A:N - I had a dream two nights ago. A dream in which I was part of this tale. It occurred because I had been re-reading the entire story. Both things have since convinced me it is time to return. Forever. In preparation, I've fixed every error/typo I could find in previous chapters, and improved upon syntax. Fasten your seat-belts, folks... we're off again.

Chapter Ten – Joining of Two

'The Empire is clearly in worse condition than I had imagined previously,' Brom said, as they pressed onwards.

They left Daret behind, and travelled south along the Ninor River. To their left, the water shimmered gently and reflected the sunlight with glass-like smoothness. Harry thought about what Brom had just said. The people of the land clearly depended on the Empire for protection against enemies such as the Urgals, but that did not appear to be forthcoming. It merely reinforced his view that the king cared not one whim about his subjects.

'Why doesn't Galbatorix even care about his own domain?' Harry asked curiously. It was most unusual, even for a tyrant.

Brom shrugged. 'He probably thinks himself above them, and just doesn't bother worrying about the common folk and peasants.' Brom lit his pipe, a renowned habit of his, and looked thoughtful.

'Did either of you attempt to read his mind?" Harry asked. 'Trevor, I mean. I completely forgot to try.'

Eragon shook his head, whereas Brom nodded. Harry raised his eyebrows at Brom with interest, prompting yet another lecture.

'Both of you could do with a good clattering across the head,' he sighed. 'How many times do I have to tell you to be wary of strangers? What if he had been plotting an ambush? Your inability to act could have cost you your lives!'

Eragon was rather taken aback at his ferocity. 'I don't like the thought of intruding upon another's privacy,' he shrugged. 'In any case, why did you ride into town if you didn't trust him?'

Brom pointed his pipe at Eragon in a threatening manner. 'The first rule of warfare is to trust no one, not even the man standing next to you in battle. If you want to survive, that's what you have to do. I didn't trust Trevor. I merely realised we were surrounded and decided to talk my way out of trouble. Being clever helps, you know,' he said wisely, putting the lit pipe back in his mouth.

'How can I tell if somebody is attempting to read my mind?' Eragon asked, breaking the momentary silence.

'As you are a magician, you'll always be able to tell,' Brom explained. 'Stopping them from doing so is another matter. You have to erect barriers around your mind, which requires a huge amount of concentration and technique to master. Only a few people are able to do so for an extended period of time.'

Harry, who already knew this from his brief time with Brom in Carvahall, ignored the majority of their conversation. Instead, he found his mind beginning to drift, a common action of his over the past few days. He knew Brom and Eragon thought he was crazy. He didn't know how, but just knew. They didn't believe him, as though they hadn't seen Riddle themselves.

Perhaps they didn't see him… maybe I am going crazy after all…

'You're not going crazy.'

Harry blinked, and then sighed to himself. Great, now his mind was telling him he wasn't going crazy? That was a direct oxymoron if ever he had seen one before. If losing his memory was a result of Voldemort's curse, then maybe so too was this vision of Riddle. He had thought, many months ago, that the Portkey had been a tame curse due to his relaxation in Carvahall, but maybe this was its true extent now beginning to appear.

It had seemingly trapped him forever in Alagaësia, an idea he had recently started to consider as being quite attractive. But now, losing his memory? It had to be a trick of Voldemort's, one which would ensure his "paradise" was never realised. Still, he believed that Riddle was real, whether the others did or did not. He had seen the creature himself, and that was enough by way of proof.

'I am not part of your mind.'

Harry froze, whilst Godric continued to trot forwards. He looked at Brom and Eragon slightly ahead of him, seeing that they were still engaged in conversation. He closed his eyes.

'Who are you, then?' Harry asked, aware that this "voice" had breached his mental barriers with no discernible effort. It wasn't Riddle. Of that much he was certain. And it was a male speaking, so it wasn't Saphira.

'I am one who can help, Harry Potter. You are losing your mind, but not to insanity and not through any curse. The creature is real, and he has stolen a part of you.'

Harry started. 'S-stolen? You mean he took my memories?' he asked, feeling outraged.

'Yes...' the voice responded softly, allowing the word to wash over the young wizard. Harry shuddered at the feeling.

'Can I get them back again?' Harry asked hurriedly.

This time the voice seemed to hesitate. 'It is possible... but difficult.'

'Why is it difficult?' he asked stubbornly. He didn't know who this person was, but for some reason he felt relaxed and trusting towards the presence.

'It is difficult because the creature is strong, and you must kill it to regain your mind as a whole. Until you do, you will continue to lose yourself as it grows in strength. I can help to slow down the process.'

'How?'

Harry didn't know how he knew, but the voice smiled, if that made sense. 'I can never contact you like this again... I am too weak. You must find me, Harry Potter, so I can do more. Until you do, I give my strength to you, to help fortify your mind. But that is all, I am afraid...'

Harry felt something like raw power wash over him, and he gasped as he mind seemed to solidify by itself. The feeling was simply breathtaking. It was as if they had joined together... he felt powerful enough to rip a mountain apart with his teeth, and yet...

'Who are you? And why are you doing this?' Harry asked carefully.

'I am one who waits,' came the reply, sounding fainter than before. 'You must find me, or I shall never be free...'

The voice seemed to die away, until Harry "shouted": 'Wait! Tell me your name before you go!'

There was a brief silence, and Harry feared he had missed his chance. But then:

'...Fírnen.'

Murtagh breathed a sigh of relief as he reached Myros' house in Gil'ead. It was a stately home situated beside the lake known as Isenstar. As was typical with most of the Empire's cities, the richer inhabitants lived on the higher tiers, away from the slums below. Murtagh had been careful not to draw any undue attention, but it was a close thing. There were too many people who would recognise the son of Morzan, and he was now a wanted man also.

In fact, coming to the city had caused him many internal debates. On the one hand, the possibility of capture was much higher than in the countryside, but on the other... well, he needed to find transportation and an emergency food source. Since the small supply boat had been on course for Gil'ead originally, that was his choice. He had disguised himself in old, ragged travelling clothes and had purposefully grimed his appearance with mud. The effect made him look like a poor farmer, and had gained him entry without much trouble.

Once inside the large city, however, he didn't head straight for his friend's house. There would surely be guards watching each and every possible entrance, aware that he was the father of Tornac. So he had waited two days after arriving, in which he spent his time residing in a local tavern. It wasn't much to look at, but that was precisely the deceptive countenance he had been aiming for. It was always better to stay somewhere hidden in plain sight, as any assassin could amount to. It was much less likely that guards would search such a downtrodden place, especially as it was one of their own resorts.

That had also been a ploy. The guards frequently visited the establishment, singing the praises of the innkeeper for his low food and ale prices. If Murtagh stayed there, he would mislead the guards into thinking that he had nothing to hide, and they would hopefully leave him alone as a result. And so he stayed there, socialising with the men of the Empire once he was confident of not being recognised. It often gave him information regarding the king's movements, particularly when he paid for their first round of drinks. The room was cheap, the ale was good and the mutton was satisfactory. It would almost be a peaceful existence, were he not constantly aware of having to keep moving someday soon.

Now, however, he decided that enough was enough. The guards had told him everything they knew about the army, the king himself – which wasn't much, of course – and his own status as a fugitive. It was time to visit Myros and pay his condolences, before calling in a favour he was owed.

And so he sighed in relief as he arrived beside the ornate wooden door, grateful that he had not passed any patrols on the way here. He cleared his throat and sharply knocked on the door twice. A second later, he knocked four times, three at the top and one near the bottom.

A few seconds passed, before the door was flung open and he was ushered inside. Myros had recognised their secret knock of old, thankfully.

He looks terrible, Murtagh thought. The old man was approaching fifty, but that wasn't the reason for his haggled appearance. He must have known about his son. He sported bags under his eyes, accentuating the wrinkles on his weather-beaten face, and his mop of grey hair appeared to be thinning slightly. He did not smile, but shut the door hastily.

'So, you've returned,' he said stiffly, folding his arms and frowning deeply.

Murtagh eyed him curiously, hoping he wasn't about to get punched. 'Myros, I'm so sorry. I've mourned Tornac every day since he was killed, but you have to believe me: it wasn't my fault.'

Myros snorted in disbelief and shook his head. Silently, he turned around and picked up a smooth cloth from the stand beside him. Murtagh slowly followed him into the kitchen, where he proceeded to begin drying the cutlery he had just washed.

'Tornac knew what was at stake,' Murtagh said gently. 'He understood the risks, and was willing to take them. If it helps... I tried to dissuade him from joining me.'

Myros froze and turned to face him, glaring. He picked up a nearby glass and threw it onto the floor beside him, smashing it into tiny fragments. Murtagh didn't blink or recoil, expecting such an action.

'That's what I think of you and you... condolences,' he spat. 'You're lucky I hate those bastard guards as much as you do, else I'd be telling them where you are right now.'

'You can blame me if you want,' Murtagh said lowly, staring into his haunted, grey eyes. 'But I promise you it wasn't my fault. If I didn't leave the king would have had me slaughter hundreds of innocent people. Children!' Murtagh said, raising his voice significantly. 'Tornac didn't want to be part of that either, so he almost begged me to take him along!'

Myros shrugged and continued to his task, ignoring the glass at his feet. Murtagh gritted his teeth in frustration.

'That doesn't change the facts,' he said simply. 'My only boy is dead. Dead. Dead after helping you escape. How are you still alive, but he isn't?' Myros asked sharply.

Murtagh swallowed. 'He was caught, and I wasn't. It's as simple as that. We arranged to meet beside the main gates, but someone must have found out and then talked. He was dead by the time I got there, and I was ambushed.'

Myros looked away, and Murtagh saw a tear rolling down his cheek. His anger, although genuine, was clearly just a cover.

'You can get what you came here for, but then you're leaving. You hear me? I never want to see you again,' Myros declared.

Murtagh sighed, expecting as much. He nodded. 'Fine. I want the bow and horse I left here a few months ago, and then I'm leaving. Actually, wait,' he continued, holding up a finger. 'I need food and water to last a few days at the very least. You owe me for getting you this house.'

Myros laughed without humour, and looked down at him with evident disdain. 'And why in hell should I help you? Your bow is in the parlour there, but I'll be damned if I let you take any of my food. You've already taken my boy. Isn't that enough for the house?'

Murtagh recoiled at that, stung deeply. He exited the room swiftly and grabbed his hunting bow from its resting place beside the larder. Without another word, he departed the house, slamming the door behind him.

Growling in anger and sorrow, he walked around to the back, where his horse was resting beside a makeshift stable. He had left it here several months ago in case a situation like this ever occurred. The unnamed horse was one of war, sporting a magnificent build and grey colouring. It whinnied when it saw Murtagh, and trotted over beside him.

Murtagh gave a small smile as he patted it on the head. The saddle was nearby, so he quickly fastened it to the horse's back and got on top. It needed a name, he realised.

Murtagh hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

'Tornac,' he said quietly. 'After my good friend.'

He gently directed Tornac forwards, and began to ride towards the main gate, drawing his hood to conceal his face. It was time to leave this city, and find somewhere new.

Harry watched with interest and shock as Saphira swiped Eragon's feet out from under him, before pinning him to the ground with her talons. The horses were alarmed at her actions, and Harry couldn't blame them. She looked very annoyed.

'What are you doing?' Eragon yelled in surprise.

She growled and lowered her face to his, not blinking. Harry considered reaching out for her mind, but thought better of that idea. It was best not to antagonise Saphira when she was in this type of mood.

He watched and waited, curious as to what her problem was. He also thought about Fírnen, however, wondering just who the stranger was. Perhaps Brom would know.

Harry almost opened his mouth to ask there and then, before hesitating. Brom already thought he was going crazy. There was no way this could help. Instead, he turned back to the sight before him, and saw Eragon getting up sheepishly.

'Well?' Brom asked testily.

'She wants me to ride her tomorrow,' Eragon replied, sounding both embarrassed and slightly terrified at the prospect.

Brom smiled, his eyes twinkling at Eragon's apprehension. 'Well, you have the saddle, so I don't there there'll be any problem. Just stay out of sight.'

'But... what if the two of you are attacked?' Eragon asked, sounding unsure. 'I won't be able to-'

Saphira growled, showing her huge rows of pointed teeth, and poked him gently in the chest. Harry grinned as he realised her problem now – she was worried about him getting into trouble all the time, and was probably now saying: 'Exactly what I'm trying to tell you, little one.'

Eragon was silent for a moment, undoubtedly communicating with her. Brom and Harry were silent, allowing them their peace. Finally, Eragon consented, and Saphira flew off. Eragon gulped as she twisted and turned in the sky.

She's doing that on purpose! He thought with annoyance. This is going to be hopeless...

With a grumble, he helped the others to make camp for the night. Once that was taken care of, Brom drew his makeshift sword, and motioned for Harry and Eragon to do the same. Harry blinked intensely as Brom slowly circled the fire, keeping his distance. Without waiting for him, Harry attacked in a blur of movement.

He swung in a complex series of poses and stances, aiming for Brom's torso. He ensured his balance was kept, and eyed Brom's weapon all the while. This allowed him to not only dodge when necessary, but also watch for potential feints and quick attacks.

Brom nodded in appreciation after a few seconds of this action, smiling. 'Good! You're learning well! Both of you,' he added, as Eragon also began to attack, following Harry's example and succeeding quite well in warding off any attacks.

Brom hesitated as Harry went to swing, before pulling away. In that brief moment of hesitation, Eragon threw himself into the fray, spinning around and attacking with such force that his wooden sword snapped in half. The blow knocked Brom off-balance, and Harry took his advantage as ordered many nights ago. He swung sideways, knocking Brom's weapon out of his hands, before spinning and catching the old man straight in the face.

Brom was knocked to the ground with a grunt, and Harry hesitated. He went to help him up, but then remembered what Brom had said about 'cheap shots' and being 'wary'. Instead, he therefore raised his stick just in time to block Brom's attack from the ground, which would have clattered him straight between the legs. The old man jumped to his feet with great agility, sporting a cut under his left eye. He glowered at Harry intently, before beginning to take the offensive. Harry knew he would be overcome through sheer inexperience eventually, but was holding his own for the moment.

As Brom rained down blow after blow, he decided to try something different. Brom swung in from above, a move Harry blocked above his head. In the brief window of opportunity, he held on tightly with his right hand, and used his left to grab his wand. In less than a second he went from being overpowered to holding a distinct advantage. Brom looked panicked upon noticing his error, but it was too late. Harry quickly thrust his wand in the direction of Brom's chest.

'Expelliarmus!'

A jet of red light flew out and sent the old man to the ground once more, while simultaneously knocking the weapon out of his firm grip. Harry caught it in mid-air and stood over his opponent, more than shocked at the victory. It was the first time he had bested Brom one-on-one, or even with Eragon's help.

Eragon mirrored his expression. 'Gods above,' he muttered, patting Harry appreciatively on the back. 'Well done.'

Harry nodded in gratitude and held a hand out. Brom looked at it for only a moment, and then accepted it gratefully. He was pulled to his feet with a slight grunt from the physical exertion. Nonchalantly, he dusted-off his cloak and leggings.

'Very well,' he said simply.

'Very well... what?' Harry asked.

'We won't need these anymore,' he replied, grabbing the sticks and throwing them into the fire. 'You two have progressed so quickly it's quite remarkable... from now on, we practice with the blade.'

He motioned for them to draw their real swords, which they did quite apprehensively.

'We'll cut each other to ribbons!' Eragon protested.

Brom shook his head chidingly. 'Again you forget magic. With a simple spell the edges of any weapon can be protected. Watch.'

He quickly drew his own sword, and ran his left hand over the edges, uttering the words 'Gëuloth du knífr!' The sword's edges were dulled with a brief red spark, as he demonstrated by running his hand sharply along both edges.

'Those words... dull the knife?' Harry asked with interest.

Brom nodded. 'You may not know the Ancient Language as of yet, but I'm glad you're quick to grasp some words. Now, both of you do the same.'

It took about half a dozen goes each to master, but Eragon and Harry were able to repeat the effect with Zar'roc and Aiedail before too long. There was no visible effect, but they could tell the edges had been blunted through touch. The sword felt heavy and awkward to Harry after spending time fighting with such light sticks, and he knew it would be difficult to compensate when sparring.

'These swords won't cut us, but they can still break bones,' Brom warned. 'I don't want that to happen, so be extra careful. And you,' he said, indicating Harry, 'were very clever back there. In a real fight that would be a very smart move, but don't do it again here – we'll focus on improving sword fighting for now, and then move to magic battles later.'

Harry nodded, and with that they were away once more. This time Brom clearly held the advantage, having used a real sword for so many years. They sparred back-and-forth for about an hour, trading blows and mock insults. According to Brom, those would be useful in breaking the concentration of an enemy. After the melee had ended for the night, all three of them had large welts across their body, Harry and Eragon more so than Brom. It was a lot more intense than fighting with sticks, for sure.

Before dropping off to sleep, Eragon found himself remarking at Zar'roc's pristine quality, even after the pounding it had received. Meanwhile, Harry's last thought for the day was of the mysterious voice he had encountered earlier.

Fírnen... if it was a trick, then he wouldn't have given me his strength... But I want to know how he accessed my mind. I need to be more prepared, just in case. Quietly, he extended his thoughts towards the mind he had encountered, not knowing if he could be heard or not.

'I don't know who you are or where I can find you... but I will try.'

Harry found himself rising early the next day, but found that was too late for Brom and Eragon.

'About bloody time,' Brom muttered, looking over briefly. 'I was about to kick you awake.'

Harry ignored that and yawned briefly. 'Where's Eragon?' he asked, noting his absence.

Brom grunted, lighting his pipe. His bedroll had already been replaced for the day, something which Harry quickly tried to mirror. 'He went flying with Saphira about an hour ago.'

'Huh. Even earlier start than me, in that case,' Harry pointed out.

'Yet your early start would have you flogged in a real army,' Brom chuckled. 'Come, help me search for any sign of those damned Ra'zac.'

As the two men searched the riverbank and any surrounding trails for their quarry's footprints, Eragon was having the time of his life in the sky above. He had been apprehensive at first, but had grown to love the feeling of flying through the air in no time. He laughed aloud as Saphira increased her speed in a downwards spiral, not fearing they would plummet to the ground for an instant.

'How can you ever bear to land when you have so much fun?' he asked with giddiness.

'I must eat,' she replied with amusement. 'I am glad you enjoy it too. Does this mean we'll fly together more often, now?'

'Yes! Every chance we get!' Eragon exclaimed with excitement.

As Saphira relayed her contention, Harry and Brom found something rather unusual. They had discovered the Ra'zac's tracks near the river, but beside those were several deep gouges in the dirt beside. Neither could make heads or tails of the markings, and Harry called Eragon to help.

He landed a few moments later, looking happier than Harry had seen him in a long while.

'What is it?' he asked with cheer.

Harry pointed at the tracks, and Eragon scrutinised them carefully. He frowned, wondering what could have made such unusual prints. Eragon was about to reply that he had no idea, until his eyes fell on Saphira, who was standing nearby.

Harry followed his gaze, but then froze, realising what his friend had noticed. 'That's not possible,' he whispered. 'I thought Saphira was the last dragon in the world?'

'Apart from the king's, she is,' Brom stated. He examined the gouges carefully. 'A dragon would never carry one so foul as a Ra'zac, so they must have their own steeds. It would explain how they travel from place to place so quickly,' he said with realisation, shutting his eyes momentarily.

'Well... we can't track them through the air,' Harry stated obviously. 'What can we do?'

Brom scratched his beard absently, and then looked at Eragon. 'I have one or two ideas, but neither is likely to get us very far. This is your venture, so I'll let you come up with a plan.'

Eragon nodded solemnly and walked away. Harry paused in a moment, but then decided to follow him. Two brains were better than one. He reached Eragon just as he picked up an unusual object from the ground. Harry recognised it as a metallic flask, fit with a leather strap. He froze as he approached, noting the Ra'zac's insignia.

'Wait! Don't open that!' he exclaimed urgently, raising a hand to stop Eragon.

'Why not?" he replied, frowning.

Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure if Eragon would want to hear this, but he had no choice.

'It's known as Seithr oil. It's... it's what they used to torture Garrow,' he said quietly. 'I recognise the flask.'

Eragon stared at it with repulsion. This vile liquid had been used to torture his uncle; he wordlessly remembered the horrific burns covering his body, and felt his anger flare.

Harry clasped his arm firmly. 'Don't worry – we'll kill them eventually. And... this might help us,' he said slowly, realising something.

Eragon started. It was amazing, really – both of their brains seemed to think similar things concurrently. 'This oil must be rare, so... shipping records,' he finished thoughtfully.

Harry nodded, grinning. 'Exactly. If we can find out who traded this oil, we can trace its origin and delivery point.'

'And that'll lead us to their home!' Eragon said, eyes wide. He laughed slightly, mirroring Harry's joy, and then motioned for him to follow.

They quickly explained their plan to Brom, who smiled at their intelligence. 'I wish I had thought of this sooner. It would have saved me many a headache years ago.'

'What city regulates the Empire's trading statutes?' Harry asked him. 'There must be one main location for merchant vessels and trading caravans, am I right?'

Brom nodded, his eyes twinkling. 'I believe that would be Teirm. Saddle up, both of you... we finally have a purpose, so let's move with one.'

A:N - I'm going to start giving much fewer notes from now on, because I've begun to think they look ridiculously amateurish. However, I think I should say: I always planned this sequence with Harry's mind... I just didn't have a name before reading Inheritance.