"Curse you, old man!" Eragon spat for the umpteenth time that night.

He drew his cloak tighter around his frame. Winter in the Plains was, as usual, very cold. Eragon's body had learnt long ago to acclimatize quickly – which was only to be expected with the virtually nomadic life he led – but still the chilling breeze of the night let itself be felt. Eragon's horse shivered and snorted under him, despite the extra layer of blankets Eragon had added under the saddle. Eragon instinctively reached down and rubbed the horse's neck reassuringly. Despite being quite small, it was nevertheless a fine beast. It had carried him well.

"Mind your tongue, boy!" Brom warned. The winter night was worse for him, and, as usual, he was not in a good mood. That did not make for a good combination. Brom could feel all of his years, and every battle scar he had ever garnered seemed to be clamouring for his attention. Eragon had given him his own blankets but still Brom was cold. They would have to stop soon if the weather continued like this. Both men, and the horses, could smell the snows on their way. The good thing about the Plains was that they rarely ever got snow, but once it started it had a nasty habit of not stopping until the ground was buried under several feet of the stuff.

"We're going to have to stop soon," Eragon sighed. "The horses need food and rest, and this weather isn't helping one bit. You don't look too good yourself," Eragon teased.

Brom spared Eragon a filthy look before turning to survey the land they were traversing. "A couple more leagues," Brom said. "We are near a copse. We can find a little more shelter and comfort than out here in the open. Come." Brom twitched the reigns of his own mount and the horse instantly changed direction and started to head north-east. Brom urged his mount into a slight trot. It would hopefully warm the horses, but not exhaust them, if they were to travel a little faster. Eragon urged his own mount and began to follow a few feet behind Brom. After a few minutes his body got used to the horse's gentle up-and-down rhythm and his mind began to relax, relinquishing a little bit more control of the journey to the horse. As his mind relaxed into a comfortable blank state, he began to remember the events that had led to this journey.

XXX

The city of Belatona.

With the exception of Uru'baen, which had been crafted by elves, it was the most beautiful city in the Empire. Renowned for its skilled craftsmen, Belatona had been built over two millennia past by the first human settlers on Alagaesia. It was the first human capital when King Palancar and his subjects first arrived in Alagaesia, and had continued to be the symbolic seat of power of the Broddring Kingdom until Galbatorix conquered the Riders and forced the elves out of Uru'baen, which up until that point had been known as Ilirea. Ilirea had been an elven city and stronghold for many millennia, since the time the elves had arrived on Alagaesia.

Belatona was a true monument to human creativity. Not only had it been built with defence in mind, but it had also been built with beauty in mind. The entire city was made from marble, with the more opulent areas also built from expensive materials and wrought in intricate designs that astounded the mind. But the city was not pure rock, as that would have defeated the purpose of the architects. The city was supposed to be a monument toward all humans held precious, and so the one thing more abundant than the beautiful buildings - and the population, of course - was the wide range of vegetation present. Where marble ended you were guaranteed to find vegetation that had been carefully transplanted from all over Alagaesia and had taken to the new soil spectacularly. But unlike the buildings, the architects had made sure that once the plants took to the soil, they would not be interfered with. After all, they were trying to show the beauty of nature and therefore tempering with it would hinder the motive. Belatona was overrun with vegetation. This only added to the beauty of the city.

By unspoken consent, Belatona was rarely the sight of much violence. Polluting the atmosphere and the land with needless acts seemed brutish. But humans, being human, always strove to be the best. They strived to be acknowledged as masters of their realm, wealthy and intelligent. With violence out of the way, there was only one way for this acknowledgement to be achieved; Politics (and by proxy, espionage and assassination).

Politicking was both a necessity and a hobby in Belatona. Left, right and centre you were bound to find shrewd men and women who were as dangerous as a pack of wolves and as slippery as eels in water. Belatona was home to the main headquarters of every Guild in the Empire, although there were now also secondary headquarters located in Uru'baen so that should the King order something, it would be dealt with immediately.

In order to preserve the peace and protect the place their ancestors had built, Belatona had its own small army that was second best only to the King's Immortals. The army was only one and a half thousand men and women strong, but Belatona was a large city. Thieves, mercenaries and bandits were always a problem where a treasure such as Belatona was concerned, and the problems had only gotten worse as a few Urgal Clans had made their way south into the Empire so as to enjoy a warmer climate. Unfortunately, like all Urgals, war was a way of life. The fact that Belatona was on the edge of the Plains and right by the shore of Leona Lake only served to make the city the light to the metaphorical moth, in every sense of the saying. Time and time again every Urgal war chief who had sought to win favour for his Clan from his Herndall by looting Belatona had been sent back home licking his wounds.

Eragon's mind went over this entire history, and more, as he sat in a tavern which was located in the poorer district of Belatona. He had been to Belatona a few times before and he had to admit that it was the most beautiful city in Alagaesia. He hadn't seen any of the famed Dwarven or Elvish cities, or the mythical Utgard, the only large scale city the Urgals had ever supposedly built. It was mythical because no man, dwarf, elf or any other person had ever seen proof that it existed. Urgals claimed it did, but that was as far as it went. They refused to give any proof. It was holy to them. Apparently only a chosen few were allowed to enter. And, of course, there was the fact that Utgard, which meant Stronghold of the Giants, was the name of one of the oldest of the Rider's outposts in Alagaesia. Not many humans knew this, but Eragon had learnt that Utgard was actually an archaic Dwarven word that had been used by a dwarf clan called the "fire-workers" or the "smiths" to describe one of their greatest monuments. This monument was the first and oldest of the dwarf monuments, and was a point of pride for the dwarves. Eragon had only learnt some rudimentary Dwarven in the last year of his apprenticeship to his master when he had stumbled upon some Dwarven texts in his master's private library, one of them a Human-Dwarf dictionary of some sort, and had subsequently taught himself a little of the language, with the other Dwarven books on literature and metal-working helping perfect his grammar and pronunciation. Surely this place, this Utgard, was only invented to add an element of fear to the Urgal race. Who wouldn't be afraid when they found out an entire army of giants, of giant Urgals bigger than the elite Kull, would swarm out of a mythical place if the Urgal race was ever threatened?

Eragon regretted that his stay in Belatona was of utmost secrecy. Belatona had always appealed to him, mainly because of the lack of violence. Despite his job, Eragon personally abhorred violence. He and his master had always laughed at Fate's cruel joke, to gift him in the one area he disliked. No; to survive in the cutthroat society of Belatona you needed to rely on the one muscle most humans never exercised; the mind. When in Belatona, one could visit the Parthenon, a Temple dedicated to the Goddess of Wisdom, and where most of the politics in Belatona was conducted. Politics was conducted in public because there was a principle of openness that all the people in Belatona subscribed to. If you were into politicking and could convince the masses yourself, then well done to you. If not ... well, maybe politics wasn't the path for you. Or you could visit the Great Library, which was located underground and traversed the length and breadth of Belatona. It could take over an hour to go from one end to the other, and reading every scrap of information contained in the library would take decades, if not actual centuries. After all, this was the repository of all human knowledge. It was here Eragon had spent an entire year of his life, simply engrossed in the act of absorbing all the information he could, in-between carrying out missions for the numerous and ambitious politicians of the city. Or, of course, you could visit the Gymnasium in which people engaged in various sporting activities for the entertainment of the populace. The Palaestra, in which the Belatonian army itself trained and practiced their swordsmanship, among other things, was open to the public as well. It was only in the Gymnasium and Palaestra that any violence could be tolerated. After all, everyone needed a barbaric form of release now and then, right?

Eragon finished his pint of mead and ordered another one. He had learnt that Belatona was a place of many changes, even if on the surface things could look the same. He needed to gather information on what had transpired since his last visit before he made his next move. One good thing about the public politics was that it was a hobby everyone understood and constantly talked about. Belatona was a city of the intellectual. The trouble with politics was that it was forever changing as one person after another won one battle after another. To get a rough idea of everything he had missed Eragon would have to travel the entirety of Belatona and every public establishment because different matters affected different people. It was a hard job and would take at least a couple of weeks before he would be ready for the next stage. But he was getting paid handsomely for his efforts so he wouldn't complain.

XXX

It took him a while but finally he was ready for the next stage of the operation. He already had the name of his target. Now all he had to do was unobtrusively shadow him for a week or so before he made his move. The task proved hard simply because of his surroundings. Deception was a way of life in Belatona and so he would be spotted a mile off if he so much as made one slip. And things weren't helped by the fact that he was following a magician. The Magician's Guild had slowly been drying up over the decades, as well as the Wizard's Council and the Sorcerer's Sect. This made arcane artists rare, but it also made them very dangerous. They had to learn to survive in a world where they were regarded with suspicion and treated with hatred. Any arcane artist was guaranteed to be a slippery person. These days any magic users hid themselves when in public by discarding their robes and dressing inconspicuously. Only magic users like the Arch-Mage, the Arch-Wizard and the Arch-Sorcerer walked proudly in public. After all, who would be stupid enough to attack someone who had been acknowledged as the best magic user among his or her peers?

Eragon had finally managed to find the pattern to his prey's movements, after an extra week of near-static surveillance, and it was time to initiate the second phase of the plan. The next morning Eragon, still dressed in his inconspicuous garb, followed the magician closely. He knew the magician was taking a pre-planned route that would eventually lead him to the Magician's Guild headquarters. Naturally the route was well monitored so as to ensure no magicians were followed. Eragon was spotted after the first ten minutes. As Eragon turned down into an alley, the short magician barely visible ahead amid the morning traffic, he was suddenly grabbed by two tough looking men. No one stopped to even stare. Minding your own business when in public was a very healthy thing in Belatona. No one would dare take such drastic and public action in Belatona unless it was sanctioned. It was bad publicity. As Eragon was dragged away into another, smaller and darker alley, he allowed himself a brief smile. Things were going exactly according to plan.

Eragon was thrown roughly against a wall. "Who are you!?" the first heavy asked gruffly.

Given no time to answer, he was slapped heavily across his cheek. "Why were you following that man!?"


"I was paid to!" Eragon cried shrilly, his eyes wide and his body twitching with fear. "My client wanted to find out who that man was!"

The two heavies looked at each other. Eragon was sure the two were magicians. Although they were well muscled and had the look of men well acquainted with violence, maybe even privately hired mercenaries as they were too young to be retired soldiers, they also had eyes that radiated an inner power. Eragon was sure they were skilled. After all, you wouldn't have a recently weaned pup or an old hound guarding your house, would you? But Eragon wasn't without skill himself. As a warrior, Eragon had spent his whole life learning and refining his skills. Everything he had learnt had been taught by a Child of Shan, and that path was only walked by the best. Strength, speed, agility, excellent skill and raw talent more than made up for the lack of experience where older opponents were concerned.

A few years previously Eragon had had a run in with a rogue shaman in the Hadarac Desert. Someone from inside the Royal Desert Palace had paid him to go and eliminate the shaman. The Palace had once belonged to the Sultan of the Desert, leader of the Desert People and the Desert nomads. This was before Galbatorix and his Forsworn had conquered the Hadarac Desert, of course. Now the Palace was ruled by Donar, a Dragon Rider, one of the Forsworn, and a vassal of Galbatorix. The shaman, in exchange for his life – for Eragon had caught him unawares, his knife a millimetre from the man's neck – had promised Eragon to teach him what little he knew of the arcane arts. That had been an easy decision for Eragon. Knowing how to protect himself from magic users was a valuable tool to possess for someone in his business. And so for the next year the shaman had accompanied Eragon, teaching him how to increase his magical reserves so that he wouldn't tire easily. The shaman was a weak magician and knew very little of the Ancient Language, the Language of magic. However, the shaman had stolen one of Donar's scrolls and so the two learnt how to speak the Language passably well. The shaman knew little in the way of spells, but the little which Eragon had gleaned had allowed him to completely fortify his mind as well as learn numerous mind techniques. It had always peeved Eragon to no end, even though he had denied such emotions to the shaman, that he had never been able to actually use magic. If he was a wraith now, just imagining what he could do with magical abilities had kept him awake for nights on end.

Eragon was sure that the magicians would try to enter his mind to divine the truth. To do that, though, they would have to lower their own mind barriers. While Eragon was confident in his own combat abilities, this avenue of action, trying to take over the two guardsmen's minds, was much more effective. The two wouldn't be expecting any resistance from such a weak looking person. When the two men's minds reached for Eragon's, Eragon moved onto the third phase of the plan.

XXX

Ten minutes later Eragon was walking between the two men, another inconspicuous person in the crowd. The process of erasing their memory of him as well as hypnotising them had taken a short while. While it wasn't physically exhausting, it did take a toll on the mind, even for experienced magicians, and he didn't even have the luck of being magically gifted. All he could rely on was the skills of his mental techniques and his knowledge on how the human mind functioned. Once again Eragon thanked whatever official within the Desert Palace that had hired him to track down that shaman, which had led to his meeting with the same frail shaman who'd turned out to be no threat. His only desire for the rest of his life had been to spend it with his dear, if a tad young, wife in peace. The fact that Eragon could perform mind magic like few magicians could, wipe memories and hypnotise, had earned him a very big reputation that had culminated into the legend, the alias, known as the Wraith; a silent and invisible operative for hire. His services were constantly in demand. Business was booming. But if he screwed up today, he might as well kiss that goodbye. It only took one mistake for the prospective clients to start wondering if his services were worth anything at all, and from then on it was downhill.

He was marching into the headquarters of the Magician's Guild and he was going to steal something that was securely and heavily guarded. One wrong move and he'd be dead, plain and simple, and that would be a merciful death. If he left a trace ... well, he'd heard rumours about the King's prowess, being in the business that he was in. At least he could take comfort in the fact that the great Wraith had been dispatched by the King himself.

Or he could succeed and live. Eragon thought it was a very simple decision to make.

XXX

Eragon leaned down and to the right, and his right hand blurred left and upwards. In the blink an eye he had caught the arrow in-between two fingers, from just below the head. He thanked that particular practice as he saw a dark liquid glinting dully on the pointy tip. With instinct more than thought, Eragon reversed the arrow before throwing it with all his strength. Although it didn't have the same power as it would have if it had been fired from a bow, the arrow nevertheless flew fast and steady into the tree from whence it came. A second later there was a grunt of pain and a man fell to the ground twenty feet away with the arrow in his throat. Eragon did not stop moving to admire his handiwork. He jumped off his horse and started running. Brom could take care of himself. They had just entered the copse of trees and so Eragon was sure there were no bowmen behind him. He had surveyed the copse as they had entered. But for these bowmen to escape his senses like that ... they were skilled. And they also had to be indigenous. That was the only way they could blend into their surroundings so well. So he was dealing with Plainspeople, then. But why had they laid an ambush for him? It made no sense. Eragon always made sure to be on good terms with everybody he met. It made him less suspicious if something went wrong and it also made situations easier to deal with if he didn't have to worry about other people trying to kill him. And then it clicked. This ambush wasn't for him. It was for Brom.

Eragon cursed and changed direction. The old man hadn't paid him yet. He couldn't die without paying Eragon money. If this ambush was for Brom, the Brom Eragon knew, then whoever had planned it would have taken into account all of Brom's capabilities. The old man wouldn't stand a chance. Eragon ran swiftly and silently, his footfalls not disturbing the ground. He stopped behind a tree, listening to his surroundings. It was quiet. Eragon looked around the tree trunk. His horse lay dead on the almost indistinguishable path. For some reason the sight evoked a strong sense of anger and injustice in him. Eragon firmly clamped down the emotions and concentrated on the current situation. No one had chased him, which cemented Eragon's theory that Brom was the target. They had to know he was still alive, however, so the attackers would have covered their tracks. A dead horse with supplies tied to its saddle was the juicy worm on a fishing tackle: No doubt there would be an ambush set up for him, in case he came back. Eragon turned his back on the horse and started navigating the thick foliage of the copse.

XXX

The headquarters was disguised as a simple administrative, multi-storeyed, building. It extended many floors above ground as well as below ground, which was where most of the magic was practiced without fear of magic escaping to the surface. The two men led Eragon as he had instructed them to. Their goal was the magician's chambers, the magician Eragon had been shadowing for the past week. Eragon was lucky these two men knew the magician on a first name basis, or else things would only have gotten very complicated. They weren't best friends or anything, but what tenuous friendship did exist between the two guardsmen and the magician could be exploited effectively if he knew what he was doing, which he did. It was also lucky that these two men were constant patrols because they knew all the ins and outs of the headquarters. In minutes Eragon stood beside the door. He could feel his excitement mounting. He gave a nod to one of the men. The man knocked politely on the door. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Two men walked in, smiles on their faces.

The door was left slightly open.

"Will, John!" the magician exclaimed, a smile colouring his voice. "To what do I owe this visit?"

The magician had been one for years now, and he had learnt to recognise when something wasn't right. He looked at Will and John's eyes and couldn't help but shiver at their blank stares, and John's rigid posture only served to heighten his suspicions. Something wasn't right. As he reached for his magic to incapacitate the two, however, he heard a few whispers and suddenly felt himself unable to move his body or open his mouth. John's body was even more rigid with concentration. The binding was quite strong, and it was going to stay that way. As the magician half-closed his eyes in concentration as he tried to find weaknesses in the binding, his mind exploring the invisible coils that held him, he was slapped. Hard. The magician looked up. His face instantly paled. Standing in front of him was a man he had never hoped to meet in his entire career. While no picture of the man existed, the black rose held lightly in-between the man's thumb and forefinger were more than enough to identify the stranger. Only one operative was known to use a black rose as a signature; The Wraith.

"If you promise to behave, I will have you released." The magician nodded fervently. The pressure around his body and mouth disappeared.

"You're ... you're the Wraith," the magician said slowly.

"Indeed," Eragon replied.

"You're ... younger than expected."

Eragon smiled. "You're never too young," he replied.

"But you look like you've barely passed into manhood, if you have at all!" the magician protested. Eragon said nothing, his posture relaxed, his face calm and his eyes impassive. The magician gulped audibly. It wasn't a good idea to antagonize the man who held his life in his hands. "What do you want with me?" the magician asked softly.

"Your name is Aran," Eragon said, "And you are a member of Galbatorix's spy network which goes by the name of the Black Hand. In your possession at this moment in time are all of the Black Hand's records, including a list of all of the Black Hand's operatives, a list of all of the Black Hand's past missions and most importantly, a list of all the contacts the Black Hand has. Please give them to me."

Aran hadn't really been listening, although the friendly request at the end had nearly thrown his concentration. He knew there was only one reason the Wraith would come looking for such a lowly Black Hand operative such as himself. Aran also knew that he was more scared of Galbatorix than the Wraith. Every member of the Black Hand was handpicked and briefly tutored by Galbatorix himself. Their loyalty was above reproach. Aran knew that even if he wasn't dedicated to his King and his nation there was no way he would betray the King. He had given his word – in the Ancient Language. And right now his vows were forcing him to act. The records he was keeping safe for his superiors were a sign that he might just be moving up the ladder. He would never betray that. And so as the Wraith asked him to hand over the records, a pre-set spell suddenly exploded out of Aran. It would kill the Wraith instantly but at the cost of knocking Aran unconscious, so great were the energy requirements. Aran was a relatively weak magician, purely in terms of strength, and therefore so much energy expended at once was more than his body could take. The deadly spell was silent. It did not even create a wind. There was suddenly an orb of light surrounding the Wraith. It was glowing orange. It contracted into small ball, taking the Wraith's body and life with it. It then dissipated into black ashes onto the floor. Aran smiled as he blacked out. He thought he could feel something at the edge of his mind but he ignored it. He had killed the Wraith. The records were safe. Everything would be alright.

When Aran was unconscious, Will, the other patrol magician who had been standing beside John started going blurry. A second later the spell that had been cast on him by John – and the reason why John had seemed so rigid and full of concentration – was lifted. The man Aran had killed was the real Will. Eragon felt no emotion over Will's death. This was business, after all. People died all the time.

Eragon had invaded Aran's mind and quickly perused everything it held. He went over to a blank wall and slowly pushed a seemingly solid portion of it. It moved an inch before there was another sound in the room. A portion of the floor unlatched to reveal a secret compartment. In there was a small wooden chest. In the chest was the booty, so to speak. Eragon smiled. It was time to move to the final phase of his plan.

"Come, John," Eragon commanded. "We have to copy every record and replace everything as it was in the next hour." After that Eragon would wipe his influence from John's mind and plant false memories. It would leave him very weakened but it was necessary. Having the world believe he was dead would give him a reprieve, maybe for a year or so, depending on how long he decided to stay in retirement, in which he could relax before going back into the business. He had a lot of books to catch up on.

XXX

Eragon approached the campsite silently. There were five Plainspeople, twenty Empire soldiers and a tall slim man. The man was dressed in black, had crimson hair and eyes, and wore a large black cloak that seemed to be made from shadow. Eragon's heart sank. Knowing what this man was, it wouldn't surprise him if the cloak was made from shadow. The man was a Shade. He would also be Eragon's first target. Eragon knew his wood lore and he was confident he could get close enough to the Shade to incapacitate him. He wasn't the first man to think this. But Eragon had no choice. Brom owed him money and until he was paid, he had no option but to risk it. Eragon slowly made his way around the clearing until he was behind the Shade. He took firm hold of the bow he had taken from a fallen Plainsman, one of the two he had incapacitated after he had destroyed their ambush, and notched an arrow. He was a hundred feet away, a safe distance away from the Shade. He pulled the string. He aimed. He fired.

The arrow flew fast and low. The Shade heard it coming and dodged to the right, but it was too late. The arrow struck the Shade in the back of its head and came out the front with barely any reduced speed. The Shade staggered. It could feel its body Dissipating. It looked behind, hatred etched onto the features. Eragon let fly another arrow, intent on getting its heart, but before the arrow got to it the Shade got a brief flash of his face as it staggered round to face him before it suddenly burst into vapour and disappeared. The arrow passed harmlessly through a haze of shadow and thudded into a tree trunk.

This distraction had been all that Brom was waiting for. He uttered a spell and the soldiers and the Plainsman fell down to the ground unconscious. Eragon ran to Brom and whistled. He'd had no idea Brom could perform magic, and that was some impressive magic. He'd have to revise his analysis of Brom's abilities. But Brom had paid the price. The toll of the spell and the fact that his mind already felt abused from the Shade's attempts to get into his mind added up to an unconscious Brom. Eragon grunted and picked up the man and threw him over his shoulder. Eragon started walking. He was joined a few minutes later by Brom's noble white stallion. Eragon put Brom on the horse before climbing up behind the man. After taking his supplies from his dead horse, Eragon rode away from the place.

XXX

Brom woke up two days later. He was groggy and he had a headache. He looked around. It was night. He was in a cave. His horse was tied deeper into the cave.

"You're finally awake."

Brom turned his head slowly in case it was still feeling delicate. It was Eragon. Brom shivered on the inside. The sight of this boy who wasn't even a man and yet was an accomplished assassin sent shivers down his spine. No child should have to live that kind of life.

"How long was I unconscious?" Brom asked.

"It's been two nights," Eragon replied. "That steed of yours is a wind demon. We managed to clear the Plains this morning. Right now we are camped by the edge of Du Weldenvarden. Ceunon is a few leagues away; we are north-east of it." Brom nodded. He felt weak. It reminded him just how old he was. A century previously that little spell wouldn't have fazed him much. Now it knocked him unconscious for two days. But then again, Brom reflected, a century ago I had a dragon. He heaved a sigh and stood up. There was a fire away from the mouth of the cave and a pot was stewing nicely over it. Brom took a deep breath. It smelt good. He helped himself to some food, and by some it was the whole pot. Eragon was glad he knew about how magic worked, and the effect it had on the body, otherwise he would have just cooked normal portions.

"Thank you," Brom said when he was finished.

"No problem," Eragon said, his lips quirking upwards momentarily. Brom dismissed his observation. He must have been seeing things. Certainly his head felt like it was in the mood to be seeing things. "But now there is the matter of my fee." Brom looked at him hard. Eragon continued regardless. "I'm not going to ask you who you are to have a Shade and Empire soldiers looking for you, but the fact of the matter is that I saved your life. On top of that the Shade saw what I looked like. I am effectively in the Empire's bad books. The Empire happened to be my primary employer, or at least its citizens. I am now jobless and a public enemy. I think it's fair to say that my fee has tripled."

"Tripled!" Brom exploded. "I don't have that kind of money!"

Eragon shrugged. "Find it or I go to the Empire with a peace offering – your head." Eragon's voice was cold. The threat wasn't an empty one. In truth Brom didn't know if he could kill Eragon to save his own life. Eragon would put up a very big fight. And then there was the fact that Eragon had been smart enough not to meet Brom with the information. Eragon alone knew where the information on the Black Hand was. If Brom made a move Eragon would die with the information, making Brom's efforts useless. Brom was still tired. Using magic at this juncture was suicide.

"Fine," Brom grumbled. "You'll get your money."

"Good," Eragon said. He took out a phial from a pouch that hung round his waist and rested against his right buttock. He threw it at Brom. "Drink up," Eragon instructed. Brom did not question Eragon. He instantly realised this was some antidote to a poison that had undoubtedly been in the stew. That explained the brief smile that had been on Eragon's lips. Brom had been thanking him for a meal that would ultimately kill him! So even if Brom had won against Eragon and managed to extract information from the boy's head, Brom would still have died before he could make use of it. Smart boy, Brom thought. It's a shame he's not on our side. We could use an operative like him. Things are getting desperate for the Alliance. Only five Dragon Riders are left to oppose Galbatorix, but at the moment they are too busy helping the Alliance fight the Empire's soldiers and keeping the Alliance's domains free from spies and enemy magicians. Eragon has the Power. I can sense it. He is already a great fighter. With training he could be a great magician as well. He could be a very valuable asset. Too bad he isn't interested in joining a cause.

"So when am I going to get paid?" Eragon asked.

Brom sighed. "I need that information now so I can pass it on to my comrades," Brom started explaining.

"Ah," Eragon interrupted. "So you're with the Varden, then? I wouldn't have pegged you for a freedom fighter."

Brom ignored him. "So the only place I can get that kind of money would be-"

"-With the Elves," Eragon finished, his tone sounding surprised, a rare tone for Eragon. Eragon looked hard at Brom. "You're serious, aren't you? You can actually go to the elves and they will welcome you? Last time I heard the Alliance was falling apart. Something to do with the elves…"

"Where did you hear that?" Brom asked sharply. Eragon did not reply. You did not live long in Eragon's business by disclosing sensitive information. Brom let out a breath. Sometimes he forgot that the twenty year old boy in front of him was an accomplished assassin, spy and general-purpose mercenary. "It's true," Brom admitted, not wanting to make Eragon suspicious by lying. People like Eragon had to learn to detect lies or they didn't live long. "That Shade who attacked us, Durza, captured an elf while she was on a routine mission in Du Weldenvarden. The only way that could happen would be if there was a leak in the Varden, and so the elves have cut off all contact with the Varden until the situation is rectified and the elf's fate is known. However I ... I have ... a special status with the elves. They will not ignore me."

Eragon raised an eyebrow. Something told him Brom wasn't lying. He suddenly smiled. A chance to be in the Elven Kingdom was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"Very well," Eragon said.

"We leave immediately," Brom said standing up. "Remember this; the elves never had much interaction with humans in millennia past, and Galbatorix's betrayal only served to increase this chasm. Some elves don't have kindly feelings towards humans, whom they have deemed untrustworthy unless proven otherwise. They will not be very warm towards you; they will be polite and maybe even charming, but they won't trust you. So for your sake, please don't take it personally."

"My sake?" Eragon asked.

"Yes, your sake. Most of the stories you have ever heard about elves are true. The weakest elf could easily overpower a strong human. They are faster and more agile than you could imagine and tire slower. Fighting them will only result in defeat. Be courteous and don't lose your temper, no matter what happens." Eragon frowned before slowly nodding. Brom stood up and put his cloak on.

"So where exactly in the Elven Kingdom are we going?" Eragon asked.

"Why, Ellesméra of course," Brom replied.