CHAPTER ELEVEN: I Don't Want To Be Afraid

"I feel alone here and cold here

Oh, I don't want to die."

- Cut, Plumb

The first thing Murtagh did when he returned to Uru'baen was go to see Ashen. His mission for Galbatorix had, of course, involved Varden bloodshed. He'd been commanded to slay some stray rebels who had been moving towards Gil'ead. He was in a dark mood and all he could think about was talking to Ashen to keep his mind off the matter.

However, when he went to her room, it was empty. He stood in the doorway and wondered what had happened. She couldn't possibly have escaped. Ashen was smart, but she wasn't suicidal. Footsteps clacked down the hallway and Murtagh turned to see Zander walking towards him.

"Looking for someone?"

Everything added up in that moment. Murtagh took one look at Zander's smirk and knew he was responsible for this. Before the magician even knew what was happening, Murtagh had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. His feet dangled at least a foot from the ground. Zander choked and clawed at the Rider's hand, but out of the two of them, Murtagh was much physically stronger.

"Where is she?" he snarled. "If you have even touched her…"

Zander laughed hoarsely.

"Kill me then, Murtagh." He rasped. "Everything I did to her, I did with the king's permission. It would seem I am not the only one who thinks that girl is making you soft."

Murtagh's grey eyes burned with hatred and anger. He didn't want to think about what Zander might have done to Ashen. He had been gone three days. Anything could have happened to her in that amount of time. His grasp tightened on Zander's throat.

"What have you done to her?" Murtagh snarled.

Zander didn't respond and Murtagh growled and threw him aside. The magician staggered, coughing. He glowered at the young Rider. That was the good thing about being so close to Galbatorix – if Murtagh went a step too far, Zander could always have his vengeance.

"She is following in her eldest brother's footsteps."

Murtagh was boiling over with rage. He thought he might explode. Thorn reached out to him, attempted to comfort him, but it made little difference. Murtagh had never wanted to kill someone – not even Galbatorix – as much as he wanted to kill Zander right now.

Murtagh, getting angry is not going to solve anything.

Well, what am I supposed to do, Thorn? You know well that Zander will eventually kill her. He's already tortured her. Am I supposed to sit by and let it happen?

For now, you have to calm down and think.

"If I were you, I would tread carefully, Rider." Zander's tone was low and dangerous. "Galbatorix is already beginning to doubt you. You would not like to pay another visit to the dungeons and share Ashen's fate, would you?"

Murtagh did not say anything. He would rather Zander tortured him rather than Ashen. The girl had done nothing to deserve this. Murtagh, on the other hand...he relished the power he wielded. He did not, however, revel in the destruction he caused. If any deserved to be tortured for what they had done, it would be him…except he knew Zander would only hurt Ashen out of spite if he knew the truth Murtagh's true feelings.

PARAGRAPH

Ashen did not know how long she had been imprisoned in the dungeons now. Days, weeks, months. It was all the same to her. Time trickled by slowly, excruciatingly so, especially when Zander was torturing her. Once he had reduced her to a bloody, sobbing mess, he would heal her. To Ashen, this was worse than just leaving her wounds to fester. It would only take longer for the pain to kill her this way. It would only hurt her even more.

She still ate, drank, bathed regularly. It was as if despite the torture he put her through, Zander was determined that she remained healthy. Ashen felt that it was some kind of sick joke at her expense. She had reached the bleak conclusion that she would never see the sun again.

When night fell, Zander would undo her shackles so that she could at least sleep, tormented as always by her nightmares. She did not try to run or escape. That would only mean more pain for her.

She did not hope for rescue. Murtagh was too far under the king's influence to save her and he was the only one in Uru'baen who actually would. None from the Varden would dare come to rescue her. She was fending for herself and somehow that made her stronger. It made her more determined to survive.

"Good afternoon," Zander's tone was pleasant as he entered the cell, as though they were about to have a friendly conversation. "I don't suppose you have considered my request?"

Ashen forced a smile. "I will never tell you where Tristan is."

Zander shrugged. "Not today, at least. Not without a little provocation."

The pain didn't make her scream anymore. It was beyond screaming. It hurt so much that she could not find the strength. Instead she just remained in silent agony, allowing it all to build up inside her. One day, if she survived, she would kill Zander for this.

Ashen did not know how much time had passed before it stopped and she tilted her head up to glare at Zander. Once she had believed that she would break under torture. Now she understood why people didn't – not necessarily out of courage, but out of understanding that there were more important things than their pain or death. She could only hope that Tristan would stay away from Uru'baen or else her efforts would have been for nothing.

"You are a fool," she rasped at him, "Just as Durza was a fool for thinking that Colton or Arya might have given in to him."

Zander responded only by unlocking the girl's manacles and pushing her roughly away from the wall to which she had been chained. Ashen fell heavily to her hands and knees as Zander strode from the cell, locking the door behind him. Ashen realised that the magician had not healed her wounds and wondered if he had simply forgotten or if he had done it deliberately as an act of cruelty (when in reality, Ashen saw it more as a mercy).

Two words came to her lips, unbidden. "Waise heill."

Ashen had not expected anything to actually happen. So she watched with numb disbelief when she found pinkish-red light winding forth from her hand and wrapping around her wounds. The strength began to drain from her like water cupped in her hands and she just managed to let go of the magic tying her down before her world went black.

PARAGRAPH

Tristan watched the sunrise with a hard expression on his face. Fafnir approached him, tilting his angular green head to the side and watching his conflicted young Rider. He could sense that Tristan wanted nothing more than to race off to Uru'baen and rescue Ashen. He could sense the frustration that poured from the young man.

Fafnir, I am so confused.

He wanted to focus solely on his training. He knew how important it was, except it was difficult to concentrate now that he knew that Ashen was in Uru'baen, that she was probably suffering. It also made it hard to sleep at night.

Young one, I know you dread what might be happening to Ashen, Fafnir was sympathetic, But you do not know what is happening. Most likely she is not being tortured, only Galbatorix wants you to think she is.

Delia stood at the foot of the tree house, Aziza by her side. There was a purple-bladed sword clutched in the elf's right hand. She had told Tristan its name: Evarinya, which meant 'stars' in the ancient language. Tristan clambered onto Fafnir's back and the green dragon flew down towards them.

As he got closer, Tristan realised that she wasn't alone. Another elf was with her. While Delia had never stated that the elves of Ellesmera didn't know about her, Tristan had always assumed only Islanzadi and Oromis had known of Delia and Aziza's existence. The elf with her was male, and looked to be around Tristan's age – although he guessed the elf was probably in his nineties.

"This is Vanir," Delia told Tristan. The way she then glanced at Vanir, a dazzling smile upon her face, made Tristan freeze. "He is a brilliant swordsman and will assist you in mastering the sword."

She loves him.

Fafnir attempted to reassure Tristan. They have a strong relationship but that does not mean she is in love with him. Elves are very different to humans, remember.

Vanir extended a hand to Tristan, either not noticing the stiff look that had come over the young Rider's face, or simply ignoring it. Tristan forced a smile as he shook Vanir's hand, scolding himself for being so immature.

"I hear that you are already proficient with Sundavar." Vanir's tone was polite and yet there was a faint hint of amusement there as well. "I would be honoured to cross blades with you, Rider."

What do you think of him, Fafnir?

My opinion does not matter. You are supposed to duel him, not judge him.

Tristan reached for Sundavar as Delia took a few steps back, observing the Rider and the elf with the hint of a smile across her lips. Vanir drew his own sword and stepped towards Tristan, aiming a powerful blow at him that the young Rider only just managed to block. The elf was strong, very strong. Tristan had dueled Delia, but either she had been holding back, or Vanir was just a better swordsman.

After an exchange of blows, Tristan found himself holding up Sundavar in one hand, half-panting, half-laughing as he stepped back in surrender. Vanir observed him with a strange smile, tilting his head to the side.

"You are strong," he remarked, "You have been fighting for years, have you not?"

Tristan nodded. "I have been an archer for some time, but not a swordsman. That was always my sister and brother's area of expertise."

Vanir was clearly impressed. "I have fought Eragon Shadeslayer and he was a worthy opponent…but with all respect to him, you have more talent, I believe. It must run in your blood."

Tristan accepted Vanir's compliment with a smile, but he thought the elf may be wrong. Archery was more Tristan's field. He was only learning to use a sword, only possessed Sundavar, because it was what was expected of him. It was his responsibility as a Rider.

"Thank you, Vanir. I am honoured by your praise."

PARAGRAPH

Eragon felt elation rising within him. He had managed to accomplish a lot in the last two months or so since he had left the Varden. He knew his true name. He knew where the last free Eldunari were stored. Somehow, he didn't know if he wanted to use them, though. It would remind him too much of his doomed elder half-brother.

What are we to do, Saphira?

Saphira snuggled next to him, providing him with warmth. He nestled into her, sighing heavily.

We must choose. Are we to become like Murtagh and Thorn? We must use whatever weapons we have, or we may not survive the upcoming battle.

There was a storm on the horizon. Eragon and Saphira could both feel it. The end of the Rider War was closing in on them. Eragon was immensely relieved that he was not the only Rider on the Varden's side, except he recognised the fact that Tristan and Fafnir were barely trained. Now considered a veteran Rider at sixteen years old, Eragon knew that the problem of defeating Galbatorix rested squarely on his shoulders.

Do you really think that we are capable? He asked of Saphira.

Saphira could feel Eragon's doubts because they were hers as well. They knew Murtagh and Thorn used Eldunari to increase their strength and power…but would they do the same in order to defeat Galbatorix? To Eragon, it seemed somehow wrong.

We have come far, little one. We are strong.

Eragon was still concerned. What if Galbatorix managed to discover his true name? He remembered the anguish it had caused Sloan, discovering his name. Eragon had felt a race of different emotions, but dread more than anything. He didn't want anyone else but Saphira knowing.

They would return to Surda. Gil'ead and Feinster had been taken. Slowly but surely, they were beginning to take back what they had once possessed. The Varden had two Riders on their side – three, if you counted the dragon-less elfin Rider, Delia. Galbatorix only had Murtagh…but Murtagh was very powerful.

The question still lingered in the recesses of Eragon's mind: would they win this war?