Chapter 28

They weren't able to find Cedric.

It was only hours after dark that Brom relented, not giving up, but being forced to admit the search was useless. The young mage didn't want to be found—that much was obvious.

With no recourse, they looked for an inn to stay overnight, but Jeod refused. He'd more than enough room, and his wife wouldn't make an issue of having a few guests over. At least, he hoped.

Brom and Eragon happily took advantage of his hospitality. After a light dinner, they went to their respective rooms, tired after a long day.

Currently, Eragon reclined on an impossibly soft bed, barely keeping his eyes open. However, he couldn't sleep yet. Reaching out with his mind, he traced that familiar bond, faint from distance.

'Saphira?'

She was already there, waiting for his contact.

'Eragon! I've waited all day, concerned for your safety. Yet you only reach out when night's fallen. If you took longer, I might have assumed the worst-…'

Saphira's scolding went on for a minute or more.

Feeling apologetic and chastised, Eragon let her vent. It wasn't purely his fault though, he'd been kept busy.

'…-don't just sit there silently! Tell me what transpired today.'

Wearing an exasperated smile, he did just that, from the meeting with Jeod to Cedric's disappearance.

'Is Brom's friend trustworthy?'

'I don't know… There are forces circling us we aren't aware of, aside from the Varden. I gathered as much, listening in on Brom and Jeod's conversation. Dwarves, elves, I-… I don't even know."

There was a period of silence, his uneasiness seeping through their bond. Involuntarily, Cedric's face came to mind.

'Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever understand the real motives of people around me. Everyone… seems to have secrets.'

Saphira pushed her own reassurance onto him.

'It is the way of the world. Ignore their schemes and trust the nature of each person. I believe both our companions are good. They mean us no harm. We don't have to fear their plans.'

Eragon was first surprised, then looked down at his hands, thoughtful. That Saphira would vouch for Brom was unsurprising, but Cedric…? As far as he knew, they didn't get along. Had something changed?

'I have been communicating with red-hair. He is not what I expected, and his portrayal of himself is… misleading.'

The young rider didn't know how to feel. If she'd been talking with Cedric, why hadn't she told him?

Saphira's response was amusement.

'Am I not telling you? Besides, were you not the one who suggested it?'

Thinking back, Eragon remembered their argument about Cedric, shortly after starting the journey. He felt briefly embarrassed, realizing he'd indeed said something like that. Well, if they got along better, that was good, wasn't it?

'…yes, I suppose.'

Their conversation lulled briefly as Eragon felt tiredness creeping up.

'We might have to stay a while. It seems Brom has something to do, though I'm not sure what. Something about a traitor…?'

Saphira wasn't very happy about that.

'And as always, I will have to remain outside like a common animal.'

'I don't want it either. We'll travel together soon…'

A few minutes later, they bid each other good night before Eragon finally drifted off to sleep.

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With nightfall, the city's activity diminished. Here and there, a few stray pedestrians wandered, returning from a night at the local tavern.

The odd watchmen could be seen, keeping the peace with a cudgel and a lantern. And as time passed, distant criers would announce the hour, that the weather was dry and all was well—necessary services for keeping public order.

In a secluded back-street, wedged between a tall storefront and packed tenement building, a figure wandered alone. Their stature indicated youth, though a cowl and half-cloak kept them hidden.

Now and then, the odd torch's light, ensconced near a window or doorway, would flit across their face, revealing strands of red hair and a pale complexion.

What Cedric told Eragon wasn't exactly a lie—he was looking for something to eat. However, it wasn't conventional food. And, well, if he also had a few other errands to run, then so what?

For too long, he'd been stuck in Carvahall, unable to take the next step. When it came to certain experiments, he needed the right materials. To be frank, he couldn't know how his spells would affect humans without testing them on humans.

When he intended harm, this wasn't a big deal. If there were side-effects, in all likelihood, they'd still do damage, but in a different way. However, when attempting more delicate work like biomancy or animancy the consequences would be disastrous.

Certainly, he was unwilling to use it on himself without thorough prior testing. As things stood, he'd compiled a list of minor ideas to try. Without proper setup, major projects just weren't possible.

The first among these was using life-drain on a human, just for the sake of practice. For that reason, Cedric purposefully headed toward one of the seedier parts of Teirm. He wasn't without conscience, being unwilling to subject normal, law-abiding citizens to the experience.

However, he'd been wandering for hours, yet couldn't find a fitting target. That being said, determining what 'fitting' meant was already hard.

He could do a psychic scan of the surrounding minds, identifying malicious intent, but was that enough? Cedric himself was hardly a paragon, and no stranger to questionable thoughts. Perhaps it was a bit hypocritical of him, trying to justify his behavior this way…

In any case, whether he was right or wrong seemingly didn't matter. He continued wandering around, alone and vulnerable to any passing ne'er-do-well. Yet, Teirm's unsavory elements didn't manifest, at least not in the way Cedric wanted. Aside from a few dodgy looks, he went entirely unaccosted.

It was well past midnight when he got a decent bite, in the form of a heavyset balding man, stinking of drink and sweat.

"Oi! What's ye price, girlie? A dozen coppers fer one night!"

Cedric turned his head, looking his victim up and down. A brief scan of the fat bastard's consciousness revealed a load of unpleasant thoughts. Not soliciting a minor for prostitution—Cedric wasn't overly bothered by that happening, as long as the minor in question could refuse.

However, the man wasn't planning on taking no for an answer. His twelve coppers compensation was also a lie, though a comparatively insignificant sin.

Still, if for no reason than to soothe his conscience, Cedric provided an out.

"I'm no girl, and I'm not interested."

The drunkard's expression shifted, but his eagerness didn't lessen by much. He drew a little closer, near enough to smell his foul breath.

Cedric found himself wondering if this situation wasn't too much of a cliché, but he supposed people in this day and age didn't have much in the way of entertainment. Besides, drinking till you dropped was common enough where he came from, and back-streets no safer past midnight.

"…ah, I do beg yer pardon. A strappin' young fella, then…"

There was a period of tense silence, the pervert's hazy mind all but grinding to a halt. He was trying to think of a way to get what he wanted, yet his addled – and admittedly limited – wits weren't quite managing it.

Almost out of pity for his stupidity, but mostly out of a desire to get this over with, Cedric spoke up.

"I haven't visited this part of town before, and I seem to have gotten lost. I don't suppose you'd help me find my way back?"

The words barely left his mouth before the drunkard nodded, a grin on his face. He didn't even doubt Cedric's story, like asking how he'd ended up here. A solid excuse was prepared, but it now seemed a waste of brainpower.

"O 'course, hehe-… It 'aint a strange thing fer a youngin' like yerself ta be unfamiliar…"

He started touting his expertise as a navigator, promising to guide Cedric safely and soundly back to where he came from—all while eyeing him like a hawk, ensuring he wouldn't suddenly slip away.

Not that he needed to worry. Though Cedric didn't enjoy the prospective rapist's company, he wasn't about to let his first decent opportunity pass him by.

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About twenty minutes into their 'journey', the man's intentions became abundantly clear. They weren't heading out of the slums, but deeper into them. Thinking that staying quiet might seem too suspicious, Cedric spoke up.

"Are you sure this is the right way…? I don't remember this place at all!"

Without warning, the man whirled around, his brutish hands reaching for Cedric's neck.

"Stay quiet, an' don't make a fuss! If yer a good lad, ye'll keep that pretty lil' head on yer shoulders. Otherwise-…!"

Perhaps, if he was less foul, the boy would've kept up the act. However, the idea of those stubby, filthy fingers touching his body, even over his clothes, was unbearable.

"Letta."

A single word from Cedric stopped him in his tracks, unable to speak, twitch or breathe. The man's heart slowed its beating as if grabbed by an invisible hand, squeezing tightly.

His mouth was half-open, his eyes dilating from shock and suffocation. Without an opportunity to catch a breath, it was mere seconds before his face turned red, veins bulging under his grimy skin.

Since Brom started Eragon's secret training, Cedric's knowledge of the ancient language grew proportionately. Needless to say, he wasn't regretting his agreement with Saphira, to exchange magical knowledge.

With effort, he'd also delved into old memories, dredging up a few half-forgotten words from the books. It was almost annoying, how easy the ancient language made things.

The best way he could describe it was, well… it was like comparing coloring-in, done by a child, to painting from scratch. In the latter example, the artist needed to be good at both sketching and painting. In the former, no drawing skills were required.

Of course, the ancient language's boundaries were just as capable of hindering the practitioner when it came to creative work. However, it was extremely good at simple or precise tasks.

As for Cedric's spell, 'letta' simply meant stop. It was a word with many uses, certainly not limited to, well, just making things stop.

'You will not touch me. You will not speak one word to me. You will lead me to your den and nothing else. Go against my commands, and I boil you alive, inside out.'

Not wanting to make a scene, Cedric projected his thoughts into his victim's mind. He could've directly taken control of the bastard's body if he wanted, but his head was foul, like a layer of scum on top of water. Cedric preferred to interact with it as little as possible.

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A short time later, the door of a dingy basement swung open, letting in fresh air from outside. It didn't belong to a house, but a type of industrial building, smelling of blood. Perhaps some type of meat processing plant? Who knew.

Strangely, a few lights already burned inside—a fire hazard, by all accounts. That is to say, if they were left unattended, which they weren't. No, a din of low voices sounded from the bottom of a narrow flight of rickety stairs, counting perhaps a dozen people.

A series of thumping, heavyset footsteps followed, unsteadily making their way down to the room. It was ten seconds later that the same fat man reached the bottom, his wide, unblinking eyes taking in the surroundings.

In the basement, figures sat, stood or hunched over rough, wooden furniture—tables and chairs, as well as a poorly-made countertop near the opposite end. The ceiling was low and cramped, with a bluish haze of smoke clinging to it. The smell of leather and sweat was thick and unpleasant due to poor circulation and the humid weather.

"Damn yer thick head Chalk, I told ye ta be back 'fore second bell! What took ye-…?"

The voice actually belonged to a dark-haired woman behind the bar. She was far from attractive, and it was nearly impossible to tell her age, appearing anywhere from thirty to fifty.

However, before she could finish, a shorter figure suddenly appeared from behind 'Chalk'. It was none other than Cedric, seeming extremely out-of-place and dangerously vulnerable—standing in what could only be the den of a group of brigands.

"How very interesting. I don't know whether to praise you or curse you, 'Chalk'. Did you guess what I wanted, or were you hoping your friends would do me in…?"

The drunkard didn't respond aside from shivering slightly. A line of translucent drool seeped from one corner of his mouth, though it was tightly shut.

With a handkerchief covering his face, Cedric's glowing eyes flitted from one figure to the next. Outwardly, he seemed calm, but inwardly he was practically screaming with joy. His luck was unbelievable.

A potter couldn't ask for finer clay!

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