed to command. Nobody ever saw him smile, or laugh. But in spite of that they viewed him with immense respect. King Galbatorix Taranisäii the first; their ruler and their friend.

And, as two years went by and the city slowly drew closer to completion, he took up residence in the half-completed castle, choosing a simple bedroom furnished with nothing but a desk, a chest and a hammock hanging from the ceiling. A plain room for a King, but the only one he would accept.

On the day that would have been his twenty-fifth birthday, he laid the foundation stone, using his magic to inscribe it with the triple-spiral, the date, and a single word. Few there could read it, and nobody knew what it meant.

'This city will be our home,' Galbatorix intoned to the crowd that had come to watch the ceremony. 'My home, and yours. And we will call it… Urû'baen.'

He attended the celebratory feast that night in a desultory fashion; eating little and saying less. Nobody commented on it. They were used to his silence by now.

Next day he decided to visit the craftsmen's' district, where workshops for blacksmiths, tailors, whitesmiths and other tradesmen were springing up. As he paused to watch a heavy beam being raised, he saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a man nervously trying to get his attention.

'Yes? What is it?'

The man bowed his head. 'Sire… my Lord.'

'Out with it,' said Galbatorix.

The man appeared to pull himself together. 'Sire, my name is Erik. I'm sorry to bother you, but I saw you yesterday, and I was thinking…'

'Yes?'

'Well, it's your boots, Sire,' said Erik. 'They looked pretty worn out to me, and I was wondering if perhaps you would like me to make you a new pair.'

Galbatorix looked at him with a touch of curiosity. 'You're a leather-worker?'

'Yes, Sire. I just set up a workshop not far from here.'

'May I see it?'

'Oh! Well, yes, Sire, of course, if you'll just follow me…' Erik hurried away.

Galbatorix followed him, the stone-coated soles of his old boots clinking on the cobbles. Erik led him to a small building and inside it, to a low-ceilinged room with a bench lining one wall.

'Here it is, Sire,' he said, showing him in through the door. 'It's not much,' he added apologetically, 'But it works well enough for me.'

Galbatorix stood in the middle of the room, breathing in the air. It smelled of leather and oil, and the instant it hit him he felt a hundred memories come rushing back. He walked toward the bench as if in a trance. It was covered in leather scraps, and a partly completed boot was held in a clamp. Rows of tools were lined up on the scarred wooden surface – awls, knives, needles and waxed cord… all of them so familiar.

Galbatorix examined them. 'You have some good tools here.'

'Thankyou, Sire,' said Erik. 'They were passed down to me by my dad. He taught me my craft, just as my grandfather taught him. Before I turned ten I could make a pair of sandals in a day.'

Galbatorix barely heard him. Without even thinking, he picked up an awl. It fitted into his hand perfectly, and his fingers moved to grip the handle just as they would grip the hilt of his sword – commanding it precisely and absolutely. He glanced at Erik. 'May I?'

'By all means, Sire,' said Erik.

Galbatorix picked up the thick leather sole that lay on the bench, and fitted it in place on the boot, marking points around its edge with a stick of charcoal. Once that was done he placed it back on the bench, picked up a hammer and selected a different awl, with a sturdy wooden handle. He pressed its point into the leather, and gave the handle a sharp tap with the hammer, punching a hole through it. Then he moved on, making holes around the edges of the sole until he had done. Then he placed it onto the boot again, and picked up a large needle and a spool of waxed thread. He threaded the needle, and then began to stitch.

He didn't know why he was doing it. He could see his hands moving as if of their own accord, expertly adjusting the sole to make sure it was on straight, pinching the edges together with each pull of the needle to keep the stitching even. He could see the boot slowly being completed before his eyes, taking shape like a castle being built. And it was so easy, so natural, as if he had done it a million times before. And he had. He knew he had.

From somewhere far away, he heard Erik's voice. 'My gods… Sire, how do you know how to do that?'

Galbatorix smiled to himself. 'Someone taught me a long time ago.'

His hands still knew what to do. They took the boot out of the vice and turned it over, checking the stitching and pulling on the tongue to make sure it was secure.

A sudden sense of absurdity and embarrassment came over him. What was he doing? He was a King, and he was here in a grubby workshop, playing with bits of leather.

But somehow he could not make himself stop. There was a second boot on the bench-top, this one only partly made, and he picked up a piece of spare leather and began to cut and shape it. He was a King, and he was making boots. But, then, wasn't that what he had always done?

From somewhere inside him, he could feel something stirring, some voice whispering to him, a voice he had thought was gone forever. And with it came a presence – small and weak, but friendly.

'…Arren?' he murmured aloud. 'Is that you?'