Part Two

Brom had been trapped in this hell for close to a year now. He was near to giving up on his revenge mission. Perhaps this had all been foolishness from the very beginning. Very little useful information had come out of his infiltrating the castle, but his superiors assured him that he was in a very strategic position, and should remain there. He was able to monitor Morzan and Selena's comings and goings from the castle. And, with the help of Master Avarin, he was able to intercept a few messages containing valuable information, but those were few and far between. And he was growing tired of tending to the plants every day.

But underneath all of his disenchantment and complaining, there was a fire in his belly that kept him going; that made him continue on, even when it all seemed so pointless. That fire was revenge. And as he lay in his cot one night after a long, dull day with very little to do, his thoughts turned once again to the reason for his revenge: Saphira.

He could see her now, in his mind's eye. They were soaring high up in the air, gliding over mountains and plains and trees and rivers, not a care in the world. That seemed like nearly a lifetime ago.

Brom! her voice sounded in his head, though it sounded like it was from a great distance. Let's go higher! Faster! She laughed jubilantly and let out a triumphant bugle, the light of the sun catching her sapphire scales in a brilliant flash. They had been so young then, just starting out as dragon and Rider. They did not know the great pain that awaited them.

Without meaning to, his thoughts turned to Morzan and his utter betrayal. It was bad enough that he would betray the Riders and join that blackguard of a traitor, Galbatorix, but to kill his dragon...? Brom's fists clenched where they lay at his side. They had been boys together; knew everything there was to know about one another. But that was before... Now, he would like nothing more than to cause Morzan the same harm he'd inflicted upon him. And that had been his mission when he'd first come to this place. But that goal seemed to slip further and further away with each passing day.

He hadn't gotten another chance to speak with the Hand since she'd come to him for a tincture almost six months ago. She was a secretive and solitary woman, and most of her errands she gave to her many servants. But when it came to her son, that was a different matter. Brom had watched as the woman agonized over being separated from her child. Selena would do whatever she could, no matter how small the act, to have a positive affect upon her son. And Brom had to wonder if the Little Lord was made aware of how much his mother loved him.

As of late, Brom had found his thoughts regarding the Black Hand and her young son turning to sympathy rather than malice. They seemed trapped here, just as much as he was trapped here by his need for vengeance. The longer he stayed, and the more he watched, the more he realized that Morzan only used the boy as a tool to control his mother. Morzan bore no love for his own child, and that notion disgusted Brom. He'd resolved himself to try and help the boy, in whatever way he could. And if he ever got the chance to leave this place, he would attempt to take the boy with him.

Brom was awoken from his slumber by the agonized screams of a woman.

He was out of his cot and on his feet in a matter of seconds. Every fiber of his being was on alert for whatever might come. There came another scream, and he was on the move, pulling on his worn boots and a shabby overcoat of blue wool. It was nearing autumn, and the nights were chilly. He left the hut in a flash, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

She screamed again, and this time he could make out her words. "Someone help me!" Her voice was a strangled sob, and Brom felt his heart clench in his chest. He sprinted along the seashell paths of the garden, the broken oyster shells crunching and crackling beneath his frantic feet. Again, the woman cried out, and this time Brom thought he could make out where she was. He rounded the path around a tree and saw the terrace spread out before him. And on the terrace, he saw the woman.

"Please! Help me! Someone!" she cried, looking around her frantically. Brom skid to a stop upon the brick pavers and came up to the woman. She looked a mess, with her hair falling down loosely in waves and her nightgown disheveled. But what alarmed him the most was the stark splash of crimson against the white silk of her robe.

"Madame," he said breathlessly, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. She snapped her head to look at him, dark eyes wide in shock and terror, and then he knew her... Selena. "My lady, what is it? Tell me what's happened." Brom looked down and saw where she held her hands before her. They were covered in blood.

"Help me, please," she begged, her voice a pitiful whisper.

"Show me," Brom said simply, placing a hand on her shoulder to ground her back in reality. She nodded quickly and then turned, jogging back along the terrace and into the castle. Brom wondered why she'd come to the terrace looking for help, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. She was picking up speed, and he was having a difficult time keeping up with her frenzied pace. They traversed the castle corridors and a lightning speed, and Brom noticed they crossed into the east wing. When they came to the foyer leading into the dining room, dread struck Brom's heart as he realized why Selena was covered in blood.

The Little Lord lay face down in the foyer, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. They came to stop beside the boy, and Brom dropped to his knees.

"Help him, please," Selena said in a tortured sob. The boy's back had been laid open by a sword, and was rent from shoulder to hip. It was a clean wound, but it was deep, and the boy was bleeding badly. Brom could not begin to imagine how this had happened, but then he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye.

He looked over at the door that led into the dining room, and saw a crimson blade resting on the floor, its edge coated in the boy's blood. Hatred bubbled up in Brom's chest as realization dawned on him. But he didn't have time to think about that right now. The child was dying at his feet.

Quickly, Brom scooped the boy up in his arms, making sure his face stayed towards the ground so he would not come in contact with the wound. In the cases of wounds like these, it was more often infection that killed rather than the wound itself. Selena gasped aloud and raced after Brom as he ran.

"Don't hurt him!" she cried.

"The boy is unconscious, mercifully," Brom replied, still managing to keep his voice calm. "He can't feel anything right now." He picked up his pace, effectively silencing anymore conversation. But Selena's footsteps were never very far behind his. They traveled back to the west wing and through the strolling gardens to the prayer garden. Yöthern kept his quarters behind the garden and close to the library.

When they reached his quarters, Brom pounded on the door with his foot until the older man opened up, eyes still bleary from sleep. Brom did not need to say anything, for the healer noticed the boy in his arms almost immediately.

"Bring him in, quickly," he said. Yöthern stepped aside and Brom moved swiftly past him while Selena followed closely behind the two men. The healer indicated Brom should lay the boy down on a wooden table that came up to waist height. As gingerly as possible, Brom laid him down and sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the gods that he had remained unconscious. If he'd been awake, the pain would be utterly unbearable.

Yöthern bustled over to the opposite side of the table after retrieving his spectacles and inspected the hideous wound. He sucked in his breath in a sort of wheezing gasp which accompanied the little whimpers that were escaping Selena's mouth. Brom turned to her and saw tears streaming down her beautiful face, and he felt the overwhelming need to reach out and embrace her, if only to offer some small comfort in the midst of this horrible tragedy. But he restrained himself. The Black Hand may not have been in control of her mental faculties at the moment, but she certainly would be later, and she would remember that.

"How did this happen?" Yöthern questioned, gingerly touching the inflamed skin around the laceration. Brom looked at Selena, but she seemed not to have heard the man, for her dark eyes never left the prone form of her son.

So, Brom said, "It was a sword. I have reason to believe that it was thrown across a room, with the intention of harming the boy." The old healer looked up at him, his eyes full of disbelief and questions.

"Who would wish to inflict harm on the Little Lord?"

Selena drew in a sharp breath of air, and then released it in a strangled sob. "His father," she whispered. "The Red Rider, Morzan." This last part she practically spat out in disgust. Yöthern looked back and forth between Brom and Selena for a moment, but he said no more on the matter. Brom saw that he would save his questions for later. He went back to inspecting the wound for another few moments, and then hurried over―as much as an old man can hurry, that is―to his medicine cabinet.

For several minutes, the healer moved around this vial or that container, only to huff and shake his head and move on to a different section of the cabinet. He picked up a few vials along the way, and then turned back to the table.

"You are the castle garden, are you not?" he asked of Brom. Without a word, Brom nodded his head. "Good. I am in need of materials. Fetch me goldenseal and comfrey root for a poultice. And be quick about it; the Little Lord's life depends on your haste." Brom did not waste time with words. He hurried out of the healer's quarters and into his garden, that he'd taken such care in cultivating over the past year.

The goldenseal was easily procured from the herb bed, but the comfrey root was decidedly less so. He couldn't remember if it was next to the mandrake root or the marshmallow root, and his faulty memory cost him precious time. Eventually, he found the root and dug it up with his bare hands, not even caring how his fingers ached and bled. When the root was free, he hurried back to Yöthern's quarters and handed over the needed ingredients. Yöthern thanked him quietly and began grinding the materials into a poultice. When that was done, he applied the poultice to the Little Lord's back as gently as possible. After the poultice was applied, he wrapped the wound in thick linen bandages and then took a small dropper full of a dark red liquid and placed the liquid in the boy's mouth. All the while, Selena continued to cry in great shuddering gasps.

"I've administered a sleeping draught," Yöthern said to the still-shocked Selena. "It will ensure that he stays asleep for at least a day, but after that... I cannot say what kind of pain he will be in. And the wound will leave a scar. I do not know how long this will take to heal, my lady." Selena was crying quietly now, but she flicked her gaze up to the healer and nodded quickly.

"Thank you, for all your help," she said softly.

"Would you escort the Lady Selena back to her chambers?" Yöthern asked Brom. "And then I would have cause to speak with you."

"Of course," Brom mumbled, bowing slightly. Then he turned to Selena, though her gaze did not shift to him. "My lady, shall we?" She stood there staring at her son mournfully, and Brom could see how torn she was. He knew she longed to stay with her son, but Morzan would be furious if he ever found out she was here. And so, with great pain, she turned away from her son and walked out of the room, Brom following quickly behind.

They walked through the prayer garden, passing by sculptures and fountains of the gods. Selena never spared any of them a glance. In fact, Brom noticed that her gaze remained stoically forward, seemingly fixed on some point within the strolling gardens. She picked up her pace slightly as they entered that space meant for lazily idling in the summer heat and engaging in small talk. Brom followed quickly behind until she suddenly stopped and fell to her knees upon the seashell path. He could not understand why, until he noticed where it was she had stopped. For before her was the bed filled with white moonflowers, all of them in full bloom under the veil of night.

She stayed kneeling there for a long time, so long that Brom began to feel uncomfortable, like he was intruding on some private moment of reflection. Selena kept her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her, and Brom stood slightly behind her, just watching and waiting. Was she praying? Crying? He could not say.

"Do you believe in the gods, Gardener?" she suddenly asked, breaking the spell that had hung over them.

He did not know what to say. What did she want to hear? And what was she hoping to accomplish by kneeling here by the flowers? After much deliberation, he finally said, "Yes, my lady. I believe in the countless, nameless gods of old."

"You are a pagan then." Her voice held no condemnation, nor any question. It was completely and utterly devoid of emotion, as though she thought she might be dreaming. "Tell me," she continued, "what do your pagan gods say about those who harm children?"

Brom was silent for a long time, wracking his brain to try and remember the teachings of the gods his mother had tried to instill in him as a boy. That had been so long ago... and he had never returned home after becoming a Rider. He'd only answered as he did because he thought it would mollify the Hand. But it seemed he'd been mistaken. Finally, the answer came to him. "The gods tell us we must care for the weak and helpless, and I suppose that would include children, my lady. As to those who harm the weak and innocent, they are doomed to burn in the pit fires of hell." He fell silent, waiting for her reaction. As he watched her, he noticed that she raised her eyes to the sky above and stared at the stars.

"I do not believe in the gods," she said after a long while, quite startling Brom. "They are cold and unfeeling, and they long ago abandoned this world. Why should I believe in them when they do not believe in me?"

Brom knew he should have kept his mouth shut; should have stood there silently like a good servant. But he was not a servant... he was a Dragon Rider. "They have not abandoned you, my lady," he said quietly. Tentatively, he took a step towards her. "If they had abandoned you, I would not have found you crying out for help to save your son." Slowly, he reached out a hand and placed it gently on her shoulder. He was expecting her to be affronted that a servant would dare touch the Lady of the castle. But she was not. Instead, she reached up her own hand and placed it over his, and then she began to sob.

Her body was wracked with convulsions, and Brom could not bear to see her this way. Whatever his intentions had been at the start of this mission, he felt them melting away to be replaced with a warmth that spread throughout his chest and settled in his stomach, rooting him to the ground. He did not know what this warmth was, but it led him to fall to his knees at her side and fold her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her against him. She continued to cry, but she did so into his chest, gripping the fabric of his tunic as tightly as if she were a woman drowning at sea.

For a while, he just held her until her tears subsided. They were replaced with little hiccuping sobs as she tried to catch her breath, until she finally fell quiet. Brom did not say a word; he was afraid of breaking the spell. And what could he say? Here he was, supposedly a lowly gardener, comforting and consoling Morzan's second-in-command. Yet he did not feel ashamed. In fact, this felt like the most natural thing he'd ever done besides being bonded to Saphira.

At the thought of his slain dragon, Brom pulled away, suddenly reminded of his mission. He stood and took a step back from her, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing his head. Though he maintained an outwardly calm demeanor, inside... he felt as though his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

"I am sorry, my lady," he whispered hoarsely. "I do not know what came over me." She stood and looked at him, an odd expression upon her face that Brom could not place.

"What is your name, Gardener?" she asked, eyeing him quizzically.

For a split second, he almost told her his real name, nearly forgetting himself in his emotion. But then, he said, "Thane, my lady. My name is Thane."

"Well, Thane," she said slowly, "if there is any fault in what transpired between us this night, it lies with me. Do not concern yourself with this." He looked up at her, meeting her dark gaze, and realized that her steely demeanor had returned, albeit slightly altered. There was that same hardness evident in her eyes, but there seemed to be something changed in her. Though he could not say what it was.

"Yes, my lady," was all he dared say in response.

"I'll see myself back to my chambers." Her voice was clipped, but Brom thought he might have sensed some other emotion there. He did not get a chance to decipher her face any longer, for she turned on her heel and strode away, the bloody hem of her nightgown trailing behind her.

Brom returned quickly to Yöthern's chambers. The little boy still lay unconscious on the table, but he knew that their conversation would not wake him after the sleeping draught he'd been given.

"Was the lady safely returned to her bed?" Yöthern asked.

"Aye, she was," Brom lied. He had hoped for the better part of the last year to get the man alone like this, but he was not happy to see it under these circumstances. "I doubt she will be getting much sleep though."

"No, I daresay she will not," the old man mumbled. He fiddled with a few trinkets on his desk, and then turned his blue gaze to Brom. "Tell me what you saw." The request was simple enough, but Brom could understand the implication. If the man was a supporter of Galbatorix's empire, anything Brom said could have dire consequences. If, however, the man supported the Varden... Brom had come this far on caution; he decided he could risk this.

"I saw the Little Lord lying in a pool of his own blood, just outside the dining room. What he was doing there this late at night, I couldn't say. The Hand, I found screaming for help out on the terrace, covered in her child's blood. And by the boy, I saw a crimson blade. If I'm not mistaken, that belongs to the master." It pained Brom to act the humble servant, but he knew he must.

Yöthern chewed on this information for a moment, his aging blue eyes flicking up to Brom's face every now and then. After a while, he said, "It is a terrible crime that has been committed this night. And I shall count it a miracle if the Little Lord ever walks again. This wound shall plague him 'til the end of his days. A vile man..." This last thought he let trail into silence, but it did not escape Brom's notice. He inspected the old healer's face for a moment.

"You are not fond of Lord Morzan then, I take it?" he questioned cautiously. Yöthern gazed at him in alarm, and then peered out the window over Brom's shoulder, presumably to check that they were indeed alone.

"This castle has many eyes and ears," the old man said in a hoarse whisper. "It is dangerous, the things you speak of."

"I have more cause to hate the master than most, but after what I saw tonight..." He realized he may have said too much.

"Who are you?" Yöthern said, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

"I am an ally to the Varden," Brom whispered in response. The old man sucked in his breath, and Brom steeled himself for the worst. But Yöthern eventually settled back in his chair, huffing and mumbling to himself in an inaudible rumble.

"So they've infiltrated the castle at last," he said.

"Aye, I am spying on Morzan's movements for them. Master Avarin is an ally as well," Brom explained, hoping very much that the old man's reaction meant he could be trusted.

"I was aware of Avarin's involvement with the Varden, but I never dreamed they would send one of their agents into our very midst. How did you manage to get in?" he asked.

"There was a fault in one of the wards around the castle," Brom replied slowly, not sure how much to tell the old man. "It took many months of biding my time and inspecting every single ward, but I finally found it. I've been here for close to a year, though there is little information coming out of the castle of late."

"You must certainly be dedicated to the Varden to expend so much time and energy on this mission."

You have no idea, old man, Brom thought to himself. He kept his mouth firmly shut in a thin line. "I would be grateful for any help you could provide," he finally stated, "if you are an ally to us as well." The old man seemed to ponder this for a long while, staring blankly at the wood floor beneath him.

Suddenly, he looked up at Brom, and there seemed to be new light in his eyes. "Too long I have lived under the Red Rider's oppression," he said, shifting his gaze to look at the sleeping boy on his table. "And this vile act has pushed me over the brink. It may be an enormous risk, but I will do what I can to help you."

"We are grateful to you," Brom replied, letting out the breath he realized he'd been holding. "Is there anything you can tell me about him? You have been his servant for a very long time, have you not?"

"It has been nearly fifty years," the old man said wistfully, "and all that time I have been treating those that live here, as well as the master. There is something..." He paused for a moment. "Morzan is a very powerful magician, as is his dragon. In all my years, I have seen them grow unnaturally stronger every day. But there is something else... He is not invincible to the ailments that so often plague the human race."

"What do you mean?"

"It is a rare disease these days, and one that is resistant against magic," Yöthern explained quietly, leaning forward again. "It has been close to twenty years, and I have not been able to do much more than keep it at bay. He hides it well, but I can see that the disease weighs on him heavily."

"What is it?" Brom asked in breathless anticipation.

"It is the White Plague." Brom sucked in his breath quickly, completely caught off guard by what the old man said. He remembered the days, so long ago, when the White Plague spread across the land. It killed hundreds of thousands of people that lived in the squalors of Alagaësia's larger cities. Dras-Leona had been hit the hardest. It took mostly children; their bodies were not strong enough to fight off the disease that affected the bones and the lungs.

"Have there been any more documented cases within the castle?" Brom asked hastily, eyeing Morzan's son.

"None so far," the old man replied. "His wards are able to keep the disease from spreading to others, but magic cannot cure the disease, only subdue it for a time. Of late, I have noticed a heightening of the effects upon him. I fear that after the disease has lingered for so long, it is finally catching up with him."

Brom could not have heard better news. Morzan was dying, albeit slowly. He would be weak, and distracted. The circumstances could not have been more perfect. "Thank you for sharing this information," Brom said quietly. He would think on this more, and decide what the best course of action would be. But for the first time in over a year, he was beginning to see hope in the bleak darkness that had surrounded him for so long.

P.S. ("The White Plague" is another name for tuberculosis)