Disclaimer: i do not own Star Wars or the Inheritance Cycle.

Riding was extremely painful for Eragon—his broken ribs prevented them from going faster than a walk, and it was impossible for him to breathe deeply without a burst of agony. Nevertheless, he refused to stop. Saphira and George kept their minds linked with his for support and strength. Since leaving the cave where they buried Brom, they had skirted the city of Dras-Leona by a wide margin on the way to Gil'ead, which was almost as far to the north as Carvahall.

Along the way, George and Eragon began to learn a bit more about Murtagh and this caused the two to be comfortable with Murtagh beside them and he them, a friendship forming between the three. They listened as Murtagh explained to them about the politics and other things in the Empire.

The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Eragon dreamed of the woman no more. And though he tried to scry her, he saw only an empty cell. Whenever they passed a town or city, he checked to see if it had a jail. If it did, he would disguise himself and visit it, but she was not to be found. His disguises became increasingly elaborate as he saw notices featuring his name and description—and offering a substantial reward for his capture—posted in various towns. Saphira and George joked that his disguises were ridiculous.

Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû'baen. It was a heavily populated area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.

Once they were safely past Urû'baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain. It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north, following the Ramr River.

Eragon's sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not even mention it to his companions. He was surprised when a carving of a dragon was dropped into his lap one night and he looked up to see George grinning at him. He inclined his head in thanks, and Saphira nuzzled her Rider.

At nearly six months of age, Saphira was much larger. Her wings were massive; every inch of them was needed to lift her muscular body and thick bones. The fangs that jutted from her jaw were nearly as thick around as Eragon's fist, their points as sharp as Zar'roc. Eragon wondered if George's dragon body had changed as well when ageing.

George and Saphira tried to resume their newfound close relationship, Saphira snuggling George close underneath her wing and also allowing him to sleep against her chest some nights. He even gave her a neck massage as a way to make up for not being able to be beside her in dragon form but she wasn't too bothered and told him to stop trying to hard. One night he joked about her being the little one if he grows bigger than her and this had him find himself under her paw with Eragon and Murtagh laughing.

The day finally came when Eragon unwrapped his side for the last time. His ribs had healed completely, leaving him with only a small scar where the Ra'zac's boot had cut his side. As Saphira watched, he stretched slowly, then with increasing vigor when there was no pain. He flexed his muscles, pleased. In an earlier time he would have smiled, but after Brom's death, such expressions did not come easily.

He tugged his tunic on and walked back to the small fire they had made. Murtagh sat next to it, conversing with George. Eragon drew Zar'roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face remained calm. Eragon looked at George "Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?" asked Eragon.

George smirked and stood up, grabbing his Lightsaber which both were attached to to become a double-bladed Lightsaber but he detached them, tossed one to Eragon who activated it and George did the same with his, asking "Shall we begin?" Murtagh and Saphira watched closely as they sparred, using their skills and the magic they have. George didn't go too far but he wasn't gentle or holding too much back either.

They kept blocking and trying to hit a strike but found that they were evenly matched. Eragon had to laugh, they were evenly matched at one point with normal swords but now it was impossible for either one to gain ground with their attack patterns with Lightsabers.

The spar continued as they blocked and parried their blows, both had grins on their faces as they saw how skilled the other was. Eragon felt even more proud when a saw a small bead of sweat go down George's brow.

"Enough, enough." Eragon said and they ceased their spar, George deactivating his Lightsaber and catching the other one when Eragon tossed it to him. He ran a hand through his long hair, which now reached his shoulders. He mentally noted to himself to find a place to get his hair cut shorter.

"Wow, you two are amazing!" Murtagh commented with wide eyes. "You two were so evenly matched your attack patterns couldn't overpower the other."

"Next time...you can spar with him." George pointed at Eragon before falling onto his back with a huff. Saphira padded over and helped him up, amusement coming from her.

That was impressive, George. Same to you as well, Eragon. She spoke to her two boys. To think, little one, that you couldn't beat an Urgal once and can now take on a master Sith Lord who said you wouldn't be able to stand against him in a Lightsaber duel.

Weren't you the one who told me flattery won't save me in a fight? George asked as he hugged her snout and leaned against her but then found himself pinned by her paws and her nose pressed to his own.

Does that mean you want to fight now? She asked with a playful growl. George stared at her before looking at his two companions who shrugged. He looked back at her but got a slow blink in response.

I'll pass.

Thought so. She said smugly and let him up, giving him a nip on his shoulder when he did. Eragon playfully joked about George submitting to Saphira but got a smack on the arm by him. This was the routine now, Eragon and Murtagh would spar and George and Saphira would engage in playful banter.

On the outskirts of Gil'ead they stopped the horses side by side. It had taken them nearly a month to reach it, during which time spring had finally nudged away the remnants of winter. Eragon had felt himself changing during the trip, growing stronger and calmer. He still thought about Brom and spoke about him with Saphira and George, but for the most part he tried not to awaken painful memories.

From a distance they could see the city was a rough, barbaric place, filled with log houses and yapping dogs. There was a rambling stone fortress at its center. The air was hazy with blue smoke. The place seemed more like a temporary trading post than a permanent city. Five miles beyond it was the hazy outline of Isenstar Lake.

They decided to camp two miles from the city, for safety. While their dinner simmered, Murtagh said, "I'm not sure you should be the one to go into Gil'ead."

"Why?" George asked, looking up from his mental conversation with Saphira.

"Yeah, we can disguise myself well enough," Eragon said, agreeing with his friend's question. "And Dormnad will want to see the gedwëy ignasia as proof that I really am a Rider."

Perhaps," said Murtagh, "but the Empire wants you much more than me. If I'm captured, I could eventually escape. But if you are taken, they'll drag you to the king, where you'll be in for a slow death by torture—unless you join him. Plus, Gil'ead is one of the army's major staging points. Those aren't houses out there; they're barracks. Going in there would be like handing yourself to the king on a gilded platter."

Eragon asked Saphira for her opinion. She wrapped her tail around his legs and lay next to him. You shouldn't have to ask me; he speaks sense. There are certain words I can give him that will convince Dormnad of his truthfulness. And Murtagh's right; if anyone is to risk capture it should be him, because he would live through it.

Why do I get the feeling you think we'll cause trouble if Eragon and I went? George asked with a smirk, getting a blank look from her until he raised his hands and said. Okay, we'll play it your way. She snorted, ruffling his hair which got a scowl from him. This hair is bothering me enough as it is!

Eragon grimaced. He didn't like putting Murtagh in danger because of them. "All right, you can go," he said reluctantly. "But if anything goes wrong, we're coming after you." George nodded.

Murtagh laughed. "That would be fit for a legend: how a lone Rider and his sidekick took on the king's army single-handedly." He chuckled again and stood. George shot Eragon and Saphira an offended look and mouthed Sidekick? Eragon struggled to contain his laughter while Saphira laughed mentally in amusement. "Is there anything I should know before going?"

"Shouldn't we rest and wait until tomorrow?" asked Eragon cautiously.

"Why? The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that we'll be discovered. If this Dormnad can take you to the Varden, then he needs to be found as quickly as possible. Neither of us should remain near Gil'ead longer than a few days."

Again wisdom flies from his mouth, commented Saphira dryly. She told Eragon what should be said to Dormnad, and he relayed the information to Murtagh.

"Very well," said Murtagh, adjusting his sword. "Unless there's trouble, I'll be back within a couple of hours. Make sure there's some food left for me." With a wave of his hand, he jumped onto Tornac and rode away.

Hours passed and the boys were tense and nervous. Murtagh should've came back by now. Saphira then alerted them to someone approaching on a horse. They were tense until they saw it was Murtagh. No one seemed to be pursuing him, but he did not slow his reckless pace. He galloped into the camp and jumped to the ground, drawing his sword. "What's wrong?" asked Eragon.

Murtagh scowled. "Did anyone follow me from Gil'ead?"

"We didn't see anyone."

"Good. Then let me eat before I explain. I'm starving." He seized a bowl and began eating with gusto. After a few sloppy bites, he said through a full mouth, "Dormnad has agreed to meet us outside Gil'ead at sunrise tomorrow. If he's satisfied you really are a Rider and that it's not a trap, he'll take you to the Varden."

"Where are we supposed to meet him?" asked George.

Murtagh pointed west. "On a small hill across the road."

"So what happened?"

Murtagh spooned more food into his bowl. "It's a rather simple thing, but all the more deadly because of it: I was seen in the street by someone who knows me. I did the only thing I could and ran away. It was too late, though; he recognized me."

It was unfortunate, but Eragon was unsure how bad it really was. "Since I don't know your friend, I have to ask: Will he tell anyone?"

Murtagh gave a strained laugh. "If you had met him, that wouldn't need answering. His mouth is loosely hinged and hangs open all the time, vomiting whatever happens to be in his mind. The question isn'twhether he will tell people, but whom he will tell. If word of this reaches the wrong ears, we'll be in trouble."

"I doubt that soldiers will be sent to search for you in the dark," Eragon pointed out. "We can at least count on being safe until morning, and by then, if all goes well, we'll be leaving with Dormnad."

Murtagh shook his head. "No, only you will accompany him. As I said before, I won't go to the Varden."

Eragon didn't like that as the three had become good friends in their travels but George advised they get some sleep. Saphira agreed and took watch as they slept.

George and Eragon woke two hours before dawn, Eragon's palm tingling while George sensed something wrong. Everything was still and quiet, but something sought their attention, like an itch in their mind. Eragon buckled on Zar'roc and stood, careful not to make a sound. George grabbed his Lightsabers as he looked around. He went to stand beside Saphira as Eragon went to wake Murtagh. Saphira looked at George. What is it?

I don't know...I hear...I hear horses. George said, suddenly catching the sound of horses. Saphira stood up and sniffed the air.

I can smell them, but they're not moving. They reek with an unfamiliar stench. She said. The three boys got their weapons and stood near her.

Then an angry snarl from behind made Eragon spin around, sword held high. A broad Urgal stood at the edge of the camp, carrying a mattock with a nasty spike. Where did he come from? We haven't seen their tracks anywhere! thought Eragon. The Urgal roared and waved his weapon, but did not charge.

"Brisingr!" barked Eragon, stabbing out with magic. The Urgal's face contorted with terror as he exploded in a flash of blue light. Blood splattered Eragon, and a brown mass flew through the air. Behind him, Saphira bugled with alarm and reared. Eragon twisted around. While he had been occupied with the first Urgal, a group of them had run up from the side. Of all the stupid tricks to fall for!

Steel clashed loudly as Murtagh and George attacked the Urgals. Eragon tried to join the but was blocked by four of the monsters. The first one swung a sword at his shoulder. He ducked the blow and killed the Urgal with magic. He caught a second one in the throat with Zar'roc, wheeled wildly, and slashed a third through the heart. As he did, the fourth Urgal rushed at him, swinging a heavy club.

Eragon saw him coming and tried to lift his sword to block the club, but was a second too slow. As the club came down on his head, he screamed, "Fly, Saphira!" A burst of light filled his eyes and he lost consciousness.

George and Murtagh whirled around at Eragon's scream and saw him go unconscious. They would've gotten to him had a black mist not suddenly appeared in front of them. They fought off the remaining Urgals and killed the last ones when the mist suddenly disappeared.

Yet so had Eragon.

The first things Eragon noticed were that he was warm and dry, his cheek was pressed against rough fabric, and his hands were unbound. He stirred, but it was minutes before he was able to push himself upright and examine his surroundings.

He was sitting in a cell on a narrow, bumpy cot. A barred window was set high in the wall. The iron-bound door with a small window in its top half, barred like the one in the wall, was shut securely.

Dried blood cracked on Eragon's face when he moved. It took him a moment to remember that it was not his. His head hurt horribly—which was to be expected, considering the blow he had taken—and his mind was strangely fuzzy. He tried to use magic, but could not concentrate well enough to remember any of the ancient words. They must have drugged me, he finally decided.

With a groan he got up, missing the familiar weight of Zar'roc on his hip, and lurched to the window in the wall. He managed to see out of it by standing on his toes. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the bright light outside. The window was level with the ground. A street full of busy people ran past the side of his cell, beyond which were rows of identical log houses.

Feeling weak, Eragon slid to the floor and stared at it blankly. What he had seen outside disturbed him, but he was unsure why. Cursing his sluggish thinking, he leaned back his head and tried to clear his mind. A man entered the room and set a tray of food and a pitcher of water on the cot. Wasn't that nice of him? thought Eragon, smiling pleasantly. He took a couple of bites of the thin cabbage soup and stale bread, but was barely able to stomach it. I wish he had brought me something better, he complained, dropping the spoon.

He suddenly realized what was wrong. I was captured by Urgals, not men! How did I end up here? His befuddled brain grappled with the paradox unsuccessfully. With a mental shrug he filed the discovery away for a time when he would know what to do with it.

He sat on the cot and gazed into the distance. Hours later more food was brought in. And I was just getting hungry, he thought thickly. This time he was able to eat without feeling sick. When he finished, he decided it was time for a nap. After all, he was on a bed; what else was he going to do?

His mind drifted off; sleep began to envelop him. Then a gate clanged open somewhere, and the din of steel-shod boots marching on a stone floor filled the air. The noise grew louder and louder until it sounded like someone banging a pot inside Eragon's head. He grumbled to himself. Can't they let me rest in peace? Fuzzy curiosity slowly overcame his exhaustion, so he dragged himself to the door, blinking like an owl.

Through the window he saw a wide hallway nearly ten yards across. The opposing wall was lined with cells similar to his own. A column of soldiers marched through the hall, their swords drawn and ready. Every man was dressed in matching armor; their faces bore the same hard expression, and their feet came down on the floor with mechanical precision, never missing a beat. The sound was hypnotic. It was an impressive display of force.

Eragon watched the soldiers until he grew bored. Just then he noticed a break in the middle of the column. Carried between two burly men was an unconscious woman.

Her long midnight-black hair obscured her face, despite a leather strip bound around her head to hold the tresses back. She was dressed in dark leather pants and shirt. Wrapped around her slim waist was a shiny belt, from which hung an empty sheath on her right hip. Knee-high boots covered her calves and small feet.

Her head lolled to the side. Eragon gasped, feeling like he had been struck in the stomach. She was the woman from his dreams. Her sculpted face was as perfect as a painting. Her round chin, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes gave her an exotic look. The only mar in her beauty was a scrape along her jaw; nevertheless, she was the fairest woman he had ever seen.

Eragon's blood burned as he looked at her. Something awoke in him—something he had never felt before. It was like an obsession, except stronger, almost a fevered madness. Then the woman's hair shifted, revealing pointed ears. A chill crept over him. She was an elf.

The soldiers continued marching, taking her from his sight. Next strode a tall, proud man, a sable cape billowing behind him. His face was deathly white; his hair was red. Red like blood.

As he walked by Eragon's cell, the man turned his head and looked squarely at him with maroon eyes. His upper lip pulled back in a feral smile, revealing teeth filed to points. Eragon shrank back. He knew what the man was. A Shade. So help me . . . a Shade. The procession continued, and the Shade vanished from view.

Eragon sank to the floor, hugging himself. Even in his bewildered state, he knew that the presence of a Shade meant that evil was loose in the land. Whenever they appeared, rivers of blood were sure to follow. What is a Shade doing here? The soldiers should have killed him on sight! Then his thoughts returned to the elf-woman, and he was grasped by strange emotions again.

I have to escape. But with his mind clouded, his determination quickly faded. He returned to the cot. By the time the hallway fell silent, he was fast asleep.

We have to rescue him!

Saphira, calm down!

Do NOT tell me to calm down! I need my Eragon! Saphira snorted as she shook off George's hands on her side.

Since Eragon had been captured, they had retreated into the trees so they weren't spotted and captured. It was hard to tell a dragoness that when she wanted to go in recklessly and destroy everything to rescue Eragon.

"We need a plan to rescue Eragon." Murtagh stated as he looked back at Gil'ead

And do you both have a plan? Saphira asked but Murtagh scowled at the ground while George looked away as he considered some plans. The dragoness looked between them before snorting and began walking away from them. George shook his head and went after her quickly.

Saphira, wait! He called. She stopped but didn't look at him. He placed a hand on her side as she bowed her head and looked at the ground. He walked up and took her cheeks in his hands and turned her head so they were looking at each other. Hey, look at me. He said softly.

Tears were brimming at her eyes. I just...I can't bear the thought of him being hurt...and alone...and I can't get to him.

Shh...it's okay. We'll get him back. George said in a reassuring tone as they placed their foreheads against one another. Saphira's eyes closed as she curled her tail around George and her wings went on either side of him. That protective feeling came back and he let it take over which made him do a bold, very bold move.

Saphira's eyes flew open when she felt lips kiss her snout and looked at George who rested his chin on her snout and they continued staring into each other's eyes. Exchanging feelings with one another. We will get him back, Saphira. That's a promise.

Saphira Nuzzled him gently, thanking him for his comfort. Murtagh then called over to them that he had a plan so they walked over to hear it...

As soon as Eragon opened his eyes, he knew something was different. It was easier for him to think; he realized that he was in Gil'ead. They made a mistake; the drug's wearing off! Hopeful, he tried to contact Saphira and use magic, but both activities were still beyond his reach. A pit of worry twisted inside him as he wondered if she, George, and Murtagh had managed to escape. He stretched his arms and looked out the window. The city was just awakening; the street was empty except for two beggars.

He reached for the water pitcher, ruminating about the elf and Shade. As he started to drink, he noticed that the water had a faint odor, as if it contained a few drops of rancid perfume. Grimacing, he set the pitcher down. The drug must be in there and maybe in the food as well! He remembered that when the Ra'zac had drugged him, it had taken hours to wear off. If I can keep from drinking and eating for long enough, I should be able to use magic. Then I can rescue the elf. . . . The thought made him smile. He sat in a corner, dreaming about how it could be done.

The portly jailer entered the cell an hour later with a tray of food. Eragon waited until he departed, then carried the tray to the window. The meal was composed only of bread, cheese, and an onion, but the smell made his stomach grumble hungrily. Resigning himself to a miserable day, he shoved the food out the window and onto the street, hoping that no one would notice.

Eragon devoted himself to overcoming the drug's effects. He had difficulty concentrating for any length of time, but as the day progressed, his mental acuity increased. He began to remember several of the ancient words, though nothing happened when he uttered them. He wanted to scream with frustration.

When lunch was delivered, he pushed it out the window after his breakfast. His hunger was distracting, but it was the lack of water that taxed him most. The back of his throat was parched. Thoughts of drinking cool water tortured him as each breath dried his mouth and throat a bit more. Even so, he forced himself to ignore the pitcher.

He was diverted from his discomfort by a commotion in the hall. A man argued in a loud voice, "You can't go in there! The orders were clear: no one is to see him!"

"Really? Will you be the one to die stopping me, Captain?" cut in a smooth voice.

There was a subdued, "No . . . but the king—"

"I will handle the king," interrupted the second person. "Now, unlock the door."

After a pause, keys jangled outside Eragon's cell. He tried to adopt a languorous expression. I have to act like I don't understand what's going on. I can't show surprise, no matter what this person says.

The door opened. His breath caught as he looked into the Shade's face. It was like gazing at a death mask or a polished skull with skin pulled over it to give the appearance of life. "Greetings," said the Shade with a cold smile, showing his filed teeth. "I've waited a long time to meet you."

"Who—who're you?" asked Eragon, slurring his words.

"No one of consequence," answered the Shade, his maroon eyes alight with controlled menace. He sat with a flourish of his cloak. "My name does not matter to one in your position. It wouldn't mean a thing to you anyway. It's you that I'm interested in. Who are you?"

The question was posed innocently enough, but Eragon knew there had to be a catch or trap in it, though it eluded him. He pretended to struggle over the question for a while, then slowly said, frowning, "I'm not sure. . . . M'name's Eragon, but that's not all I am, is it?"

The Shade's narrow lips stretched tautly over his mouth as he laughed sharply. "No, it isn't. You have an interesting mind, my young Rider." He leaned forward. The skin on his forehead was thin and translucent. "It seems I must be more direct. What is your name?"

"Era—"

"No! Not that one." The Shade cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Don't you have another one, one that you use only rarely?"

He wants my true name so he can control me! realized Eragon. But I can't tell him. I don't even know it myself. He thought quickly, trying to invent a deception that would conceal his ignorance. What if I made up a name? He hesitated—it could easily give him away—then raced to create a name that would withstand scrutiny. As he was about to utter it, he decided to take a chance and try to scare the Shade. He deftly switched a few letters, then nodded foolishly and said, "Brom told it to me once. It was . . ." The pause stretched for a few seconds, then his face brightened as he appeared to remember. "It was Du Súndavar Freohr." Which meant almost literally "death of the shadows."

A grim chill settled over the cell as the Shade sat motionless, eyes veiled. He seemed to be deep in thought, pondering what he had learned. Eragon wondered if he had dared too much. He waited until the Shade stirred before asking ingenuously, "Why are you here?"

The Shade looked at him with contempt in his red eyes and smiled. "To gloat, of course. What use is a victory if one cannot enjoy it?" There was confidence in his voice, but he seemed uneasy, as if his plans had been disrupted. He stood suddenly. "I must attend to certain matters, but while I am gone you would do well to think on who you would rather serve: a Rider who betrayed your own order or a fellow man like me, though one skilled in arcane arts. When the time comes to choose, there will be no middle ground." He turned to leave, then glanced at Eragon's water pitcher and stopped, his face granite hard. "Captain!" he snapped.

A broad-shouldered man rushed into the cell, sword in hand. "What is it, my lord?" he asked, alarmed.

"Put that toy away," instructed the Shade. He turned to Eragon and said in a deadly quiet voice, "The boy hasn't been drinking his water. Why is that?"

"I talked with the jailer earlier. Every bowl and plate was scraped clean."

"Very well," said the Shade, mollified. "But make sure that he starts drinking again." He leaned toward the captain and murmured into his ear. Eragon caught the last few words, ". . . extra dose, just in case." The captain nodded. The Shade returned his attention to Eragon. "We will talk again tomorrow when I am not so pressed for time. You should know, I have an endless fascination for names. I will greatly enjoy discussing yours inmuch greater detail."

The way he said it gave Eragon a sinking feeling.

Once they left, he lay on the cot and closed his eyes. Brom's lessons proved their worth now; he relied on them to keep himself from panicking and to reassure himself. Everything has been provided for me; I only have to take advantage of it. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching soldiers.

Apprehensive, he went to the door and saw two soldiers dragging the elf down the hallway. When he could see her no more, Eragon slumped to the floor and tried to touch the magic again. Oaths flew from his lips when it eluded his grasp.

He looked out at the city and ground his teeth. It was only midafternoon. Taking a calming breath, he tried to wait patiently.