I have to get out of here, was Eragons first thought.

But the heaviness of his limbs and mind quickly killed any willpower he had managed to raise, and he returned to his cot. He would just get a few hours of sleep, clear his mind, and then seek for a way out, he woved to himself.

Only – sleep wouldn't come to him. The steps in the corridor echoed in his thoughts like the beats of drums, and thoughts of the elvenwoman were still sending shiver after shiver of the strangest feelings through his body. Having laid awake staring at the ceiling for a while, he got up again, intent on – on what? Wandering aimlessly through his cell? He couldn't quite get his feet to do as he wished, however, so he sunk to the ground after only a few steps, leaned against the wall opposed to the window and stared at the small rectangle of light.

Evening came. Passed. His thoughts wandered, not focussing on any one thing. His head dropped to his chest, once, twice. Against the cool rock behind him, once again. Yet something kept tearing him from this dozy state, each time only moments before he could fall asleep. Steps in the corridor. A shout on the street. The hissing and yowling of a cat before his window.

His mouth felt dry. He got up, swaying like a drunk, and stumbled back to his cot, grabbing his pitcher of stale water on the way. He took a sip, once again leaning against the wall. He had to look rather silly, he thought, holding the jug in a limp hand and staring into nothingness. Faces danced before his eyes. Roran. Garrow. The elf, the Shade, Murtagh, Brom. Oddly enough, all of them had sapphire blue scales instead of hair.

Saphira!

Her name cut like a bolt of lightning through the fog in is mind. He started violently. The now empty pitcher slid from his hand, fell on the cot and clattered to the floor from there, but didn't shatter.

Eragon blinked at it. The fog was creeping back. What had brought that about? Saphira was well, he was sure of that. He would have felt it if she had been injured. Wouldn't he? The worry was like the first promise of frost in the autumn. There, but distant and hazy.

The first light of the morning had just begun to brighten the inner of his cell when Eragon heard steps closing in, and the jingling of keys. The door to his cell was opened. A man stepped through. It was the same man that hours before – had really that much time passed already, Eragon wondered – had brought Eragon his food. He had a tray with him. The smell of cheese and onions had hunger bite into into Eragons stomach like a feral animal.

He waited until the guard had gathered the tray and empty jug (for a full one had been brought with the breakfast) and left the cell before reaching for the bread. Wolfing it and the cheese down Eragon sat back with the onion in hand. Lost in thought he bit into it like he would do with an apple, doing his best to ignore the slightly oily taste. Had it gone bad? He turned the onion over in his hands a few times, then shrugged. As long as it didn't make him sick.

Seconds after, the strange taste was already forgotten. His thoughts were whirling once again. He could not focus on a topic, though. The elf, Brom's death, Saphira, the Shade, Murtagh, Saphira, the Urgals, Saphira -

The Urgals. Had the Urgals brought him here? Where was here, anyway? It couldn't be a prison of the Urgals. His warden was a man. The soldiers had not had any horns, either. He was sure he couldn't have missed that, even in his addled state.

He scrambled up, careful to keep a hand on the wall. He didn't want to fall over. After all, he wasn't at all certain he could get back up. A quick glance out the window showed him a street lined with houses. Buildings, tightly clustered together, not at all like in Carvahall. A city, certainly.

A few embarassingly long moments led him to the conclusion that he was in Gil'ead. Only, why would the Urgals have brought him here? That made little enough sense. The soldiers – they must have taken him from the beasts, for whatever reason. A small niggle of doubt made itself known in his mind. But the thought that perhaps, perhaps, the Urgals were working with the men of the king... It was disturbing. He blamed even the notion of it on the effects of the drug, althought the idea did present him with a somewhat amusing picture. A crimson-haired monster holding hands with a horned one.

A chuckle sounded through the cell. Eragon started at the strange sound. He looked around, wide-eyed, until he realised that it was him who had let it out. Shaking his head, he said into the air: "I should sleep."

He woke only once the door to his cell was unlocked again. Smell of food in the stale air. Lunchtime.

The next time he woke it was to voices. A man, his warden perhaps, was barking in a hard, gruff voice. "My orders are clear. No one is to enter," he said.

"Oh indeed?" said another voice. "How strange. I was under the impression I was giving the orders here." That voice was icy, harsh and cutting like frozen snow in the Spine. Eragons thoughts went off on tangents again, he thought of the Spine, of Carvahall, of Roran, Brom and Garrow... and then he noticed that he had missed quite a bit of the conversation outside the door.

"But the king - "

"I am here in the name of the king! You can complain to him tommorow when he arrives, Captain!" If at all possible, the voice had become even colder. "And now unlock the door before I am forced to do it myself." Thoughts of the king should have thrown Eragon into a panic, he knew. The fog in his mind would not permit that. No, something much more acute held his attention – and yes, fear – focused on it.

The man entering the cell was tall, lean and red-haired. Eragons mouth went dry at the conclusion the little part of his mind that was still thinking at least somewhat clearly had come to. That was the Shade standing before him. His skin was pale, bleached like a bone left out in the sun, and looked like parchment, as if a good tug would tear it. The face might have been handsome a long time ago, but but was gaunt and emaciated now. As if he had barely survived a famine, or a particularly harsh winter. It looked like the skull of a corpse.

As he opened his mouth to speak sharp teeth glittered beneath the thin lips: "Welcome." His smile was as icy as his voice. Eragon shuddered at seeing it. "Welcome, Rider", he said again. "I have waited so long to meet you. For almost six months now Galbatorix' henchmen have hunted you, and yet you have escaped them again and again. And now you have stumbled straight into my arms. How... nice."

"Who -" Eragons voice broke. He coughed, then frowned in a bid to focus, and started again: "Who are you?"

"What a coincidence," the Shade said. "Just the question I wanted to ask you. But since we are going to see quite a bit of each other in the future, an introduction does seem in order, no?" The Shade swished aside his cloak with an elegant motion, revealing the wire-wrapped handle of a sword at his hip, and bowed mockingly. "I am Durza. Shade in the service of the King." There was a quiet amusement sounding in these words, but Eragon wasn't quite sure why. "However, much more interesting: who are you?"

Eragon didn't understand why the two of them would see each other a lot. He also didn't understand the guile and malice sounding in that last question. It was harmless, wasn't it? Silly, even. The Shade had to know already who Eragon was. He had admitted as much in his greeting. But he still seemed to expect an answer.

Eragon mulled it over. The Shade watched him think with curiosity and barely concealed impatience. The curiosity turned to annoyance when Eragon finally answered: "I am Eragon."

"Yes. Yes, of course. That is your name." The Shade waved the words away with an irritated gesture. "But it is not who you are. Who are you really?"

Eragons addled mind still didn't really understand that question, but a small flicker of anger flared up in his belly. What right did the Shade have to doubt his word? "I – am – Eragon," he said again.

"Of course." The Shade smiled again. Had the drug not been... Eragon would have understood that it wasn't the end of the conversation, then. He would have known what was coming. Yes, Eragon with his mind intact would have known what to expect. In his state, however, he wasn't at all prepared for the mental attack that hit his nonexistent shields with all the force of a battering ram.

Only... There wasn't anything for the Shade to see. Thoughts and memories and feeling all hidden away. Eragon could feel Durza's presence in his mind and was too woozy to mount any kind of defence, but it didn't seem necessary. It was as if the attack had gone into nothingness, like an arrow one had shot into a misty night, for it to hit only a waft of mist. Nothing that could tell the Shade anything, at the very least. The only advantage of the drug, Eragon supposed. He was quite certain he couldn't have defended himself against that force even if he had been thinking clearly.

The withdrawal of the Shade from his mind was akin to a storm, a gust of heavy wind. Whirling Eragons scattered thoughts apart and yet clearing his head. A clarity he hadn't experienced since waking up in his cell. Durza didn't seem aware of the effect he had had on Eragons mind, though.

The Shade growled and shot Eragon a filthy look, but his face quickly cleared of any anger, and a cold smile took its place. "Well, Eragon," he said. "I'm afraid I have to say good bye for now. But do trust that we will continue this soon. And then we will talk at length about your name." Saying so the Shade whirled around with the grace of a dancer and shouted: "Captain!"

The door was unlocked and opened nearly instantly. A burly man stormed in, sword already drawn, eyes wild. He seemed confused at seeing Eragon sit calmly on his cot, and glanced at the Shade, who had a most unpleasant smirk on his face. "Your Lordship?"

"Put that toy away," the Shade said, lowering at the sword. The guard did so, and the Shade stepped closer, quiet words being exchanged between them. Had Eragon still been in the same state he had been in at the beginning of his conversation it wouldn't even have entered his thoughts to eavesdrop. But as it was, it happened nearly on its own. "Reduce the dose. The King will need the Rider's mind intact and more or less clear when he arrives."

The guard nodded, then both men left the cell. The door closed with a strangely final sounding click.

Eragon laid back at the cot where he had sat up when his visitor came. His thoughts were racing. But now they were focussed, focussed on the most immediate of his problems. The influence of the drug on his mind.

The Shade's order to reduce the dose meant that he was given it again and again. Somehow. Which, in turn, meant... Eragon's eyes wandered through the cell and finally fell on the jug of water. Of course.

He jumped up, grabbed the jug and nearly ran to the window, where he poured out the water onto the street. Oh, had he been foolish. He had known, had noticed that there was something off with the water and the food. But he hadn't paid any mind to it, and would now be paying for that. He couldn't eat or drink anything until the fog in his mind lifted fully. Then maybe, maybe he could find a way to escape.

And, he decided with steel in his eyes and fear in his stomach, muscles taut to supress the tremble, he had to do it before the king came to get him.

Evening came again. Passed. Was spend by Eragon in deep meditation as had been shown to him by Brom. An exercise to clear his mind, gather his thoughts. The supper brought into the cell followed the water onto the street, and with every passing moment, Eragon felt more in control of himself.

He fell asleep sitting on the bed. An unsettled, restless sleep, filled with dark dreams and strange visions. A faceless man with a crown reaching for him. An arm not attached to any body swinging a sword at him. And then, then clarity.

Dark green, cat-like eyes staring at him from an inhumanly beautiful face, filled with pain, fear and adamantine will. The elf's lips were moving, but he could neither hear the words nor read them from her lips, and while she was speaking, Eragon didn't feel like she was speaking with him. A deep sympathy rose within him when he saw the blood dripping down her arm and to the floor.

He woke with a gasp, thoughts clear and focussed, body aching, tired and hungry, but fully capable. The fog had been burned away as if by the morning sun. A tray with breakfast was standing by him, and although his stomach rumbled and his throat was dry he completely ignored it.

Saphira? he tried, reaching out with his thoughts to his soulmate. Careful, to not draw Durza's attention to him. A torrent of foreign, yet familiar feelings flooded his mind. Singing hapiness, great relief and tremedous worry.

Little one! You're awake! Are you alright? Infinetly glad that she was well and yet to tense to feel actually happy he quickly assured her that he was fine. Stay where you are. Murtagh and I are coming to get you come evening.

NO!, Eragon said quickly. Saphira, we have to get out of the city! Galbatorix is on his way here! He felt bitter dread in her thoughts. Short silence. Then determination.

We're coming, she growled, then she was gone. Almost. Only distant flashes streamed through their connection as Eragon stood. He quickly walked over to the door. Feeling for the lock with his magic he moved aside the bolt, smiling at how easy it was. Some months ago doing that would have left him to weak to stand. Now all it did was make him a little bit tired. And very hungry. At least, that was what his stomach was telling him with a loud growl. Well. He could eat once he had left the prison, the Shade and the mad King far behind him.

He pulled the door shut behind him to at least give the impression that he was still in his cell. Every moment he wasn't discovered could mean the difference between freedom and death in Galbatorix' clutches. He darted down the, thankfully empty, corridor, glancing into the cells here and there, looking for the elf. He refused to leave her behind. But the corridors dragged on, and she was nowhere to be seen.

Where are you, Eragon? Murtagh is sneaking in, said Saphira then. Eragon looked around and let her see through his eyes. Stay nearby, she ordered, withdrawing from his mind again. Quickly, but not quickly enough. Eragons still caught her worry, frustration and impatience, feelings, he found, that mirrored his own exactly. The Rider hesitated for a moment, not at all sure what to do. He couldn't stay in the open like that. The danger of detection was too great. But moving alone through an unknown place couldn't be much safer.

He started when he heard steps, sounding as if behind him somewhere, and quickly rounded a corner – only to find himself face to face with four men. They cursed, reaching for their weapons. Eragon could feel the colour drain from his face. I can't possibly fight them all with magic, he realised, but still raised an ominously glowing hand. There was a dull thud, then one of the men keeled over, an arrow buried deep in his back. The sword he had been holding in his hand clattered to the ground.

The soldiers shot around in shock, while Eragon threw himself forward, having a fair idea of who his saviour was. A second arrow felled a second man just moments before Eragons fingers closed around the hilt of the now owner-less bastard sword. And just before a third one could take the last out he had raised the sword, driving it deep into the fourth man's back.

Breath rapid and shallow Eragon glanced to the far end of the hallway, where Murtagh was standing with a bow in his hand and an arrow knocked on the string. He bowed his head lightly. "Thank you," he said to his companion.

"Come." Murtagh's eyes were flittering about, seeing everything, focusing on nothing. "We have to get out of here. Upstairs." Eragon had seen Murtagh angry, restless, worried and frustrated, but he had never quite seen that fear in his eyes. But he understood. He thought about the things the older man had told him about his time in Uru'baen, his experiences at Galbatorix' court. Murtagh turned, racing down the corridor. Eragon followed once he had relieved one of the soldiers of their keys.

"Wait!" he said as loud as he dared and as quiet as he could. Murtagh stopped, half turning towards him. "There is a Shade here. And they are keeping an elf captive here."

"A Shade?" Murtagh's voice was panicked and surprised as he let a few choice curses. Aunt Marian would have washed Eragon's mouth with soap if he had ever uttered those. "The more important that we leave here! Galbatorix on his own is bad enough, we don't need another bloodthirsty maniac on our trail!"

"Didn't you hear me? They're holding an elf here!" Eragon said again. He saw Murtagh's knuckles go white as he tightened the grip on his bow. His hands were trembling a bit. Finally, his tongue darted over his lips and he nodded quickly.

"Fine. You take this side, I take the left one. Quickly!" Murtagh said. Eragon followed the order without hesitating, glad that the other had agreed. If he had insisted on leaving anyway... Eragon was a bit ashamed to admit that he would have left without the Elf.

The cells he glanced into were mostly empty. A few of them held sorry figures huddled into the corners. He found himself wondering how many of them were imprisoned for the crime of displeasing the king. Eragon almost reached for the keys. How many were guilty of actual crimes? He hesitated at that. Turned away. "Eragon!" Murtagh finally raised his voice. Eragon dashed over to the cell, hectically searching for the right key. Finally, he pushed open the door.

The elf was lying on the floor, black hair glistening in the light of a stray ray of sunlight. She looked as she had in Eragon's last vision, down to the blood on her arm, although it was dry now, crumbling from her skin. Only her eyes were closed. She was not awake. Not breathing. Eragon gulped, hoping desperately to see her chest rise and fall.

Nothing.

He fell to his knees by her side, feeling for a pulse, breath baited. At first he thought he would be disappointed, but then he felt it. A flutter. Weak and distant. Almost as if he had imagined it. "She's alife," he said with a relieved sigh and went to pick her up. That he had to let go of the sword to do so bothered him a bit, but it was a necessary evil.

She was surpisingly light, so Eragon stumbled only a little bit when he got up from his kneeling position. He looked towards Murtagh, who was scanning their surroundings again. "Go! Go, upstairs!" Eragon followed him, without hesiatation this time.

They had reached the stairs when Eragon heard a violent screeching ahead. He would have stopped if Murtagh hadn't been been there to pull him along, up the stairs. A crash followed the screech, but that didn't deter Murtagh, either. The stairway opened into a hall, a hall with several tables in it. Some of them had become the victims of beams fallen from the roof.

Saphira? he asked carefully, but got no answer. Her thoughts were laboured and filled with a grim determination. Roof shingles screetched against each other again. Two things happened then, very quickly one after the other. First, a good dozen armed and armoured man stormed into the room, weapons at the ready. And second, a good part of the ceiling went down, crashing to the floor right next to Murtagh and him.

He cursed, throwing himself aside, trying to fall in such a way that the elf wasn't injured any more than she already was. The collision with the floor nearly took his breath away, but he jumped to his feet quickly. He left the elf where she was, in a small nook between one of the bigger chunks of debris and the wall. She would be safe there. He hoped. He looked around feverishly for anything resembling a weapon, which wasn't easy. The dust in the air didn't allow him to see farther than a few feet.

"Eragon!" There was a shout from the left, and then something was flying through the air. On reflex he stretched for it and plucked it from the air.

It was Murtagh's sword, whose leather-wrapped handle felt smooth and unfamiliar in his hand. But Eragon was glad to have a weapon to defend himself with, ready to strike out against the foes he could not see yet.

Only months of merciless training with Brom saved him from the blow that would have taken off his hand if it had hit. Eragon slashed his sword with a battlecry at the man holding the blade, meeting leather, flesh. Blood splattered onto his face.

Any other time he would have felt horrified at the ease of this death. Now, his horror was drowned in a whirl of dust, dogged resolve and bitter fear as he rushed forward, sword raised. The aching of his muscles and the hunger clawing at the walls of his stomach were entirely forgotten. The blade felt entirely to familiar in his hands. Almost right, he thought. One, two men fell to his blade, another two to arrows shot by Murtagh, before Eragon carried away his first wound. A cut in his thigh. Shallow, but dangerous. The unexpected pain had him stumble, and the wound itself would limit him in his movements. "Jierda!" Eragon said with blazing eyes and watched the man who had wounded him fall motionlessly to the ground.

That a significant part of his powers had waned with that spell only registered with him once two blows found their target in him only moment apart. His reactions slower than usual, his attacks and parries weaker. Had those men been more than simple prison guards he would have been very dead at least three times over. Two more men found their death at his blade, three at whitefeathered arrows. Then, suddenly, daylight flooded the room. Saphira had broken through the roof.

Without paying the last soldiers any mind – one had exclaimed in fear at the sound, the other had been buried under debris, most likely dead – Eragon dashed over to where he had left the elf. He didn't notice the two men that had entered the room accompanied by a guard at least twenty men strong. If he had, he would have frozen in fear.

"Impressive," said a voice. It echoed through the room, deep, full, pleasant. It made Eragon stop in his tracks, possessed by the irrational wish to listen to it forever. It conquered his will, distracted him from his goal. It had him hesitate, and ultimately, he would reflect later, it was his destruction. "Most impressive. Five men. With an unfamiliar weapon and unter the influence of Sundarvhugin, at that." The Ride whirled around towards the sound of slow applause, the bloody sword raised, even though his arm trembled and his leg nearly gave unter the sudden strain. "You did choose a worthy companion, young dragon."

Somewhere to his right there was a gasp, a horrified intake of breath. "No," Murtagh said, making it sound almost like a prayer. Then there was an arrow flying past Eragon. They had both realised in the same moment who the owner of this enchanting voice was. If the crown on the figure's head hadn't been enough of an indication, the way it calmly raised its hand and said "Letta oro" certainly was. The arrow stopped.

Fly, Saphira! Saphira, who had just stuck her sapphire-blue head through the hole in the roof into the room felt his alarm. A heartbreaking, ear-piercing bellow sounded, which did nothing to discourage Eragon as he jumped forward, intent on buying her time to get away even if it meant his death.

The roof groaned and creaked as Saphira pulled back, but the voice thundered "No!" and then "Letta!" and then the world went still.

The dust in the air and the falling debris.

The last soldier.

The twenty men.

The Shade.

Murtagh.

Eragon.

Saphira.

For a moment the world was still and quiet, for nothing and noone but the man in the black cloak could move.

"Well," said Galbatorix, and his voice sounded with barely concealed danger, "now we can talk."