Chapter 30

The dreams didn't stop. Night after night, the dark-haired woman continued haunting Eragon's mind. Her jailed environment remained unchanged, but he got the sense her condition worsened.

If he hadn't shared the information with Brom, he might've believed her a figment of his imagination. But that wasn't the case; she was real. Though the old man never said it outright, Eragon could tell.

At the end of the next day, learning to read under Brom's tutelage, he had an idea. In Brom's tales about dragon riders, Eragon became aware of a certain spell, allowing the caster to scry distant objects… or people.

He requested the information from Brom under the pretense of checking on Garrow and Roran. He did want that, but his primary motivation was the captive woman—discovering her identity and location.

Brom agreed, extracted a promise from Eragon not to use the spell while tired. Impatient as he was, the young rider saw sense in the suggestion. Scholarly pursuits were foreign to him, and after near eight hours' study, his head felt like mush.

Eragon sighed, getting up from his bed. The sun hadn't set yet, and it was too early for dinner. Wanting to occupy his time, he decided to go for a stroll. If he was lucky, perhaps he'd stumble across his red-haired friend.

Making his way out of Jeod's manor while avoiding Helen – who'd not been amenable to their presence – he passed Angela's shop. Involuntarily, his feet stopped outside the door.

Having seen some of the city, its location was unusual. Most stores were in the lower districts, not crammed between expensive houses. He tried looking through the windows, but they were covered in crawling plants.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, he went inside.

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In a different part of Teirm, a certain red-haired boy stood inside an abandoned building, surveying the interior. Despite its outside appearance, it wasn't in a state of disrepair, though it was somewhat dirty.

As a base of operations, it'd do, for the time being.

"…what's your name?"

Looking over his shoulder, Cedric met his assistant's uncertain gaze. It was 'the Boy' from yesterday, either volunteering or selected to act the servant. He suspected the latter.

The unkempt fellow stood straight, though he didn't conceal the fright in his voice.

"They call me 'Boy', m-mister witch."

Cedric's lip twitched. He may be in a position of authority, but addressing someone older than himself - at least on the surface - as 'Boy' didn't seem right.

"I asked for your name."

For some reason, this insistence only added to 'the Boy's' fear. His body stiffening, he seemingly forced himself to remain in place instead of bolting like a startled rabbit.

"I… uh… uhm. Don't have one. I'm an orphan, y-you see…"

Cedric's expression wasn't amused. Given the context, it would've been a believable excuse if not for how it was delivered.

"Speak up, or I'll turn your intestines into flesh-eating snakes and have them devour you, inside out…"

Of course, he wasn't capable of something like that – not yet anyway – but pirates were a superstitious lot. He wouldn't be surprised if they-… ah, that was probably it, wasn't it?

"…you're concerned I'll use your name against you? Interesting, that you know that much. However, there's no need to fear. Those names are a special kind, not the ones we commonly call ourselves."

The Boy' didn't seem convinced, but after a period's hesitation, he spoke up. His new employer's threat was rather persuasive, after all.

"It's Suffisticuts, mister witch."

"…"

Cedric's eyebrows scrunched up. What kind of a name was that? For a moment, he wondered if 'Boy' wasn't a better form of address. Never mind, he'd just go with 'you' instead.

"…now that we're acquainted, I have an order for you. That man I arrived with yesterday—fetch him for me. Oh, and if anyone who tried to make a run for it, bring them too."

Suffisticuts blanched, the look on his face slightly nauseous. He remembered Chalk being responsible for leading this dea-… new client to their hideout. However, after returning, he hadn't said a word, nor did he respond to external stimuli.

He was where they'd left him, drooling with red, unblinking eyes.

And last night… well, one pirate hadn't wanted any part of it. He was a new addition to Silver's crew, not possessing the same loyalty as the rest. It was no surprise he seized an opportunity while they were distracted, vanishing into the streets.

Three of Silver's most trusted men volunteered to look for him, but their captain refused, saying it wasn't necessary.

They didn't need to wait long to find out what that meant. The man soon returned, shuffling like the living dead. His state was exactly like Chalk's—drooling, glassy-eyed and unresponsive.

Truthfully, the rest were waiting to see if anything'd happen to him. They were no more enthused about working with a witch – everyone besides Silver, and Suffisticuts, who practically worshipped their captain – but years of pirating had burned an animalistic caution into them. Needless to say, the mutiny ended before it even begun.

"…I'll bring them, mister witch."

Suffisticuts waited for a sign of dismissal before turning, heading toward what seemed like a storage closet. However, on the inside, a panel concealed a hole in the wall, leading to their hideout.

Cedric watched him leave, his expression blank. He'd come to the conclusion keeping the pirates mostly alive was the right idea. They were useful for running all sorts of errands—purchasing ingredients for experiments, earning money, serving as a maintenance and cleaning crew… Besides, having them locked up here all day would be annoying. Living things were troublesome to care for. Better to have them do it while making themselves useful.

Regardless, it was time for him to begin. He'd a laundry-list of theories he wanted to test.

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When Eragon exited the shop, he stood in the street, staring dumbly into the distance. He simply couldn't process what he'd learned. Speaking with a werecat, receiving cryptic advice, having his fortune told…

'Saphira!'

Steadying himself, he reached out toward their mental bond. He felt he'd go crazy if he didn't tell someone about the experience.

Their thoughts connected, and he sensed her curiosity and concern over his mental state. Getting his feet moving, he recounted his day – what he'd learned with Brom – and the truth about Angela.

Half-way down the street, he accidentally bumped into someone, absentminded as he was. Startled and apologetic, he looked up to see boy a few years his senior, mean-looking and with a scruffy beard.

"Look where yer goin', piss-drinker!"

From his appearance alone, Eragon suspected he wasn't the most reasonable individual. After quickly apologizing, the ne'er-do-well gave him a dirty look before tsking, resuming his journey toward Angela's shop.

However, before he got very far, he stopped suddenly, his hand going to his forehead.

"Damn, he said not this place. Almost fucked meself in the arse…!"

Eragon looked at him oddly before shaking his head.

'Did something happen?'

'No, it's nothing. As I was saying, Angela said she knew my mother! She'd predicted her future, and wanted to do mine. I agreed, but now that I think about it, it's strange. She doesn't look very old. When did she meet my mom…?'

He continued his retelling until the end. When he finished, there was a pregnant silence between him and Saphira as she considered his story.

'You're always getting yourself into trouble… but remember what the werecat told you. It's important.'

'How do you know?'

'…the names he used feel powerful. Kuthian—no, we shouldn't forget his advice.'

Eragon suddenly felt unsure, and somewhat vulnerable. He didn't like Saphira's grave attitude. It made him feel like he'd gotten involved in something far too big for the both of them.

'Should I tell Brom?'

'He has no right to your future. Telling him what you learned may raise questions you're unwilling to answer.'

Eragon chewed on Saphira's words.

'Maybe I won't say anything…'

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The days passed, and soon it'd been a week since their arrival in Teirm. Every day, grim news poured in from outside, arriving merchants telling of attacks along the coast. However, Cedric payed little attention to the goings-on. Locked up in his makeshift laboratory, his experiments consumed him. With access to the ancient language – and sporadic contact with Saphira – he'd tackled his greatest shortcoming: defense.

It'd been a long-time concern of his, how terrible his wild magic was at warding. His spells simply had no permanency or autonomy. If he created a ward, the spell's upkeep required constant mental effort.

Not much was said about warding in the novels. As such, he'd been rather worried about getting them to work. To his surprise, their implementation was extremely simple. He could speak his enchantment and it would take effect, existing in the background and drawing energy as needed.

If he said something along the lines of 'no weapon may touch my body', the ancient language would enforce the condition rigorously. Procuring some poisons from black-market sellers, even a broad-sweeping statement like 'no poisons may enter my body' seemed to work.

He knew the dangers of such black-and-white enchantments, but because of his lackluster knowledge, highly specific and conditionally-engineered statements were beyond him. If a weapon struck him with force enough to overconsume his mana, he would die on the spot.

However, he judged the risk to be worth it.

With extreme care, he layered wards, one over the other. They covered every possible attack he could think of, and by keeping meticulous track and revising regularly, he ensured their purpose didn't overlap.

During testing, he'd discovered wards to be capable of 'double dipping', activating simultaneously to prevent a single action. This exponentially increased mana consumption, and made him more anxious to get everything right.

In this aspect, his limited knowledge of the ancient language worked in his favor. The shorter his sentences were, the less room there was for error. Though it made intricate wards impossible, he made up for it by stacking simpler wards.

His greatest obstacle was dealing with other mages. There was simply no way to predict whatever creative solutions they might think up. Preventing spells from draining the liquid from his body, blocking his airways, stopping his heart from beating and other endless possibilities was simply impossible.

The best alternative was having wards prevent spellcasting in his presence, but it was extremely difficult to implement, if not outright impossible. For example, he couldn't simply say 'spells may not be used against me', or 'spells may not be uttered in my presence'.

Seemingly, there was some kind of self-referencing problem involved, using magic to prevent magic. It was difficult to explain, and didn't make a lot of sense to someone not in the know, but… while he could prevent the effects of magic, impeding the process itself or using wards to mess with mana just didn't work.

It seemed the novel covered the best option available to him at the moment—using his mind to sense hostile intent, then overcoming his opponent in a mental battle.

Though, a simple spell to prevent mages from speaking would also prove extremely useful, along with something to befuddle their senses. He was reminded of the 'intellect-draining' spells from his past life.

Wording something like that wouldn't be too difficult...

Hunched over a table, covered in encrypted writings and drawings, his thoughts were interrupted by a cough, sounding from behind him. Turning his head, Cedric spotted Silver, looming some distance away.

His smooth skin, paired with silver hair and piercing blue eyes, was rather disconcerting. On top of that, his composure and wits far outstripped his peers, making a uniquely threatening individual.

"Evening, master warlock. The items have been recovered, as per your instructions."

Speaking smoothly, he reached for his coat, withdrawing a small, metallic jewelry box.

Cedric nodded.

"Everything went well? Set it over there."

Silver did as he was told, opening the case to show off a collection of small, colorful gems. Even in the dim lighting, their quality was obvious.

"The haul was substantial. As requested, the best-cut gemstones were reserved for yourself. We've divided the rest of the loot."

It was according to their agreement—Cedric wasn't the type to let his servants go without pay, if only to honor his principles. No matter who, he believed in compensating an honest day's work'; or a dishonest one, in this case.

The mentioned ill-gotten gains were booty from a handful of robberies, targeting the wealthiest merchants and nobles in the city. To ensure everything went smoothly, and they'd only be fleecing the wealthy of their own ill-gotten gains, Cedric participated.

Extending his hand, a gem floated towards his palm. He curled his fingers around it, and after probing it with his mana, his lips curved into a smile. After today, his energy storage problems would be much alleviated.

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