A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 5

In the days that followed, Eragon discovered that having Saphira was nothing like keeping company with an ordinary creature. Each evening, when they returned to the cave with the spoils of their hunt, she would settle near the fire, wings folded neatly against her sides, and speak to him in that steady, resonant voice that seemed to fill the air without ever passing her lips.

Their conversations wandered across everything—how the world might look from the sky, whether men were always bound to fear what they didn’t understand, why some lives burned bright and short while others lingered on in quiet obscurity. Eragon had never considered himself simple, but whenever Saphira turned her thoughtful gaze on him, he felt like a child listening to a sage who had lived a hundred lifetimes.

With her help, the valley yielded far more than it ever could have offered him alone. They brought down another elk, then a massive black bear whose thick hide Eragon skinned carefully and stretched into the largest blanket he’d ever owned. When he wrapped himself in it at night, it felt like nothing could reach him—not the cold, nor the fear of being so far from home.

One afternoon, as he worked the edge of an arrowhead against a flat stone, he looked up at her where she lay watching him, eyes half-lidded.

“How is it,” he asked slowly, “that you know so much? You’ve only been alive as long as I’ve had you.”

Her pupils narrowed, and he felt her voice settle in his mind like warm water filling a vessel. “We are not born empty, Eragon. Each dragon carries the memories of those who came before. Not all memories—only what our mothers chose to pass down. I was given enough to guide you, if you will trust me.”

He set the stone aside, blinking at her. “So you remember…your ancestors? Like stories?”

“More than stories.” Her tail curled around her forelegs. “Impressions. Lessons. Glimpses of flight above mountains you have never seen. Of battles fought beside Riders long turned to dust.”

For a moment, he was too awed to speak. Then his curiosity overcame him. “Could you…teach me?”

“I already have,” she said, and her eyes gleamed like dawn on a river. “And there is more you must learn.”

So she began to teach him the ancient language—words of power that felt heavy in his mouth, syllables that seemed to ripple through the air the moment he spoke them aloud. Each phrase carried meaning layered upon meaning, and though he stumbled often, he felt a fierce joy unlike anything he’d ever known.

Learning magic, he thought as he traced a rune into the snow, was something every child in Palancar Valley had dreamed of. But now it was real, and it was his.


Before Eragon’s eyes, Saphira seemed to grow by the day, her sleek body swelling into something powerful and unmistakably formidable. Soon she was taller at the shoulder than any horse he’d ever seen, her wings spreading wide enough to shade half the valley floor. One evening, after they had shared a meal of fresh-caught hare and she had finished grooming the last of the blood from her talons, she turned her sapphire gaze on him.

“It is time you learned to ride,” she said simply.

The words sent a thrill racing down his spine. He nodded, swallowing the sudden dryness in his throat.

They spent the next day working together. From the hides he had cleaned and cured, Eragon fashioned a simple saddle—little more than a sturdy pad reinforced with leather straps he could grip when the air grew turbulent. It wasn’t the fine work of a tanner’s shop, but it would do. When at last he cinched the last knot and stepped back, Saphira lowered herself so he could climb up.

His heart hammered as he swung a leg over her massive back and settled into place. He could feel the heat radiating through her scales, the rise and fall of her breathing. When she moved, her muscles shifted under him like rolling earth.

“Hold on,” she advised.

He barely had time to brace himself before she leapt forward, wings snapping open with a crack that echoed off the valley walls. The ground fell away so fast it made his stomach lurch, and then they were climbing into the sky.

Eragon gripped the saddle straps, squinting into the wind as Saphira swept in broad circles over the snow-dappled trees. He could feel her mind brushing against his—steady, reassuring—and when he let himself lean into that contact, he saw through her eyes: the vast patchwork of ridges and valleys spread below them, each detail sharper than any sight his own eyes could manage.

They didn’t venture far. Neither of them knew what lands lay beyond the high peaks. But even so, Eragon felt something he had never tasted before—freedom so vast it made his chest ache.

When they circled back, preparing to land near their cave, something caught his eye—a dark shape moving on the white plain below. Squinting, he saw a man, bent and slow, hemmed in on all sides by a restless pack of wolves.

“There!” he called aloud, though Saphira had already seen. She folded her wings and dropped like a stone.

The wolves scattered, ears flattening, as her massive bulk struck the earth in a spray of snow. She reared back her head and let out a roar so deep it vibrated through Eragon’s bones. The pack broke at once, fleeing into the trees without a backward glance.

For a long moment, the old man did not move. He stood frozen, clutching a knotted staff, his eyes wide as dinner plates. His gaze flicked from Saphira’s enormous form to Eragon, still seated astride her neck, breathless and flushed from the flight.

Eragon felt a sudden, awkward awareness that to this stranger, he must look like something out of Brom’s oldest stories—not a farm boy lost in the wild, but a legend brought to life.


It took no small amount of coaxing to convince the old man to come closer, let alone to climb onto Saphira’s back. Eragon slipped down first, hands spread in what he hoped looked reassuring rather than ridiculous.

“She won’t hurt you,” he promised, stepping carefully through the trampled snow. “She’s…she’s with me.”

The old man—Aldric, as he finally offered in a hoarse, wary voice—looked at Saphira as though expecting her to lunge at any moment. His knuckles were white on the haft of his walking staff, and when Saphira lowered her head to study him, he actually flinched.

“She’s not a monster,” Eragon insisted again. “She saved your life.”

Aldric’s gaze darted to the treeline, where the wolves had vanished. He swallowed, working his jaw, then fixed Eragon with a look that was equal parts fear and wonder. “If you say so, boy. I never thought to meet one up close and see the dawn after.”

In the end, it was necessity that convinced him. The man was trembling from cold and exhaustion, and the thought of trying to walk out of the valley alone clearly weighed on him. With great reluctance, he let Eragon help him into the makeshift saddle.

The flight back was short, but Eragon felt every tense shudder as Aldric clung to the straps. When they landed, he slid off first, extending a hand to steady the old hermit as he climbed down.

Inside the cave, Eragon set about rekindling the fire while Saphira curled herself near the back, folding her wings neatly and watching them both with calm interest. He offered Aldric a strip of roasted rabbit, which the old man accepted with a muttered thanks.

Only when he’d eaten enough to stop shivering did Aldric finally lift his eyes to Saphira again. He studied her long, silent moments, and when she inclined her head, he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

“She understands us,” he said softly. “I can see it in her eyes. Like she’s measuring every word.”

“She does,” Eragon told him. “She…speaks to me. In here.” He tapped his temple.

Aldric’s brows climbed. “That’s…not how the stories go. Not here. Not in Tamriel.”

“Tamriel?” Eragon repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name.

The old man nodded. “That’s what this land is called. Tamriel—though there are many holds and kingdoms within it. Skyrim is where you’ve landed, by my reckoning.” He sighed, leaning back against the cave wall. “Here, dragons are feared. Hunted. In ages past, they ravaged cities and devoured armies. They were never thought to be…like her.” His gaze shifted to Saphira, and for the first time, there was no fear there. Only wonder. “Intelligent, yes, but not gentle. Not protectors. They say even the kindest of them could never be trusted.”

Eragon looked over at Saphira, who watched Aldric with quiet, unblinking patience.

“Well,” he said softly, “perhaps it’s time someone proved them wrong.”


Aldric ended up staying far longer than either of them had expected. What began as a single night’s shelter stretched into ten days, then weeks, as the old hermit recovered his strength and came to understand that neither Eragon nor Saphira meant him harm.

During those first days, Eragon pressed him for every scrap of knowledge he could share. At night, while the wind rattled the stones outside, they sat near the fire as Aldric spoke of Tamriel—the vast empire of races Eragon had never heard of. He told tales of the beast-folk called Khajiit, who walked like men but had the faces of cats, and of the Nords, tall and fierce, with voices that could shake the earth when they raised them in battle songs. He explained the shifting politics of Skyrim’s holds, and how the Jarls ruled their cities while old grudges simmered between them.

Saphira, ever curious, urged Eragon to ask deeper questions: about the magic of this world, its rituals and taboos, what spells were known and who could wield them. Aldric spoke of the College of Winterhold, where mages studied the arcane arts, and of the Thu’um, the ancient Voice that some Nords claimed could call down storms or break mountains.

When they weren’t talking, Aldric proved himself no idle traveler. One afternoon, after watching Eragon struggle to shape a long branch into something like a practice staff, he shook his head with a wry smile.

“If you plan to survive in Skyrim,” he said, “you’d best learn how to fight properly.”

So he began teaching Eragon the basics of swordplay. Each morning, they rose before dawn to spar in the clearing near the cave, Saphira watching with quiet amusement as Eragon learned to plant his feet, to judge distance, to move in a rhythm that turned defense into attack. At first, every strike left his hands stinging and his pride smarting, but soon he could meet the old man’s blade without flinching.

Days bled into months. Saphira grew even larger, her wings broad enough now to cast shadows like passing storm clouds. She had begun hunting on her own more often, sometimes disappearing for a day or more before returning with fresh kills or tales of the peaks she had flown over.

At last, as the thaw began to loosen winter’s grip on the valley, Aldric gathered his things. He strapped his pack across his thin shoulders and paused near Saphira, laying a weathered hand against the gleaming scales of her flank.

“You’ve grown fast,” he murmured, awe still plain in his voice. Then he lifted his gaze to meet her blue eyes. “But be careful, great one. There are Nord settlements east of here. If they see you, they’ll not wait to wonder if you’re different from the others. They’ll bring every hunter they can find.”

Saphira dipped her head gravely. “I will stay out of sight,” she promised, her voice resonant even in the hush of morning.

Eragon felt a tightness in his chest as he stepped forward. “I… I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

Aldric only smiled and reached to his belt, unbuckling the scabbard there. He held it out, the hilt gleaming in the pale light. “Take this. An old man has no more use for it. But you—you’ll have need of a good sword before your journey’s done.”

Eragon accepted it with both hands, feeling the weight settle into his palms. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised, voice rough.

“I know you will.”

With nothing more to say, Aldric turned and began the long walk out of the valley—not toward the settlements, but into the western hills where no trails marked the snow. As Eragon and Saphira stood side by side, watching his figure grow small, he felt a mixture of sorrow and gratitude too tangled to name.

At last, with the old man gone from sight, Saphira rumbled low in her chest. “He was a good teacher,” she said softly.

“He was,” Eragon agreed, tightening his grip on the sword hilt. “And I think we’re going to need everything he taught us.”