Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls or The Inheritance Cycle.
The atmosphere felt dark and solemn when they awakened the next morning. Eragon and Daemon were still reeling from the loss of Brom, a man who had come to be like father to the two of them over the past few months. No words were exchanged as Daemon held one of his swords in his hands, looking at his reflection. He did look up when Murtagh climbed up to the cave, carrying a pair of rabbits. Without a word, he seated himself across from them.
"How are you both?" He asked them.
Daemon just grunted while Eragon replied. "Very ill."
Murtagh considered him thoughtfully. "Will you recover?" Eragon shrugged. After a few minutes of reflection, Murtagh said, "I dislike asking this at such a time, but I must know... Is your Brom the Brom? The one who helped steal a dragon egg from the king, chased it across the Empire, and killed Morzan in a duel? I heard you say his name, and I read the inscription you put on his grave, but I must know for certain, Was that he?"
"It was," said Eragon softly. A troubled expression settled on Murtagh's face. "How do you know all that? You talk about things that are secret to most, and you were trailing the Ra'zac right when we needed help. Are you one of the Varden?"
Murtagh's eyes became inscrutable orbs. "I'm running away, like you two." There was restrained sorrow in his words. "I do not belong to either the Varden or the Empire. Nor do I owe allegiance to any man but myself. As for my rescuing you, I will admit that I've heard whispered tales of a new Rider and reasoned that by following the Ra'zac I might discover if they were true."
"I thought you wanted to kill the Ra'zac,"said Eragon.
Murtagh smiled grimly. "I do, but if I had, I never would have met you."
Eragon tried to reach into his mind, but found it well guarded, a task that was not easy to master. Wherever he was running away from, Murtagh didn't want anyone to know his secrets.
Eragon rose and belted on Zar'roc. The weapon had caused some fear in the Ra'zac when they found it, and that was more than reason enough for him to wield it. Murtagh gave a sour gaze when he recognized the sword, and bitterly told Eragon the story behind it, for the blade had once been Morzan's. Shocked as he was by this revelation, Eragon decided to keep it until he could find a replacement.
When the meal was ready, Eragon ate slowly, though he was quite hungry. The hot food made him feel better. As they scraped out their bowls, he said, "I have to sell my horse."
"Why not Brom's?" asked Murtagh. He seemed to have gotten over his bad temper. He glanced at Shadowmere. "Or that one?"
"That's my horse, and he doesn't like to be insulted in such a way." Daemon said, speaking his first words of the day as he had been quiet since waking up.
"Snowfire? Because Brom promised to take care of him. Since he... isn't around, I'll do it for him." Eragon said, remembering Brom did promise that in Therinsford.
Murtagh set his bowl on his lap. "If that's what you want, I'm sure we can find a buyer in some town or village."
"We?" Daemon asked, raising an eyebrow.
Murtagh gave him a sideways glance. "We can't stay here for much longer; Brom's tomb will act like a beacon for the Empire's soldiers that are bound to be looking for us. And you two aren't exactly ready to head off on your own just yet." Eragon winced at the thought of his broken ribs. He knew Daemon would recover quickly, the half-dragon that he was. But his ribs would take time to heal. "I know you can defend yourself with magic," Murtagh continued, "and while Daemon may be able to wield a sword or two soon enough, another pair of hands may prove useful. I am asking to travel with you, at least for the time being. Fair warning though, the Empire is looking for me. There will be blood eventually."
Daemon scoffed. "Welcome to our life." He and Eragon shared a look before Daemon nodded. "We don't care if the entire army is looking for you, but we could use the help. But we should warn you, things will be no safer with us. We are wanted just as badly by the king and his forces."
"Noted," Murtagh said with a small grin. "But all the same, I think I'll take may chances."
"Good." Eragon smiled with gratitude.
While they spoke, Saphira crawled into the cave. She gave Daemon a warm nuzzle, then laid down next to Eragon as she greeted him. Are you well again?
Not quite.
I miss the old one.
As do I... I never suspected that he was a Rider. Brom! He really was an old man—as old as the Forsworn. Everything he taught me about magic he must have learned from the Riders themselves.
Saphira shifted slightly. I knew what he was the moment he touched me at your farm.
And you didn't tell us? Why? Daemon asked her.
He asked me not to, she said simply.
Daemon and Eragon decided not to make a big issue out of it. Saphira then told them about a contact in Gil'ead who could help them find the Varden.
Eragon then told the two of them about his dream. He worried that the next time he envisioned the woman, it would show a grave. They decided to go north, to Gil'ead. Murtagh listen to them as they explained their decision and told them he would leave once they encountered the Varden; he would be no more welcome there than in the Empire.
They doused the fire, packed, and led the horses out of the cave. Eragon handed Cadoc's and Snowfire's reins to Murtagh, saying, "Go on, we'll be right down." Murtagh began the slow descent from the cave.
Eragon struggled up the sandstone, resting when his side made it impossible to breathe. When he reached the top, he found Saphira and Daemon already there. They stood together before Brom's grave and paid their last respects. Saphira leaned in close and touched the sandstone with her nose. The rock shimmered like water, and the two boys gasped as the rock turned to flawless diamond. Beneath the surface, Brom's peaceful form appeared to only be sleeping.
I give you the only gift I can, old man. Saphira said softly. Now you can rest in piece for eternity. Daemon and Eragon both put a hand on her side, and the three of them left as one.
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. Daemon and Saphira kept their minds linked with his for solace and strength.
They covered only a short distance that day, yet Eragon was glad to be on the move again. It kept his mind off other, more morbid matters. They were riding through unsettled land. The road to Dras-Leona was several leagues to their left. They would skirt the city by a wide margin on the way to Gil'ead, which was almost as far to the north as Carvahall.
They sold Cadoc in a small village. As the horse was led away by his new owner, Eragon regretfully pocketed the few coins he had gained from the transaction. It was difficult to relinquish Cadoc after crossing half of Alagaësia—and outracing Urgals—on him.
The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Daemon and Eragon began to learn more about Murtagh, forming a friendship with him now that they were comfortable around him. They spent hours debating the finer points of archery and hunting.
There was one subject, however, they avoided discussing by unspoken consent: their pasts. Eragon did not explain how he had found Saphira, met Brom, or where he and Daemon came from. Murtagh was likewise mute as to why the Empire was chasing him. It was a simple arrangement, but it worked.
The first week went by without any sign of the Ra'zac, which allayed some of Eragon's fears. Even so, they still kept watches at night. Eragon had expected to encounter Urgals on the way to Gil'ead, but they found no trace of them. He 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 and Markus would disguise themselves and visit it, but she was not to be found. The disguises became increasingly elaborate as they saw notices featuring their description—and offering a substantial reward for their capture—posted in various towns.
After several tense days of avoiding the capital city of Uru'baen, they found themselves on the edge of the same vast plain they had crossed after leaving home. They kept to the perimeter of the plain, following the Ramr River north.
During this time, Eragon's sixteenth birthday arrived. He had said nothing to his companions, as he deemed it trivial out here in the wilderness. But two of them had not forgotten. The night of his birthday, sitting by the fire, Eragon was surprised when something small and hard fell into his lap. Curious, he picked it up and examined it. It was a small carving of a dragon, whittled from a piece of wood. He looked up and saw Daemon smirking at him from across the fire. Eragon smiled back warmly, inclining his head in thanks. He then felt a warm feeling rise in his neck as Saphira leaned in a gave him a loving lick, humming as she nuzzled him. He hugged her snout and thanked them both for remembering.
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. He wondered if Daemon's dragon body would have grown as well. Being about the same age as Saphira, he probably grew at about the same rate. She assured him that despite remaining in human form for an extended period, she too was convinced that Daemon would be her size.
You better stay my size. Saphira teased the Dragonborn, who retorted by asking if she was jealous about someone being larger than her and being called 'little one'. This led to him being tripped up and pinned underneath the dragoness' paw until he apologised. Saphira was disappointed when Daemon informed her he couldn't go into dragon form just now until they were sure Murtagh was trustworthy to learn about that. Despite that, Daemon tried to maintain their new, close friendship as best as he can, even gave her neck a massage one night and slept against her chest with her head on his lap. As much as she appreciated his efforts, she told him he didn't have to constantly try so hard.
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, whittling a piece of wood. Eragon drew Zar'roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face remained calm as Eragon turned to Daemon. "Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?" asked Eragon.
Daemon looked at him and smirked. "Alright then. But tonight... I'll only use one of my swords. If you can do great tonight, then the next time will involve me using both of them."
Eragon smirked. "I appreciate the challenge."
"Let's see if all that training really paid off."
"It won't be fair to you." Eragon joked as he got into a stance.
"Humor me," Was the simple response.
Eragon struck first, lightning quick, but Daemon deflected and parried Eragon's sword. Daemon gripped his sword with one hand and remained on the defensive as Eragon was on the offensive, attacking the Dragonborn with slashes and slice attempts that were blocked and parried. Daemon ducked a swing from Eragon and kneed him in the stomach before bringing the pommel of his sword into Eragon's back. Eragon just chuckled as he straightened and the two circled one another before Daemon struck first and their swords locked as they tried to overpower one another, then Eragon tried a trip attempt but Daemon jumped to avoid it, however Eragon took the chance to elbow Daemon in the stomach, sending the Dragonborn back a few steps. They continued back and forth, trying to get an advantage over the other. After an intense attack pattern from Daemon, Eragon let out a short laugh. They had always been fairly matched, but now it was impossible for either one to gain ground.
Daemon kept his sword pointed at Eragon until he struck, but Daemon blocked and blocked, then used speed to block another and tried an attack from behind that Eragon quickly blocked, getting a smirk from Daemon. Daemon went back on defence as Eragon slashed, stabbed, thrust and anything else he could think of to try and beat Daemon, but the Dragonborn blocked it all. Eventually, Eragon called it off when exhaustion caught up to them.
"By Oblivion..." Rahgol muttered as he panted a bit and flipped his hair back. he sat down and leaned against Saphira. while putting his sword down. Eragon soon joined him, both leaning against Saphira.
"That was amazing!" Murtagh said with eyes wide. I've studied swordplay all my life, but never have I seen fighters like you two. You could be the king's weapon masters if you wanted to."
"Well, if you're up for it, you can practice with us." Rahgol offered.
"I think I might just do that. I could use the practice, and I might even learn a thing or two."
Saphira nuzzled her two boys. You two have grown. To think, Eragon, you couldn't beat a single Urgal once and now you leave the mighty Dragonborn exhuasted.
Eragon grinned as Daemon gave her a look. Try saying that again when I beat you the next time we have a playful fight of our own.
Saphira merely nipped his shoulder. I look forward to it.
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. 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."
"And why is that?" Daemon asked, looking up from his conversation with Saphira.
"Yeah, we can disguise ourselves well enough," said Eragon. "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 two 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."
"Have to admit... he's right." Daemon said with a sigh and a nod. "We'd be dragged before Galbatorix himself if we ever get captured."
Eragon grimaced; he didn't like the thought of Murtagh risking himself just for them. "All right, you can go," he told him. "But should anything happen, we're coming in after you."
"Been a while since I stormed a fortress." Daemon said with a smirk.
Saphira threw him a look. We have got to talk about you throwing yourself into unnecessary danger."
Murtagh just 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 moved to ready his war-horse Tornac. Daemon looked offended at being called a sidekick, much to Eragon and Saphira's amusement. Murtagh climbed into his saddle, "Anything else 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 towards the city.
Hours past, and Daemon and Eragon grew anxious. Murtagh should have returned by now. They all watched the city with unmoving eyes until Saphira spotted someone coming. They swiveled toward Gil'ead and saw a distant horseman exit the city and ride furiously toward their camp. As the rider approached, they recognized Murtagh bent low over Tornac. 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?"
"No, we just saw you." Daemon shook his head.
"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 Eragon.
Murtagh pointed west. "On a small hill across the road."
"So what happened?" Daemon asked.
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."
Daemon and Eragon shared a look. That was unfortunate but they were unsure how bad it really was. "Since we don't know your friend, I have to ask: Will he tell anyone?" Eragon asked.
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't whether 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 the thought of leaving Murtagh behind. The three had become good friends in their travels and it didn't seem right to tear that apart. Saphira hushed him, telling him to worry about it in the morning. They made ready for bed as Saphira took the first watch.
Daemon and Eragon woke a couple of hours later, Everything was still and quiet, but something sought their attention, like an itch in their minds at the back. Eragon moved to wake Murtagh as Daemon went to stand beside Saphira. It was still and quiet, but something didn't feel right. What is it? she asked softly.
I don't know, answered Daemon. He peered into the early morning darkness but saw nothing amiss.
Saphira sniffed the air curiously. She hissed a little and lifted her head. I smell horses nearby, but they're not moving. They reek with an unfamiliar stench.
Without a word between them, the three youths readied their blades and stood on either side of Saphira and prepared for anything.
An angry snarl from behind made Eragon spin around. A broad Urgal stood at the edge of camp, brandishing a heavy spiked mattock. Eragon struck out with magic and the beast exploded in a flash of blue fire. As this happened, Saphira bugled with alarm and reared. Eragon twisted back around to see a group of Urgals attack her and the others. While he had been focused on the first, the others had run up from the side.
Steel clashed loudly as Murtagh and Daemon attacked the Urgals. Eragon tried to join them 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.
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.
We have to get him!
"And we will, Saphira." Daemon said in response to the dragoness' worry for Eragon. The Dragonborn too was worried and wanted nothing more than to storm into the place and break Eragon out of wherever they are holding him, but even he knew that was stupid. He didn't know what was waiting for them inside.
So what are we going to do? she asked sourly.
Murtagh sat down and scowled as he racked his brain for an idea. Daemon looked away with a sigh as he mulled over their options. Saphira looked from one to the other, then snorted and walked away angrily. They tell her to wait and think, then they look blankly at the ground, honestly! As she stalked away, Daemon shook his head and told Murtagh he was going after her. The dark-haired young man merely grunted and continued to think of a plan.
Saphira, wait, Daemon called after her, and she stopped. He caught up to her, but she wouldn't look at him, her anger and hurt clearly venting through their mental link. He tried to say something, but she blocked him out. He sighed and put his hand under her chin. She wavered at his touch and her mind opened again. Hey, look at me, he said softly, bringing her large head around to face him.
Her eyes were brimming with tears and Daemon felt a wave of despair from her. I just.. she stammered, trying to hold back a sob, I can't stop thinking he might be hurt...and alone...and I can't get to him. She closed her eyes and shuddered, trying to keep from breaking down. She felt Daemon embrace her head, as he tried to comfort her.
Daemon held the sobbing dragoness and stroked her cheek. He hated seeing her like this, even though he felt the same. The urge to comfort her, to make her fears and sadness go away consumed him and he made a very, very bold move. It's going to be okay...
Saphira's eyes flew open as Daemon lightly kissed the end of her snout. She topped shaking and stared into his eyes, and he stared back. wrapping their minds together as he poured all his comfort onto her, both of them exuding feelings of care and concern for each other and Eragon. Neither of them could find the words, they merely looked back at the other. Eventually, Daemon let her go but kept a hand on her snout, tracing small circle on her chin.
I promise you, we will get him back. Nothing in this world will stop me, even if I have to use the Thu'um to tear that whole damned place down and kill everyone to find him and bring him back to us. He vowed to her. She nuzzled his chest softly and gave a low hum, thanking him.
It was then Murtagh called over to them. "I think I have an idea," he called to them. Without another word, they turned and walked back to him so he could explain his plan to them.
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, Daemon 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 in much 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 mid-afternoon. Taking a calming breath, he tried to wait patiently...
And that's this chapter done. Boy was it a long one.
