Answers to reviews:
Dreagon D. Dragon: I'll think about it, I just need to figure out a dragoness' pregnancy, how long they carry the eggs, when they lay and when the eggs hatch as I think Eragon and Saphira were in the Elves home for about 4 to six weeks.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls or The Inheritance Cycle.
Riding was extremely painful for Eragon—his broken ribs prevented them from going faster than a walk, and it was impossible for him to breathe deeply without a burst of agony. Nevertheless, he refused to stop. Saphira and Daemon 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.
Eragon had decided to ride on Snowfire now, having sold Cadoc at a small village seeing as how Daemon had Shadowmere and Murtagh had his own horse. The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. The trio learned that they shared many of the same interests; they spent hours debating the finer points of archery and hunting, but they never brought up the far more personal details of their lives. All Daemon told Murtagh was that he came from a land far across the seas.
The first week went by without any sign of the Ra'zac, which allayed some of their 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. I thought these remote places would be teeming with monsters, he mused. Still, I'm not one to complain if they've gone elsewhere.
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, Daemon and him checked to see if it had a jail. If it did, they would disguise themselves and visit it, but she was not to be found. The disguises became increasingly elaborate as they saw notices featuring their names and description—and offering a substantial reward for their capture—posted in various towns.
Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû'baen. It was a heavily populated area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.
Once they were safely past Urû'baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain. It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north, following the Ramr River.
Eragon's sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not even mention it to any of his companions. He was surprise when a wooden carving dropped into his lap and he looked to see it was the carving of a dragon. He looked up, only to meet Daemon's eyes and the Dragonborn gave him a wink. Eragon smiled, nodding his head in thanks as Saphira gave him a warm nuzzle, neither had forgotten his birthday. They never will.
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 mentally wondered to Daemon if his dragon body was the same size, since it was the same age as Saphira. Daemon just shrugged and figured he might be, but for obvious reasons he couldn't check.
Saphira had been disappointed when Daemon told her he couldn't be a dragon for a while, at least until Murtagh proved himself trustworthy to see that form. She understood, but that didn't ease the disappointment as she was hoping to spend more time with Daemon, always sending him a lonely look every now and then that nearly made Daemon crack and change form but he held himself back. Daemon tried his best to maintain their new, close relationship as best he could; even going so far as to give her neck a small massage one night. While Saphira enjoyed and appreciated his efforts, she assured him that he didn't have to constantly try so hard because she was a little upset, it was him she liked, not his body. That made them blush.
Still, she very much enjoyed snuggling him close to her that night he gave her the massage.
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.
Eragon turned to his Dragonborn friend and called. "Daemon! Fancy a spar?"
Daemon smirked and stood. "Let's see if you haven't gotten rusty in the past few days because of injury."
Murtagh sat forward, watching intently as Daemon and Eragon faced each other.
Daemon and Eragon circled each other, then stopped, staring. It was Eragon who struck first as he swung his sword in a downward slash, but Daemon blocked while holding his weapon with just one hand and he pushed Eragon back. Eragon righted himself and struck again, thrusting, slicing and slashing, all of which Daemon blocked with experience, spun and brought his sword down but Eragon blocked it. Their duel continued, with them going back and fourth in trying to gain the advantage. Eragon had to laugh at how evenly matched they were now. Once, Eragon could barely force Daemon back except when he would do so willingly, now he was on par with the infamous Dragonborn's skill.
Eventually, Eragon called it off and Daemon exhaled, placing the tip of his sword into the ground and getting some breath back. "You two are amazing!" Murtagh exclaimed with wide eyes. "I've studied swordplay all my life, but never have I seen two fighters like you."
"Thank you." Daemon nodded, panting a little as he plopped down next to Saphira and leaned against her side as she hummed and nuzzled him. "if you want, you can spar with us, might do us all some good to keep our skills sharp and see what the other can offer as a challenge."
"Noted." Murtagh said with a grin.
You fought well, Daemon. Saphira hummed as she nuzzled him.
Your flattery won't save you from me beating you in our next fight. Daemon told her with a smirk, only to yelp when he found himself on his back, pinned by the dragoness who laid down with her forelegs crossed over him to keep him pinned.
So you wish to fight now? She asked him with a scaly eyebrow raised. Daemon paused, looked left and right, then at his companions who shrugged. He looked at Saphira.
I'm going to pass on that.
Thought so. Smugly, Saphira let him up and gave him a soft, playful nip on the shoulder as he went back to the camp, sitting beside Eragon who was snickering.
"What are you smirking at?" Daemon asked his friend with a frown.
"Nothing." Eragon said, unable to stop grinning. "Just hilarious to see you submit to Saphira."
Daemon whacked him on the shoulder for his comments in jest, shaking his head but had a small smile on his face. Aside from the banter between Daemon and Saphira, it became routine between the three young men to fight in the evening, which kept them lean and fit, like a pair of matched blades. With his return to health, Eragon also resumed practicing magic. Murtagh was curious about it and soon revealed that he knew a surprising amount about how it worked, though he lacked the precise details and could not use it himself. Whenever Eragon practiced speaking in the ancient language, Murtagh would listen quietly, occasionally asking what a word meant.
On the outskirts of Gil'ead they stopped the horses side by side. It had taken them nearly a month to reach it, during which time spring had finally nudged away the remnants of winter. Eragon had felt himself changing during the trip, growing stronger and calmer. He still thought about Brom and spoke about him with Daemon and Saphira, but for the most part he tried not to awaken painful memories.
From a distance they could see the city was a rough, barbaric place, filled with log houses and yapping dogs. There was a rambling stone fortress at its center. The air was hazy with blue smoke. The place seemed more like a temporary trading post than a permanent city. Five miles beyond it was the hazy outline of Isenstar Lake.
They decided to camp two miles from the city, for safety. While their dinner simmered, Murtagh said, "I'm not sure you should be the one to go into Gil'ead."
"Why?" Daemon asked with a frown, halting his current 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 much more than me. If I'm captured, I could eventually escape. But if you are taken, they'll drag you to the King, where you'll be in for a slow death by torture—unless you join him. Plus, Gil'ead is one of the army's major staging points. Those aren't houses out there; they're barracks. Going in there would be like handing yourself to the king on a gilded platter."
Eragon asked Saphira for her opinion. You shouldn't have to ask me; he speaks sense. There are certain words I can give him that will convince Dormnad of his truthfulness. And Murtagh's right; if anyone is to risk capture it should be him, because he would live through it. You two get into trouble enough.
We're not that bad. Daemon said in defence of himself and Eragon, to which she just gave him a deadpan look. Okay, maybe we are.
Eragon grimaced. I don't like letting him put himself in danger for us. "All right, you can go," he said reluctantly. "But if anything goes wrong, I'm coming after you."
"And we aren't hearing another word against it." Daemon added with a grunt.
Murtagh laughed. "That would be fit for a legend: how a lone Rider and his sidekick took on the King's army single-handedly." He chuckled again and stood. Daemon frowned and mouthed Sidekick? to Eragon, who had to resisted the urge to laugh at his friend's expression. "Is there anything I should know before going?"
"Shouldn't we rest and wait until tomorrow?" asked Eragon cautiously.
"Why? The longer we stay here, the greater the chance that we'll be discovered. If this Dormnad can take you to the Varden, then he needs to be found as quickly as possible. Neither of us should remain near Gil'ead longer than a few days."
Again wisdom flies from his mouth, commented Saphira dryly. She told Eragon what should be said to Dormnad, and he relayed the information to Murtagh.
"Very well," said Murtagh, adjusting his sword. "Unless there's trouble, I'll be back within a couple of hours. Make sure there's some food left for me." With a wave of his hand, he jumped onto Tornac and rode away. Eragon sat by the fire, tapping Zar'roc's pommel apprehensively.
Daemon, however, was upset about one thing. "Seriously, how am I the sidekick?"
"Well, I am the Rider." Eragon said with a teasing grin.
"And I'm the fucking Dragonborn, what's your point?" Daemon retorted.
If it helps... Saphira said with a playful grin in her words. You're a cute sidekick.
"That's not helping!"
Hours passed, but Murtagh did not return. Eragon paced around the fire, Zar'roc in hand, Daemon ran a rock along his blade to pass the time while Saphira watched Gil'ead attentively. Only her eyes moved. Neither of them voiced their worries, though Eragon unobtrusively prepared to leave—in case a detachment of soldiers left the city and headed toward their camp.
Look, snapped Saphira.
Eragon and Daemon swiveled toward Gil'ead, alert. They saw a distant horseman exit the city and ride furiously toward their camp. I don't like this, Eragon said as he climbed onto Saphira while Daemon took up a stance beside her, ready. Be ready to fly.
I'm prepared for more than that.
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?"
"We didn't see anyone." Daemon confirmed.
"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?"
Murtagh spooned more food into his bowl. "It's a rather simple thing, but all the more deadly because of it: I was seen in the street by someone who knows me. I did the only thing I could and ran away. It was too late, though; he recognized me."
It was unfortunate, but Eragon was unsure how bad it really was. "Since I don't know your friend, I have to ask: Will he tell anyone?"
Murtagh gave a strained laugh. "If you had met him, that wouldn't need answering. His mouth is loosely hinged and hangs open all the time, vomiting whatever happens to be in his mind. The question isn'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," Daemon 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 stared at him unhappily. He wanted Murtagh to stay. They had become friends during their travels, and he was loath to tear that apart. He started to protest, but Saphira hushed him and said gently, Wait until tomorrow. Now is not the time.
Very well, he said glumly. They talked until the stars were bright in the sky, then slept as Saphira took the first watch.
Eragon woke two hours before dawn, his palm tingling. Everything was still and quiet, but something sought his attention, like an itch in his mind. He buckled on Zar'roc and stood, careful not to make a sound. Daemon had been on watch, staring at the city before he looked at Eragon.
"You feel something off too?" He asked quietly, getting a nod from Eragon. "Wake Murtagh, I'll go to Saphira."
As Eragon did so, Saphira awakened and looked at Daemon curiously, her large eyes bright. What is it? she asked.
I'm not sure... but I think we're gonna have company.
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.
Daemon, Eragon and Murtagh wordlessly drew their swords. They quietly stationed themselves on either side of Saphira, prepared for an attack. As they waited, the morning star rose in the east. A squirrel chattered.
Then an angry snarl from behind made Eragon spin around, sword held high. A broad Urgal stood at the edge of the camp, carrying a mattock with a nasty spike. Where did he come from? We haven't seen their tracks anywhere! thought Eragon. The Urgal roared and waved his weapon, but did not charge.
"Brisingr!" barked Eragon, stabbing out with magic. The Urgal's face contorted with terror as he exploded in a flash of blue light. Blood splattered Eragon, and a brown mass flew through the air. Behind him, Saphira bugled with alarm and reared. Eragon twisted around. While he had been occupied with the first Urgal, a group of them had run up from the side. Of all the stupid tricks to fall for!
Steel clashed loudly as Daemon and Murtagh 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. But with his mind clouded, his determination quickly faded. He returned to the cot. By the time the hallway fell silent, he was fast asleep.
We have to get him back!
Saphira, calm down! Daemon told the pacing dragoness, trying to reason with her but she wasn't having it.
Do not tell me to calm down! Not when my Rider is in danger and I can't get to him! Saphira said with a low snarl, smoke escaping her nostrils as she snorted her anger out. She had tried pushing past the two, but they kept blocking her path which was starting to get on her nerves. While she didn't want to hurt them, Daemon especially, she was starting to be on the verge of snapping.
Saphira, ENOUGH! Daemon shouted and she jerked in surprise, stopping in her tracks and looking at him with wide eyes. He had never raised his voice at her before. We will get him back, you know that! But we can't just storm the city and have every soldier in there come after us! that would only put us, and Eragon, in even more danger!
Then what do you suggest we do?!
We try to think this through with logic and reason, not go rushing in blinded with anger. Daemon said, sending Saphira a stern look before looking at Murtagh. "Do you have any way for us to get into the city?"
"Some, but they aren't pretty." Murtagh said with a sigh. "Nothing good enough to get us to wherever they've placed Eragon. I can try and scout around, see if I can find something to help us get inside."
"Do that." Daemon said and watched Murtagh get on his horse, making for the city walls while sticking to the shadows. Daemon then turnef to Saphira, who wasn't looking at him. "Saphira... hey. look at me."
She did, and he felt his heart break at the tears streaming down her face. With a choked sob, Saphira buried her snout in his chest and he hugged her close, whispering soothing words and sending her warm feelings.
I just... I can't stand here, wondering if he's unharmed... and I can't get to him. Saphira sobbed. Daemon hated seeing her like this, crying. He felt that familiar sensation well up, the same one that appeared after Eragon passed out when they encountered the Urga;s not long after they left Teirm. he allowed it to take shape and do a very bold move.
Saphira's eyes snapped open with shock when she felt Daemon kiss her snout and she stared into his blue-silver eyes as he stared into her sapphire-blue ones. he stroked her cheek and sent her eassuring feelings, as well as firm determination. I promise you, no I VOW, that we will get him back. Even if I have to be reckless and storm the damn city myself. But I will not allow you to do so and put yourself in danger. I'm at my wits end at the thought of Eragon in danger and hurt, don't make me start worrying about you too.
Saphira said nothing, choosing to just nuzzle his chest and send him warm feleings of her own, thanking him for his care. He just held her and they waited for Murtagh to come back, sending each other soothing feelings and thoughts to keep the other calm. However, their attention soon snapped to a different thing when they saw Murtagh returning.
"I think I have a way inside!" Murtagh told them with a grin.
"Explain." Daemon demanded and Saphira nodded firmly in agreement.
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 midafternoon. Taking a calming breath, he tried to wait patiently.
And that was it for this chapter everyone.