Chapter 18

During the three-month period since Eragon discovering the egg and the Ra'zac's departure, winter turned to spring. However, though the snow was melting, the air still carried a biting chill. Cutting winds, like paper-thin blades of ice, blew in dark clouds from the north, and with them, downfalls that were more sleet than rain.

It wasn't travelling weather, to say the least.

Yet, Brom wouldn't be delayed. The situation was urgent, for many different reasons. As it was, he and Eragon were on horseback, more than a dozen miles from Carvahall. Above their heads, a large, dark shape flitted between the clouds—Saphira, taking care to keep herself hidden.

Of course, Cedric wasn't absent.

Still unconscious, he was on the back of Brom's horse, tied to his seat and around the old man's torso. It made for a ridiculous sight, but he was adamant—it was too dangerous to leave the young wizard behind. If there was one thing Brom had learned during their co-habitation days, it was his apprentice not knowing the meaning of the word 'restraint'.

Cedric's suspicions were correct—in truth, Brom didn't have a clue what to do with him. His talent for wild magic was unlike anything the old rider had ever seen, even among elves. Whenever he witnessed one of his apprentice's 'miracles', it took an extreme amount of willpower to maintain a calm attitude.

Thirteen years old and without even knowing the ancient language, Cedric's abilities already eclipsed those of trained mages twice his age. It was inconceivable. So great was Brom's shock that he almost felt as if the earth were shifting under his feet, forcing him to reconsider what he knew about magic.

Of course, he knew wild magic existed, that it was possible to perform magic without speaking, and without using the ancient language, but… in all his years, he'd seen few such feats. There were the stories of the Grey Folk, but they were just stories, events thousands of years in the past. Who could tell truth from falsehood when it came to ancient history, and with so pitifully little evidence remaining?

However, what he did know was this: wild magic wasn't this precise, this controllable. The manner in which Cedric's spells obeyed him, summoning fire, wind, earth or water with a mere snap of his fingers—it went against everything Brom knew about the discipline.

The old rider secretly wished one of his apprentice's spells would blow up in his face. Not enough to injure him badly, and not out of malice, but as a means for him to learn a little caution and humility. If something like that did happen, perhaps he'd be able to convince Cedric to give up such reckless pursuits, to study the ancient language properly and diligently.

As things stood, Brom felt it would be problematic to just… give Cedric the knowledge he wanted. He was a fervent believer in power needing to have a price. If he was going to teach his apprentice the ancient language, then the boy needed to give up something.

For better or worse, what Brom waited for never happened. Almost without exception, Cedric's spells went like clockwork. Aside from prodigal talent, the old rider had no other explanation. If his words were to be believed, Cedric had awakened his powers when he was only five years old. Since then, he'd been using magic for eight, going on nine, years. Not only did that testify his abilities, but his intelligence. If he were a simpleton, no matter how talented, his life would've long since come to an end.

Brom unconsciously clenched his fists, holding the reins. It was too much talent, too much power for a boy Cedric's age. Which is why the old man always kept his attitude in check. Treating his apprentice like the genius he was would only make matters worse.

He chuckled tiredly to himself. It was ironic—the whole reason for this journey was Eragon's training. Pressured by circumstances, Brom was accelerating it beyond the norm for a rider. Yet, when it came to his red-haired apprentice, he was doing everything he could to slow him down.

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Cedric woke up in coldness and darkness. His whole body hurt, like he'd been trampled by a stampede of horses, and his tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. Confused and disoriented, he tried sitting up.

Putting his hands under him, he felt a thin blanket covering hard ground.

'Fuck, not this again. Fitch is going to kill me.'

The first thing that came to mind was an experiment gone wrong—it'd happened a few times, waking up in the forest after something blew up in his face. Needless to say, every time he stumbled into the cottage hours after dark, gramps wasn't shy about giving him a hiding he wouldn't forget.

'Damn that old-…'

Before the thought could finish, his brain started catching up, like a computer rebooting. Images and sounds flashed as memories of the past few months came rushing in, leaving Cedric kneeling on the dirt, staring into a small campfire.

"…Ah, fuck, my gods damned DMT!"

His hands immediately went to his face, fingers digging into his brow-ridge. That stupid, stupid bastard! Years upon years of samples were stored around the farmstead, belonging to over a dozen different experiments! It was no exaggeration to say his entire life's work was on that blasted farm!

A violent rage swelled in Cedric's chest, one that burned so intensely, so hot that when he came out the other side, he'd gone past anger into a calmness.

Taking a deep breath, his hands travelled upwards, pushing his messy, red curls out of his face. He spotted Eragon sitting opposite from him, looking a little confused, embarrassed, and perhaps a little fearful. His mouth was half-open, like he wanted to say something, but didn't know what.

"Where is he?"

Cedric's tone was deadly.

Eragon eyed him carefully, like watching a mountain lion, getting ready to pounce.

"Brom? He's out hunting."

"…I see."

The young mage rolled his jaw, forcefully shoving down the dregs of rage. He'd get Brom for this. However, now wasn't the time, nor would he lose control again.

Even now, that same sickly-sweet taste seemed to surge back up as he recalled his unhinged rant at the breakfast table. It wasn't entirely his fault, but that didn't make it any less of a fucking embarrassment.

"And the dragon?"

A frown formed on Eragon's face, his caution replaced by dissatisfaction.

"Saphira."

"What? Yes, who else could I be referring to?"

"You never call her by name. It's always 'dragon' or 'lizard', like you're talking about some kind of animal. She's no less of a person than Brom, you or I."

Cedric felt his irritation returning full force. Utilizing a generous amount of willpower, he was able to stop himself from snapping at Eragon.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. We've barely spoken, so I'm not familiar with her."

Eragon gave him a long look before evidently dropping the issue. However, he didn't seem entirely satisfied with Cedric's excuse.

"She's nearby. I'd have preferred us all travelling together, but Brom wouldn't have it."

"…I'd rather have preferred the opposite."

Shuffling closer to the fire, Cedric looked around for anything that might resemble luggage, but came up empty. 

"Good, you're awake."

Suddenly, a rustling noise sounded from behind him, followed by a raspy voice. The two boys turned their heads, watching as Brom emerged from the foliage, a dark, bristled boar slung over one shoulder.

He unceremoniously dumped it near the fire.

"Since you're up, you might as well help butcher the pig."

Cedric's amber eyes narrowed, staring into Brom's grey ones. Usually, he'd maintain a telepathic field, allowing him to sense all living things within a certain distance. However, after being knocked out and waking again, he'd forgotten to reactivate it.

"You have some fucking nerve, standing there so nonchalantly! I'm of half a mind to blow you out of your fucking boots!"

Brom scoffed, not giving the threat even a hint of consideration.

"Boy, stop blabbering and get to work. Or are you planning to have Eragon do it himself?"

Turning his back to Cedric, he walked over to a nearby tree, taking a pack from where it hung, strung from a branch. He started rummaging around, looking for something. The air was as tense as a taut wire, Cedric's gaze burning holes in the back of Brom's head.

Eragon sat and watched quietly, but his tendons were drawn, ready to jump and intervene.

Suddenly, Cedric snapped his fingers, a high-pitched whistling sounding, conjuring invisible blades of air. Brom's neck and shoulders tensed, whirling around, his expression one of grim determination.

However, if the spell was an attack, it wasn't directed at him, but the dead boar. In an instant, the carcass was divided into segments, the stomach rending open as guts and organs spilled onto the sparse grass.

"There, I've done my part. Now, I'm going to need a change of clothes, soap, toiletries, a brush… It's been more than a day since I've last bathed, and my clothes stink of horse-sweat."

He stared at Brom, which the old timer returned with equal intensity. Eventually, the latter scoffed, plucking a second pack from the tree's shadowed branches, tossing it at Cedric.

"There's a stream nearby. Return within the hour."

The 'or else' part was left unsaid, but evident in Brom's gaze.

Cedric caught the knapsack, draping it over one shoulder before making himself scarce. With his mental field up-and-running, he'd find the river without much trouble. Though the water was icy this time of year, warming it wouldn't be much trouble—there was plenty of dry wood to start a fire, which could be used for heating stones.

Besides, he needed some time alone to clear his head.

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