As soon as I was able to, I left the Menoa tree.

My thoughts and the emotions that came with them were too much for me to bear in silence. I had been barely aware as it was of Eragon, unconscious, being taken back to his own tree house or of Saphira and Glaedr preforming their duties in the celebration. I was barely aware of the elves that spoke in hushed tones of what the dragons had just done and what it might mean. I was so out of it in fact that I barely was aware of Islanzardi's words as she spoke of the bond between Riders and Dragons.

No, my thoughts were speeding around at about the same velocity as a train about to derail. I could not concentrate on anything but them and so, it was with a great deal of relief, that I slipped away and made my way back to Tildari Hall - evading the various parties set up by elves throughout the forest city as I did so. I did not want to be roped into anything and so, like a pale rose ghost, I clung to the shadows of the trees and met no one.

Finally I found myself pacing the silent corridors back to my rooms. The sounds of my footsteps echoing hollowly on the marble of the floor and I felt very alone. I was the only one who knew what I knew and I could not turn to anyone right then. I was alone just as I was alone as I paced these corridors. Even as I opened the door to my chambers, even as I stepped inside and closed it behind me, I felt hollow and drained of everything. I felt isolated by a cage of my own making and yet it was not my choice to be caged but the events of fate that had bound me so.

I found myself walking on silent feet into the tiled bathroom with its mosaic of colors and large vanity table. I had sat there a little while ago and worried about Eragon. Now that worry seemed foolish and minor compared to what I now had to think of. I rested a hand on the smooth white wood of the table and raised my head to look at myself. The magic of celebration seemed to have settled around my face and dress to give me an almost elvish glow. I looked so different - that face so different.

I stared at my reflection and my thoughts began to spin around again and with them came adrenalin and a burning desire to know just a little bit more. Adrenalin and the magic of the celebration seemed to be driving away the cold emptiness now and giving me a new kind of clarity even thought I had not slept for three days. My hands tightened around the edge of my vanity table and I found myself not really looking at my reflection but the various possibilities that played out across the mirror. Had Galbatorix decided that he would keep Thorn's egg at a safe distance? After the loss of Saphira and the death of both Morzan and Selena had he turned to the manor house that Morzan had layered so many spells around? Had he then layered more until he was confident that no one would be able to circumvent the various wards and traps without his knowledge? I could almost see it now, a King looking for a safe place and choosing one that was no doubt abandoned and feared by all who knew who had once lived there. Close but not too close. Abandoned and feared but still someplace that no one would ever guess a priceless dragon egg would be hidden.

I needed more information - I needed that dragon to come back this instant and do some bloody explaining! I was sick of this. I was sick of doubting my every footstep and move! I was sick of worrying about the future and, when I was finally feeling a little bit better about it all, this bomb was dropped on my head! A quest - delivered by a creature formed of magic and imagination - that threatened to overturn everything. Worse, if I did manage to make my way to the egg and get back without being killed or captured then would it still hatch for Murtagh? Would the dragon meant for him hatch and turn into Thorn?

I groaned in frustration and spun on my heel. I wanted my gear back and my weapons. I wanted to run and run until I came to this bloody arch and, then, find out exactly how I was supposed to traverse thousands of miles and then, as if this was not sounding impossible already, retrieve an egg defended by every enchantment known to man. I wanted to punch a wall or burst into tears! I did not know what to do and it was making my breath come fast as my heart beat sped up.

I reined my emotions back in ruthlessly and forced myself to slow down and think. I forced myself back from the brink with the kind of determination that only comes from discipline - the discipline I had honed for years. With my mind back together, my emotions buried deep and my thoughts slowed I began to think and consider the entire situation with a ruthless attention to detail that gave no room for anguish or fury.

The first step would be to go to Oromis and Glaedr. However, if I did go to them then I would have to tell them the biggest secret of all: that I knew a possible future for this land. I would have to tell them the real reason I was sent to Earth and I would have to explain, in detail, not only why I had kept this secret but the danger that drifting too far from this one future could cause. It was a far from ideal situation to be in and, yet, I knew the truth would out sooner or later. After that conversation I would have to inform both Arya and Islanzardi which would mean another conversation about why preserving as much of the old story line was important ect. ect. I knew that Arya was planning on leaving within the week for the Varden and she had offered to take me but I had refused. My duty as ambassador meant I could only leave if war threatened and that day was soon enough.

The big problem, as if there was only one, was convincing them that this had to be done. I knew it had to - I had felt the dragon's urgency and I had felt as if I did not do this task then the entire world would crumble to dust. However, everyone knew my capture would be a deadly thing for more than this world and that, just as Saphira and Eragon had to be kept safe, I did to. It was the uncomfortable truth: I was a dangerous ally but also a potential downfall if I was captured.

I sighed heavily and wished, more than ever, I had someone to help me remove the shining strands of silver from my braided hair. I wanted someone to help me from this dress and listen soothingly as I vented all the problems I faced. Rina would no doubt still be celebrating and, for all I might want her company, I also knew that my burdens could not be so easily shared. I glanced out the window and saw that dawn would not be far off - less than three hours away. When morning came I would need to set the ball in motion and make some difficult decisions.

I moved from the bathroom and entered my bedroom. I went to the large windows and rested my arms against the sill. The gardens before me glittered and sparkled with a mixture of moonlight and the magic which thrummed on the currents of air. It was a beautiful sight - calm and peaceful in the silver light.

The glass of the window reflected my face. It was a slightly distorted image but it was still my face. It was my face. Despite the glow and the strangeness I had seen just moments before, it was me. I had worn many masks over the years but I had come to realize that the most important was my own face. It was what I did with that face that mattered far more than any of my disguises ever had - then any of the lives I had played with. I had seen this image, this reflection, plenty of times before. Sometimes she looked tired. Sometimes she looked wild and frightened. Sometimes she looked wet. Sometimes she was crying and sometimes she was laughing. This girl, in the window looking at me with wide eyes and a pale face, was always with me. I knew this girl well. So why did I think she was capable of this? Of going and following the order of a creature created of memory and magic as the moon shone down? Who was I to do this to her? To risk what I might be risking? This girl who did not really know all she could do and who did not even remember some of the most key events of her life - this girl who looked at me now - who was I to ask this of her?

The reflection shimmered and yet it seemed to solidify to. As the magic slowly left me and reality came crashing in, I felt myself steady and become surer of things. I would press on even if the road seemed so twisted and tangled that it was no road at all. I was Zoe of Angard of Llyr, a princess but also much much more than that and my weapons were honed to a fine edge. A task I had been given and, even if I doubted that task, I would see it accomplished. It was my duty and I knew the weight of duty all too well. This was my face - my fate.

This face looking back at me - with hair braided with silver and eyes the color of a stormy sea - was my face. It had always been my face even when I had lived on Earth and now, as I fought in this land, that girl was me. That girl who doubted and feared and laughed and cried and made friends and was prone to all the anxieties of a teenager was me.

My face. My choices. My memories. My life.

I would go.

Outside the celebration continued and I could hear the music. I could still hear the magic and the wind mixing with the instruments to create a melody so enchanting that it would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. Sleep pulled at me and soon, so soon, I found myself slipping into darkness and yet, like a command, the words of the dragon echoed on and on. I could not forget and I was beginning to believe that I could not disobey that order given with such urgency and desperation.

Even that night, so far away from home and even as exhausted as I was, I dreamed.

"This makes me look like a stuffed doll," I complained to the elegant dark haired lady with the gleaming golden circlet. That lady was my mother and she was currently sitting by the window as the fall sunlight streamed inside and illuminated the carpet of my bedroom. I was currently standing, very still, as a seamstress pined fabric around me and adjusted it. The decorative embroidery, delicate though it looked, scratched and the bodice was uncomfortably tight.

"It is not supposed to be comfortable," said my mother as she turned her head ever so slightly to send me a sharp look with those eyes that were mirror images of my own. Though, while the color may have been the same, her eyes gleamed with the power of her station and it only added to the cloak of elegant reserve that hung around her. Though, right then, she might have been any other mother reminding their child of manners and proper behavior.

"I do not want to wear something that makes me look so silly," I said as I gazed at my reflection in the floor length mirror before me. The seamstress, used to such conversations when attending her queen and crown princess, said nothing and remained detached as she efficiently folded and tucked fabric. "Why must I wear it mama?"

"Because," said my mother as she looked back outside, "you cannot always shirk your duties at Court for the Wild my daughter. Rangering clothes are all fine and good but they are hardly suitable for a dinner with the representatives of the merchant guild." She folded her hands neatly before her and did not glance at me.

"A new dress is necessary?" I asked the question desperately as I finally admitted what was bothering me. It was not the idea of wearing what would surely be a beautiful dress but the idea I needed a new one when my wardrobe seemed to overflow with them. I had been living simply for the last few months and only venturing home when I was required to and another dress was an extravagance I did not want to deal with then. The quiet seamstress finished her work and left with a quick curtsey as if anxious to leave before this conversation turned into a duel of words.

My mother sighed and turned to face me looking like she was close to gripping me by the shoulders and shaking me. I knew I drove her to distraction with some of exploits and she was well aware that many of the more dangerous ones were kept hidden from her. She was just like any other mother watching as, not one but three of her children, went off to battle and took positions of command that were not only demanding but would quickly strip them of their innocence. It made me feel incredibly guilty and it was because of that, the fear I knew she felt for us, that I made every effort to return when I said I would - hopefully in one piece or at least send plenty of messages warning of my lateness or giving reasons for why I could not come.

"What shall I do with you child?" asked my mother in a voice which was no longer as calm or reserved as it had been before. "Your absences and deeds have earned you the respect of the people but the contempt of certain Kings and Lords. They use it to further their own arguments that your breaking of tradition is a sign that our house is no longer fit to rule as it has done for the past Age." She moved forward until she was standing before me and her eyes met mine - freezing me in place. "For once in your life pretend these things matter to you. For a larger purpose you must - it we are to quell a rebellion before it has time to grow. Pretend to be like the other girls walking the halls and not as if your only purpose is with a sword in your hand."

"I understand mama," I said quietly as I lowered my gaze to the floor. "I am aware of it and guessed at your motives when your missive arrived at the settlement." I raised my eyes and met my mother's which, as they always were when she was alone with her children, were completely devoid of the wall that divided her true emotions and identity from the life she lived as Queen - a life lived in the public eye. "I shall do my best." I said the last line as if it was an apology and a promise to.

My mother rested one of her cool, soft hands on the side of my cheek and a very said smile crossed her beautiful face. "I never worried about that." She paused and then added very quietly, "Never…"

Now I was in an elegant sitting room with comfortable chairs scattered about along with tall bookcases, a thick rug underfoot and large windows that overlooked one of the numerous gardens tucked in various places around Caer Daythl. Elegant carvings adorned the shut door and, as the dream grew clearer, I found myself not alone but with my two brothers and Taren. A pale blue dress swished around me and I realized, quite suddenly, that I was both a great deal shorter then I now was and that, according to the mirror, I was a great deal more child-like. It was the face of a nine year old girl who still had quite a bit of growing up to do and had yet to learn any grace. My brothers were also quite a bit younger though I suspected Pethred had probably started learning the sword - he grew rather insufferable and big-headed for a time after that. Eomund, who was still a young child, and Taren, who was the same age as Eomund, were both sitting on the same, large, chair.

Pethred crossed his arms "You must walk like a faun in the woods. Not like a duck."

"I do not walk like a duck!" I snapped.

"I like ducks," observed Eomund diplomatically. He was already, apparently, showing his skill at diffusing sibling quarrels at the young age of six or seven. My brother glanced sideways at Taren who had his nose buried in a book while his dark hair flopped down into his face. His young eyes were already serious, too serious for the young face they belonged to. There was something so charming about the way he read his book as if it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Turning away, quite grumpy now, I snapped, "I'll just go then." My voice took on a huffy note as I began to stomp in a way that would have made my nurse frown darkly at me, towards the door and, hopefully, away from such rude companions as my brother and cousin were proving to be. Throwing them a glance over my shoulder as I opened the door I said, "I don't need to listen to boys natter on about ducks!"

"Your words are most unladylike," said Pethred with a grin around the apple he had drawn from his pocket.

I rolled my eyes and, as I shut the door, snapped back at him, "And you are just stuck-up!"

His laughter followed me even as the dream descended into jumbled, random images. It was just as I was beginning to rise up towards waking that I heard that voice again...that voice that rumbled with fire and ancient power. A dragon's voice.

Hurry. Glaedr knows the way. Hurry. Be ready…


Eragon was alone when he woke. He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the ceiling of the rooms that both he had Saphira shared. The night still reigned outside and the sounds of the elves' revels drifted in on the warm summer air, heavy and intoxicating.

His body felt strange. As though a weight that he had been burdened with for too long had just been lifted and he could, once more, walk tall and strong. Before he could reach out to her, she touched his mind and once more he found himself wrapped in Saphira's warm mind. She radiated concern and, even though he soothed her as best he could, she still found reason to ask, How are you?

Eragon considered the question for a long moment. He did not really know how he felt. Maybe alive? Maybe for the first time for a long time did he feel as if he could look at the world without the pain tinted lens of Durza's curse haunting him. I feel well. How long have I been out? What happened?

He only remembered vaguely stretching out his palm, his right hand, and offering it to the dragon created by the elves' magic. Then, he thought, the creature had touched the heart of his gedwey ignasia and then...pain. That was all he remembered. A pain so intense that he had been forced to retreat deep within himself as everything burned red and black.

Only a hour. I was needed here to complete the ceremony. You should have seen the elves' reaction when you fainted. Nothing like this has occurred before.

Zoe knew.

Yes. she responded and he sensed her unease even though this was not the first time they had been reminded of their friend's knowledge and her commitment to silence. The two were silent and then Saphira said, Look in a mirror. Look and see what my race has given you. Then rest and recover and I shall rejoin you at dawn.

She withdrew and left him to slowly push himself upright. He had dressed in the formal tunic, leggings and boots gifted to him by the elves in honor of the celebration and, because of the silvery fabric with its delicate embroidery, he already had a slightly elvish cast to him. The reflection in the mirror however, even though it was different then the face he had once worn only a few months ago, was not what he expected. He had expected the same slow changes that all human Rider experienced when they were bound with a dragon - the slow sharpening and angling of his face.

This was not what he saw now.

The face that looked back at him was smooth and flawless with the faint warm glow that hung around all elves as if reminding the world of their resistance to aging and their affinity for magic. Now, after the changes wrought by the dragons, his face was smooth and angled - just like an elf's. His ears tapered to points, just like an elf, and his eyes were slanted. He looked no longer like a human but a fair elven prince garbed for a formal dinner and dance.

On closer inspection he noticed that his face was a little too broad, a little too rugged, to be truly an elf's face. He was too fair to be called a human but not quite fair enough to be an elf. It, decided the Rider with a faint smile, suited him. Not one thing but something else - something that crossed the two races and understood what it meant to be them both.

Yet, there was something far more pressing then his face to worry about. With trembling fingers, Eragon reached around his neck in search of his scar.

There was nothing.

Just smooth skin as if he had never felt the bite of Durza's blade or endured weeks of his curse. Tears, unbidden but full of gratitude and emotion, sprang to his eyes and he found himself unable to fully grasp this sudden gift. He would never experience the agony of that wound again - never would he be reminded of his failure to defend himself in the moment he truly needed to. That part of his life was behind him. It was a liberating feeling.

Not only was his scar gone but every other blemish that had marked his body like a record of some of his more reckless childhood adventures. From the scars that had reminded him of his first flight on Saphira to the one he had gained while sharpening Garrow's scythe to the small ones that any boy gained as they tumbled through childhood. He felt no regret. How could he? He had been given new lease on life and the relief of being able to feel like himself once more was a gift he could never find words to properly describe. There was a little pain to think that no mark remaind of his old life but it was quickly quashed as his heart soared with freedom. No longer was he bound by shadow and pain.

He was now a Rider. It felt right to be like this. To look at his face now, even though it still looked so strange to him, felt like a journey had ended and a new one begun. It was time to shed the burdens of the past and start a new chapter. To look forward with eagerness and not regret.

Eragon glanced outside. It was a beautiful evening and it seemed as if everything was sharper from the stars to the leaves to the very air that hummed with magic. He wanted to be outside and see the world with the sharpened clarity of elvish sight and touch and smell. It seemed a shame to spend the remaining hours of the night waiting for Saphira when he could be out and a part of the wild beauty of this night. It was a fading dream - a soap bubble - and he wanted to feel it so that, when the world grew dark, he would remember these moments of lightness and joy.

Smiling, he descended from tree and walked the shadows of the tree city. He made no effort to engage with any of the elves he saw, though they greeted him as one of their own. It was nice, he reflected, to be accepted and not watched with eyes that flickered between pity, disappointment or down-right contempt. Now, for this moment, he was just one more person wandering the shadows as the Celebration came to a close. He could have joined any one of the numerous little celebrations scattered through the city but he did not.

His aimless path led him past the Menoa Tree, where he paused to watch Saphira amongst the festivities, though he did not reveal himself to those in the glade. He merely admired his partner of mind and heart as she shone brightly with a mix of magic and her own happiness. Beside was the golden bulk of her mentor, Glaedr, and, to see them both, was like a vision of what past Celebrations must have been like when the Riders still ruled. Saphira noticed him but said nothing, understanding that he wished to be alone with the new sensations and emotions flowing through him. There was no sign of Zoe and he wondered where she was.

It was then, as he began to wander away, that he realized Arya had also left the glade. She was walking slowly through the forest, her icy blue gown flickering in the starlight. He followed her a little ways into the forest, to the point where one felt as if they had stepped back into the natural wild. Where there was no magic heavy on the air and the music was muffled by leaves and trunks. The princess came to a stop in a clearing and raised her pale face to look up at the bright night sky with its thousands of stars. She looked fey to him then - more then she had ever looked before. As unreachable as the highest star in the sky all cold in her sparkling beauty.

Eragon paused. He could make his presence known or he could leave. He could allow the elf he called a friend this moment of quiet away from the wild magic and swirling music of the Menoa tree or he could show her the change that he had just undergone. But he wanted to speak with her, to show her what had happened and so, calming himself, he emerged into the open space between the dark trunks.

Arya spun when she heard him and her eyes widened in a mix of shock and utter amazement. Her dress swirled around her in a cloud of palest blue and her hair, gleaming with silver and jewels, caught the moonlight and flashed. "Eragon," she murmured in a voice so soft that he needed his newly heightened hearing to catch the faint words. "What has happened to you?"

Eragon sensed she did not mean to say it that way. That the question was something she had not meant to say but, to see him like this, had been something she had not counted on - even in her dreams. He shrugged, "I do not really know." It was the truth - whatever had happened to him was not something he knew how to describe. Besides, he was suddenly aware of how alone they both were. He could see the individual little jewels and strands of silver in Arya's hair and he could nearly taste the scent of the wild flowers.

The elf princess searched his face, her verdant green eyes looking for something in his face but she did not seem to find it. Instead, on soft feet, she moved closer to him and came to a stop just a few feet away. "What now?" She sounded unsure to him, as if not sure where they now stood and so, for the first time, Arya looked to him even though he was so young and so untried.

Eragon looked up at the stars and wondered why they could look so unchanging even as his world was sent to pieces and then rebuilt in such a different way. When he found his voice he knew his answer offered little comfort or assurance for he had none to give. He knew as much, if not less, then Arya did about the entire situation. "We go on. What happens now I cannot say."

He felt older now. He was less worried about proving himself. It was as if the insecurities that had burdened him and made it hard for him to act without wondering if he would fail, had suddenly been lifted from him. On this night he was just Eragon. He was a person who had found peace with the past and the future and so was able to just to exist in the present. There was nothing to prove and nothing to defend but all to gain. His blood pounded with magic and his eyes seemed to find simple beauty wherever he looked.

Arya sighed softly and then gestured towards the woods. "Let us walk," she murmured. "The night is almost spent and I shall be leaving soon."

Her words were heavy and, while he knew she had to go, he did not like the idea but, as he took her arm, he said none of that. Duty called to her just as duty told him that he had to stay and complete the remainder of his training. Arm in arm with Arya, Eragon walked the dense woods that echoed with enchanting music. They said nothing but both of them were completely aware of the other's presence and found comfort in it. This was the last night they could walk together, saying nothing and not worrying about the future. Both intended to make the most of it.

They stopped on the bank of a narrow stream. It was clear stream and as cold as one of the mountain streams that made their way through the mountains of Eragon's childhood. Bright rocks glittered on its bottom and fish darted this way and that in the cool water. Young willow trees grew along the banks of the stream and there was something both ageless and free to this place.

Arya removed her arm from his and he turned to look at her ageless face. He said nothing for he did not know what to say or how to say it. Sometimes, he had come to learn, it was better to say nothing and let all the words that could never describe what he really felt fade away. The elf seemed to be searching his face and he saw both trepidation and sadness in her eyes as if, she to, knew that whatever friendship they had enjoyed during their time together before the Celebration had come to a close. Now he, Eragon, was changed and the world was speeding up. No longer could they walk together and speak of little things. Now they were going to war. It was that simple and so complicated.

"Fare thee well Eragon Shadeslayer," said Arya and her words echoed in the clearing.

"Fare thee well Arya Drottning." He replied and the farewell seemed so formal, too much like one of Zoe's lessons and not like something he wanted Arya to leave remembering. So he took her hand and said softly, "Thank you for..." he found he did not know how to finish it. There was so much he wanted to thank her for and yet he did not know how to say any of it. Her hand, rough from swords, was warm within his own calloused one.

Arya smiled a little, "You do not need to thank me." Her words were soft and her eyes were deep pools of green, "I wish to thank you for your friendship." The elf turned to face slightly away and looked to the opposite bank of the stream, "We will meet again soon."

To meet again soon and once more see and speak with the elf princess was enough for Eragon. He knew that the friendship between him and the elf was one of the greatest treasures in his life and he would never let it go willingly. Both of them had things to do and places to be but that did not mean they would not once more see and speak with the other.

This was not the end.

This was the merely the continuation of that friendship and Eragon knew he would come to rely heavily on the calm words of Arya as the world grew too dark for him to find his way. Suddenly there was no feeling of loss or regret but only the joy that comes from knowing that there is someone you can count on - someone who you trust enough to give you the truth no matter what.

Arya turned back and he saw his own feelings mirrored in her green eyes. There was nothing more to say and so, once more arm in arm, the two left the ageless clearing. They walked side by side and, as they walked, the moonlight glinted off of them until they shone and sparkled among the dark trees.


Murtagh rocked back and felt as if his head was spinning.

No. No. No.

How could he be such a complete fool? How could they have all been so deceived? What now? The Varden needed to be mobilized and he needed...his thoughts were spinning from one thing to thing until he forcibly slowed his racing mind and forced his face to remain clear. To confirm Vivian's words he breathed out, with soft horror, "Galbatorix is mustering an army."

"Yes," murmured Vivian and she rested a hand on his shoulder. They were standing in front of the map and the girl had just showed him, using thumb tacks, the movements of the Empire and how the army, numbering close to a hundred thousand, was being summoned and which direction it would travel. "Now you see," she said and her voice turned bitter. "You will all be destroyed."

"No," he snapped and anger helped clear his head. "No we will not all be destroyed," he drew away from her hand and faced her head on as if to challenge not only the dark truth in her words but everything that she stood for. "Anything else I should know?"

"I have told you all I can," she said softly. "There was a loop hole in my oaths that allowed me to tell you of the army movements and their battle plans. That is all I can share." She paused and then said even softer, "I do not want to think too hard on it or it might become impossible for me not to try and kill you." Her gaze had a frightened glint to it and Murtagh knew she was walking a fine line - just as he walked a line so thin that it was hard to know if he still walked it.

"Not even where the rest of the Black Hand is?" he asked it with a faint smirk but he was surprised by the answer she gave.

"Besides me," she gestured at herself with one grimy hand, "you only have one more commander to capture. We are the last in either Surda or the this part of the Empire. If you destroy the two of us then the weaklings we control will be scattered to the wind and unable to act with any decisive action. They rely on us for orders and do not know how to contact other members." She paused briefly and then continued, "That does not mean there are not those who are inside the Varden but we have no one in any positions of high command. I cannot share their names but they rely on us to transfer information."

He nodded and looked out the grimy, cracked window that was the only source of light. "Where is he?"

She shrugged and said quietly, "He should be coming here within the hour." Her gaze sharpened and suddenly Murtagh felt wary - just as he had felt when he knew she was about to suggest something completely crazy. "You could hide here and..." her voice trailed off suggestively. "Then leave and report back to your...commander." She said the word 'commander' as if it was a joke. It was as if she guessed that his loyalty did not truly belong to Nasuada.

He considered it and looked around the room. The couch would make the best hiding place and it would not be too difficult if he could only be sure that Vivian was actually on his side. So far she had been honest - he knew her well enough to know when she was lying - but that did not mean it would extend to protecting him. Did he stay and remove this threat or did he go and hope that another chance would present itself? But, just as he opened his mouth to speak, they both froze. Vivian's dark green eyes widened and she grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the couch. Her fingernails digging into his arm as her grip tightened with fear.

"Hide," she hissed in his ear as she pushed him towards the narrow gap between the piece of furniture and the wall.

For, at the same moment, they had both sensed the presence of someone else - someone powerful and assured - moving closer to this house - to them. The presence was still faint, still too far away to really identify, but he sensed that it, like Vivian, was not the mind of a commoner but the dangerous, scheming mind of someone used to games of power. It was coming closer and whoever it was would soon be here. Drawing his mind together, Murtagh did his best to conceal his presence even though he doubted it would work.

Squeezing himself into the narrow gap he removed the long, thin dagger that was slipped up his sleeve. The sound of someone moving below drifted up through the floorboards and, from a small hole that went through the fabric of the couch, Murtagh watched as Vivian smoothed her dress and took a seat on the window frame. She looked completely relaxed and Murtagh rather admired the ease with which she drew on a hard cold mask that concealed her fear and bitterness.

Footsteps could be heard and then, with loud creaking noises, the sound of someone jumping and then catching something before pulling themselves up. Then footsteps again and then, appearing in the door, came the figure of a middle aged man. He was not particularly striking in dark clothes that were neat but had the air of nearly been worn out. Neat grey hair, cut simply, with pale blue eyes and a rather big nose. Yet, even if at first glance he did not look at all dangerous, to Murtagh the greatest danger lay in that simple disguise that was so easy to overlook but so hard to create. Whoever he was, however he had become this person, this man had never been on one of the lists of spies Murtagh had seen. That meant he was a new recruit or had somehow escaped Murtagh's attention or memory. This was no amateur nor a professional gone soft but someone as deadly as Vivian herself. How was he supposed to dispose of this person quietly?

"Vivian," came a silky soft voice and the man inclined his head to the young woman who watched him by the window.

"Lucian," said the young woman in an almost bored voice. "What is it?" She might have been sitting doing needlework in a palace not sitting on a grimy windowsill in a decrepit house.

"We have lost many today," said Lucian. There was a grim look to him now and he moved forward on silent feet until he was just a few feet away from where Murtagh was hidden. "The Varden are on our trail. Their new spy master is clever and quite willing to play at our level."

"So?" asked Vivian coldly. "They are still blind to the truth. The Varden will soon be destroyed." The girl tapped a finger against the wood but said nothing more.

"That may be," said the spy master and then with a heavy sigh he cast his gaze around the room and then seemed to decide the sofa was the best sitting place. "We still have to find the boy."

The words sent a chill through Murtagh for he knew that 'boy' most likely meant him. The man sank into the sofa and leaned back making the furniture creak and forcing Murtagh to press even harder against the wall as the gap was narrowed considerably. Vivian meanwhile was looking bored and, when she spoke each word dripped sarcasm, "So? That is your specific task Lucian. You seemed quite certain you could succeed on your own."

Murtagh knew he had to act and act now. He needed to act before the spy realized that there was someone hiding behind the very back of the piece of furniture that he was sitting on and that, most importantly, that the person was he - Murtagh. The knife was poised in Murtagh's hand and he steadied his already soft breathing until he was ready. Counting in his mind to three and then he sprang from the narrow gap and sent a mental spear towards the spy as he threw the blade.

The spy cried out in surprise and sent his own wave of mental attack towards Murtagh but he was a fraction too late. He was just that fraction of a second too late to save his own life. The blade, thrown with deadly aim, found the man's heart and, a second later, the fight was over and Murtagh felt his heart hammering in his chest. He had been killing that day and he hated it. He hated the way the dying breath rattled in a person's throat as their eyes glazed over and the blood began to spread. It sent a cold chill through him and he wondered, like he always did, if he was just another Morzan. Just another killing machine that would never be free.

Murtagh glanced over at Vivian and saw that she was rather pale. The girl raised her eyes and met his gaze. With a faint, shaky laugh she said. "That was fast."

"I had to be fast," said Murtagh as he glanced back at the dead man. "He would have realized I was there any moment. I'm surprised he didn't the moment he walked in."

"I know," she murmured and then slipped from her seat. "Now what?"

"I need to go," said Murtagh but even as he said so he looked at Vivian. She was the last commander and Galbatorix would know she had betrayed him the second he took a moment to look in on his Black Hand organization in Surda. What now? To leave her was to leave a dangerous enemy and, worse, a friend behind. She was a friend who had helped him many times before and had just done so again. Murtagh did not know what to do or what to say.

Vivian gestured at the window, "Come. I will show you the way back."

She turned away and yet they both knew that they needed to come to some sort of agreement. They both knew they could not keep going like this and not confront the very real issue that everything has a price and Vivian's actions were especially expensive for her. Murtagh bit his tongue and knew that, for now, he would have to follow her and hope that an answer would present itself.


Revised 2/6/2014