Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle and all characters within it belong to Christopher Paolini.

Chapter 1: Nameless

Something burned. Something close to him. He could smell the smoke as the breeze blew it into his face. Despite his efforts, his eyes wouldn't open, almost as though his lids had melded together. The heat started to grow unbearable. He struggled, fighting for the will to move. Dry grass poked at his check and stomach. He lay on his side, curled in a ball, and his body itched all over, from his toes to his head.

Eventually, the paralysis gave way, and he succeeded in bringing one of his hands to his face. His movements were still slow, sluggish. He felt as though he had slept for an eternity. Rubbing his eyes, he managed to crack one open.

A line of fire burned and crackled before him. Smoke billowed up, obscuring what would otherwise have been a clear blue sky. Overhead, a large red bird circled. He tried to call out to it, but ended up in a body-wracking coughing fit. The bird flew northward, disappearing from sight long before he was done. Something in him broke. He tried calling out again, to make it come back. He needed it, but it was already gone, and dread settled in his stomach once he realized he was alone.

The flames slowly inched closer and closer. He scooted away, but his body didn't seem to want to listen to him for long. It quit on him after only a few feet and he collapsed back into the dry grass. After prying his other eye open, a quick glance told him that he was surrounded by fire. There was no way out. He knew something, some word, a phrase he could speak that would save him. It danced on the tip of his tongue, but whatever it was stayed just out of reach.

A river ran somewhere behind the flames. He could hear the water coursing. Upstream, distant thatched roofs were barely visible through the smoke. He curled tighter into a ball and tried to think, to remember something, but like the words, everything seemed to disappear the moment he reached for them. And the fire was still coming closer.

People shouted in the distance. Their feet pounded against the ground as they hurried to the scene. He knew if he concentrated, he could make out what they were saying, but he was just so tired. He could hear the people running back and forth from the fire to the river.

"There's someone here!" a man shouted after dumping a bucket.

He wound his arms around his legs and screwed his eyes shut. He did not want these commoners, these lowlife peasants, to see him like this. His fingers clutched at his bare legs. Wherever he was—whoever he was—he had no clothes, and that just added to the alarm.

The scorching heat gradually faded the more water the people threw at the fire. The ground became moist, cold even. Hands grasped at him, turning him over to face whoever had reached him first. "Can you hear me?" The man's voice was head splitting. He tried to move away, but the hands kept him still.

Eventually, after having the man's migraine-inducing question pounded into him three more times, he snapped, "Yes!" More accurately, he groaned out his answer, but he tried to make it sound as disdainful as possible. In a way, he was impressed that someone so far beneath him had the gall to touch him at all.

"What's your name?"

"Mor…" What was his name? People were still bustling around him and dousing the remaining fires. "Mor…" He could feel numerous sets of eyes boring into him. "Mor…"

He felt the man holding him leaned in closer. "Morgan? Is it Morgan? My name's Trevor."

He shook his head. That sounded wrong. It was so wrong it would have been laughable had he been able to remember what his name actually was. He forced his eyes open again to get a better look at the man. Trevor looked to be about forty. Bags hung under his dark eyes like bruises. Despite his worn appearance, his grip was strong, and his arms thick.

"What happened?" Another man asked. "Who is he?" The people around them burst into a cacophony of shouts.

"Silence!" At Trevor's command, they quieted. "His name is Morgan, that much he said." There was more after that. More shouting. More accusations. He—Morgan, for lack of something better—squeezed his eyes shut again. He was vaguely aware of something warm and soft being wrapped around him before being hefted into the air.

Next he awoke, it was to a small, dark room. Other than the cot he lay on, a dusty mirror, and a small dresser, the cramped enclosure held nothing worthy of note. The window was shut, but small cracks of light still managed to stream inside. Morgan—the name still sounded odd to him—slowly propped himself up on his elbows. He was alone, it seemed.

Donning the worn tunic and a pair of pants that had been left at the end of the bed for him, he grunted in distaste. He might not know who he was, but he knew that such garments were beneath his station. His body still ached all over, and he had a few minor bruises. The missing tip of his left index finger concerned him the most. The skin had long since healed over into an ugly scar. There was also an incredibly odd silver mark on the palm of his right hand.

Trevor, if he recalled the name correctly, sat at a table in the next room over. He grunted as Morgan entered. "Finally awake, I see."

"Where am I?"

Trevor gave a glare. "I think if anyone has a right to ask questions, it would be me and the rest of the townspeople who were almost killed in that fire. It could have burned the whole village down! But to answer your question, this is Daret."

Morgan cautiously moved up to the table and sat down across from the man. Regardless of his unease, he kept his head high and refused to let his alarm show. "I've never heard of it." Despite not liking Trevor in the slightest, he needed him for answers, and that grated on his nerves to no end.

"Look, Morgan—"

"That's not my name."

"Then what is?"

He gave a shrug. This was probably the most aggravating part of the whole experience. He knew he shouldn't be here, but he didn't know why. Whatever had happened gave him an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was something he should be doing right now, but he couldn't remember what.

"That's what I was afraid of, Morgan." Trevor gave him a hefty stare. "The villagers are demanding answers. I don't know what happened out there, but I can recognize magic when I see it, and nothing about you is normal." Morgan met his gaze, refusing to give in while the man continued. "You don't even look human. I daresay you're an elf, but that couldn't possibly be right."

"An elf?" Morgan stood abruptly and practically ran back to the room he woke in, Trevor at his heels.

He found his reflection in the mirror. His shoulders were broad, his eyes two different colors, and his skin smooth. He was handsome, to say the least, and young, barely into his late teens. But his ears had sharpened to points, and his eyebrows slanted unnaturally. He didn't look completely human, though he wasn't quite an elf, either.

"Something's altered me," he said slowly. The answer to how this happened seemed obvious, but like everything else, it was beyond his reach. In a way, he felt as though his appearance was normal. "How did you find me?"

"We heard a loud explosion," Trevor said. "Next thing we knew, there was a huge fire with you right at the center. And a terrible roar. I've never heard anything like it since… well, for many years now. I would very much like an explanation to what happened. So would most people here. These are dangerous times, and you're possibly the biggest threat we've faced in a while."

Morgan let all that sink in. "I don't know what happened. I can't remember anything. Morgan's not my name, but I don't even know what I'm supposed to be called."

"I figured you didn't remember when you couldn't even tell me your name."

Morgan turned away from his reflection to look at him.

Trevor continued, "You scare us. What with all the Urgal attacks, we can't afford any more losses. Then you showed up. The people want you gone. To where, I don't know. It's your decision. I convinced them to let you stay long enough to recover, but I think it would be best if you leave quickly."

Morgan sat down on the bed as he listened to the older man. He frowned, annoyed that this man would speak to him in such a fashion. He chewed on his bottom lip and thought carefully about what he was going to say. "As much as I'm loath to admit it, I am in your debt, but I have nowhere to go. I ask that I be allowed to stay long enough to remember who I am. Without those memories, I fear I would be wandering aimlessly."

Trevor shifted uneasily, and Morgan thought that the man knew something he wasn't letting on. "I'll need to talk it over with the townspeople," he said finally.

"I promise I won't be a burden," Morgan added quickly, grasping at his small victory. At this point, he figured he was just about ready to say anything, short of begging on his knees. "I can pull my own weight."

Trevor gave a noncommittal grunt before shuffling out of the room. Throughout the day, Trevor left and returned to the house numerous times, occasionally bringing some of the townsfolk to speak to Morgan. Upon each return, Trevor asked Morgan questions about his past. There were none he could answer, and that made the situation all the more unsettling. Everyone treated him with wariness, and Morgan feared that they didn't believe him when he said he could remember nothing.

Morgan spent most the day inside his designated room, ear pressed against the door to listen to Trevor and some of the other men. Trevor would probably come fetch him soon for more questioning, but in the meantime, Morgan had nothing else to do besides eavesdrop or contemplate how wrong his given name sounded and try to think of better names that fit him. He had none so far.

"He can't stay here," a man Morgan recognized as Aled said. "We know nothing about him."

"But he has nowhere else to go," Dal replied. Morgan had met the two of them earlier that day. Between them, Aled was the most adamant in his distrust of Morgan and had absolutely refused to believe anything he said.

"There's certainly something strange about him," said another, whose name Morgan had already forgotten. "Did you see his ears?"

"There's definitely something magical going on here," Trevor added. "That fire came out of nowhere. I'd bet anything that someone's looking for him. He himself doesn't strike me as dangerous"—Morgan snorted, unsure why that was funny—"but I'm more worried about what caused his arrival."

There was a long silence. Then, "We can't throw him out. Not in good conscience."

"You're a fool, Dal!" Aled snapped. "All of you are fools!" A loud chorus of shouts followed, and the argument fell into a garbled mass of words he could no longer discern. From what Morgan could tell, there were at least three other people in the room with Aled, Dal, and Trevor.

"Enough!" Trevor screamed over them. Immediately, the room quieted. Trevor seemed to be the leader of Daret, for which Morgan was grateful. It was his word that would decide the outcome, and even though Trevor had expressed certain distrust for Morgan, he seemed reasonable enough, or at least sympathetic to his cause. "Dal is right. I cannot knowingly throw out someone who doesn't even know who he is—"

"Assuming he's telling the truth!" Aled interjected.

"—so I say he stays," Trevor went on. "However, we still know nothing about him. Let's give him a chance and only drive him away if trouble arises." A few murmurs of agreement followed that. "He's promised to earn his keep, and I could use an extra set of hands. Does that sound agreeable?"

Aled said something inaudible. His voice was accompanied by the scraping of a chair and a slamming door.

"I don't like how divided this situation makes us," Dal said after a moment, "but I also say he should be allowed to stay. Aled won't be the only one to disagree with this, but I stand by what I say."

A few "Ayes" swept across the room.

Morgan retreated back toward the bed. The predicament was anything but ideal, but he supposed it would have to do for now. He could only hope his memories would resurface soon, so he could leave this dreadfully poor excuse for a town. Though actually knowing where Daret appeared on the map would also help. Trevor had rolled out a map for him earlier to see if he recognized any of the places. Morgan had been able to point out the names of different towns, but not where he was from.

"Why is Ilirea called Urû'baen on this map?" he had asked.

Trevor had squinted at him. "You know how to read, but you don't know the name of the capitol? It's always been called Urû'baen. Ilirea doesn't exist."

That hadn't sat well with Morgan, but instead of arguing further, he went back to proving that he knew how to read. Now, sitting on the bed, he waited for Trevor to come back into the room. Approaching footsteps echoed right outside the door. He feigned innocence as Trevor entered and eagerly asked for the verdict.

"As if you didn't listen at the door," Trevor said. "Knowing you."

"Knowing me? I don't even know me."

Trevor's eye twitched. "I expect you to rise early every morning and help me keep a lookout for Urgals, among other things."

Morgan stared at him without blinking.

"You'll keep a civil tongue and not talk back when I tell you to do something." Trevor pointed his finger. "And if you remember anything, anything at all, you tell me about it immediately."

Morgan still watched him without the slightest hint of movement, digging into Trevor's demeanor with a simple look. The village leader didn't quake under his stare, not as though Morgan expected him to, but he did seem put off by it. They held each other's eyes for well over a minute, before Trevor left him with a simple command to go to sleep.

Morgan waited, his gaze never leaving the door. Well over half an hour passed before he was certain that no one else was going to bother him, so he settled down into the bed. He didn't sleep for a long time, instead trying to focus on everything that had happened to him that day. When he finally did drift off he dreamed of a red bird circling high over his head and just beyond his reach. He tried to scream its name over and over again, but it had no name, and no words came from his mouth.