Hello again, my friends!!! How are all of you? I'm so sorry for not updating in so long! I've been really busy, you know. Anyway, here is Chapter Nine. This one I'm not so proud of, but hey. Also, this will the last time I update without sending to a beta. Sorry, requim17 and chupacabrita. Can you two please open up a connection to me so I can send you the next chapter ASAP? Thank you.

Disclaimer- I own diddly. Duh.

"I wish we could get one thing strait, Senator- I am not a traitor. I was never on your side. I am what is called the enemy. -(Count Dooku, Karen Traviss's The Clone Wars)

Chapter Nine: The King

For how long he sat in that cell, Eragon didn't know. Hours, days, weeks, years? Time had no meaning in the black pit below Uru' baen, where faint torch light that slipped under doors was the only light and meals were given irregularly. Eragon was dimly aware of someone grabbing him and dragging him off his rough cot, freeing him from his chains but keeping his hands bound. He was pushed forward quickly, into the dim lighting. After so long in near blackness, even the muted red glow seared his eyes. He screwed them shut to block out the pain and stumbled forward, weak and confused. Since he had attacked Tariku, he had been fed a drug every few hours- days- weeks, to keep him from regaining enough control of himself to do something like that again. So Eragon lived in a constant blurred state, vaguely aware of voices and light and people who sometimes visited him and talked over him.

"Keep moving, prisoner!" Someone behind Eragon snapped. What felt like the blunt end of a spear thumped against his back, adding another bruise to his growing collection. His side throbbed painfully, the wound still puckered and red from an inadequate healing. All the minor wounds had been erased by some magician, except the side wound and the burns on his hands. Shortly after waking up, Eragon had discovered, after much hazy inspection and muted pain, that his hands had been horribly burned during his fight at his old farm. The details were fuzzy, so Eragon couldn't even guess when he received the injury.

"C'mon, move!" Another irritable voice grunted.

Obligingly, Eragon stumbled forward again, slowly opening his eyes in the dull light. He could see a blurred image of a long corridor, roughly hewn from a kind of thick, layered gray rock. Iron doors marched down the corridor on either side, illuminated by evenly placed torches. Moans and screams of pain echoed all around Eragon. Guards tramped all around him, at least a dozen, surrounding him with razor sharp spears and even an archer. The entire place reeked of blood, death, and pain. Each patch of wall seemed slippery, as though they were painted with the blood and tears of all who died down in the blackest of hells, the King's dungeon.

Eragon stumbled along, weary and confused. However, it seemed movement was the cure to the drug. With each labored step, some of that fog lifted away, but he was still hazy.

"What do you think the King's gonna do to 'im?" One of the guards asked a comrade. "Torture 'im? Kill 'im?"

"Naw, the King'll prolly force 'im into service, like he done to Pa and that Murtagh fellow." Another said wisely, his spear butt clattering against the floor. The rasp of a hand running over an unshaven face grated against Eragon's ears, adding to his headache. Pain throbbed through his body, making him wince and stumble.

"Hey, watch it!" The first soldier complained. He shoved Eragon ill- temperedly. "This is the mighty Dragon Rider? My great- uncle Bjorn' d make a better Rider 'n 'im!" He spat irritably.

"Hey, don't take him lightly." A new voice warned. Through his haze, Eragon saw a young, smooth face and dark eyes in the shadow of a helm, framed by blonde, shaggy hair. A boy stood in soldier's armor, his face set grimly. "He fought off Murtagh before, and the Ra' zac, and those new Riders that the King made." He said matter- of- factly.

"Aw, c'mon, Jarn, you're lying!" One of the many guards said. "Look at 'im! He can barely stand, let alone fight off monsters like those people."

"That's Captain Jarn to you." Jarn snapped. "And I am telling the truth. Ask old Relkin, he'll tell you what I just said."

The firelight no longer stung Eragon's eyes and with each step he took, some of the drug melted away. After sitting in the cramped cell for so long, Eragon welcomed the chance to move about and stretch his sore muscles. He continued to listen to the soldiers' conversation, curious about the man named Relkin.

"Old Relkin? Naw, he's crazy!" One of the soldiers laughed. The stone corridor slanted upwards abruptly, climbing for several feet before reaching another prison corridor, this one well lit and less imposing. The walls were a nice, clean tan color, streaked with other layers of stone. The cell doors were wooden and no moans and cries of pain slipped out from underneath them. The mass of guards hustled Eragon through the corridor and up another slope, into a hallway draped with moth- eaten tapestries depicting ancient battle scenes. One had a depiction of a man on a sea- green dragon, lightening spilling from his hands and the dragon's maw, lashing out at thousands of faded soldiers below. Eragon shuddered and turned away.

The hallway had once been a huge, life- filled place, but now it was disused and forgotten. Eragon, even in his half- drugged state, could detect remnants of magic here. When the elves had lived in this place, it must have been a dining hall of some sort. At the end, a huge, glorious tapestry dominated the stone wall, an age- old battle woven expertly with thousands of colors of threads. The picture on it was clear, despite being ancient and in terrible condition. The sky on it was storm- split and ragged, trailing off into the tattered threads. Bare trees groped at the sky like so many claws and men fought on the ground, slaying each other with colorful splashes of crimson. Above a huge black dragon opened its maw in a soundless roar, lashing out with black flame at an attacker, a white dragon with white flames dancing on its jaws. Eragon blinked, feeling nostalgia sweep over him. That battle seemed terribly familiar, but Eragon couldn't place it.

"Keep moving." Jarn ordered. Eragon blinked, surprised, and turned to face the smooth- faced captain. The other guards had departed and a new, slightly more polished regiment marching in from somewhere beyond the forgotten hall to take their place. Jarn had a solid grip on Eragon's arm. More coherent than before, Eragon opened his mouth to address the young captain.

"I'm in Uru' baen, aren't I?" He said softly. His throat was raw from not speaking for so long and his stomach gurgled softly.

Jarn looked Eragon over quickly, a furgitive curiosity in his eyes. The new guards were still a ways off, the first few only just entering the hall. "Yes." He breathed.

"Where are you from? You sound like a Teirm man." Eragon said pleasantly, shaking his head to further clear away the drug. He felt strong, but magic still eluded him. If he could convince this guard to like him, then maybe escape wouldn't be impossible.

"Yes, I'm from Teirm." Jarn replied warily. "What does it matter?"

"Nothing much." Eragon confessed. "I have a friend from Teirm; Jeod Longshanks, a merchant. Know him?" The captured Rider resisted the urge to scratch his bound wrists and focused intently on Jarn. The young man's face was scarred over his nose and his left ear had a knick in it, no doubt from battles

"Longshanks? Aye, I met him once." Jarn said shortly. His face was bitter with the memory. "My brother joined one of his merchant crews to escape being taken to the army. Never saw him again."

"I'm sorry." Eragon said humbly. He remembered talking to a man in a tavern about Jeod's disappearing ships. Martin, or some other. Brave men had lost their lives in the Empire's raids on Jeod's ships.

Jarn looked curiously at Eragon, but didn't say anything else as the new guards swiftly approached. "Sir!" He saluted to a tall man in bright silver armor.

"At ease, Captain." The new soldier said curtly. "Is the prisoner still drugged?"

"AS far as I can tell, sir." Jarn replied smartly.

"Dismissed! North Guard, form up!" The soldier bawled loudly.

"Sir!" Jarn saluted and retreated swiftly, vanishing back down the prison corridor. Eragon watched him go in disappointment. Something about the captain intrigued him. He could feel a hint of power lurking under his smooth face, a trace of long- forgotten magic. Jarn could be very useful in the future.

"C'mon, prisoner." The new soldier snapped. "The King is waiting for you in his throne room." He nudged Eragon forward and took the lead, marching stiffly out past the beautiful tapestry and up into yet another hall of smooth stone. After a time, the walls made with single, huge slabs of rock gave way to gray blocks of stone that lined up smartly, their dark surfaces orange in the torchlight. Eragon could now see where the original castle stopped and the new castle began.

Up and up Eragon and his guards climbed, spiraling higher and higher. Eragon was sure he was hundreds of feet up in the air, but when he managed to glimpse out a window at the gray world outside, he was only a few feet from the ground. He caught sight of a darkened sky and inky streets that swirled with shadows and armored men. Then his guard swept him away again. They continued to climb, going up staircase after staircase and through dozens of long, dark gray hallways, walking for what felt like miles to Eragon's slightly sluggish mind and tired, aching limbs. The stimulus seemed to be getting rid of the drug, however. After walking for several more minutes, the tight formation turned inwards and began to navigate through a perplexing maze of bleak hallways and grand rooms decorated with paintings and carvings of all sorts of people and beasts. The rooms became grander and grander as the soldiers escorted the captive Rider further into the heart of the Empire. People dressed elegantly in fabulous clothes turned away and muttered under their breath unhappily.

"Why does he insist that such lowly filth be dragged through the noble's quarters? I mean really, there are perfectly accessible servant hallways in this place." Grumbled a man dressed in long green robes, his hands encrusted with jewels.

"I suppose His Majesty wants to display his prize." Said another, a man in knee- length breeches and a fine silk tunic. "I know I would."

"But he's dangerous." A woman simpered. "Look at him! He's one of those rebels, the Garden, or something."

"You mean Varden, milady." A less- drastically dressed man said. "Yes, and he is a Dragon Rider to top it off."

"And a farm boy, from what I hear." Muttered the first man. "Imagine that, a lowly little farmer becoming a Rider! At least that Murtagh fellow has noble blood."

"And the common sense to use the other passageways. It is truly appalling that His Majesty would let those beetle- men tramp him around through the higher folk. Someone ought to have a word with those soldiers. Tariku, perhaps?"

The nobles' voices faded away as his shining guard led him even deeper into the heart of the palace. Eragon kept his eyes focused ahead, focused on the terrible feeling that was spilling from the center of the palace like blood from a deep wound. He could feel it now, pressing down on everything it touched with its powerful black strength.

Eragon shuddered in disgust and unease. He instinctively knew what waited beyond the huge double doors at the end of the hallway. The King, the betrayer, the murderer and exterminator of Riders, Galbatorix. With a loud bang, the leader of the soldiers rapped on the door and announced his mission; to deliver Eragon Shadeslayer to Galbatorix. There was a muffled response, followed by a low creaking, and the mighty doors swung inward.

Trepidation filled Eragon's heart. Without magic, he had no chance of standing against Galbatorix. The King would rip open his mind, discover his true name, and then force him into service. The Varden was doomed.

The North Guard marched stiffly into possibly the largest room Eragon had ever been in, aside from the magnificent chambers in Tronjheim. Two walls were draped in elegant black curtains, hiding doors behind the thin sheets of silk. A third was a huge map of Alagaesia, with green marking the sprawling reach of the Empire, red marking Surda, the Beors, and the Hadarac Desert, and blue coloring Du Weldenvarden and the blank space beyond the Beors. Eragon eyes it curiously. The fourth wall was another curtain, but this one was made of stifling velvet. In the center, a lone throne made of knotted, gold- painted wood dominated, intricate carvings detailing fantastic creatures.

"Leave us." A deep, rich voice resonated from the throne. The hairs on the back of Eragon's neck stood up uncomfortably. That was the same voice that had spoken from Murtagh's mouth over Gil' ead, when Oromis and Glaedr were killed.

"So, Dragon Rider, what do you think of my palace?" Galbatorix said. The throne was positioned so Eragon couldn't get a good view of the man in it. "The original palace was sung from living stones by an elf whose name is long forgotten, before the Riders were created. Illeria was a beautiful place once, but then a great earthquake struck the city, causing the ground to slowly start sinking into the earth. Bit by bit, the grand palace sank lower and lower until the Great Hall of Tapestries, which I'm sure you passed, was under the ground. Gradually, the elves and humans added level after level to the sinking castle. The delightful dungeons were you have spent the past few weeks were once part of the chambers of the visiting dignitaries. I have adjusted them, of course, but still. Those cells are thousands of years old. I myself have added to my castle over the last century. Now it is the tallest building in Uru' baen. Interesting, don't you think?"

Eragon remained silent, warier than ever. The history of Uru' baen and its dark castle didn't really matter to him. He was sure Galbatorix was trying to lure him into a false sense of security. Murtagh had told him that the Black King liked to do such things. To Galbatorix, it was a game.

"Ah, my young, misguided friend, you have caused me quite a great deal of trouble." Galbatorix continued, heedless of Eragon's silence. His tone was that of a parent gently scolding a child. "From killing Durza to foiling all my attempts to bring the Varden to justice, you have managed to successfully repel all my attempts to….. enlighten you."

"Enlighten me?" Eragon said incredulously. "Your servants killed my uncle, chased me and Saphira all across the Empire, killed Brom, drove my cousin from his home, and destroyed my village. Your armies killed many of my friends and you forced my brother into forced servitude. What did you mean to enlighten me about? The ways of murder and treachery?"

"I see Oromis and Brom have left their mark on you, my bold young Rider. Both so very defiant and brave." King Galbatorix commented from his chair. "Complete fools, of course, but I admire their resolve." From the throne, a tall, broad- shouldered man rose, garbed in neat, fine black. He turned so that he was facing his captive, and for the first time Eragon saw the face of his enemy.

He wanted to flee. Every fiber of his being screamed out a warning to run. The Black King was not maimed or ugly in any way, but he carried a sort of burning presence in his eyes and voice. He was all glorious in his finery, with strong features and curly dark hair, but his presence was so dark Eragon wanted to flee, to hide himself away from this blackness and curl up there, safe from all the pain in the world. Fire dark and black swirled behind the King's eyes and in his voice, spinning wildly, madly, an all- consuming inky inferno. Eragon had never wanted to be somewhere else more than he did in that moment. Galbatorix looked to be in his late thirties, still young and strong despite being over a century old. His dark eyes burned with bright fire, commanding Eragon's attention. Without even invading his mind or casting a spell, Galbatorix had captured Eragon. He held the young Rider in place with his eyes alone, pinning him down like a helpless child or a deer caught in Saphira's jaws.

For several long moments, Eragon and Galbatorix looked at each other, and then Eragon was on his knees. Something tore into his mind, ruthlessly stripping away the weakened defenses and plunging deep into his thoughts. Frantically, Eragon tried to conjure up an image in his scrambled mind, something to focus on and use to drive away Galbatorix. Memories of Roran, Arya, and Brisingr flickered through his conscious, but they were all swept away under Galbatorix's ruthless probe. In a desperate attempt to regain control, Eragon seized his first memory of Saphira.

He saw the lines in her tiny body, the tinted hues in her scales. Her wings beat awkwardly against the floor of his room and she scrambled around, sniffing everything she came into contact with. Once more Saphira ate from Eragon's hands and curled up next to his head, her gentle humming filling his mind and heart… and then Galbatorix was gone.

Gasping for breath, Eragon doubled over momentarily. His head throbbed even more than it had earlier.

"Well," said the Black King, a slight snarl in his voice, "it looks like you will offer a little more resistance than your brother. Why do you fight so hard? Is serving the greater good such a bad thing?" Galbatorix's voice was suddenly like honey, thick and warm.

"What greater good?" Eragon managed to rasp disdainfully.

"Ah, foolish child, the greatest good of all. Peace." Galbatorix almost sang. His sweet words dripped over Eragon, slipping into his ears and poisoning him from the inside. "The Varden is disrupting the peace I have brought to the Empire with their misguided wars. The elves and dwarves rally to the Varden's cause and destroy the dwellings of good, honest people. Crops are burned, citizens of the Empire killed. I have devoted my life to bringing peace to Alagaesia, and yet the Varden wage war against me, tearing apart my fragile land. Isn't peace the greatest good of all? The Varden are agents of chaos and destruction, eager to sow distrust and bloodshed. For nearly a century, Alagaesia has lived in peace. Why do you fight for the Varden, my young friend? As a Dragon Rider, you must understand that those outcasts will only bring chaos and slaughter."

Eragon shook his head, struggling to shake off the poison words. His head ached fiercely and Galbatorix continued talking.

"Imagine a world without bloodshed, my young friend. The rebellion has ended and Surda has joined the Empire. The dwarves and elves flit through the markets, happy to have allied themselves with us. At last, there is peace and contentment." The King's voice was like velvet, smooth and soft. "No one starves anymore because there is no shortage of land. The Spine was been removed, its cursed shadows no longer falling over small villages. The Hadarac desert has become an oasis with the help of the Eldunarí and the Empire's borders have extended to the edges of the known world. Urgals have been eliminated and great fields of crops run throughout the land. The ports are overflowing with traders and merchants; the people are happy. And to govern the glorious Empire, we the Riders sit at the head. Can you see it, young Shadeslayer? With the help of your Saphira the dragons have returned, thriving and expanding. Tariku and his half- dragons are yours to command. You lead a new era, an era of peace and prosperity. Do you see it, Eragon?"

In his mind's eye, Eragon saw an image born from Galbatorix's sweet, honeyed words. He and Murtagh stood on the walls of Teirm, watching serenely as soldier after glittering soldier marched by, bringing food and money into the city. The homeless and the impoverished scrambled eagerly for the fallen bits of food, only to be surprised when each was handed a loaf of bread. Thorn and Saphira circled high above, roaring in time with each other. The half- dragons stood in the wall's shadows, watching faithfully. Elves and dwarves mingled with humans, bringing their unique goods to the rich markets. Little dragonlings flew low over the buildings, their happy Riders shouting and laughing below. Peace. Contentment. The city was bathed in golden light, beautiful and serene.

"Ah, now you see. If you serve me, this peace can be attained." Galbatorix sang. "Teirm is now completely barred to all outsiders, the result of your cousin's attack on the city. The people are slowly starving. When the Varden falls, their gates will open again and food will flow through the streets. Come now, my young friend. You must see that as part of the Varden, you destroy the delicate peace that the people of Alagaesia hold so dear. But at my side, you can restore peace. Become a savior instead of a murderer." The Black King's words seemed to hum and sing with life of their own, filling Eragon's ears with pleasantness and warm thoughts.

Remember Saphira. He told himself sternly. And Roran, and Nasuada, and Arya. They fight for the Varden. Galbatorix lies, he always lies. He tricked Murtagh and Vrael and killed the Riders. Liar, liar, liar. But something in his mind wasn't working correctly. His thoughts were all jumbled and disoriented, crushed and shoved away until they were fuzzy and hazy. It was almost like he was drugged again.

"Will you join me, Eragon Shadeslayer?" Galbatorix asked quietly. "Will you help me end this terrible conflict and bring peace?"

Eragon wanted to agree, to sing out his acceptance and immediately spring up to stand at the King's side, but some small little voice in his head disagreed.

He is a liar, Eragon. Don't listen to him, don't fall for his traps. The thought spoke with Brom's voice. Liar, liar, liar. Eragon shook his head in confusion. Half of him wanted to flee and hide, the other wanted to join Galbatorix in his glorious mission…

"Well, boy?" The King asked, his tone deceptively friendly.

Liar, liar, liar. Eragon chanted. Liar, liar, liar. His head pounded viciously, threatening to overwhelm him. His wounded hands burned like fire as they pressed against the stone floor and his side ached. He hurt all over.

"Just give in and the pain will stop." Galbatorix promised gently.

Liar, liar, liar. Eragon wanted to curl up and be left alone or to jump and release his pent- up strength, fighting until he finally succumbed to exhaustion. Galbatorix's voice was still speaking, poisoning Eragon further and further. Liar, liar, liar.

Finally, Eragon couldn't take any more. "No!" He roared. And the spell was broken. The sweet, honeyed words were gone and the terrible burning was back.

Galbatorix snarled in rage, seething beyond Eragon's vision. He hissed something unintelligible that snapped across the air and smashed into Eragon like a whip, opening his chest and spilling crimson. He reeled back, still dazed and agonized. He fell, his vision blurry. A pair of black boots marched towards him, but he was already gone.

"There will be peace." The honey- voice whispered as Eragon saw black. "At my side, you will bring peace."

Liar, liar, liar.

Well, here it is. I'm really tired, so I won't rant, but please tell me what you think! I did Galby quite nicely, insane and scheming- like. Review!!