"Who was the Rider of Dawn, the one who drove the Dwarven Lords back to their mountain holdings?"

Eragon furrowed his brow as he strained to keep the rock floating above his palm.

Brom looked at him intently, waiting for his answer.

"Varlyn Darke, he belonged to the dragon Ormonder, and was heir to House Darke of the eastern lands . . . until an egg hatched for him, forcing him to join the order and revoke his birthright. His cousin Tenary Larken inherited the lands. Varlyn ended up being the one to put down the rebellion that occurred seven hundred years later, Tenary's descendant Varyn Fort."

Eragon felt sweat drip trickle from his brow and onto his nose and cheeks. The rock wavered, but remained afloat. Brom nodded in approval, leaning on his sword as he sat.

"Good. Good. Now, who was the first Rider?" Brom leaned forward with a smile. Eragon scoffed, but as he did so the rock nearly fell into the palm of his hand. He grunted and focused on it again. Slowly, it began to rise once more.

"That one is easy. Rayun'haurtubbi of the brown wood; hero of the age of mourning and founder of the Riders . . . he lived for thousands of years, until he ended his own life." Eragon felt sad then, death reminding him of Garrow and Roran. He had accepted their passings, but often he found himself crying in the night, remembering their faces and love. He lost his concentration then, and the rock landed heavily on his palm.

Brom sighed and rose to his feet, using his sword as leverage. "That was the longest you've lasted, Eragon. As your Rider powers mature, you'll find you will have more magical stamina, and other facets of your body will improve as well. I see Saphira is growing strong, as well."

Brom smiled at the blue dragon, who splashed in the shallow river that lay beside them. Eragon had decided to name her Saphira after Brom had begun educating him about the Riders. It was an old name, dating back years upon years of generations. Eragon loved it when Brom told him his heritage. He could see it- the Riders in all of their glory, with shining blades and roaring dragons. He had spoken of that to Brom, and the man suddenly had taken a very sad face.

"That is why they fell, the very statement you just said. The Riders . . . they became obsessed with war and glory, until they oppressed the very people they swore to protect." The night Brom had said that to him, the fire between them seemed to glow, and Eragon, for the first time, saw violence in the man's eyes.

But Eragon was in the present now, wishing he had warmer clothes. They had come across various small towns on their journey, staying away from holdfasts and larger villages. They begged for food and begged for clothing. Often they were rebuked, but some kind souls had given them slightly molded fur cloaks, and others small bags of dried meat and bread.

Still, it seemed to be getting colder every day, and night fell upon them quickly and brutally, devouring the light and leaving them party to whatever dark beings watched from the cloak of sunset.

They had been safe for the most part.

During their journey they came across little to no people, and when they did, Brom often sensed them first, giving Eragon ample time to hide Saphira. His eyes drifted to his dragon.

She had gotten larger. She was the size of a medium sized dog, now, and had proved to be a better hunter than Brom and Eragon combined. She was the one who gathered food for them, finding fat rabbits who hid in their dens, and gathering piles of squirrels that melted in your mouth when roasted by Brom. They traveled by the side of the Ninor river, which thickened and swallowed and deepened at random intervals. Despite the cold, Brom and Eragon would often bathe in the river, attempting to stave off the collecting dirt and grime that ruined their appearances. Eragon knew he looked a mess- His hair had gotten unruly and long, reaching his cheeks. He felt wisps of hair growing under his nose and around his jaw, and often had laughed when he compared his facial hair to Brom's. The man's beard had grown exceptionally, and it seemed to get longer as the man's body revived before Eragon's eyes. He was a totally different man than the one his brother had found in the valley; that much was sure.

The morning turned into noon as they walked ahead, the river following them across a screen of old trees. The trees were all naked, having dropped their leaves, making them look menacing and dangerous as branches spread out to the sky, grasping and thin. Their pace was moderate, and Eragon could tell they had traveled far from Carvahall.

They were in the last reaches of the North, Brom had said earlier, and once they started further south they would gain a quick respite from the cold, before those lands were met with a deeper chill. Eragon noticed that things seemed smaller the further they traveled. Trees mostly.

In the North they were massive guardians, great and powerful, green all year, with roots as big as a man's leg and some even bigger than that. Brom had said that was because the North was mostly untouched by time, whereas the other areas of Alagaesia had been put under test by war and industry.

Eragon looked at the man's back now, watching as the hilt of Brom's sword shined darkly in the light of the sun. Eragon was always taken away by the blade- It was beautiful, but yet there was a sense of dread around it, an aura that he could not understand. The hilt; a dragon with an open maw, with jewel eyes and a pointed pommel, was imposing. Eragon had never seen the actual blade, that part of the sword hidden in Brom's makeshift sheath, a bastardly combination of wool, wood, and rope.

The man never drew the blade, not even to sharpen it, but he did answer some of Eragon's questions about other weapons.

"All Rider's blades are unique." He had said. "They are made with magic, and share components with their wielder. Any man can pick up a Rider's blade, but he will often find it unwieldy, hard to handle and strangely weighted. That is because the sword knows who it belongs to. They are no ordinary weapons."

Eragon had asked Brom if a Rider could use a blade that belonged to another of their Order, and he said it was possible, though it was still best to use your own sword.

"The Rider Jaloin took his brother's blade after he was ambushed and killed by Dwarves. He fought in the Dwarven wars. They say he was adept with his borrowed blade, but he was killed, in the end. The Dwarves were dangerous fighters, and back then there were much more of them."

Brom had often spoken of Dwarves with distaste, and Eragon could see the man did not like them. He tried to shy away from the subject but his curiosity tugged at him, wanting to know more. Saphira talked much, speaking to both Brom and Eragon, her voice deepening. She had matured fast, and Eragon was startled at how articulate the dragon had become, how insightful she was. She could fly now, large and strong wings carrying her into the air. Brom had said it would be a long time before Eragon himself could ride her.

"It takes years for Dragons to mature, and they never stop growing. In two years, you will be able to soar with her in the air, but she would be no larger than a horse. Dragons who have lived for centuries often dwarfed castles." Brom informed.

Eragon was disappointed somewhat. He had expected Saphira to quickly blossom into a fearsome beast, but he knew such wishes were juvenile. Dragons, like all large creatures, grew slowly.

"You know a lot about dragons." Eragon said conversationally as they walked. Dead leaves crunched under their boots, which were covered in dried mud. Eragon saw grey clouds moving in covering the sun, and he wasn't sure he liked the prospect of enduring another cold rain.

"Where are we going?" He asked, after Brom refused to answer his first question. The man stopped then, and Eragon nearly bumped into him, the jewel eye of Brom's sword staring at the boy with animosity. Brom turned his face, shadowed with annoyance with eyes as sharp as steel. He grimaced, and spat onto the cold ground.

"I figured I would have to tell you at some point. We're going to the Varden. It is the only safe haven in Alagaesia for you and Saphira." At the sound of her name, Saphira huddled closer to the two humans. Her long neck rubbed against Eragon's upper leg, and her wings flexed in excitement.

The Varden? Who are they? She asked Brom mentally. Eragon heard her question as if it was his own thought.

Brom's mouth twisted, and he spat yet again at the ground.

"They are a coalition of Lords who want to usurp the current King, Galbatorix, and place a descendent of House Langfeld back on the throne. The Langfelds had ruled for thousands of years before the war."

Eragon frowned.

"How do you know they will accept me? How are they any less dangerous than the Empire?"

"Because you're a rider. Right now, Galbatorix and his highest ranking generals, the remaining Forsworn, all have their own dragons. You also have a reason to fight against the Empire, due to the death of your family and the destruction of your town. They will accept you and your dragon." Eragon looked at Saphira, who raised her head to him in turn.

I do not believe we have a choice. Either we go with him to the Varden, or we die at the hands of the Empire Saphira reasoned.

Eragon nodded in agreement. She spoke truly. They had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to hide. There was no other alternative.

"I'll go. We'll go." He said quickly, strength blossoming in his voice. Brom nodded in approval.

"You have no other choice, do you?" He said with a sour grin. Eragon bowed his head, and Brom walked on ahead. Eragon faltered, the question he had been wanting to ask for days building up in his throat until it finally came bursting out-

"Were you a Rider?" He asked, blurting.

Eragon! Saphira scolded, but he continued on, stepping forward.

"It's true though, isn't it? That's how you know so much about dragons . . . the wars . . . and that sword, it's a riders blade, is it not?" Eragon said breathlessly. Brom remained silent, but had stopped moving. A breeze sauntered through, rustling vile-looking branches and swirling ancient leaves around their feet. Eragon's long hair waved into his eyes, and he looked at Brom through a light-brown veil.

"Aye. I was." Brom said finally, his voice heavy. Eragon did not know if it was sadness or anger, and he finally settled on the possibility that it may have been both.

"What happened to your dragon?"

"She died some time ago."

Brom breathed deeply, and began to speak.

"It all started with a girl. A Rider. Beautiful. Her name was Alyenne. She was from a noble house . . . the Tarsors or the Vines, I forget which one exactly. Sweet and gentle, she was every man's dream. She . . . she was sent by the Lord Rider, who controlled and led the Riders, to treat with the Dwarves. A new merchant family had inherited the kingship, and he thought it prudent to gloss over past transgressions. Dwarves are long-lived, and they never forget when they are slighted.

She went alone, astride her dragon, Faythym. When she reached the mountain passes, two massive hosts of Dwarven armies waited for her. Don't believe the stories you read as a child- Dwarves are not much shorter than regular men, and they're stronger, much stronger. Brutal creatures. They shot her down with silver-tipped arrows, a metal that is known to hurt dragons more than steel or iron or bronze. Her dragon hit the ground breathing its last breath, but she still lived. The leader of the attack, a Dwarf named Orgian Jaystark, killed her himself, cutting off her head and eating her dragon. After the attack, I believe he changed his name to Dragonfeller."

Brom's face softened as he continued.

"Galbatorix . . . he was young then, for a Rider, anyway. He loved her, and demanded justice. The Lord Rider sent word to the Dwarf King, who refused to release Orgian to us, due to the fact that the Dwarf King was related to Orgian, through his mother's line. The Lord Rider wanted to avert war . . . and they both settled on sending a Dwarven proxy to face justice. Galbatorix was incensed. He saw no point in ending a life that was not guilty of a crime. He took it upon himself to get revenge."

Eragon's eyes widened, enraptured by the history he now shared.

"Galbatorix flew with his closest companions, some of which would later lead his armies in conquest. They ravaged the mountain passes, burning and killing Dwarf villages that were above ground. Orgian, still drunk off of his murder, raised his host and met Galbatorix on the field of battle. He had Alyenne's hand dangling around his neck, and her skull decorated his spear. Galbatorix challenged him to single combat. Orgian agreed, as long as Galbatorix refrain from using magic. Galbatorix simply killed him with a powerful spell, saying that the Dwarf did not deserve the honor of his compliance. He then continued to shatter Orgian's host, killing hundreds of young dwarven nobles. He and his allies flew back home, only to be put under arrest by several Riders waiting for them. The young dwarf King demanded that Galbatorix be executed by threat of war, already calling his banners from underneath the mountain pass.

Galbatorix fled his former allies, finding solace in the keep of Lord Hosteaux, who was a descendant of Galbatorix's brother, long dead. The Langfeld King demanded that Hosteaux deliver Galbatorix, and Hosteaux refused, saying he would die before that happened. Bannermen loyal to the King rose to attack Hosteaux's keep, and Hosteaux, with Galbatorix, were able to throw them off. Riders who sympathized with Galbatorix joined him in his defense, and smaller lordlings loyal to House Hosteaux answered their Lord's call. Soon, the entire realm was engulfed in a bloody war. It raged for ten years, and during that time Galbatorix went from fighting a defensive war, to becoming a conqueror. Human Houses joined him, seeing his power. He waged war on the Dwarves, killing their king and forcing them to abandon the richest of their holdfasts, taking their gold for himself. He then turned to the Elves, who had been aiding the Langfelds. At the end of the war, Galbatorix found himself King, his enemies scattered, and his rule absolute. Here we are now, on the brink of yet another war."

Eragon was stunned. He had read about the war before, but most of the tales he gleaned were either myth, or flat out false. He had no idea that Alagaesia was filled with such bloodshed. He also found himself sympathetic to Galbatorix . . . he had never been in love, truly, but the lack of justice was there for anyone to see. Eragon was unsure if he would have fought against Galbatorix then.

"Who did you fight for?" Eragon asked. Brom glared at him.

"Galbatorix rewarded those loyal to him. Does it look like I fought for the man?" He asked, and Eragon shook his head.

"Enough questions then. Keep walking. I want to cover more ground before dusk."

And so Eragon walked.