Gil'ead is a hungry city for many reasons.

It is a military fortress, stern and imposing and stony on the plains, rising up to halt the flood of elves on the march from the great forest up north. It (apparently) has a very large prison that men go into and never come out of again.

It is full of ordinary people caught in the conflict because they have no means to leave. The poor and destitute beg on every corner, accepting or stealing whatever sustenance come their way.

It is a corrupt city. The military turns a blind eye to whatever they do not care about or do not wish to deal with. Crime flourishes among every strata of society.

Can cities have true names?

I wondered that as Thorn circled above the dark city, preparing to descend. If so, then this city's name would be Uvlad letthpre'yir –the devouring city.

An apt name, because it's about to devour me.

Thorn dropped sharply, coming in for a landing. My arms tightened around Murtagh, and my stomach dropped. I couldn't help thinking of that dark prison that swallows men whole. With a huge gust of wind, scattering dust, sticks, leaves, trash, and people, we landed in a round courtyard made of black stone. Soldiers stationed all around gave us goggle-eyed stares, but did not come forward. Dragons weren't really things to mess with, after all. Murtagh hopped effortlessly off Thorn (and managed to look good while doing it). I pursed my lips, tried not to think about my unwashed hair and body, and scooted carefully down Thorn's front leg. A muttered word from Murtagh, and a slim cord slithered from a saddlebag and bound my hands in front of me. I gave him a dark look but didn't say anything; cords were better than shackles, and I would be getting those soon enough.

A tall man in a red robe started down the long flight of stairs towards us at a slow pace. I wasn't sure whether he was trying to be imposing, or if he didn't want to trip over his hem, or if he was wary of Thorn. I suspected all three. Murtagh went over to him and acknowledged the man's bow. The important looking man spoke for a moment or two, and then without warning, Thorn took off. I shut my eyes against the dust raised by his wings, and then froze, feeling vulnerable in the middle of the courtyard without a dragon by my side.

Murtagh and the tall man made no notice of me, but I began to feel eyes from the darker corners of the courtyard. The disquieting thing was, the eyes belonged to soldiers. And soldiers probably had keys to the dungeons.

I began to feel afraid. Murtagh, get your bloody self over here, I thought, feeling nearly desperate.

The tall man glanced away from Murtagh to make a flapping hand gesture, the sort that said, run along and sweep this problem under the rug. The soldiers were moving.

"What is this?" a soldier asked, smiling. "A Rider's prisoner. And a wench at that."

"What makes her so special?" another asked, coming up from behind me.

"I can imagine," a third said. I was being surrounded.

"Get thee gone, blackguards," I hissed, using the high language of the aristocracy in a last-ditch effort to scare them off. "Knaves do not speak to Ladies."

"Oh, so she's a lady," the first said. He seemed to be a rank above the others, maybe a lieutenant. His eyes were dark and lecherous, promising evil. Bile churned in my stomach.

"A lady? In breeches?" one asked, and I remembered exactly what I was wearing –hardly proper attire.

"He must like them wild."

"Think he'll share?"

"She goes to prison," the Lieutenant said, noting my bonds. By now, they were only a foot away, and I was frozen to the spot with no expression on my face. I was abandoned, and I was going to what felt like death. "He doesn't want her anymore." I steeled myself as he grabbed a lock of my hair. "Gorgeous," he muttered. "If you play nice, I promise not to put you down in the dark."

My eyes betrayed my thoughts –I'd like to murder him. It occurred to me to try to break into his mind and control his thoughts –something I'd never ordinarily do. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

My spearhead hit a wall, and it wasn't a wall of his making. Their sorcerer must have put walls around the soldiers' minds, I thought angrily. My last hope was gone. "Do. Not. Touch. Me," I said with as much venom as I could force into my voice. If looks could kill, he would be rapidly cooling six feet under. I wasn't going without a struggle.

"I don't answer to you," he growled, and roughly grabbed my arm to start the process of dragging me to my doom.

"But you do answer to me," Murtagh said, in a voice that I had never heard before. It was very, very furious. All the soldiers froze, and it took me a moment to realize that it was due to magic. "And I say that you unhand the lady." He pulled me out of the frozen lieutenant's grasp. I stared at him, memorizing his face, unable to process what was happening.

"I thought –I was being sent to prison," I whispered.

He turned his black gaze onto me, and the anger turned into incredulity. "Do you really think that I would leave you at the mercy of these…" he searched for a word that would describe the soldiers, and couldn't find one strong enough to suit him. "Oh, Aeneid." Suddenly his arms surrounded me and pulled me to his warm chest. My sharp intake of breath gave me a whiff of his unique smell –smoky, with the tang of metal and dragon thrown in. I relaxed into his arms and let my head rest on his chest –if my hands had been free, I would have hugged him back. I closed my eyes –and listened.

Aeneid-
–almost lost you-
-couldn't bear it-
-I've got you-
.

I had a gift. I could enter minds with ease. I could see how people really are, inside. I could understand.

His guard must have slipped –just for a moment. But a moment was all I needed to hear the truth –and to see –and to understand.

Murtagh loves me, even if he might not know it yet.

And I wasn't sure what to do with that.

This room was very posh, even though I was accustomed to large manors and opulence. I suppose Dragon Riders got the very best. I sat in a chair and watched the fire flicker as Murtagh explained to the man in the red robe (he was at the door of the room, and apparently he was the Governor of Gil'ead) that I was his prisoner, and he would contain me and supervise me as he saw fit. There were also a few veiled warnings about what would happened with anyone who tried to mess with me. Finally, he shut the door and came over to me.

"They'll be bringing food soon," he said.

I nodded.

"Need anything?" he asked.

"Why are we here?" I asked, letting my red-gold hair veil my face from sight.

Silence. Then, "The Elves are marching on Gil'ead. They're preparing for war."

"You're going to fight?" I asked, and my voice cracked.

"Yes," he said.

"Why?" I asked heatedly. "What did the elves ever do to you? For that matter, what has the King ever done for you?"

"I have no choice," Murtagh hissed, and his voice was suddenly hard.

"There is always a choice," I said, turning to look him straight in the face.

"No," he said. "Not for Thorn and me."

I lifted my chin, steeling myself, making sure it didn't wobble. "Alright then. Why?"

"He knows our names."

"What?"

"Galbatorix. He knows our true names. We have to do what he commands. We're more or less slaves. We can't resist." His voice faded into a whisper.

In a flash I was on my feet and in front of him. "Yes, you can!" I said. "Don't you see? Don't you see if you just… if you just let yourself…"

His dark eyes hardened. "I know what you're going to say. It's impossible."

"No, it's not!" I shouted. "Listen to me!" I took a deep breath. "You're a slave because he knows your name, your true name, the name that sums up just exactly what and who you are in the ancient language. So change it! Be some other name!" I trailed off, looking desperately at him. "So change it."

"You make it sound so easy," he said, laughing hollowly, avoiding my eyes.

"But it is," I whispered.

"How can you know that?" he demanded.

I stared at him, the man that I –that I – oh, with his dark hair and pained eyes that looked into me, captivating me from the moment I met him. I knew his brokenness; I knew his secrets; I knew… I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered his name quietly into his ear. "Don't you see it now?" I asked. It would be so easy…if only he would realize…

He stared at me with disbelief written all over his face. "Aeneid…" he whispered. Then he backed away from me.

He backed away.

I reached out, but he was gone.

And before I could stop myself, I was crying.

He was nearly running through the hallways toward the temporary dragon hold where Thorn was. His brain wasn't computing. She knows my name; she knows my name… fear gripped his heart.

Thorn picked up on his tension as soon as he entered the room. What is it? He asked.

Aeneid knows my true name, Murtagh said, placing a hand on his dragon's massive neck for support. She can make me do whatever she wants –to free her- I'll be caught between her and Galbatorix in a massive tug-of-war, and Galbatorix will win –he always wins –and he'll kill her–

Murtagh, Thorn said firmly and loudly.

Murtagh blinked and stared into his dragon's great red eye.

Do you really think that that is the sort of person Aeneid is?

Murtagh said, that's what any person would do–

A flash of memory whizzed past his eyes: Aeneid laughing as her sword spun in her hand, Aeneid staring him straight in the eyes when everyone else looked away… "But I'm not just any girl. I'm Aeneid."

Thorn gazed at him evenly. She's not like most people.

Murtagh stared vacantly at the wall, feeling all the protestations come down on him, urging him to disregard this… but he couldn't. Because it was Aeneid. Beautiful, wonderful, spunky, determined, opinionated, fiery, honorable, good, Aeneid –and that made all the difference in the world.

But he had left. He had walked out. How could he face her? Can I stay here? He asked Thorn. For tonight? I don't know what to do just yet.

Of course, Thorn said.

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