Eragon woke, shivering. The air was never warm in Tronjheim, but it somehow seemed colder than usual. Probably just nerves, he acknowledged. He was afraid. More afraid than when the Urgals had surrounded him; more afraid, even, than during the battle with the shade. Then it was fate; something that had to be done, even if he did not like doing it. This was different. This was his conscious choice. No matter how much he tried to smile it away, there was still a small portion of him whispering, You're not the one. You can never make the right decision. Brom was the true hero; you're just a pawn in an elaborate mind game.
Eragon sat up, clutching his stomach. He swallowed, gulping in the frozen air. He closed his eyes, and drifted into an uneasy dream.
It was dark; so dark that the stars dared not shine. It was a dark kingdom. The world was rushing by. How he knew this, he could not understand. He was flying, hurtling through the air at top speed. This is dangerous, he knew; he felt, but there was nothing, nothing to stop him. He reached up, grasping for something to hold on to, to stop him, slow him down. But the only things he touched were vapor and cloud. He reached down to feel Saphira, but she was not there. I'm falling, he realized. Then there was the crash, the jarring end of the freefall that left him dazed. The ground felt cool and smooth. His breath was warm on the back of his hand. Fire, his face was on fire, burning lights into the back of his eyelids. Or were his eyes open? He could not tell. He did not care. As if encouraged by the pain in his head, other parts began to flare. Knee, foot, wrist, arm, ankle, ear, they all lit up like war beacons.
Eragon.
Like water, it quenched everything. There was no desire. No feeling. All he knew, all he cared about, was that name.
There was a spark, a flame as a single candle was lit. In the empty darkness, it lit the room like a torch, like ten torches, like a hundred. But the man behind the candle was shadow. Dark, brooding, menacing, like the room, like the dream itself. Eragon tried to suck in air, but it was thick. Who are you? he thought, not moving his lips.
You know who I am, Eragon.
Eragon realized he was standing, but he had no recollection of moving. You know my name. What else do you know? he asked.
I know some. And I know more. What I choose to say may be a different answer. But I will tell you three things I know. I know who you were, I know who your father is, and I know who will betray you.
Who was I? asked Eragon, disbelieving this shadow man who did not reveal his true face.
The world whirled, turned bright. Eragon stood in a field of flowers. He heard screams. Loud screams. He ran towards them, towards a cabin. Garrow's cabin. He stumbled; fell, biting his lip, hurting. Garrow is dead. But no, there he was, standing outside the cabin. Looking much younger, less worn. Eragon wondered what aged him so. There was a boy, not older than three or four sitting on the step to the cabin. A boy with dark eyes, and darker hair. Roran. Eragon stepped past him, stepped through him into the unlit cabin. There was a woman with his face, with his features, sitting on the bed, gasping. That's my mother! Eragon hardly dared to breathe. He ran to her, hugging, only to find his arms went through her, not touching her. No, this wasn't right, this wasn't fair. He finally met his mother, only to have her not be there. Illusion! This is an illusion!
His world whirled, again. He was standing in The Spine. He was watching himself. He could see the disappointment that clouded his features. He saw the blue egg. Saphira. SAPHIRA! he shouted in his head. This dream was going too fast. The greens blurred, and he was standing outside the cabin, only this time it was on fire. He could hear Garrows screams. Eragon! He saw himself arriving, too late as always. Never able to stop the evil in the world.
NO! He fell forward; only instead of landing on grass, he landed on stone. It was clear. He could see Broms face pouring through. Eragon thought of all the knowledge that must have died with him. He was crying, tears were splashing down, only they were red, they were bloodred. Blood was dripping from his nose, from a cut on his face, blotting out Brom, taking him away. Again.
Was I right? asked the shadow-face. That is who you were. A brave soul. Talented but unlucky. Courageous but untried.
Yes. I need to know who my father is.
Do you now? Do you realize that if I tell you, it might change your whole identity? It might change who you are.
Only I can change who I am, thought Eragon.
A nice idea. If only it were true. Anyhow, you asked for it.
The sky was dark, but not black. It was a deep maroon. Only it wasnt a sky, because the light was reflecting off it. It was a wall. A high wall that stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. A cave. It was a giant cave, as large as Tronjheim. Silver light trickled out a few stray lanterns, and was soaked up by the enormity of it all. Eragon felt a hand on his shoulder. He instinctively reached for Zarroc, but stopped short when he saw the mans face. It was Murtagh. No, it wasnt it was not. The eyes were not as deep; the mouth was not smirking. It split into an evil grin that showed more rotten teeth than sound. In the mans hand was Zarroc. Again Eragon reached for it, but realized too late that it was not on his belt.
So we meet at last, Eragon, last of the Dragon Riders. I thought youd at least have your fathers good looks.
Who are you? asked Eragon.
I am Morzan. You bear my sword. May it serve you better than it served me.
Youre Murtaghs father. Eragon was surprised. He was expecting to meet his father, not Murtaghs.
You dont understand, do you, why Brom gave you the sword. Why Murtagh was expecting it. You see, the funny thing about Dragon Riders swords is that only their descendants can wield them. All others will fall, when faced with battle.
Eragon gave a little gasp. He felt as if he had been hit by a club.
Oh, so you DO see. And you wonder why Brom didnt tell you this. Well, he didnt want you to know. He knew most of the reason you were on this quest was to find your father. Even if you didnt say it, he knew it. He was a wily one, that Brom. And now youve found your father. And your brother.
At this, Murtagh stepped out of the shadows. Im sorry, Eragon. I really dont want to do this. Murtagh took Zarroc from Morzans hand, and sliced at Eragon. Eragon tried to dodge, but he was too slow, as ever.
Morzan and Murtagh disappeared, but Eragon stayed silent on the cold, cold floor. He felt all his warmth running out. He used all his power to concentrate, on home, on his quest, on anything. He rolled over for what he knew was the last time and
Fell out of the dream. It was swift and timeless. His head hurt, but he couldnt think about that now. There was someone in the room. He reached under the blanket and gripped the hunting dagger that was always in his boot. He was grateful he had been sleeping curled up.
He opened his eyes. There was someone standing over him with a red sword. There was sorrow in Murtaghs eyes. Im so sorry, Eragon.
Eragon pulled out the knife, Not nearly sorry enough.