Thank you so much for the tons of awesome reviews! I love them! I'm so sorry that I've been so delinquent in updating. Thanksgiving stuff got in the way, and on top of that I just started a new job. I'm adjusting to my new schedule, so in a bit things should be back to normal. Aes Dana, you hit the nail right on the head. So, in a way, this chapter is for you. Enjoy!

VVVVVVVV

Murtagh stared into the enormous floor-length mirror, examining every detail of his reflection. He had thought that readying himself for the night's events would have taken him only a few minutes, at first, but now hours had passed and he still wasn't certain that he was ready.

Bathing, washing his hair, and shaving his face had all been relatively simple tasks, but what had ground him to a halt was his choice of clothing. Ever since he had been abducted and sworn into Galbatorix' service he hadn't bothered about how he had looked, but for some reason tonight he had come to care again.

His and Thorn's usual quarters had been in the Citadel atop Urû'baen, but even after this long time that area was still quarantined. He and many others had been relocated to some of the abandoned buildings in the lower rings, which were by no means any less grand, but the nobles who had lived in the upper ring had thrown an absolutely horrid temper tantrum when, for their own safety, Nasuada had forbidden them to return to their homes until the poisons from the explosion had been fully cleared.

The pair of rooms he now shared with Thorn were made of grey stone marked with age, and had one window each: one elegant one in the form of an archway that stood at Murtagh's bedside, and another in the form of a gaping hole that had been blasted through the outer wall by a catapult. It was a near-perfect place for a dragon and rider to live, with plenty of room for Thorn to fly in and out. Thorn lay curled in the adjoining room that was now open to the evening sky, watching Murtagh quietly, his wings folded and his sides gently rising and falling like a sleeping cat's. That room had once been for entertaining guests, Murtagh assumed, but as all of the furniture had been completely demolished by whatever boulder that had slammed its way through, Murtagh had cleared the debris away to give Thorn a place to lay while he got ready.

Murtagh's focus didn't leave the mirror. One of the excellent things about these arrangements had been the enormous walk-in closet containing all manner of fine clothes. That was part of what had taken him so long, along with whatever desire that for some reason now pushed him to look his best for tonight.

He had selected a red shirt that fit tightly across his chest and yet had billowing sleeves, with black cuffs, a silken ruff of similar coloring wrapping around his neck, and black lining at the bottom seam. He wore black boots that folded over just before his knees, and, tucked into them, tight-fitting black leather pants stitched on the outsides in a crisscross pattern with dark grey leather strips. Over his shoulders he had thrown a dark brown, sleeveless robe, then had exchanged Zar'roc's battered belt with a silver-plated one, belting it on over everything at his waist. He wore fine black leather gloves on his hands, and for his right forearm he had found, stuffed away in a chest that had been hidden in a corner of the closet, a purely decorative, lavish bracer made of silver with gold accents, in the shape of interlocking and twisting leaves.

Murtagh frowned, examining his reflection from his boots, to his glittering sword, to his head, then snorted and stepped back into the closet.

What is wrong now? Thorn sighed.

It needs… something here, said Murtagh, tapping his chest. He went back to the chest of valuables in which he had found the bracer, and began searching through it again. Before long he had found the perfect addition to finish off his outfit – a shining silver, coin-shaped pendant that hung from a thin chain. He tied it around his neck, ran his hands through his hair to free any pieces that the chain might have caught behind it, and stepped out of the closet.

Well… how is this? Murtagh asked. He spread his arms, letting Thorn look him over. Thorn's eyes wandered over him, and then he nodded.

You look good, he said simply. She will be pleasantly surprised, I think,

Murtagh frowned, dropping his arms.

She?

Thorn chuckled and didn't answer.

Murtagh shook his head and strode over to Thorn, climbing up his foreleg and settling himself comfortably in the saddle.

Hurry, we don't want to be late, he said. Thorn turned around and looked at him with a single golden eye, raising his scaly eyebrow.

You are telling me to hurry?

Murtagh pursed his lips and remained silent, then Thorn fluttered his wings, let out a huff of air, and leapt out of the hole in the wall, spreading his wingspan to its full length in the free sky and spiraling downward to the main square.

The assembled crowd gasped as Thorn magnificently descended, his fiery scales sparkling in the setting sun as his talons thundered down onto the stone. As soon as Thorn was settled firmly on the ground, Murtagh raised his leg, twisted, and hopped down from his saddle, landing lightly beside Thorn's foreleg, Zar'roc clanking at his side and his hair flying about his head before coming to rest again on his shoulders. He quickly ran a hand through it to settle it back down.

The square was bedecked with strings of garlands that arced over the heads of the party guests, and streamers that waved in the breeze. In preparation for the coming night, dozens of torches shimmered on pikes that were scattered around the area. An enormous stage, the same one that Nasuada had spoken on before, sat in the center of the square, and upon it stood a gilded throne of dark wood accented with gold. Humans, elves, dwarves, Werecats and Urgals, all in their finest dress, had assembled in the square, creating a tableau of vibrant reds, golds, greens and blues as they stood and talked. For a moment, though, everything had become still and silent as they stared at Murtagh and Thorn. Most faces were cold as stone as they looked upon him, either blank and without emotion, or haughty and filled with anger. It was obvious that, though Eragon himself had honored him, the Varden still did not want him around. Murtagh swallowed.

A piece of the sky flared like sunlight on a polished sword. Everyone's eyes left Murtagh and Thorn and turned to look as it morphed Saphira, sparkling like shining jewels as she descended. A wave of awe and… something almost like amazement… flowed between Murtagh and Thorn at the magnificent sight. Murtagh shook his head, ignoring Thorn's thoughts for a moment as Saphira swept down from the skies, flapping her wings as she landed and sending currents of speeding air wafting through the square, ruffling dresses and cloaks and messing up the women's hair. Murtagh smiled and shook his head, casting his thoughts in their direction.

Couldn't let me have all of the attention, could you?

Saphira shuffled her wings and folded them at her sides as Eragon dismounted, the light from her scales casting blue patterns across the courtyard floor.

I have no idea what you are talking about, said Saphira. Eragon smiled briefly.

Eragon and Saphira approached the stage that stood in the center of the square. The nobles of the court and the people of the Varden quickly parted ways, some even looking down in deference. Eragon nodded to them, then mounted the stage. Saphira was right behind him – the boards of the stage creaked loudly as she stepped upon it. Eragon came to stand on the right side of the throne, and Saphira next to him, leaving the other side for Murtagh and Thorn.

Murtagh took a deep breath, then stepped into the midst of the crowd.

All eyes turned from Eragon and Saphira to him. He felt Thorn's familiar stride rumbling behind him and took comfort from the sound, trying to ignore all of the eyes and murmurings that surrounded him. Though none were openly hostile, very few of the assembled people expressed any friendliness toward him. Eragon and Saphira watched him from their place on the stage, waiting.

Murtagh hopped up onto the stage, his boots clomping on the wood and Thorn joined him, his talons making scratches on the once-smooth surface. Murtagh came to stand on the other side of the throne, though he stood further back than Eragon did. It was Eragon who would be crowning Nasuada, after all.

The sun set on the horizon, bathing the sky and the city in the colors of fire, and somewhere a massive gong was rung. All talking ceased, and every eye turned to the direction of the ruined citadel.

Nasuada emerged from the nearest street, flanked on either side by her Nighthawks. All were impeccably dressed, though they still openly wore their weapons. Even the Urgals looked more refined – their ribbed horns shone in the torchlight, as though they had been waxed. Nasuada wore a dress of royal purple with slits in the sleeves to reveal her scars from the Trial of Long Knives. A train of white, long fur that waved like tall grass as she walked fell from her shoulders to drag on the stone behind her, trailing for ten feet. Directly at her side walked Elva, dressed in a gown of simple black – Murtagh had advised Nasuada to keep Elva as close to her as possible, and it appeared that she was doing just that.

The ceremony was simple, but all the better for it. Nasuada approached the stage and walked up a set of steps that rose to the throne. Murtagh suddenly found his breath catching in his chest as he looked at her. Her honey-brown skin was clean and without any makeup or ornament. Her eyes were warm, yet full of focus, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail lined with an intricate net-like pattern of braiding. She smiled at him.

A dwarf from Orik's clan appeared at Eragon's side, holding a golden crown on a scarlet pillow. It had been fashioned by the dwarves themselves, since the Crown of the Broddring Kings had been destroyed in the explosion. Set in the metal glimmered precious jewels, which had been given by the elves from their belts and their swords.

Nasuada knelt before the throne, her train falling behind her like a white river over the stairs. Eragon stepped before her and gently set the crown upon her head.

"Rise Queen Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad and Nadara," he said in a ringing voice. Nasuada rose, then turned to face the crowd. Polite clapping by the nobles was immediately drowned out by the deafening cheers from the Varden. Murtagh found a smile creeping to his lips, and he absentmindedly brushed a hand along Thorn's foreleg as he looked at Nasuada. Her white train was exchanged for a cape made of red satin, and she slowly lowered herself onto the throne.

King Orrin knelt before her and swore his loyalty; he was followed by King Orik, King Halfpaw, Lord Däthedr, and Nar Garzhvog, who each in turn promised friendship from their races.

Murtagh saw a sparkle of tears in Eragon's eyes as Eragon looked upon Nasuada, sitting regnant on her throne and accepting the vows of friendship. Murtagh's chest ached at the sight. It seemed impossible that someone as just and good as Nasuada now ruled the Empire, that they would have a chance for true peace. Galbatorix had controlled Alagäesia for so long, Murtagh couldn't even begin to imagine what life would be like in the future.

Soon after the ceremonial fixtures ended, Nasuada rose from her throne and the assembled crowd spread out into the square in preparation for dancing. Murtagh saw Eragon and Saphira quietly leave the stage and settle themselves in a corner of the square, Saphira lying down and Eragon lying on her foreleg, looking out to the crowd with his arms crossed. In the opposite corner, a band of musicians raised their instruments and began to play a lively tune on their lutes, harps, and flutes. Murtagh lowered his head and followed Eragon's lead. While Nasuada was busy greeting some of the nobles who had deigned not to dance, he and Thorn slipped off of the stage, wading their way through the crowd, and settled alongside Saphira and Eragon, taking up a large piece of ground in one corner of the square.

The dancers touched hands and spun around each other, weaving in organized circles, stepping forward and stepping back, talking eagerly all the while as the music echoed across their heads, bouncing off the stone of the surrounding walls. The torches smelled of ash as they crackled all around, casting their warm glows over the party like dozens of miniature campfires and making thousands of dancing shadows to accompany the real figures that moved on the dance floor now.

Murtagh's muscles still felt taut and nervous around the strangers, but now he knew that, for some reason, he wasn't the only one. He didn't need to have an empathetic connection to Eragon to know something was wrong. Eragon sat with his arms folded, staring into the crowd with a completely blank expression, and Saphira was curled so that her head could be near his, like a mother hen shielding her chick from some outside threat.

Murtagh remained silent, looking out at the crowd. The musicians began to play a slower tune and the dance changed, but he paid it little attention. He simply tried to lose himself in the shapes and colors of the spinning dancers, trying to shrink away from the world.

The dancing couples before him suddenly paused in their twirl, as did dozens of others nearby, and the talking in this area of the party quieted. Murtagh looked to them, his eyes narrowing.

The crowd parted to reveal Nasuada herself, more beautiful and resplendent than any other human, dwarf, or elf, stepping past each couple as they bowed or curtsied to her. Her crown sparkled from where it sat among her braids and her violet gown shimmered like liquid metal in the torchlight. Eragon rose from Saphira's foreleg as she approached him, and he nodded to her.

"Your Majesty," he said quietly. Murtagh stood upright and gave her the same greeting. A gentle smile graced her lips and sent a glimmer to her eyes.

"You need not defer to me, Dragon Riders. It is I who honor you - as well as you, Thorn and Saphira," she said, looking up to the dragons.

Thank you, Nasuada, said Saphira and Thorn in unison.

Both riders nodded, then returned to their former positions, Eragon on Saphira's foreleg and Murtagh leaning against Thorn's. After a moment, Nasuada came to stand between them.

The three were quiet for a long while as they listened to the happy music and watched the dancing, cheerful chatter murmuring beneath the music's flow as the couples talked amongst themselves. Multiple times Murtagh spotted women glancing over to Eragon in an almost hungry way, and once or twice he thought a couple of them even looked at him with interest.

He quickly dismissed that as impossible.

Nasuada bounced a little on her toes and folded her arms behind her back, concealing them beneath her red cloak.

"There are many couples dancing," she observed.

Murtagh nodded.

"Yes."

They were quiet again. Nasuada glanced at him, then back at the crowd. Suddenly it seemed as though Eragon and Saphira had become invisible, and tension hung in the air like a taut bow between Murtagh and Nasuada, a tension that he couldn't identify. Things had felt so simple during the war. There were friends, and there were enemies. Now that the war was over, things had become complicated – now the actions at a dance and the silences that stretched between two people had become vital matters.

Say something, Thorn whispered.

Like what? Murtagh asked.

Try… the obvious?

Murtagh frowned and glanced up at Thorn with his eyes, raising an eyebrow.

Sometimes you don't make any sense.

Sometimes you are thicker than a Feldûnost, Thorn retorted.

"I have an idea of dancing tonight," said Nasuada, breaking the silence again as she continued to look out to the crowd. "but there are few that have the courage to dance with a Queen. Orrin certainly won't do, he is still injured. And I doubt Lord Däthedr would be an engaging partner."

"Hmh," said Murtagh.

Did she roll her eyes?

She snorted.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow at her, realization slowly beginning to dawn on him.

"Nasuada," he said quietly, turning to her. She turned towards him, her eyes flashing in the flickering torchlight. Her face seemed close, so close that everything else faded into the background – it was all he could see or think about. Her brown eyes stared into him, inviting and warm.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Do you… want to dance?"

There you go, idiot, Thorn grumbled in a patronizing voice. Without taking his eyes from Nasuada's face, Murtagh punched him in the foreleg and Thorn grunted. Nasuada gasped in surprise, then laughed.

"Thorn, are you talking about me?" she scolded, looking up at him with amusement dancing in her eyes. Thorn shuffled the weight on his shoulders, almost like an excited dog, and looked away aloofly.

No.

Nasuada laughed again, and Murtagh smiled a little. For a moment he thought he heard Saphira's rumbling laughter joining hers.

"Yes, I would very much like to dance," Nasuada answered. She held out her hand, her purple, silken sleeve slipping down her forearm like water. He gently took it and found himself stepping away with her. He looked only into her eyes, ignoring all the thoughts of everyone around him even as they openly stared at him.

Let them stare, he thought.

Then - it seemed to be by fate's instrument - a new song began.

A gentle drum pounded a complicated cadence and the low strings played a repeating pattern.

Eyes locked on her, Murtagh stepped forward and touched a raised hand to hers. Her skin was cool and smooth against the calluses of his palm. They gracefully stepped in a circle around each other, their palms touching, as the joyful harp began to sing over the crowd. Everything was silent except for the music. Murtagh felt many eyes on him, but looked only at her. Her eyes and skin shimmered in the torchlight.

They stepped away from each other for a moment, then stepped forward again with a bow. The flute joined the harp, intoning the same melody, as though a songbird had joined in.

Murtagh's thoughts suddenly fell away like water from an overturned goblet. He stared into her eyes as they danced, her irises reflecting the firelight and the splashes of color from others' clothes as they spun. The two switched their stances, grasping both hands, one hand above their heads and the other at their chests, entwining as they spun, their faces close.

It was simplicity. Nothing else mattered in the world. Nasuada held the key that had at this moment unlocked his steel cage, freeing him to look upon her for as long as he wished, memorizing every curve of her face, the lines of her nose, the almond shape of her eyes. The frantic pace of the flute, harp and drum shimmered on the air, making his heart pound as he looked into her eyes, the world around him fading into a blur as they spun.

They pulled away again, their hands still clasping one another, and ceased moving.

The world was still.

The silence began to press on his ears. The music had stopped.

And then his peace was rent like a knife slashing through a curtain.

Nasuada's once-happy face flickered with sudden concern.

It wasn't simplicity. It was impossible.

Murtagh looked around. People were watching him. They were always watching. He could read their subtle glances like words inscribed on canvas.

And how could he have let himself be this stupid?

Murtagh's lip curled and his nose wrinkled.

He turned away from Nasuada without a word and strode back to Thorn. She called after him. He ignored her as he would ignore the wind. Thorn was raising his head in alarm.

Murtagh?

Let's go, he said quietly. He stepped onto Thorn's foreleg, but Thorn pulled it away, making him stumble backwards.

No, he said quietly. He sent Murtagh a jumbled message of feelings and images. The way he had looked as he and Nasuada danced. Thorn's desperate desire for him and Murtagh to be happy. An ironclad certainty that Murtagh needed her.

Stop, said Murtagh, closing his eyes and raising his hand, as though trying to block the images.

The square remained as silent as death. Everyone was watching him. He could see Eragon looking to him, a worried look on his face, and Saphira was the same.

"STOP LOOKING AT ME!" Murtagh screamed out, his voice reverberating off of the stone. Everyone behind him jumped.

"Murtagh," Nasuada murmured behind him. He felt her approaching footsteps.

Fine. Don't help me, he growled at Thorn. He whirled and stormed away from the square.

I will not help you wound yourself, Thorn whispered in his mind.

Murtagh ground his fingers into his skull, closing himself off from everyone and everything as he disappeared down a side street. After a few long moments after he had vanished from the sight of the partygoers, he heard the distant echo of the music starting again.

He walked straight to the wall that separated the second level from the upper ring.

"Audr!" he yelled. In mid-stride he shot into the air, his cloak flapping behind him and his hair plastered to his skull, flicking the back of his neck, as he soared a hundred feet into the sky, the surrounding buildings shrinking as though the ground was falling away. The rushing wind was almost icy on his face, making his eyes water. He took a step forward at exactly the right moment and his toe met the top of the wall. He continued walking as though nothing had happened, disappearing among the unlit, shadow-filled streets of the empty upper ring, desperately trying to hide from fate's poison.

VVVVVVVV

The party slowly resumed after Murtagh left. Eragon remained where he was, sitting on Saphira's foreleg and leaning back against her flank. Nasuada had left, crossing the square and coming to stand by Lord Däthedr. Thorn was in exactly the same position as before, as though Murtagh was still standing next to him at that very moment. There was far too much going on. Things seemed even more complicated now that Galbatorix was dead.

At least Murtagh was given the chance…

Eragon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drive the thought of her from his mind. But even if he had managed to succeed at that, he could never have banished it from his heart – it literally ached, and he could not think of anything that could cure it. Anything except for-

Stop it, Eragon snapped at himself.

Shhh, Saphira said soothingly, lowering her head to him. I'm sorry, Eragon.

It was my fault.

Saphira was silent.

Eragon tried watching the party, losing himself in the dances, or in watching the mingling members of the Varden. He saw old friends – the men of Carvahall dancing with their wives, or with new acquaintances. After a long while of trying to ignore the unbearable throbbing in his chest, Eragon spotted Roran and Katrina dancing together, circling around each other with their palms touching as the harp and flute rang out over the crowd.

After the dance had finished, Roran and Katrina bowed to each other, laughing, and then Roran spotted Eragon. Roran raised a hand, and Eragon waved back. Taking Katrina's arm in his elbow, the two of them weaved their way across the dance floor.

"What are you doing sitting up here by yourself, Eragon?" Roran asked. "You're the most sought-after bachelor in the whole kingdom!"

Eragon chuckled sadly.

"The only partner I would consent to dance with would accidentally clear the dance floor with one sweep of her tail."

That I would, Saphira snorted, if you could ever get me to dance. Which you couldn't.

Eragon was silent, and Roran's expression grew serious.

"Katrina?" he said quietly, placing his hand on hers where it rested on his elbow.

"Of course," she said quietly, nodding, her red hair swaying a little, and she stepped away to join a small circle where Elaine and Horst stood talking with a pair of dwarves.

"Saphira, do you mind?" Roran asked, gesturing to the empty spot on her foreleg next to Eragon.

Saphira shook her head, and Roran sat.

The pair were quiet for a long moment. Eragon felt Saphira begin to quietly begin a conversation with Thorn – something about Ellesméra.

"What has happened?" Roran asked quietly. Eragon kept looking dully out at the crowd. Now that some of the men had begun to retire from the dance floor, more and more women were left without a partner, and many of them were looking to Eragon, obviously hoping that he would ask one of them.

"Arya left," Eragon answered.

"Ah."

Roran was still. He looked down at the floor.

"I had heard that she wanted to return in order to attend her mother's funeral," said Roran.

"Yes, possibly," said Eragon. "And also to take the third egg to the elves."

"Then I don't understand."

"She and I have been through so much together, Roran," Eragon said heavily, turning his gaze to his cousin's. He touched his fingers to his forehead. "I… I have always loved her."

"I know," Roran said with a nod. Eragon stared at him, lowering his hand.

"Am I still a blithering idiot when it comes to her?" Eragon demanded. Roran quickly shook his head.

"No, of course not. You've changed a great deal."

Eragon sighed and leaned forward, pressing his palms into his eyes and running his hands down his face.

"She left without saying goodbye."

"All right, I cannot stand it any longer!"

Eragon jumped and looked up. Standing before him was Angela the Herbalist, wearing an orange dress that shimmered when she moved, and a simple brown belt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her hands were on her hips, like a mother scolding her child.

"You are going to dance with me, right now," she stated.

"Angela, I'm-"

She grabbed Eragon by the wrist and yanked him to his feet, pulling him away from Saphira and Roran before he could argue. She towed him to the dance floor, jumping in in the middle of a song, and they began to dance.

"I've been wanting to talk to you, but hadn't got the chance lately," said Angela. The dance was much simpler now, a simple, slow one designed more for conversation than for the dance itself. They grabbed each other's hands and Eragon raised his, letting her spin underneath it.

"What about?" Eragon asked quietly, watching her.

"Oh, this and that," said Angela with a glittering smile. "Wondering what you've been thinking about since you killed the King."

"I… I don't know."

"You don't know what you've been thinking?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Eragon sighed. He was not in the mood for her games.

"I have not been thinking of anything that I wish to share."

"Well, that's completely different!" she exclaimed. They stepped toward each other, their palms touching, then stepped back. Everyone around them was doing the same step in time with each other and the music, moving in and out of each other with precision, like an undulating patchwork quilt.

"I've also been wondering what you are going to be doing now that your quest is done," Angela continued.

"I don't know that either," Eragon answered.

"You are not being very fun," she commented.

"I have not been having much fun lately."

"Oh? Why is that?" She asked as she spun under his arm again, her hair whirling about her head and brushing against the sleeve of her dress.

Suddenly Eragon was struck with a memory and he turned an irritated gaze to her.

"You know, I do not think your prophecies were correct."

Angela gave him a look of genuine surprise.

"Really?" she asked. "Which ones?"

"You said that I would have an epic romance with a princess – Arya. At this moment, it looks as though she's disappeared back to Ellesméra and I may hardly ever see her again. I did not know that one person falling in love with another and being constantly… denied was considered an epic romance. At all."

Angela rolled her eyes.

"Are you dead yet, Eragon? I did not give a timeline for this 'epic romance' aside from that."

Eragon frowned, a miniscule glimmer of hope forming.

"You mean-"

"I mean nothing," Angela cut him off sharply. "I mean exactly what my prophecy said."

"Well, what about your other prophecy?" Eragon asked as they turned sideways and circled each other. "About me leaving Alagäesia forever?"

"You will one day leave Alagäesia forever," Angela said with a shrug.

Eragon stopped dancing. He turned to her, all lightheartedness gone.

"You are serious?" He pressed.

"Prophecies are never funny," she said, gazing back at him with a small twitch in her lips.

"And prophecies are always fulfilled?" Eragon asked.

"Usually always, except when they're not."

Eragon blinked, then shook his head in anger.

"I think I am done dancing," he fumed though his teeth. He turned and left the dance floor, stepping up to Saphira.

…feel completely at home with the elves. One day soon, I do believe I will show you Ellesméra and Du Weldenvarden myself.

I would like that, Thorn rumbled warmly.

For a brief moment Eragon noticed that the two of them were paying rapt attention to each other as they talked. But as Eragon stepped closer Saphira noticed his presence.

What is it? She asked, turning to him.

Nothing, said Eragon quietly. Angela followed him from the dance floor, her arms crossed and her hands covering her elbows.

"You make no sense to me, Angela," said Eragon, sitting down on Saphira's foreleg again.

Angela flashed him a grin.

"Good."

Eragon looked down at the stone floor.

"Your words are nonsensical. Why would I leave and never come back? Will something force Saphira and I to go?"

"It isn't my job to interpret prophecies, I just give them." Eragon shook his head and looked up at her, amazed.

"Who are you, Angela?"

She smiled and turned away, looking back at him over her shoulder as she left.

"Not even Tenga knew who I am, Dragon Rider."

And she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Eragon to stew with a single, unanswerable question.

VVVVVVVV

There you go! A longer chapter to make up for the delay. Review please, even if it's just two words. I answer them all personally!

Also, here's the song that Murtagh and Nasuada danced to!

www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=1PuIYDyOwc8