Chapter Twenty-Six

The Ghost of Teirm

The air was cold. Morzan shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly over his shoulders, watching the sun rise and turn the sky a delicate shade of pink and icy blue. He hated guard duty. But, not for the first time, Oromis had sent him to spend the night on the wall. It was considered a form of punishment to take the night watch, and although Oromis called it 'discipline' and claimed it was intended to hone the young riders' skills of observation, Morzan knew well enough what it really meant. Ever since Galbatorix's disappearance, a rift had begun to form between human and elvish riders. The elves blamed what had happened on their human counterparts, and some were even saying that humans should not have been allowed to become riders in the first place. They were too stupid, too weak, too corruptible. And Morzan, along with Brom and all the human apprentices, had had to bear the consequences of it.

Morzan glanced along the wall to where Brom stood with Saphira by his side. He too had been put on night duty, though he seemed to resent it less than Morzan did. These days he was always claiming that elves were, indeed, better than humans, and was quite proud of his newly-pointed ears. Morzan, however, suspected that much of Brom's talk was a result of his lingering feelings of guilt. The two of them hadn't so much as mentioned what they had done that night, but neither of them had forgotten it, and they lived in constant fear that the elders would find out. The quick-thinking Brom had gone back to the dungeons and forced the guards to take ancient language oaths that they would not breathe a word of what they knew, and since no-one else had seen them they were, in theory, safe.

But ever since then, Vrael had become more and more paranoid and suspicious toward all humans in the city. On three occasions he had personally questioned Brom and Morzan, both individually and together. They had managed to evade suspicion by dodging his questions or by telling half-truths, and in the end had only been rescued by Oromis' direct intervention. The elf had managed to make Vrael leave them be, coldly reminding him that they were his students and above suspicion. They had, after all, taken oaths of loyalty.

Morzan edged his way over to Brom. The other rider was dozing on his feet, but woke up with a start when Morzan nudged him in the ribs.

'What? What's going on? I'm awake, I'm- oh, it's you.'

Morzan grinned. 'Wakey wakey. Having a good dream, were yeh?'

'Yes, it was about my old home,' Brom said honestly. 'I miss it. I want to go back and see my parents. Saphira would like to meet them, too.'

Morzan yawned. 'Huh. Parents? They ain't for the likes of us any more, eh? I bet my dad would thump me if I went around there tellin' him to call me Sir.'

'But don't you miss home?'

''course I do. I'm just sayin' it'd be weird, is all.'

Brom grinned. 'Your accent gets even worse when you're tired. You'd better hope Oromis doesn't hear you speaking like that, or you'll be on night watch until the next Blood-Oath celebration.'

'It's not too bad,' said Morza. 'Idün an' me gets some time to ourselves then, at least. Seems there's precious little of that these days. Who would've thought being a rider could be so boring?'

Brom stared at him. 'Boring?' he repeated incredulously. 'You must be mad.'

'Night watch, sparrin' in the training yard every morning, listening to a load of blather about the meaning of life… seems pretty boring to me,' said Morzan.

'That's it, he's mad,' said Brom, appealing to the sky. 'My best mate's lost his mind. Morzan, I'd give anything for a little boredom. How could you possibly call this boring?'

'Fraught is what I'd call it,' Morzan said darkly. 'I can't ever feel safe any more. Not since… the trouble.' He lowered his voice. 'I ain't sayin' nothin', Brom, I'm just sayin'… ever since it happened I ain't stopped lookin' over my shoulder. I keep expecting to see him there. It's like he's hiding in every shadow, just waiting to come out.'

There was real fear in the bulky boy's voice, and Brom patted his shoulder to comfort him, saying; 'Don't be silly, Morzan. He's gone. He wouldn't come back here.'

Morzan glanced around nervously. 'But… he ain't gone. Can't you feel it? It's like he's everywhere now. Even Vrael's scared of him. Why else d'you think we're all still here, and the other elders too? They don't want to go out there 'less he finds 'em. Or Vrael's keepin' them close to make him feel better. They're scared. And I am too. I keep thinkin'… rememberin' the look in his eyes. D'you remember it, Brom?'

Brom shivered. 'Yes. I remember.'

'I just don't know… where could he have gone?' said Morzan, unconsciously touching the hilt of his sword, Zar'roc. 'Is he still alive? It's weird, but… there's just this feeling inside me that tells me he's alive.'

Brom hesitated, then touched Morzan's mind with his own. 'We shouldn't have done it, Morzan,' he said mentally, not wanting to risk anyone hearing them. 'We shouldn't have let him go.'

Morzan radiated a feeling of anger. 'What, are you saying we should've just let them kill him?'

'No, but…'

'They would've made us watch, Brom. You know that. We would've had to watch them tear his insides out. I don't care what he did. They couldn't do that to him. He was our friend, Brom.'

'But what about Flell?'

'I don't reckon he really did that,' said Morzan. 'You saw how they were together. That Flell's an airhead. She was always goin' on about how much she liked him and how she hoped he liked her too. Made me want to throw up. I reckon she was tellin' stories.'

'But why would she do that?' said Brom. 'If she loved him, why lie about it?'

Morzan shrugged. 'I dunno. But I don't believe it. If she were here right now I'd shake the truth out of her.'

'It doesn't matter if it's true or not,' said Brom. 'Galbatorix is insane. We both know that.'

'But he was right,' Morzan muttered out loud. 'He was right.'

Brom hadn't heard him properly. 'What?'

Morzan looked away. 'Nothin'.' He returned to his spot on the wall, where Idün was still crouched, half-dozing in the chilly air. Morzan was about to wake her up when the eerie silence of dawn was shattered by the sound of a horn. He looked around sharply. The horn sounded again.

Morzan's heart pounded. In all the time he'd spent doing sentry duty, he had never, ever seen this happen. If another sentry was blowing their horn… it could only mean that something had happened. Something bad.

Idün woke up sharply. Morzan scrambled into her saddle without pausing to say anything, and the red dragon flew straight toward the spot where the horn had sounded. It was at a spot on the wall not far away from where Brom was. The rider who had made the alarm was not on the wall, but was standing on the ground just outside it, her dragon by her side. Brom had also been alerted, and Idün and Saphira alighted moments apart. Their riders dismounted and ran to see what was going on.

The guard had her horn in one hand, and had drawn her sword with the other. She was staring silently at the wall in front of her.

Brom and Morzan went to her side, quickly joined by others.

They stared in shock.

There, marring the smooth white stone, was a huge triple-spiral shape, burned into the wall. It reached higher than Idün's head, each spiral as wide as her wings.

Morzan reached out hesitantly and touched the stone. It was warm to the touch. 'What in the gods' names…?'

'What happened, Tranah?' someone asked, addressing the guard who had found it.

Tranah shook her head. 'I don't know,' she said. 'It just… appeared. I thought I heard something and came down to have a look, and there it was.'

'There's more over there,' said Brom, pointing.

Sure enough there was a second one, marked into the stone a few metres along from the first one. And beyond that was another. Brom and Morzan and their fellow riders began to run along the length of the wall, some taking the opposite direction. They met on the other side of the city, all panting and shocked.

The entire outer wall of Ilirea had been vandalised. The triple-spiral had been marked into it dozens of times, some huge like the first one, some as small as a hand. And, right over the gates, there was a line of pictures.

Morzan examined them, bewildered. There was another triple spiral, a crude image of a robed man, a staring eye, and next to that was a stylized dragon with its wings spread – the emblem of the riders. And last came a sword, its blade pointed at a silver circle.

'What in the gods' names is this?' one rider demanded. He glanced around at the others, his shocked expression mirroring theirs. 'Did any of you see anything?' he demanded sharply. 'Or hear anything?'

There was a shaking of heads and a muttering from the others.

'I thought I heard a twig snap,' Tranah volunteered. 'But that was it. I didn't see a thing.'

The elders were not happy. In fact Vrael, once he had been alerted and brought to see for himself, turned white. 'Are you meaning to tell me,' he said slowly, 'That none of you saw anything?'

The guards shook their heads again, very nervously.

Vrael examined the line of images over the gates, muttering feverishly under his breath.

'Do you know what it means, my Lord?' someone ventured.

Vrael was silent for a time. Then he turned to look at the assembled guards. 'I am ashamed,' he said.

'It wasn't your fault, Sir,' Morzan piped up.

Vrael went red. 'I am ashamed of you!' he bellowed. 'You call yourselves riders? My gods, I have seen dogs who made better guards than you. You're the most highly-trained and powerful warriors in the world, and you stood up there and – and let this happen! Let someone deface our proud city and escape without any of you catching so much as a glimpse of them! What were you doing? If you were sleeping, then so help me-,'

'We weren't, Sir,' said Morzan, perhaps unwisely. 'I was wide awake. I just never saw a thing.'

'Morzan Drasborn, if you say another word I will make you wish there were more words for humiliation in the common tongue so you could find a way to describe exactly how I chose to punish you,' Vrael said, his rage becoming an icy calmness that was somehow much worse. 'Now get out of my sight. All of you. Get back to your cells and meditate on the concept of "duty" and see if you can remember what it means. Go!'

The guards knew better than to linger.

Once they had gone, the elders waited silently for their leader to speak. Vrael, however, said nothing. He had become very still, his eyes fixed on the row of pictures.

Eventually Oromis ventured to go to his side. He examined the burned images. At length he said; 'What do you make of it, Vrael? Can you understand what it means, assuming it means anything?'

Vrael glanced at him, and with a shock Oromis realised that the lord of the riders was afraid. But he showed no sign of having noticed, and waited respectfully for him to reply.

'The meaning is clear enough,' Vrael said at last.

The other elders went quiet.

Vrael raised his hand, tracing the pictures with the tip of a long finger. 'It's a message,' he said. 'All of it is. But these pictures here… yes…' He indicated the spiral and the image of the robed man. 'The vandal meant for this to represent himself. The eye means seeing. The dragon is us. And the sword, and the circle… the circle is a gedwëy ignaesia.'

'So what does it mean, Vrael?' said Saraswati, coming to him and touching him with a sympathy she had not shown toward him in a long time.

Vrael swallowed. 'It says… "I am watching you, and I mean to kill you".'

Oromis breathed in sharply. 'You don't think…?'

'Yes,' said Vrael. 'I do think that. He's alive. He's come back.'

'Calm down,' Saraswati advised. 'It doesn't mean that at all. It could have been-,'

'Been who, Saraswati?' Vrael interrupted, but there was no sharpness in his voice. 'Who? Who else could have done this? Who else could have crept up on us like a shadow in the night, and evaded the ears of six trained riders and their dragons? Who could have vanished so completely that there was no sign left behind?'

'It could have been someone else,' Saraswati persisted. 'There are other outlaws out there, other people who have a grudge against us…'

'Other people who would use this symbol?' said Vrael, pointing at the triple spiral. 'It's his sign, Saraswati. He had it tattooed on his shoulder. I saw it. And it was engraved on the blade of his sword.'

Saraswati stared at the symbols in the stone, and shuddered. 'What have we done, Vrael? What have we done?'

'Only justice,' said Vrael, his eyes as cold as death. 'Only justice.'

But from then on, the feeling of unease that settled over Ilirea never quite went away. Vrael ordered a massive, systematic search of the surrounding countryside, and one was indeed conducted, but without any result. No-one saw or heard a thing. The marks on the walls resisted all attempts made to remove them magically, and Vrael was eventually forced to pay a squad of workmen to paint over the top. However, this too failed. The marks showed through even the thickest coat of paint, and there was nothing Vrael could do to stop people from seeing them. Nor could he stop word of it from spreading.

In desperation, he made a decree stating that the bounty on Galbatorix's head had been doubled, that anyone who helped him would die the traitor's death, and that merely talking about him was now forbidden. All records that mentioned him were destroyed, every important change he had made in Teirm was overturned. All over the country, the riders worked with a kind of desperation, trying to wipe out all trace of the man Alagaësians now called the Great Betrayer.

For a time there was nothing. No incidents, no positive sightings. Nothing. And then, just when the rumours began to die down, word came from Carina, the new governor of Teirm. She sent a long and detailed report back to Ilirea, the contents of which were both stark and disturbing.

Something was happening in Teirm. Nobody was quite sure what or why. But the people were suddenly restless. Talk of the Great Betrayer had increased, and more and more people were speaking of him with respect. Some were even claiming to have seen his vengeful ghost stalking the streets at night when the moon was up, whispering the name of a dead dragon and reciting dark prophecies of revenge. A prominent supporter of the riders had been found murdered, and no-one had found any trace of the killer. The city had been searched high and low, but nothing had been found. And people were whispering that the Great Betrayer was alive, and that the elders were powerless to find him.

On the evening that the report arrived, the still-disgraced Morzan found himself standing outside the door of Vrael's study, fidgeting nervously. In spite of his heavy, solid frame he was terrified of the lord of the riders.

'Enter.'

Morzan obeyed. He found Vrael sitting behind his desk, his eyes shadowed and making his face look like a skull. The young rider knew better than to say anything, and stood silently on the other side of the desk, waiting for Vrael to speak.

'I have an assignment for you,' Vrael said at length. 'You are to go to Teirm and assist Carina. She will need help to bring the city back under control. These are your instructions.' He held out a scroll.

Morzan took it dumbly. 'But,' he faltered. 'But… I ain't – I mean, I haven't finished my training yet, Sir.'

Vrael had already lost interest in him. 'I doubt that should be a problem,' he said, turning his attention to the papers in front of him.

Morzan hesitated, but could not stop himself from asking. 'What does that mean, Sir?'

Vrael glanced up. 'Your training has been put on hiatus,' he said briefly. 'You will be fully inducted at a later date. Until then, you will go to Teirm and do as Carina tells you. Is that understood?'

Morzan blinked. 'Hiatus? But… I don't understand. Why? What did I do wrong? I tried my best…'

'You are a human,' said Vrael. 'Your training will resume when we are sure we can trust you. Not before.'

Morzan was outraged. 'What? That's not fair! I din't do anything wrong!'

Vrael was looking at him with undisguised contempt. 'You humans have recently proven yourself to be more than corruptible, even when you call yourselves riders. To be frank, I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of having allowed your race to become part of our great order at all.'

'It's not my fault I'm human!' Morzan yelled, forgetting his fear of Vrael. 'It's not my fault for what Arren did-,'

Vrael's fist slammed onto the desk, so hard that the wood cracked. 'Don't – mention – that name in my presence,' the elf snarled, half-rising to point straight at Morzan's face, his eyes blazing with cold fire.

'I'm sorry-,' Morzan began.

'Get out of my sight!' Vrael bellowed.

Morzan didn't. He was too confused to know what to do, and stood stupidly on the spot, staring wide-eyed at the lord of the riders.

'You're useless!' Vrael went on, his temper frayed beyond all reason. 'Why did we even bring you to Ellesméra at all? You're an idiot, Morzan, a big, blundering, worthless idiot. Now get out of here before I burn the sacred mark away from your hand and send you back to Dras-Leona to drive the brick-cart you were born in.'

Morzan needed no further encouragement. He ran out of the office.

The single room of the tavern known as the Naked Rat was bustling. It was evening, and people were drinking and relaxing after a day's work. The tavern was warm thanks to a roaring fire in the iron stove in the middle of the floor, and the tables and benches that filled the room were thronged. The tavern-keeper ran back and forth from the bar, carrying fresh pints of beer, and the place was noisy with a dozen conversations, occasionally punctuated by rough laughter.

There was only one spot in the room that was quiet. In one corner there was a little pocket of shadow where a torch had gone out, and there, nearly invisible in the gloom, a solitary figure sat at a table and silently watched everything.

It listened to the conversation going on at the table nearest to it.

'…okay, okay, so what did it look like? Did it look like a ghost?'

'How should I know what a ghost looks like? I told you what I saw. A shadow shaped like a man in a robe that walked without making a sound. It just moved over the street right in front of me, then disappeared. Sent a shiver right down my spine, like someone'd stepped on my grave.'

'It's rubbish,' one man scoffed. 'You probably saw some old beggar or something and just freaked out 'cause you was drunk.'

'I was perfectly sober, thankyou very much, Naldo,' the first man said coldly. 'And if you'd seen it for yerself, you wouldn't be talkin' like that. It's real.'

'Oh yeah? And how many other people've seen it, eh? You tell me that.'

'I've seen it,' said a voice.

They looked around sharply. At first they couldn't tell who had spoken, but then they saw the shrouded figure sitting in the corner as it reached out to pick up the loaf of bread it was eating.

'If you care about your health, you'll stop listening in on other people,' Naldo threatened.

His friend, however, said; 'What's that you said?'

'I said I've seen it,' the stranger said in a low voice that somehow cut through the hubbub. 'I've seen the shadow that walks.'

Naldo rolled his eyes. But his friend said; 'When? Where?'

'Outside the castle,' said the stranger. 'In the streets. Everywhere. I've seen it a hundred times. I've heard it speak.'

'Oh yeah? Then what did it say?' said Naldo.

'I know what it is,' said the stranger, ignoring him and addressing the one who claimed to have seen it.

The man shivered slightly. 'What is it, then?'

'It's a ghost,' said the stranger. 'The ghost of someone the riders killed. It wanders the streets looking for a lost dragon. It's a sign that the power of the rider elders is waning. Soon they will be punished for what they have done.'

'You mean…' the one who had seen the ghost lowered his voice. 'You mean… it's him?'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' the stranger said in a flat voice.

The man lowered his voice even further. 'I mean… the Great Betrayer,' he almost whispered.

'Ah,' said the stranger. 'The Great Betrayer.'

Dead silence fell.

Every single person in the tavern turned to look at the corner.

'Are you mad?' one man shouted. 'You're not supposed to be talkin' about…that.'

The stranger stood up. When the light fell on him, he was revealed to be a tall, thin shape, completely anonymous in a long cloak with a hood. 'The Great Betrayer will return,' he said in a loud voice. 'Don't you think he isn't coming back? Don't you think he's going to get revenge? He's coming. And when that happens, let the ones who betrayed him beware.'

'Get out of here!' the tavern-keeper shouted, shoving his way through the crowd toward him. 'We don't allow that sort of talk in here. Are you mad? Wanna get yourself killed?'

A chilling laugh came from under the hood. 'The riders cannot kill someone who is already dead,' the stranger said.

Then he vanished. Shouts of fright went up from the drinkers, and half a dozen people started forward toward the spot where he had been. But there was nothing there. No trace of him remained. But he had left a sign. Carved into the table-top was a strange symbol. Three spirals, joined together.

'What the hell's that?' said someone.

Everyone crowded around for a look, all talking at once. Then a skinny young man pushed his way forward and ran his fingers over the mark. 'I know what this is,' he announced. 'I seen it b'fore.'

'Oh yeah? What is it, then?' said someone.

The boy took a bite of the loaf of bread in his hand. 'S'his sign,' he said. 'The one he uses to tell people he's been there.'

'Who's sign?'

The boy looked furtive. 'I ain't sayin'. You know. Him. But he left this symbol all over Ilirea's walls, an' no-one ever saw him.'

There was a murmuring.

'D'you think he's real, then?' Naldo asked of no-one in particular. 'I saw him once. When he was governor here. There was something about him that scared me.'

'They say he's insane,' said someone else.

'I heard he sleeps in a coffin,' another one volunteered.

The boy with the loaf of bread grinned. 'I heard he never sleeps at all.'

Naldo's friend, the one who had seen the ghost, spoke out. 'He's real,' he said, looking around at his fellows. 'We know he's real now. And when he comes back, I'm going to be ready for him.'

The other drinkers dispersed hastily, muttering. Left alone, the man stared fixedly at the mark on the table.

The back of his neck prickled. And then, quite suddenly, he heard a voice in his head. 'If you're going to be ready, be ready in silence,' it whispered. 'Say nothing. The riders are not forgiving, and they will destroy you too if you give them reason for it. But I will remember your name, Hadrick Teirmborn…'

Hadrick turned around sharply. There was no-one there but the boy with the loaf of bread, who glared at him drunkenly and said; 'What're you lookin' at?' before wandering off out of the tavern.

The other patrons left not long afterward, too disturbed to settle down again, and once the last of them had closed the door behind him the tavern-keeper resignedly locked it and began tidying up. Once he'd finished he snuffed the torches he went upstairs to his home, leaving the barroom deserted.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then a shadowy figure unfolded itself from under the bench in the corner and removed its hood.

Galbatorix snickered and crept over to the bar. He helped himself to a bottle of beer and half a bag of nuts that someone had left behind, along with a handful of coins from the jar hidden under the counter. After that it was the work of a moment to unlatch a window and slip out into the alley behind the tavern. Once there, he pulled his hood over his face and vanished into the shadows once more.

The journey through the darkened streets was dangerous, but thrilling. He used the shadows just as the dark elves had taught him, occasionally darting across an open space when there was no-one around. But he had more than one aim in mind than simply getting to a good hiding-spot. As he went along, he waited until he saw someone walking alone along a deserted street. He watched them from the shadow of a building, and then began to follow them, dogging their steps and moving ever closer, until he was so near he could have reached out and touched them.

The person, a woman, moved a little faster, her breathing indicating that she was feeling nervous. Galbatorix continued to follow her silently. He reached out mentally and touched her mind, lightly enough that she only just felt it, but enough to find out her name. The woman gasped at the unfamiliar sensation of another mind in her head, turning quickly to see what had caused it. But there was no-one there. Or, at least, no-one she could see.

And then, from the shadows, the voice came. 'Beware, Barra, beware. Beware the vengeance of the riders. The Great Betrayer is coming. Your time is coming with him. Be ready, Barra…'

'Who's there?' the woman demanded, reaching for the dagger at her waist.

But Galbatorix had already slipped away.

He went on his way, keeping well hidden. He'd done this many times before, and it had even been fun the first few times. He had been surprised at how quickly word had spread of the supposed ghost haunting Teirm's streets. Many of the things the spectre had supposedly done ventured into the realm of the fantastic, and even though he had only deliberately revealed himself to a handful of people, the stories made it sound as if his appearances had numbered in the hundreds. Supposedly, the ghost had been seen standing on the castle wall with a white dragon beside it, watching over the city like a spectral guardian. It was said that Carina, the new governor, was too frightened to leave the castle, and that one of the city slavers who had resumed his trade had killed himself out of sheer terror when the ghost began haunting his house at night. He'd kept on scaring people, muttering dire warnings from the shadows and occasionally showing himself – albeit without ever revealing his face – to keep the momentum going, and was grimly pleased by the result.

But it was frustrating and dangerous. He had to pick up the latest gossip by lurking in shadows and listening to people talk, but the streets were so busy during the day that it was nearly impossible to move around unnoticed. Someone who kept their face hidden was instantly an object of interest, but on the other hand, if he let anyone see him properly he ran too high a risk of being recognised. He'd hardly slept at all the last few weeks; even when he did find a safe place to rest, he was always too on edge to sleep properly. And finding food was a problem as well. He'd had to subsist on whatever bits and pieces he could steal, and it simply wasn't enough. If he was going to stay in Teirm any longer, he would have to find a more secure and permanent place to stay.

But, as it happened, he had one in mind. He had thought of it while hiding under the bench in the tavern, and as he loped through the streets toward it he cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner.

He turned a corner, walked along a darkened road, and finally stopped. The darkened façade of the House of Taranis loomed over him, and he smiled grimly.

He vaulted neatly over the wall that surrounded it, and made his way around to the back of the house. There it was the work of a moment to open a side-door with magic, and he entered the house, locking the door behind him.

It was pitch black inside the house. The only source of illumination was moonlight that filtered in through the windows. Galbatorix padded through the shadow-ridden hallways, making no sound saved for his measured breathing. At long last he was in the home that rightfully belonged to him, the place where he should have been allowed to grow up. He grinned to himself. 'You're mine now,' he said under his breath, addressing the ancient presence of the house where his mother had grown up. 'The last Lord Taranisäii has come home.'

He snickered dryly at his own wit, and slid away into the little stone room where the trapdoor led into the crypt. He lifted the trapdoor, and without hesitation stepped down into the musty blackness, letting the trapdoor fall back into place behind him, sealing him in. Only then did he conjure up a magical light to show him the way.

He descended the stairs in silence, holding his glowing hands out in front of him. When he reached the bottom he stood still awhile, looking around with a strange feeling of awe at the array of stone faces that peered out of the gloom.

However, tiredness quickly put an end to any nervousness over being surrounded by the dead. He muttered a few words and created a black fire in the middle of the floor, which quickly brought light and warmth into the crypt. He sat down gratefully beside it and emptied his pockets, neatly lining up the various things he'd stolen that day. Most of it was food. He picked up some bread and tore at it hungrily, mentally congratulating himself on having found such an excellent hideout. No-one would even consider looking for him in here. And even if they did, he planned to be ready for them.

But there were other things to attend to. He finished his meal and then removed his cloak, draping it over the tomb of Lord Horatius Taranisäii the Third. Returning to the fireside, he sat awhile in thought, absent-mindedly rubbing his chin. Over the last few weeks he had, albeit reluctantly, allowed the new beard to grow back into the scruffy affair it had been back at the cave, even encouraging it to do so with magic. It made him look like a tramp, but it also made him virtually unrecognisable, and if he was going to travel safely and talk directly to people without rousing suspicion, he was going to have to change his appearance.

He sighed and picked up a dagger. There was nothing else for it. He muttered a sharpening spell over the blade, and began to cut off his hair. His cherished black curls slowly piled up around him in soft heaps, and once he had finished he gathered it up and threw it into the fire. He ran his fingers through the uneven mess that was left on his head. It felt like stubble in some places, and like fur in others. He wished he had a mirror so he could at least make an attempt to even it up, but in the absence of that this would have to do. He sighed and muttered a spell over it, and when he thought it was done he plucked out a couple of hairs and examined them in the firelight. Sure enough, they had changed colour. He did the same to his beard and eyebrows, then relaxed and chewed rather miserably at a withered apple. I must look ridiculous, he thought.

Still, it was better than being recognised. Now, at least, he could walk down a street without fear.

He yawned and lay down by the fire, huddled inside his ragged robe. He couldn't help but notice how loosely it hung off him these days. But here, at least, he was safe, and he felt himself truly relax for the first time in two months. The warmth of the fire soaked into him, and he dozed.

He woke again an hour or so later, and, still half-asleep and without quite meaning to do it, he let his mind expand to touch his surroundings.

When he sensed another consciousness in the room, he stood up so quickly it made him dizzy, wrenching White Violence out of its sheath. The reaction was automatic to the point that he did it before he even realised what he was doing. One moment he was drowsing in the firelight, the next he was up and ready to fight.

He looked around sharply, reaching out with his mind again to search for the alien presence he had sensed. There was no sign of anyone else in the crypt, but his psychic senses told him that there was.

He concentrated harder, trying to figure out exactly where it was, and to his bewilderment he traced it to a spot somewhere under the floor.

He walked to that spot and stood there, looking down at the stone and puzzling. Were there other chambers beneath him? He didn't want to probe this other mind too much lest it realise he was there, but he examined it as closely as he dared, trying to absorb information from it.

As he forced himself to relax and feel the other mind, his puzzlement increased. The mind felt simple, very simple. Whatever it was, it wasn't very active, as if the owner was asleep. But he knew one thing for sure – it wasn't human. And yet, he realised, it was also psychic. He could feel it reaching out to touch its surroundings just as he had been doing. He tried to hide his own mind from it, but it sensed his presence. For a few seconds he felt it examining his mind, and then it withdrew. He couldn't pick up any emotions from it, but he could tell it was very simple.

He looked at the ground again, unable to comprehend what was going on. How could there be another mind – a psychic mind – buried several feet underground? After all, he was standing on solid…

Realisation dawned. Heart pounding, he scrambled away back toward the fire and held out his hand. 'Reisa.'

The slab of stone lifted, raising a cloud of dust and loose soil. He moved it aside, and jumped down into the vault beneath. The chests of treasure were still there. But, sure enough, he could feel the mind coming from inside the last of the chests. He lifted the lid, and there it was.

The black egg gleamed dully in the gloomy depths of the chest. He lifted it out reverentially, feeling its cool weight in his hands. A quick mental probing confirmed it. The egg was alive.

He carried it out of the hole and back to the fireside, where he sat down, cradling the egg in his lap. When he put his ear to it, he could just hear a faint heartbeat coming from inside. And the weak, simple consciousness of the dragon hatchling inside was reaching out to touch his mind with its own. This time he let it in, embracing its presence and letting it absorb all it wanted from him. He could feel it wandering through his mind, examining his memories and discovering his nature. This, he knew, was what dragons did while they were in the egg. This was how they chose their riders. When Laela had done it to him he had been untrained and hadn't felt it. Now, though, he was aware of it all, and a wonderful possibility occurred to him. What if this dragon decided to hatch for him? What if he could be a rider again, with a dragon as his partner? It would put an end to his loneliness and his uncertainty, give him back his confidence, make him whole again. He could fight if he had a dragon again.

Feeling a lump in his throat at the memory of what he had lost, he concentrated as hard as he could on summoning up the desperate need inside him and letting the dragon feel it. I need help, I need help, I need your help, please help me, please.

But he had gone too far. The dragon's mind suddenly tasted of fear, and it withdrew from him and back into its egg. Without thinking, Galbatorix pursued it, entering into the dragon's mind. A second later he realised what he was doing, and retreated, but in the instant that he did so, leaden despair thudded into his stomach. The hole inside him opened up, and he was overcome with an agony so intense it made him nauseous.

And before he could prevent it, that feeling spilled over into the dragon, hitting it in a horrible wave of mental suffering and anguish.

Galbatorix sat back, swearing and clutching at his chest until the pain died away, not quite realising what had happened.

But, inside the egg, the dragon hatchling felt his pain rebounding inside its mind. It was the first true pain it had ever felt, a feeling its simple consciousness was completely unprepared for. And the dragon panicked. Overcome by a desperate need to escape from whatever had caused the feeling, it began to fight against the walls of its prison with all its might.

And Galbatorix felt the egg move in his hands. He put it down on the ground in front of him and watched with mounting excitement as it rocked back and forth. Not a sound came from inside it, but it moved with a violence he had never seen in a hatching egg before. Cracks spread over the black shell like forked lightning, and egg slime oozed out.

Outside in the city, something strange began to happen.

It had been a cool, clear night, with scarcely a breeze to disturb the peace. But as the egg began to hatch down in the crypt of the House of Taranis, the wind suddenly picked up. And, seemingly from out of nowhere, darkness closed over the sky. Lightning flashed, turning the entire city blinding white for a fraction of a second. Moments later, thunder split the sky. The wind blew more and more powerfully, and the banners up on the castle walls snapped back and forth. One tore free and was carried away, sucked up into the flashing, raging void that the sky had become.

The storm built up in mere minutes, and soon it was everywhere. White lightning struck one of the towers of the castle, which exploded into rubble. In the docks, huge waves crashed onto the shore and the various boats bobbed up and down, pulling at their moorings as if trying to escape. People in the streets ran for cover. Moments later, it began to rain.

Down in the crypt, oblivious to all this, Galbatorix watched as flakes of black shell came away from the egg. Its perfectly smooth shape began to collapse in on itself, and then bulged outward as a small snout broke through the membrane beneath the shell, thrusting out into the light of the black fire. He resisted the urge to help the dragon hatch, and merely watched, his black eyes glittering.

At last the egg broke apart, spilling its contents onto the cold stone. A dragon hatchling, as black as its egg had been, already struggling to its claws, its mouth opening to gasp in its first breath. It was just as small and helpless as Laela had been, all tail, head and wings, but writhing with life. It got up after a few attempts, and instantly ran away, its wet wings dragging on the ground, its soft claws scrabbling. Galbatorix, taken aback, watched it go. It ran straight past the fire toward the open vault, and jumped down into it without pausing.

Galbatorix got up and went to the edge of the vault, looking down at the chests. The dragon was in there, nearly invisible in the gloom, growling and licking itself clean. He reached down toward it, but it snapped and snarled at him, its tiny fangs bared, and he withdrew hastily.

'It's all right,' he said. 'I won't hurt you. I'm a friend.'

The hatchling ignored him. He could see its flanks quivering with fright.

'My name's Galbatorix,' he said.

The hatchling looked up at that. Its eyes were silver as Laela's had been, but there was no sign of intelligence in them. They were the eyes of a wild animal: cold, fierce, wary.

'It's all right,' he said again. 'I didn't mean to scare you.'

The black dragon blinked slowly, then resumed cleaning its wings. They, unlike its body, were pure white.

Once it was apparently satisfied that the last traces of egg slime were gone, it peered up at him again. And then, to his amazement, it spoke. Aloud, somewhat clumsily, and in the common tongue. 'Where?' it said.

Galbatorix started. 'You spoke!'

The dragon hissed at him. 'Where?' it said again, its voice harsh and rasping. 'Where… mother? Where… father?'

'I don't know,' said Galbatorix. 'I'm sorry. But I'll keep you safe, I swear. Do you have a name?'

The dragon blinked again. Finally it said; 'Named Shruikan.'

'I'm Galbatorix,' Galbatorix said again. 'Will you come out of there, Shruikan? I've got food for you.'

Shruikan snapped his teeth. 'You keep away. Human. You steal me. You take from parents. You enemy.'

'I'm not,' Galbatorix insisted. 'Shruikan, I'm not. I didn't steal you. I'm your friend, I swear.'

'You lie,' Shruikan rasped. 'Human lie. You steal me, Taranis.'

Galbatorix froze. 'Taranis? You think I'm Taranis?'

'Know voice,' said Shruikan. 'You Taranis.'

'Taranis is dead,' said Galbatorix. 'He's been dead for hundreds of years.'

Shruikan paused over that. 'Taranis… dead? He dead?'

'Yes, for a very long time. Shruikan… who were your parents? Do you know?'

'Mother named Silarae,' said Shruikan. 'Father… Ravana. Want them.'

Galbatorix's mind froze. Ravana? 'Shruikan, did you have any siblings? Any brothers or sisters?'

'Not know,' said Shruikan. 'Not remember. Want parents. You tell me… where are they?'

'Your mother is dead,' Galbatorix said softly. 'I'm sorry, Shruikan. She and Taranis died on the same day. And your father… I don't know where he is. He disappeared. But I know where your sister is. Your sister, Skade. And you have a brother, Kullervo, and another sister, Saphira. I can help you to find them.'

Shruikan snapped his teeth nervously. 'Want food,' he said at length.

'Wait here,' said Galbatorix. 'I'll get some for you.'

He returned to the fireside and picked up some dried meat he'd been saving. He carried that back with him and tossed it to Shruikan. He caught it neatly and ate it, chewing industriously. It seemed to give him new strength, and once he had finished he looked up at Galbatorix and said; 'Good food. You… help me find sisters? Brother? Father?'

'I'll help you,' said Galbatorix. 'I can tell you things. Listen to me, Shruikan. I lost my parents too. They were taken away from me by my enemies. And I had a dragon once. I was a rider. But they took her away from me as well. I need a dragon to help me fight. Shruikan, will you make me your rider? Bind yourself to me and we can fight side-by-side. We can both get revenge for what happened to us.'

Shruikan's reaction to that was quite violent. He recoiled, snarling, his small talons extended. 'No rider!' he said. 'No binding! Shruikan is free. You stay away, human.'

'It's all right, Shruikan,' Galbatorix said again. 'Calm down. I'm not forcing you to do anything. And if you won't be my partner, will you at least be my friend?'

'Not need friends,' said Shruikan. 'Go away.'

'But where will you go?' said Galbatorix. 'Listen to me, Shruikan. You are a black dragon. There are no other dragons like you. Your father spent his whole life being hunted by other people because he was black. Everyone hated him. And they will hate you too. No matter where you go, no matter what you do, you will never be safe. The world won't accept you. But I know, Shruikan. I understand. Because the world hates and fears me too, and no matter where I go or what I do, people hate me. They hated me from the day I was born. Because I am like you. You and I are one of a kind, Shruikan. One of a kind. If we join together, we can be safe. We can fight back, you and I. But if we go alone, we'll die.'

Shruikan listened. It was difficult to say how much of it he understood, but afterwards he said; 'You help Shruikan, then?'

'Yes, Shruikan, I will. I'll bring you food and help you to stay hidden. For as long as you need me to. And after that, you decide what you want to do.'

Shruikan spread his white wings, stretching them. He seemed to be thinking. 'Shruikan sleep now,' he said eventually, and curled up behind the chest where his egg had lain, closing his eyes.

Galbatorix watched him for a while, and then withdrew quietly. His mind was in a whirl from what had happened. He went back to sit by the fire, but almost as soon as he had done so he suddenly realised how tired he was. He picked up his few belongings and put them into his pockets, returning White Violence to its sheath on his back. Suddenly the crypt didn't feel quite as secure as he had thought, and he glanced around, looking for a good spot where he could sleep while remaining hidden from anyone who came down the stairs. But there was nothing in the crypt except the stone tombs, and the gaps between them were too small for him to fit into.

In the end, he did the only thing he could think of. It was unpleasant, but it was the only way to truly be secure. He went to the tomb at the very end of the chamber, screwed up his courage and muttered a spell. The lid, statue and all, lifted silently, and he laid it aside and looked into the dark space that was the last resting place of Taranis himself.

There was nothing in there. The tomb was empty. He sighed in relief. Evidently Taranis' remains had never been recovered, or had completely disintegrated over the centuries.

He retrieved his cloak and laid it inside the tomb, then snuffed out the fire, hesitated for a moment in the darkness, and climbed into the tomb, lying down inside it with White Violence resting on his chest. It was surprisingly comfortable. He lifted the tomb's lid with another spell and returned it to its place, sealing him inside with a tiny gap at the edge to let in air.

Galbatorix grinned in the darkness. They had wanted to put him into a tomb, and now he had granted their wish for them.

Not long later, he slept.