Chapter Two

The Forsworn

The city of Gil'ead was bustling. It was market day, and the streets were thronged with people, buying and selling, filling the air with their chatter.

In his large bedroom in the castle where he lived, Lord Morzan, governor of Gil'ead, woke up to the sound of it drifting in through his window. He turned over in bed, mumbling, and tried to go back to sleep. But his pounding headache forced him to stay awake. He lurched out of bed and staggered over to the nightstand, where a dish of cold water had been left for him. He dunked his head in it and withdrew, blinking and dripping. It did virtually nothing to subdue the headache, which had dug its claws into his head and was now bashing at his brain, making his vision flash red. There was a dry, sickly taste in his mouth, and his stomach was churning.

He picked up a jug of water and downed it, spilling the contents over his nightshirt. It helped to revive him a little, and he started to dress, his movements clumsy. Even doing up the buttons on his jerkin was difficult. He managed it after a few goes, and fumbled for a comb. He peered at himself in the mirror.

His face had changed over the years. His forehead was lined now, and one half of his mouth frowned permanently from an old scar that went clear across his cheek from the corner of his eye. His hair, once dark brown, was shot through with grey, and his eyes had faded. Even a rider aged. This morning he was pale and unshaven, and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed.

Morzan muttered a spell which made the stubble fall off his chin in a little puff of tiny brown hairs. It was easier than shaving, but he instantly regretted it. Even the tiny burst of magical energy this one spell took made the pain in his head surge horribly. His vision actually went black for a moment, and he bared his teeth. As he turned away, swearing, he saw the flagon lying next to his bed and kicked it. It sailed across the room and shattered against the wall, spilling dregs of wine onto the floor.

The presence of his dragon, Idün, appeared in his head. 'Hung over again?' she asked in a tired voice.

'Yeah,' Morzan muttered back.

'Morzan… you really shouldn't drink so much,' said Idün. 'It's bad for you.'

'I know,' said Morzan. 'I just needed it last night. Couldn't sleep.'

'Nightmares again?'

'I just couldn't sleep,' said Morzan, knowing perfectly well that she wouldn't be fooled. He told the lie anyway, from force of habit. It was easier.

Idün sighed. 'Yes…'

'What time is it?' said Morzan, reaching for his boots.

'Midday, or just past it.'

'Godsdammit…' he pulled on his boots as fast as he could, dragged the comb through his hair, and left the bedchamber.

He couldn't face eating anything, and went straight to his office. There was a servant waiting for him there. 'Lord Morzan, it's good to see you. Are you feeling better?'

Morzan grunted. 'What's business today, Todd?'

The servant held out a piece of paper. 'A bird came for you early this morning, my Lord. It was carrying a message from the King.'

Morzan took it, his stomach lurching grotesquely. 'That all?'

'The reports have been placed on your desk, my Lord,' said the servant. Morzan wished he would speak more quietly.

'Right then,' he said. 'Beat it.'

The servant left, and Morzan slumped down behind his desk. Someone had thoughtfully left a jug of water for him, and he poured some into a cup and drank it in one long swallow. He followed it with another, and poured a third cupful before finally unfolding the letter. It had been sealed with wax bearing the triple-spiral symbol of the King, and as soon as Morzan opened it he recognised Galbatorix's neat handwriting. He straightened out the parchment with a big, liver-spotted hand, and peered at it. The runes came into focus eventually, and he read them.

To Lord Morzan,

You are hereby commanded to come to Urû'baen as soon as possible, to attend the funeral of the Lady Tranah of Teirm. Depart immediately. You will be able to leave as soon as the funeral rites are concluded.

I hope your journey is swift and pleasant.

Yours, King Galbatorix Taranisäii-Traeganni I, Lord of Alagaësia

Below that was Galbatorix's signature.

Morzan sighed and put the letter aside. So many things to attend to, and yet he had to go to Urû'baen to bury one of his oldest friends. No doubt Galbatorix would be his usual cold, dispassionate self, though the two of them hadn't met face-to-face in over thirty years. Morzan always opened letters from him nervously, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps, deep down, he was expecting one of them to contain something other than what they always did; brief, formal lists of commands. The letters of a King, not a friend.

Even now, however, the prospect of seeing him again made Morzan feel uneasy. The last time they had met had not been pleasant, and they hadn't spoken since then except in formal, impersonal terms.

Tranah's death was less unsettling. Morzan had been shocked when the news had come, but not particularly surprised. He had seen his fellow rider more frequently than he had seen their leader, and had been a bleak witness to her decline. Like him she had been left scarred by the war that had destroyed the old order of riders, and in his heart he had been expecting something like this to happen for a long time. The only real surprise was that she had held on for so long. Perhaps her sense of duty had kept her alive. Teirm had been badly damaged by an urgal uprising ten years earlier, and Tranah had had her hands full overseeing its rebuilding and gradual recovery. Now, though, with the city back to something approaching its former grandeur, she would have had far less to do. More time to think. She had always been the most clear-thinking and rational member of the Forsworn, and Morzan didn't doubt that she had been planning her own death for some time. Waiting for a time when she was no longer needed. In truth, Morzan too had thought of taking his own life more than once. In the end, he knew, it was nothing but pure cowardice that had held him back.

To distract himself, he shuffled through the stack of reports on his desk. It was the usual stuff; reports of a couple of granaries that needed to be renovated, a list of figures from the treasurer, complaints about a lack of sanitation in the West End, a minor outbreak of disease and talk of some local herbalists who were selling illegal drugs, plus a list of all the arrests made over the last week by the city guard. Nothing particularly urgent. He could afford to leave for a week or so.

No sense in waiting around. He forced himself to drink the rest of the water, and left the office.

Once he had assigned a couple of servants to pack his bags, and given his instructions to a local noble who would be temporary governor during his absence, he went up onto the dragon roost to meet Idün. The red dragon, massive now, and aged like himself, brought her snout down toward him. 'The King wants to see us?'

Morzan scratched her nose. 'It's just for Tranah's funeral.'

'But he probably wants to see you again as well,' said Idün. 'How long has it been?'

'About thirty-two years. Since the famine.'

'Are you still angry with him?' Idün asked softly.

Morzan shrugged. 'What's it matter? What would he care?'

'Of course he cares,' said Idün. 'He's your friend.'

'No he ain't,' said Morzan. 'He's nobody's friend any more, and that's how he likes it.'

'You know that's not true, Morzan.'

The servants arrived with his bags and Idün's saddle, and he stood aside to let them prepare her for the journey. 'Do I?' he asked sourly.

'Just talk to him,' said Idün. 'You can't stay like this forever, and neither can he. He's still human, and I think he misses you as much as you miss him.'

'I don't miss him any more than he misses me,' Morzan snapped.

Idün sighed and straightened up as the servants finished adjusting her saddle. They left hastily, and Morzan climbed onto his partner's back and strapped his legs to the saddle. He had put on his warmest set of travelling clothes, and his sword, Zar'roc, was slung on his back.

Once he was secure, Idün tensed and took to the air with a quick, powerful thrust of her wings. 'Well,' she said as she flew off over the city, 'I suppose we'll just have to find out when we get there.'

The journey to Urû'baen took a few days, and proved uneventful. Morzan stopped at a few small towns and villages along the way, where he was greeted respectfully and given shelter for the night. Everything looked peaceful and orderly, which was how it was through the entire country. Apart from a few minor conflicts and the continued survival of the elusive rebel group known as the Varden, Alagaësia was in the midst of one of the most settled and prosperous times it had experienced so far. That was something not many people were aware of but, then, if Morzan had learned anything over the last eighty-odd years of helping his master run the country, it was that gratitude was not something that came naturally to ordinary people in regards to their governments. Morzan remembered the country as it had been under the rule of the riders of old quite well, and as far as he could recall nobody had ever called it a golden age at the time. When he had governed cities on behalf of Vrael and the council of elders he commanded, it had been almost exactly the same then as it was now, doing the same thing on behalf of King Galbatorix. The same duties, the same routine, the same troublesome people to deal with, the same complaints about laws and taxes. The difference now was the way people seemed to view their rulers. The riders of old had been more than just obeyed and respected; the people they ruled over had held them in almost godlike reverence, as if, having been forbidden to worship their old deities, they had chosen their overlords as a rather more solid and tangible substitute.

But that had changed after the rebellion of thirteen discontented riders, incited and led by Galbatorix, had risen up and effectively destroyed the old ways for good. The war, thanks almost entirely to Galbatorix's charismatic and brilliant leadership, had ended in a crushing defeat for the council of elders. Ilirea, their capital, had been sacked, and Urû'baen was built on its ruins, after Galbatorix had personally hunted down the fleeing Vrael and killed him in single combat. Unfortunately, their victory had not come without a price. Of the twelve riders who originally turned against Vrael – known collectively as the Forsworn – only six had survived to see the creation of what was now referred to as the Alagaësian Empire. But they had not died at the hands of their enemies. Their deaths had happened on the night of Ilirea's destruction – a night that to this day was still talked about and speculated on by the commoners. It was a night that still haunted Morzan's dreams.

None of the surviving Forsworn had talked about what had happened in over eighty years, but it had effectively marked the end of their friendship forever, and the end of all true affection toward their leader. They still obeyed him out of duty and in faithfulness to the oaths they had sworn, but the pride they had once taken in it was now gone forever. Morzan blamed Galbatorix for what had happened, and there was no doubt the others did too. No-one really knew what Galbatorix himself thought. Although the Forsworn had remained cordial toward each other, none of them had been changed by that night as much as their leader had. From that day, he never again talked about himself. His face, always naturally impassive, had become a mask which never showed the slightest hint of any emotion. What he thought, what he felt, remained a mystery. Morzan had not seen him smile or heard him laugh in nearly ninety years. He still remembered the time, so long ago, when Galbatorix had been his friend. He had never been the most open or demonstrative person, but he had always had a light side to him. At times he could even be mischievous or playful. In spite of all that had happened to him, he had still had a boyishness about him – an inner youth and a passion for life and living. But that side of him had long since vanished. All Morzan ever saw in him now was coldness and sarcasm, mingled with a deep bitterness that he recognised all too well. Since the day he had been crowned, he had simply locked himself away inside. Once he had been a man first and a leader second, but now the man was gone and only the leader remained.

When Morzan saw Urû'baen's walls approaching, his heart started to pound. He closed his eyes and held onto Idün's neck, trying to breathe deeply, but he could not shake off the feeling that had taken hold of him. He knew it was fear.

Idün sped up a little when she saw the city ahead. As she neared it, she opened her jaws wide and roared. The sound ran ahead of her, loud and powerful, and a few moments later they heard an answering roar come from Urû'baen. Shruikan was greeting them.

The huge black dragon was waiting for them on his roost. Dragons never stopped growing, and over the years Galbatorix's partner had become as long as the entire Northern wall of the castle. He was powerfully muscled, his back hunched, neck elegantly curved, his head – nearly as big as a horse – heavy-snouted and brutal. His lower canines jutted over his top lip, and his head was crowned by six horns instead of the more usual four – making him what was referred to as a royal dragon. His rough, thick scales were all pitch black, but his wings, neatly folded, had pure white membranes.

Shruikan moved aside to let Idün land, growling at her. He had always been wilder than bonded dragons usually were, but when Idün had landed – only just able to fit on the roost beside him – he nuzzled roughly at her face and shoulders, making a rumbling sound deep in his chest. It sounded threatening, but to dragons it was a sign of affection, and Idün raised her head and rubbed her cheek against his, growling back.

Shruikan wasn't the only dragon in the area, however. There were two others perched on the castle ramparts – one yellow and one brown. Tuomas and Vander had already arrived.

Morzan undid the straps holding his legs to the saddle, and rather daringly slid down off Idün's back. He landed on his feet with a loud thud, and bowed to Shruikan. The black dragon sniffed briefly at him, and then looked haughtily away.

'You probably oughta move to one of the walls once we've got the saddle off you,' said Morzan, to Idün. 'There ain't much room up here.'

'I think we can worry about that later,' said Idün.

'What?'

The red dragon nudged him gently in the back. 'There,' she said.

Morzan stilled. A dark figure had appeared from behind Shruikan's leg, and was walking toward him, eerily silent, moving with a careful, almost predatory tread.

Morzan opened his mouth, but his voice failed him. He stared and stared at it, his heart fluttering, not knowing what to do.

The figure halted in front of him, regarding him. 'Morzan.'

Morzan pulled himself together, and knelt. 'Sire.'

'Get up, Morzan.' The tone was weary, but commanding.

Morzan stood. 'Sire… my gods.'

He hadn't known what to expect after so long, but he hadn't been expecting this. Galbatorix hadn't changed at all. His hair, as neat as always, was black as night, without a hint of grey, his face had no wrinkles and his stance was straight and strong. He looked exactly the same as he had done thirty years earlier.

'You look well,' Galbatorix said. 'How was your journey?'

'Fine,' Morzan blurted. 'And how have you been?'

'A little tired,' said Galbatorix. 'And busy, as always, but I'm fine. Vander and Tuomas are already here, as you've probably guessed. And Tranah is here too. Vander brought her. The funeral rites will be this evening… we have things to discuss first. I've had a room prepared for you – do you need to rest, or would you like something to eat?'

Morzan's heart sank. 'Some food would be good.'

Galbatorix nodded. 'We'll let the servants take care of your luggage.' He turned away and vanished through the trapdoor back into the castle.

Morzan paused to pat Idün's shoulder, and followed. He found Galbatorix waiting for him, and the King wordlessly led him away to the dining hall. There, dishes of food had been laid on the table, and two men were sitting and talking quietly as they ate.

They looked up when Morzan came in, and stood to greet him. 'It's good to see you, Morzan,' said one of them.

Morzan embraced him briefly. 'Vander.'

Vander, a skinny man with dark brown skin and rough black hair, smiled slightly. Over the years he too had aged; there were fine lines on his face, and his hair was shot through with grey. 'You look good.'

Morzan grunted. 'I've been doing all right. Hello, Tuomas.'

Tuomas inclined his head toward him, somewhat nervously. 'Hello, Morzan. D'you want something to eat?'

'Yeah, thanks.' Morzan sat down and helped himself to some bread.

Galbatorix took his seat at the head of the table. He was wearing a black robe – the same outfit he always seemed to wear – but this one was rather more elegant than the plain affair he usually favoured. The collar and cuffs were trimmed with pale grey silk, embroidered with elaborate spiral patterns, and instead of being loose it had been shaped to fit his thin body, which it did very well.

'Rather good, isn't it?' he said, noticing Morzan looking at it. 'I just had it made a few days ago. I've employed a new tailor. Initially as a favour, but she's turned out to be very good at what she does. Now…' he looked around at the others, who looked back respectfully. But, instead of delivering whatever speech he had had in mind, he fell silent and poured himself some wine.

Morzan ate, forcing himself to look away from the flagon of wine. He didn't want to embarrass himself. Clearly, Tuomas felt the same way, because he quietly moved it out of the other rider's reach. They ate in tense, unhappy silence, each one aware of all the unspoken questions hanging in the air around them. Several times Vander looked as if he were going to speak, but he too was unable to make himself break the silence.

Only Galbatorix appeared calm. He sat on the high-backed, finely-carved chair made especially for him by the royal carpenter, delicately picking strawberries out of a bowl and eating them. Now, sitting with his three fellow riders, the strange youthfulness of his appearance was even more striking than before. Even Tuomas, the youngest there, looked older than him. It served to cut him off from them even more so than before. The Forsworn had aged together, but their leader had not. It was as if he had somehow remained behind in a better time, leaving them to go on ahead without him.

'I sent Tranah into the crypts ahead of us,' Vander said at last, breaking the silence. 'Her tomb is next to Strein's. I think she'd like that.'

'How did she die?' said Morzan. 'I couldn't help but wonder…'

'She hanged herself,' Vander said quietly. 'I was there when it happened. Visiting the city. When someone came to me and told me she'd locked herself in her room… I came running, but she'd used magic, and by the time I figured out the counter-spell it was already too late. She left a note, but it was for the King's eyes only. I brought it with me.'

'Can we see it, Sire?' said Tuomas.

Galbatorix sighed and reached into the pocket of his robe. 'I haven't looked at it yet. I thought I should wait until you were all here.' He brought out the letter and placed it on the table, pushing the bowl of strawberries aside. The parchment looked yellowed and fragile in his hands, and he broke the wax seal with his thumbnail and unfolded it, straightening out the creases before he began to read it. 'It says… "To My Lord Galbatorix, and to my friends. I am very sorry to have done this to you all, and if there were any way for me to repay you, I would do so. Unfortunately, there were no other options open to me. I have taken what I believed was the best course of action, and excused myself from your lives. Teirm is rebuilt and the people are prosperous, and I think I have done all I could for them. Enough that they can carry on without me. I hope that my absence won't be too great of a burden to you all, but I think I have done enough. I had no wish to see my hundred and fiftieth year, and Aedua and I agreed that it was time for us to take our rest. Perhaps, if the gods are merciful, we shall be reunited some day. Until then, goodbye and good luck".'

Silence followed.

'Is that all of it, Sire?' said Morzan.

Galbatorix nodded and pushed the note across the table for him to take. 'So it would seem.'

Morzan picked up the note and examined it. The handwriting was astonishingly neat and precise. There were no ink blots, no tear-stains… nothing to imply that the woman whose words these were was going to take her own life within hours of writing it.

Vander sighed and shook his head. 'That's Tranah for you, I suppose. Sensible and organised right to the end. She left two whole books full of information about Teirm, and advice on how to run it. She'd been working on it for years. All ready for whoever took over from her.'

'I think she planned it for a long time,' said Tuomas. 'Killing herself, I mean.' He shivered. 'I can't imagine that. Just… living all those years, waiting for the right time.'

'It had to be better than waiting for the bloody Varden to murder you,' Morzan muttered.

'Yes, and the sooner we find this leader of theirs the better,' said Vander. 'Sire… are we any closer to doing that?'

'Not really,' said Galbatorix. 'But I doubt the Varden will be much of a serious threat any more. As long as we're cautious we should be all right. Ana was careless, and Orwyne was old. If the rest of us are careful to keep ourselves well-guarded, we should be fine. As for this leader, I'm not even sure he exists. But if he does… well, we'll flush him out eventually.'

'I caught a few of the bastards hiding out in Gil'ead,' said Morzan. 'Interrogated 'em, but they wouldn't give anything away about this leader of theirs. My bet is he's just a myth. Something to make 'em think they've got some amazing fighter on their side when they're just a lot of peasants with big ideas.'

'There's been no Varden activity in Feinster or Kuasta,' said Vander. 'Nothing on the Surdan border, either.'

'Good,' said Galbatorix. 'And Dras-Leona?'

Tuomas scratched at his beard. 'Everything's quiet. The priesthood have declared me protected by the Three Peaks, so anyone who attacks me is a blasphemer. If anyone even mentioned it, he'd be turned in by someone. It looks like we caught them all, Sire.'

'Rumours say there is a Varden cell somewhere in Urû'baen, but that looks unlikely to me,' said Galbatorix. 'I've had plenty of people on the lookout, and there hasn't been so much as a sign. No positive word, either – just vague gossip. No, the Varden's finished.'

'All to the good, Sire,' said Tuomas. 'Though I would've liked to know who started it.'

'Probably just a handful of lunatics,' Morzan said dismissively. 'Forget it. We've got other things to worry about. Like the elves. I'd swear they were up to something. I mean, they looked pretty peaceful last time I went to Ellesméra, and Islanzadí said everything was just business as usual. I got her to say it in the ancient language, but I still didn't believe her. There's something shifty about that lot. They lie with their eyes.'

Galbatorix looked disgusted. 'They'll stay in their forest if they've got any sense. But I'd be glad to have an excuse to rid the country of them altogether.'

'Yes, and I'm sure they know that, Sire,' said Vander. 'And I very much doubt they would want to risk giving you that excuse.'

'Quite. And the dwarves couldn't care less either way, apparently. So…' Galbatorix looked enquiringly over the table. 'Does anyone else have any news?'

They glanced at each other, but no-one offered anything.

'All right then,' said Galbatorix. 'We should go and pay our respects to Tranah.'

'Yes, Sire,' said Morzan. 'I'll just go and put on something a bit more formal, if you don't mind waiting.'

'Not at all. Ask one of the servants to show you to your room. I'll be waiting here.'

Morzan nodded politely and left. Tuomas left too, leaving Galbatorix and Vander alone.

Once they had gone, Galbatorix turned to Vander. 'All right, Vander. Out with it.'

'I beg your pardon, Sire?'

'Don't play stupid,' Galbatorix said impatiently. 'You've got something to tell me. I could see you thinking about it for the last hour.'

Vander caved in. 'You're right, Sire. I did have something I wanted to discuss with you. But this probably isn't the right time…'

'We're both here and we've got time. Get on with it.'

'Sire…' Vander hesitated. 'Sire, it's time you chose a Queen.'

Galbatorix sighed. 'Not this again.'

'I'm sorry, Sire, but it's my duty to give advice when I think it's necessary, and it is. You need to marry.'

'And why would that be, Vander?' said Galbatorix, who already knew the answer.

'Every King needs a Queen,' said Vander. 'You shouldn't rule alone, Sire. There are plenty of young noblewomen in the Empire who would be suitable.'

'No, Vander,' Galbatorix said flatly. 'We've been over this before, and the answer hasn't changed. I am not going to marry, and there's no way you're going to change my mind about it.'

'Sire, you can't let this promise of yours get in the way of your duties as a ruler,' said Vander. 'You need to marry for political reasons, nothing more. Matters of the heart must take second place to the needs of your people. You need to have an heir.'

Galbatorix laughed bitterly. 'An heir? Me? To do what? To take over the throne after I die?'

'Yes, Sire. If you died without an heir, there would be chaos. Even civil war.'

'I'm not going anywhere, Vander, and you know it,' said Galbatorix. 'Any heir of mine would age and die while I was still alive. Are you really suggesting I should take a wife and father children so I can watch them all die around me?'

'Even immortals can die, Sire,' said Vander. 'You must be prepared for the worst. And even if it never comes about that we need a new ruler, the right Queen could strengthen the Empire and ensure peace.'

'You have someone in mind. Don't you?'

Vander nodded. 'Princess Eluna of Surda. She is not yet betrothed. If you were to marry her, it would create the perfect alliance between Surda and Alagaësia. It would put an end to all tensions between us, and prevent the Surdans from sheltering rebels.'

Galbatorix sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. 'Yes, I know that. I already thought of it myself. But I'm still not going to do it.'

'Sire, please,' said Vander. 'See sense! It's for the good of the country, it doesn't mean anything. You don't even have to share your bed with her if you don't want to.'

'I sleep in a hammock,' Galbatorix said coldly. 'And it's only big enough for one.'

'But Sire, I really-,'

'That's enough, Vander.' The finality in the King's tone was all the hint Vander needed, and he went quiet.

Galbatorix, unreadable, sipped at his wine. Vander watched him, trying to think of something to say, but he gave up in the end and stared at the tabletop. If the King didn't want to discuss something, then that was the final word on the matter. Eventually he would stop responding, and after that he would become irritated. The subject of his bachelorhood had come up more than once over the years; Orwyne had been the first to mention it, a few years after he had been crowned King. But Galbatorix had flatly turned her down. The Forsworn already knew that it was a touchy subject with him, but that hadn't prevented a string of noble families from introducing their daughters to him in the hopes of forging a bond with the newly-formed royal line. Galbatorix had refused them, one by one, until eventually people stopped asking. It had led to some unpleasant rumours about his sexual preferences, though he apparently didn't care.

Even so, Vander had hoped that by now he might have mellowed a little, and since the mystery woman he claimed to have taken an oath to had failed to reappear, he had thought that perhaps Galbatorix would be more open to persuasion now – especially given the possibility of creating an alliance with Surda, which had caused problems for the Empire several times in the past and could prove a real threat if it turned hostile. Vander, having been made governor of Feinster, a city built very close to the Surdan border, had spent a large portion of the last eighty-odd years fostering good relations with the country, and Galbatorix's stubborn refusal to help him seal the alliance was a greater blow than he was willing to admit.

The two of them waited in uncomfortable silence until Morzan and Tuomas returned, now wearing their ceremonial outfits. Vander had already donned his, and together the four of them left the dining hall and descended into the lower levels of the castle, where the original underground portions of Ilirea still remained. There were dungeons, wine cellars and store-rooms down there, and, tucked away at a respectable distance from all these, was a heavy wooden door. Galbatorix opened it, and led the way down the stairs on the other side. He muttered a spell, and magical light sprang up around him – pure white, and far brighter than any lamp or candle. Guided by it, they went down into the catacombs.

These had been built over a thousand years ago, by the very earliest of the riders, as a place for their kind to be laid to rest. The tunnels, carved into the bedrock beneath the castle, were surprisingly extensive, laid out in no particular order. The tombs themselves were recesses cut into the walls, each one bearing a carved image of its occupant and their dragon. Half of each carving was on the wall above the tomb, and the other half was on the stone slab used to seal it shut. All four of them had tombs waiting for them – they had been carved for them over a hundred years ago, when they had first become riders.

Most of the tombs they passed were already sealed, but Vander saw one that was still open, and he paused to look at it. It was carved with an image of a tall, thin young man – more a boy – standing beside a slender female dragon. The boy's hair was long and curly, his face angular and wearing a faint, knowing smile. Beside him was a name: Arren Cardockson. And beside the dragon was Laela.

Vander glanced ahead, to where Galbatorix walked, as silent and graceful now as he had been a hundred years earlier. He doubted now that any man living would ever be able to put him into a tomb. Not any more.

Tranah's body was waiting for them beside her tomb. She had been laid on a stretcher and dressed in ceremonial armour – gold inlaid with dark green enamel and studded with emeralds, and beside her was an urn containing the ashes of her dragon, Aedua. Though she had been washed and anointed with scented oil, and Vander had cast a spell over her to preserve her body, nobody had been able to do anything about her face. It was dark and swollen, the eyes and lips swollen, and there was a livid purple and red mark on her neck from the rope. Her short hair, once brown, was now nearly all grey. She had aged far less gracefully than any of her old comrades, even Morzan, whose haggard appearance had shocked Vander.

The four riders grouped themselves around Tranah's body, looking down at it.

'Gods… Tranah,' Morzan muttered.

Tuomas knelt beside her and touched her cold hand. 'I never… I didn't think it would be like this.' His voice was dull with shock.

Galbatorix touched the side of his own neck, apparently without thinking. 'I've… her sword is in the treasury. I thought, perhaps…'

'What, Sire?' said Vander.

'If the green egg ever hatches, then its rider will need a sword,' Galbatorix mumbled, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Morzan snorted. 'Sire, it's not going to happen. Face it. We're…' the contempt in his face suddenly disappeared, and his hands clenched. 'We're the last riders,' he said, his voice breaking. 'You do know that, don't you, Sire? After we die, there'll be no-one left to take our place. We've destroyed ourselves.'

'There could still be hope, Morzan,' said Tuomas.

Morzan shook his head convulsively. 'There ain't,' he said. 'You know there ain't, Tuomas. It's finished. There'll never…' he stared blankly at the gedwëy ignaesia on his palm, and turned away. Vander moved rather hesitantly to comfort him, and Morzan, feeling the other rider's hand on his shoulder, suddenly turned and embraced him. Vander held onto him, nearly crushed by Morzan's brawny arms. To his shock, he realised the other rider was crying.

It was as if a dam had broken. Tuomas, huddled by Tranah's body, started to sob, and all three riders finally let go of their grief, forgetting the natural stoicism that a hundred years of living had brought about in them, and letting their tears fall as they should.

Galbatorix, standing by Tranah's tomb, watched them. He looked down at Tranah's body, then at her carved image over the tomb, and then at his three grieving friends. His fists clenched slightly, but his expression did not change. He watched them cry without moving or speaking, and his eyes remained dry.