Pain exploded across the side of Eragon's head as the werecat's bony fist struck his cheek once more, filling his already sanguine mouth with the taste of his own blood. Scattered coherent thoughts fluttered across Eragon's consciousness before flaming stars danced before his eyes, spraying sparks throughout his field of vision. Lines of fire seared across his skin as the werecat struck him in the stomach, opening several of the barely closed claw wounds carved into his skin.

Even as he reeled back, scrambling to gain his balance, the werecat continued to rain blows down on him, seemingly oblivious to Eragon's efforts to defend himself. No matter how quickly Eragon tried to move or perform one of the many unarmed maneuvers he'd seen Brom or Arya do in the past, the werecat always seemed to turn his every move against him, forcing him to overextend, lose his balance, flail at nothing, or otherwise waste his already dwindling energy. And, all too often, the werecat used his claws instead of his fists, which, in all honesty, were far less painful than the crushing blows he could have dealt, but far more deadly because of the amount of blood Eragon had already lost.

Eragon, frustrated by his inability to subdue the werecat, considered using magic against the creature. He'd thus far refrained from doing so because, first of all, he had never fought a werecat before, and he was unsure of their capabilities, both physical and magical. He had no interest in instigating a magician's duel and being utterly defeated because of his ignorance. But now, he was at the end of his patience, and voiced a spell that could kill the werecat in seven uniquely different ways.

Energy surged out of Eragon at an immense rate, alerting him to the fact that, like the Ra'zac, the werecat had wards around him that he could not bypass. Reeling from another blow to his face, he ended the spell and consigned himself to fight in the more mundane fashion.

It seemed endless, the one-sided brawl, for the werecat continually struck him, over and over, but without a particular goal. It didn't appear to be trying to kill him, but neither could it incapacitate him. The werecat might have been as fast as an elf, but it was not nearly so strong.

Still, the blows hurt.

I… really need… to work on… unarmed combat,Eragon thought during a brief lull of pain in which he managed to block four consecutive blows. On the fourth, he seized the werecat's arm and pulled it toward himself, already celebrating his victory in his mind. If it came down to brute strength, Eragon was sure he could win, and he intended to crush the life out of the creature, with a bear-hug, if necessary.

His triumph was backless; the werecat pirouetted, spun, and twisted. Eragon, dumbfounded as to what the creature was doing, exclaimed in surprise as he felt his weight shift forward, his balance leaving his control. He suddenly found himself performing a tight forward flip, upon the completion of which he was slammed harshly into the ground.

The abrupt alteration to Eragon's angle of sight brought his attention-even dazed and stunned as it was-to the fact that a Shade had also attacked them in addition to the werecat, and was fighting Arya, which explained why the elf had not come to his assistance. The knowledge that Arya was facing such a foe-one that, by all rights, ought to inspire a primal fear within her-filled Eragon with a terror of his own, a terror not for his own safety, but one of concern for Arya. Newly braced with a steel-like determination, Eragon scrambled to his feet and advanced toward the Shade, already reaching out with his mind to attack the monster.

He tumbled to the ground once more as something struck the back of his knees, taking him completely by surprise; in his fear for Arya, he'd forgotten the threat of the werecat.

Dirt filled his mouth as he crashed face-first into the ground, mixing with the saltiness of his own blood. Before he could roll over and regain his feet, the werecat settled on his back, between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place. Arya's plight still in mind, Eragon bunched the muscles in his back and stomach and launched himself up and backward, sending himself and the werecat on his back arcing through the air. His efforts were rewarded with a grunt of pain as he crushed the werecat against the ground. The creature released him on impact.

Filled with urgency, Eragon rolled to his feet, drawing his leg back to kick the werecat in either the head or side, either of which he was sure would incapacitate the creature. Still, fast as he was, the werecat was yet faster, and took his legs out from under him with a scything kick before he could complete the move. Tumbling again to the ground, Eragon, untangled his limbs and jumped to his feet, only to be sent flying backward as the werecat kicked him in the chest with both legs.

His breathe fled from his lungs with blow, causing Eragon to feel much like a gasping fish as he flew through the air. His flight ended abruptly as he crashed into a tree with enough force to shake the leaves from the branches. A sharp pain shot through his skull as his head snapped back into the wood, and, for a moment, all the world went black, a throbbing ache spreading throughout his cranium. His heart thundered as a drum in his ears.

Shifting back into focus, the world contracted around the werecat's bony fist as it sped toward his face. Eyes widening, Eragon jerked his head out of the way, narrowly avoiding the blow. The werecat's fist smashed into the tree with a small crunch, though of wood or bone Eragon did not know, and the werecat made no sound as evidence to either.

Over the werecat's shoulder, Eragon caught another glimpse of Arya and the Shade, a clearer look than he had managed before. The Shade was astoundingly tall, shrouded in a tattered black cloak that was obviously concealing a multitude of weapons, short of the massive longsword slung over his back. However armed he might have been, however, the Shade did not have a weapon in hand.

All of these details passed through Eragon's mind in less than a second, overshadowed by the greater detail of Arya's condition; the Shade was beating her. There was no other way to describe it. He was, more or less, doing to her as the werecat was doing to Eragon, except that the Shade's blows were bound to be far more powerful. Arya was reeling back from him, her face contorted in pain. The sight caused Eragon's stomach to knot as a sharp pain settled in his heart.

Eragon paid for his distraction by receiving another blow to the side of the head. Fiery stars once again soared across the surface of his eyes as the pain added to the pounding ache already omnipresent throughout Eragon's skull.

Despite the pain, a new determination, a raging anger, was forming in Eragon, the response to what he had seen.

Rolling with the blow he'd just received, Eragon allowed himself to spin all the way about, lashing out with one leg as he did so and catching the werecat across the back of his knees, sending the creature tumbling to the ground. The werecat seemed so surprised that it did not immediately react, giving Eragon the chance to bend down and seize him by the arms. Growling in pain and anger, he lifted the werecat into the air and slammed him against the tree. Bark cracked and wood groaned in protest to the abuse.

Stunned and winded by the collision, the werecat's eyes slid out of focus-but only for a moment. As Eragon drew back his fist to strike the creature, the werecat kicked him in the gut, causing him to loosen his grip and giving the werecat opportunity to wriggle free. In that short moment, the creature landed-well, catlike-on the ground and performed a spinning kick to the side of Eragon's leg. His thigh went numb with the contact, and the leg collapsed under his weight, leaving him on one knee.

As the werecat completed the turn, it directed its fist toward Eragon's throat, a movement Eragon would likely not have caught if his blood had not been surging with a furious energy. He knew that, if the blow connected, he would likely be rendered either unconscious or dead. In haste, he did the first thing that came to his mind.

"Slow!" he cried out in the ancient language, imagining the air before the werecat's fist thickening and hardening. To Eragon's amazement, the werecat's face contorted in frustration as its fist lost a dramatic amount of momentum. It did not completely stop, but it was enough to render the blow harmless, and gave Eragon enough time to regain his feet and grasp the werecat's arm. Without thinking, Eragon took hold of the surprised creature and hurled it straight up into the air.

There was a violent crack and brief shower of splinters as the werecat collided with an overhanging branch, separating the limb from the trunk of the tree. Both werecat and branch fell insensible to the ground at Eragon's feet.

Without sparing the werecat another glance, Eragon seized the branch-seeing as it was the only readily available object around that in any way resembled a weapon-and spun about to attack the Shade, who now appeared to be holding a struggling Arya by the throat. Panicking and bellowing in fury, Eragon sprinted toward them as the Shade thrust Arya into the air, growling words that Eragon-in his animal fury-could not understand.

It did not phase Eragon, the fact that the branch he held was thicker around than his arm, nor that the end of it was a splintered mess of wood, unpractical for most sorts of combat. All he knew was that Arya was in danger, and the Shade was presenting that danger.

The animal within Eragon desired only one thing; remove the danger.

It did not matter to Eragon that his new prey was one of the most deadly beings in Alagaesia, nor did it matter that he was armed with naught but a stick, whereas the Shade was armed with what appeared to be an arsenal fit for a small army. There was nothing, short of the red that tinted his vision and the gong that sounded in his ears, nothing beyond the inviting target that was the Shade's back. Still bellowing, Eragon lunged forward, thrusting the stick in front of him with all of his strength.

The Shade jerked fully upright as the branch protruded from his chest with a cloud of blood, grunting briefly in pain before his lungs punctured. Though Eragon could not see the Shade's face because of the hood he wore, he could tell it was surprised by the way it tilted its head down to the foot and a half section of the shaft of wood projecting from his breast. Groaning and gagging horribly, the Shade collapsed to his knees, dark blood cascading from around both sides of the branch. Eragon howled in triumph as the Shade's skin began turning gray, though he quieted as a dark, pulsing cloud coalesced around the monster. There was an earsplitting cry, and the Shade vanished. His cloak hung in the air for a moment more before crumpling empty to the ground, weapons concealed within clanging against each other before settling to the earth.

It was the cry that told Eragon that he'd missed the heart, though he barely processed the thought as he rushed to Arya's side. In his haste, he didn't immediately see what he should have until he reached down to help Arya get to her feet, and felt a warm, sticky substance coat his fingers.

His rage abruptly collapsed into terror as he looked down at his fingers and saw that gore now covered his skin. Looking back to the figure of the elf he so loved sprawled across the ground, he saw blood running from a terrible looking wound in her chest, saw the precious red liquid pooling on the ground about her, wasted as it soaked into the earth. Her beautiful face was white and ashen, and her emerald green eyes, usually so focused and piercing, wandered aimlessly, dull and fading, passing by Eragon's face without any hint of recognition.

There was little time, Eragon knew. There was almost no time. He knew his energy was depleted. He knew that he himself was wounded and would likely die himself of blood loss if he didn't receive medical attention soon. He knew that they would probably both be captured if he was to do what he was planning, and he knew that their capture would likely be the end of the Varden, the end of freedom in Alagaesia. He knew, by the bellows and roars echoing overhead that Murtagh and Thorn were more than likely flying directly over him. He knew all of this.

But he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was the dying woman he was now cradling to his chest.

He opened his mouth to voice the spell that would sustain her life, and likely end his own.

Two, bony hands suddenly clapped down on his neck and began to tighten, cutting off his air supply. Choking, Eragon only then remembered the werecat. Still, he attempted to voice the spell, uncaring. To his frustration, he could not get the words from his throat.

A rush of air abruptly passed Eragon by, ruffling his air and whipping Arya's black tresses into his face. The hands freed his throat, leaving him coughing and gasping for air, still clutching Arya's soft form tightly to his chest. Even as he felt the coldness of her skin, he felt her warm blood soaking into the front of his shirt.

"Away with you!" a voice said from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Eragon saw what looked to be an ordinary human man sporting a long silver beard and a large pack on his slim shoulders. The werecat crouched no more than ten feet in front of the man, hissing threateningly. Despite the obvious hostility of the inhuman creature, the man waved him carelessly away, as if he were no more bothersome than a fly. Astoundingly, the werecat-still hissing-slowly backed away into the woods, where it turned and ran, shifting back into its cat form.

It was a confusing spectacle, but Eragon did not dwell on it. He turned his attention back to Arya-cursing himself to the vilest abyss for his lapse of attention-and prepared to heal her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said over his shoulder. Glancing back again, Eragon saw that only the old man stood there, chewing on his lip as he stared down at Eragon.

Eragon ignored him and began to voice the spell.

Eragon's ties to the magic tore and faded away as he found himself thrust backward through the air by an invisible force. He cried out in horror as Arya was torn from his grasp. His fury mounted as he struck the ground and rolled, oblivious to the small sticks and stones that dug into his back. Without even stopping, he hauled himself to his feet and sprinted back toward Arya, bellowing in frustration as something constricted around his arms and legs, rooting him in place. His cry echoed through the trees and mingled with a roar from overhead. Casting his eyes skyward, Eragon winced when saw a scarlet dragon hovering above him, circling the small clearing that had been created by the blast that had started the fight. The sight immediately made Eragon think of vultures.

Too distressed to consider why Murtagh was not descending, Eragon turned his eyes earthward once more, blinking in surprise when he saw the old man crouching over Arya's prone form, his head cocked to one side.

"Get away from her," Eragon growled, trembling with fury even through his invisible bonds. The old man glanced up, but Eragon didn't see his face. He was too focused on Arya's bleeding form.

"Why, do you want her to die?" the old man asked. "That's what your ministrations would have amounted to, you know."

"I have the means to heal her," Eragon said, his eyes still fixed on Arya's pale face.

"Heal what?" the man asked quizzically, cocking his head to the side. "She's fine."

Madness,Eragon thought, closing his eyes in frustration. "She's severely wounded. She'll die if I can't help her!"

The man shook his head. "You don't believe me. That's reasonably stupid, in all reality. I'm quite reliable."

"Forgive me if I don't believe a mad old man!" Eragon shouted. "Now get away from her!"

The man sighed and stood, stepping away from Arya's unmoving form. "Always so impatient. Take a look for yourself then, if nothing else will satisfy you."

Eragon was at Arya's side in less than a second after the invisible force released him, and he didn't take the time to consider what that could mean. He was far too busy cradling Arya to his chest once more, his mouth falling open in astonishment as he viewed the smooth, flawless skin through the tear in her shirt. There was no wound, not even blood. Now looking more closely in his confusion, Eragon saw that color had returned to Arya's cheeks, and that she appeared to be doing nothing more than sleeping peacefully.

Reeling in bewilderment, Eragon probed the area where the wound had been, running his finger across the smooth, warm flesh, feeling the hard muscle underneath. Arya was, by what he could see, completely fine, and though his confusion endured, his terror and anger abruptly came to an end, fading away into exhausted relief. Now, staring at the skin exposed by the sizable rent in the front of Arya's shirt, he felt not fear, nor panic or desperation, but something far approaching lust. Exhaling a breath of relief, he hugged the elf's slender body to himself, burying his face in her fragrant hair.

He realized then that the old man was far more than he looked to be, for not only had he imprisoned Eragon with invisible chains, but had also healed Arya completely and totally, even replenishing her blood and disposing with that which had spilled. He concluded that the man was there to help, seeing as he'd healed Arya.

"Thank you, friend," Eragon said, almost crying with relief as he continued to inhale Arya's pine-needle scent. He was too relieved to notice that the pain had faded from his own body, that his flesh was once again unblemished and whole, and that blood no longer coated his skin.

"I'm not your friend," was the old man's answer.

Eragon tensed and looked up, carefully laying Arya on the ground. Slowly, he stood, warily regarding the man that was obviously more than he seemed.

As he'd noted before, the man looked totally unremarkable, appearing to be nothing more than a thin old man with a long silver beard and silvery hair that hung like a veil around his head. His clothes were simple and worn, as was the heavy looking pack on his back.

But on closer inspection, Eragon began to see things, subtle signs that this man was more than an elderly human. The first thing he noticed was that, though the man appeared to be elderly, his skin was completely unwrinkled, and veins pressed out of his smooth skin, betraying the hard muscles underneath. The man was obviously in excellent condition, and far younger than he appeared.

The second thing he saw was the way the man stood, standing casually-almost arrogantly-yet still with an easy confidence, as if the very ground he walked on would obey his will if he commanded it. There was no fear in the man's stance, only easygoing confidence, yet he stood straight and erect, exploiting his full six feet of height.

The last thing he saw-and by far the most troubling-was the point to his ears. It was not an easy thing to see, as the man's silvery hair obscured most of his ears, but the point was undeniable. The man was of elven heritage, yet he sported a beard. Perhaps it is fake.

"Who are you?" Eragon asked, unable to stop the ridiculous question from escaping him.

"Not a friend," the man repeated, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his pack and assuming a stoic expression.

"Are you a foe?"

"Neither that."

"Than what do you want with us?" Eragon asked, creeping his toe along the ground to kick up the branch he'd used to stab the Shade. The man-or elf-noticed the movement and jerked his head to the side. The branch rose from the ground and flew through the air in the direction he'd indicated, vanishing into the woods.

"You have nothing to fear of me," the man said in the ancient language as Eragon sank into a crouch, preparing for combat. As Eragon relaxed, the man said, "At least not for now."

Eragon, assured of the truthfulness of the man's words by the ancient language, sank to the ground at Arya's side, but all the while kept a wary eye on the man. "Arya," he whispered, lightly shaking the elf. "Arya, wake up."

She didn't stir.

"Leave her be," the man said, twirling the end of his long beard around his finger. "She's sleeping for the first time in her life. Elves don't normally sleep, you know. It's quite an incredible experience after living so long without it. And she needs the rest; she's had quite an ordeal, and has been through more than you know."

"How would you know?" Eragon said untrustingly, hugging Arya to his chest. Despite his mistrust, he obeyed the man and made no further attempts to wake the elf.

The man chuckled. "I know a lot more than you would think," he said. "And you would think quite a lot."

Comprehension dawned on Eragon. "You're Spellbane," he said, remembering the consciousness that had saved him from Murtagh's clutches earlier that very same day.

Spellbane bobbed his head from side to side, "Yes, but that's more a title than a name." He grinned. "I have to say though, I do believe Oromis would disappointed in you for taking so long to figure it out."

Eragon blinked. "You know Oromis?"

Spellbane laughed. "For the sake of time, just assume I know everything you do-and quite a bit more, if you don't mind me saying so-unless I ask you to clarify yourself. I suppose even then you won't be sure I didn't already know unless I tell you."

Eragon blinked again. "What do you want?" was the only question that came to mind.

"Very little, and nothing I can't have."

"Why are you here?" Eragon felt as if he were reciting a list of questions.

"A conversation for another time, but one I will pursue with relish."

Eragon stared dumbly at the mysterious Spellbane. "Who areyou?"

Spellbane grinned. "Someone you will likely never understand."

"That'll be true if keep avoiding my questions."

Spellbane laughed. "Ah, wit! I was beginning to think it was absent from you. You're not holding up your end of the conversation very well, you know."

"Neither are you."

Spellbane grinned. "I may be talking in circles, but at least I'm talking."

Eragon put his face in his hand, holding Arya with his free arm. "You're worse than Brom."

Spellbane grinned wryly. "'Worse' is relative, but for the most part, I should hope your right. The student learns from the master, after all."

Eragon was too tired to catch the wealth of information in that sentence.

"What do you want from me?"

"As of now, I wish to be your shelter."

"What do you mean?"

Spellbane grinned, but made no answer. Still grinning, he pointed one, long finger up at the sky. A dragon's roar shook the air, and a thudding sent spikes of pressure into Eragon's ears, causing him to grunt in pain. Thorn landed on the ground thirty yards away, roaring and twisting in an irate fashion. Murtagh was in a saddle on the dragon's back, and he looked as furious as his dragon, his dark hair awry and his face coated in a sheen of sweat. Eragon instinctively tensed and picked Arya off the ground, preparing to flee, but stopped when Spellbane shook his head.

"Spellbane, this is no concern of yours!" Murtagh cried, loosing Zar'roc in his hands. The red blade gleamed in the sunlight, taunting Eragon with its bloody visage. "Just give me Eragon and the elf and go!"

"I must respectfully decline," Spellbane said with a childish grin. "On the basis of the fact that it is, as a matter of fact, verymuch my concern, as this effects all of Alagaesia, and I just so happen to be part of Alagaesia."

"Galbatorix claims them as his own!"

"When was the last time I respected any of Galbatorix's claims?" Spellbane said in an offhand fashion, seeming to be speaking more to himself than any present.

Murtagh's expression turned to one of determination. "If you will not give them up, I will take them from you." With no visible prompting, Thorn started forward, nostrils already smoking.

Spellbane laughed uproariously. "You have courage, little Rider, I'll give you that. But both you and your dragon are stunted, and few enough could challenge me anyway."

"We challenge you now!"

Spellbane turned serious. "Do, you Red Rider? Are you so much like your father as to presume you can match me? He was arrogant as well, and I had hoped you had chosen a different path… You must separate yourself from the circumstance. You are young and I am old. You are not yet developed and I have long been of maturity. You have less than a year of experience of being a Rider… And I have over a millennia to draw from. You serve Galbatorix, and I serve no one."

Murtagh hesitated, Zar'roc faltering in its steady circles.

"What have you over me, little Rider? Youth? It matters little when you are of the Undying. I do not wish to kill you-and I could defeat you without doing so-but I do not wish to waste my time… Though it seems I have wasted far more explaining this to you."

Thorn's nostrils flared, small streams of flame bursting out.

"No one will call you a coward for turning away, little Rider, least of all Galbatorix. He will pretend to be angry, but inside he will just be glad that I did not damage you."

Murtagh's face was ashen. "You mock me?"

Spellbane nodded seriously. "I do. It is the kindest thing, under the circumstances. Now begone with you!"

Murtagh hesitated only a moment before sheathing Zar'roc. His face hard and stony, he turned to Eragon. Even from that distance, Eragon could see that angry fire burning in his brother's eyes. "Will you always hide behind the skirts of others, little brother? Will you ever have the courage to fight for yourself?"

Eragon's jaw tightened, but he did not trust himself to respond.

Murtagh bared his teeth simultaneously with his dragon. "You cannot hide forever, Eragon. Someday you and I must face each other again."

"If I didn't know it to be inevitable," Eragon said. "Then I would not be a Rider."

Murtagh didn't respond, but looked to the sky as Thorn, looking very much downtrodden, leapt into the air. The concussions of his wings striking the air forced sharp pains into Eragon's ears once more as the dragon and Rider flew away.

Spellbane turned to him. "Does that answer your question?"

Eragon felt his brow furrow. "Why are you protecting me?"

Spellbane shrugged. "A multitude of reasons. Take the time and maybe you'll discover a few."

"I'm taking the time now to ask you."

Spellbane shrugged again. "Well then, I guess you'll also have to wait until I take the time to explain it to you."

"Give me at least one reason," Eragon argued, quickly becoming frustrated.

Spellbane nodded. "Yes, why not? Balance."

Eragon blinked. "Balance to what?"

Spellbane frowned. "I gave you my reason, now sort it out for yourself." He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and began walking southward, the descending light of the sun glinting on his silver hairs.

"Where are you going?" Eragon asked, picking Arya up and cradling her to his chest.

Spellbane turned about, frowning. "Why, to my home, of course. Aren't you coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Spellbane sighed with a shake of his head. "Has Oromis taught you nothing? Don't answer that," he said as Eragon heatedly opened his mouth. "It was a rhetorical question. But haven't you listened? There is always choice, always at least two ways of doing things." He turned around again and started walking again. "You just have to take the time to find it."

Eragon, perplexed, began to follow, electrically aware of Arya's warm breath on his arm. "So I could go my own way if I wished?"

"No."

Eragon took a deep, calming breath. "Then how do I have at least two choices?"

"Your choice is this; to follow me willingly, or be dragged behind me. That,little Rider, is your choice."

Eragon shook his head. "There's no difference. That's not a choice."

Spellbane sighed, pausing in his strides. "You will learn-with age and experience-that there is a huge difference, little Rider. There is all the difference in the world." He began forward again. "And regardless, there is still thechoice."

Eragon opened his mouth to ask another question-as he was full to bursting with them-but froze mid-speech as he felt something move against his chest. Startled he looked down, his heart thrumming contentedly in response to what he saw. Arya was still sleeping peacefully-serenely, it seemed-and her head was resting contentedly against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the tears and folds of his shirt as she twisted her body closer to his, sighing softly in her throat. Eragon twitched slightly as he felt the tips of her delicate fingers brush against his skin as they slipped through the rents torn in the material.

The sight was so beautiful, so blissful, that it made Eragon's throat catch, made him forget all his troubles-even their current predicament-and spun him into a swarm of fantasies involving the two of them living peacefully and contentedly together, away from the terrors and rigors of war. Instead of being surrounded by bloodshed, death, and soldiers, he saw the two of them encircled by happiness, life, and green eyed children. It was a beautiful, wonderful scene-and was, as such, painful when it left him crashing back to reality.

Eragon blinked, shaking off the haunting image as he stared down at the elf in his arms with concern. "Is she going to be alright?" he called to the silver-haired man walking ahead of him.

Spellbane didn't even turn around, and waited a moment before answering. "She'll be fine. Likely better than even you will."

Eragon wasn't sure whether he could believe the mysterious man-or elf, as it were-but didn't know who else to ask, so he let it lie. He stared at the back of the silvery head for a moment before asking, "Are you an elf?"

"No."

Eragon waited for elaboration, but none was forthcoming. "Are you human?" he pressed.

"No."

Eragon felt his brow furrow once more. "Then what are you? You can't be an urgal."

Spellbane chuckled. "I'm not an urgal, obviously. If it pleases you, I am neither elf nor human, though something in between, much in the same way as yourself."

Eragon opened and closed his mouth in astonishment. He'd been under the impression that his exceptional transformation had been just that-exceptional. He hadn't been aware that there were other cases of the instance.

"I thought I was unique," Eragon stated.

"You are. My condition is far more natural than yours." Eragon met this blankly, and Spellbane seemed to know it. "In case you were wondering, I'm a half-breed."

"How can that be? You told Murtagh you were over a thousand years old. Humans only arrived in Alagaesia eight-hundred years ago. That's impossible."

Spellbane still didn't turn. "Impossibility is relative." After a moment, he continued to say, "My story is my own, and only for the ears of friends and allies. As of yet, you are not either, so I do not feel any particular inclination to explain myself."

Eragon didn't quite know what to say to that, but he came up with something anyway. "You're a paranoid old man."

Spellbane laughed. "Comes with wisdom, boy, comes with wisdom."

"Just how old are you?"

"Now what did I just say?" Spellbane said, coming to a halt and spinning about. "In the last thirty seconds of bandied insults, did you become my friend? My ally? No? Then what makes you think my answers are going to change?"

Eragon opened his mouth to answer.

Spellbane held up a hand, silencing him. "No, don't answer that. I know the answer to that one. You're so accustomed to asking questions that's it's physically painful for you to restrain them."

Eragon blinked. "Actually, yes."

Spellbane sighed. "I know. Now, no more questions."

Eragon slowly nodded, and Spellbane stared at him for a long moment, granting Eragon his first view of the man's eyes; they were silvery and dark, swimming with long ages of experience and great secrets. They pierced through Eragon, caused him to feel as if his entire soul was being laid bare before the razor-like insight of this man, this half-breed.

Spellbane then turned away. "You look like your father, by the way."

Eragon gritted his teeth, hugging Arya closer to him. "I'm nothing like Morzan."

"Who said anything about Morzan?"

Eragon laughed darkly. "I thought you knew all? Morzan is my thrice-cursed father, to my dismay."

Spellbane sighed and increased his pace, muttering. "You're just like Brom."

Eragon hurried after him, startled by the last statement. "You knew Brom?"

Spellbane did not so much as turn around, but said, "Slytha."

Eragon jerked in his steps and collapsed to the ground, Arya falling from his grip. A thick stupor began to grip him, and a darkness began to steal it's way across his vision. As he drifted into the dark world of sleep, he heard Spellbane sigh contentedly and say, "Ah, that's better. No more questions!"