Chapter Sixty-Three: Tainted Truths

Sweeping his blade up to catch the hilt of one of the assassins, Mark set his jaw and twisted his sword, pushing him back into the room, narrowly avoiding a knife thrown by one of the others. Behind him, he could hear Kendra fighting off the third attacker.

Nyx charged into the room, launching at the member of the Black Hand attacking Kendra. He chomped down feverishly on his arm and gnawed until he drew blood. Kendra stabbed upward and into her attacker's throat, watching him drop to the floor as blood gushed from the hole in his throat.

Mark could hear footsteps in the stairwell and pulled away from the assassin he was in combat with as an arrow whistled through the air and slid smoothly into the apex of his chest, knocking him onto his back. Trevin whipped down the stairs and shot across the room as the knife thrower shot another blade towards Kendra. His second arrow landed in the leader's throat. He grasped at it, his fingers clenching around the shaft before he went still and limp against the wall.

"That's three," Kendra said, wiping blood off of her face. She snapped her attention at Trevin. "Where's Del?"

"Covering the entrance." He said glancing backward as Delaney came down the stairs slowly, splattered with blood.

"There were three waiting for us up top," he said, observing their handiwork. "Could you have gotten more blood all over the place?"

Kendra ignored him and walked to the table, Nyx padded along beside her quietly. Del and Trevin moved the bodies and checking them over for anything including weapons or information. She lowered her sword a little, glancing over the table where a map was laid out. The fireplace was casting a flickering light over the papers littering the table.

"This doesn't look right," she said, glancing back up at Mark.

He moved over beside her, looking over their plans. "Are you sure they were Black Hand assassins?"

"Positive… but this doesn't look like anything Galbatorix would have ordered. This is something baser than his standards." Kendra turned and strode over to the lead assassin, ripping off his mask and staring at his face. "Bastard. I should have known. They're a breakoff group. They got trained, sent off, and now they check in every so often with Galbatorix. They have become petty thieves in their time away from the capital. They murder for fun…"

Mark watched her, "So, this was a pointless venture."

"No," she said, standing up, staring at their leader's face. "We accomplished our goal… the mothers in the village can sleep soundly tonight. Now let's get back to Eirika. I'm sure Rowan's anxious to see us return."

Bright morning arrived all too soon.

Jolted to awareness by the buzz of the vibrating timepiece, Eragon grabbed hi hunting knife and sprang out of bed, expecting an attack. He gasped as his body shrieked with protest from the abuse of the past two days.

Blinking away tears, Eragon rewound the timepiece. Orik was gone; the dwarf must have slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. With a groan, Eragon hobbled to the wash closet for his daily ablutions, like an old man afflicted by rheumatism

He and Saphira waited by the tree for ten minutes before they were met with a solemn, black-haired elf. The elf bowed, touched two fingers to his lips – which Eragon mirrored – and then preempted Eragon by saying, "May good fortune rule over you."

"And may the stars watch over you," replied Eragon. "Did Oromis send you?"

The elf ignored him and said to Saphira, "Well met, dragon. I am Vanir of House Haldthin." Eragon scowled with annoyance.

Well met, Vanir.

Only then did the elf address Eragon: "I will show you where you may practice with your blade." He strode away, not wanting for Eragon to catch up.

The sparring yard was dotted with elves of both sexes fighting in pairs and groups. Their extraordinary physical gifts resulted in flurries of blows so quick and fast, they sounded like bursts of hail striking an iron bell. Under the trees that fringed the yard, individual elves performed the Rimgar with more grace and flexibility than Eragon thought he would ever achieve.

After everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, Vanir unsheathed his narrow blade. "If you will guard your sword, Silver Hand, we can begin."

Eragon eye the inhuman swordsmanship of the other elves with trepidation. Why do I have to do this? He asked. I'll just be humiliated.

You'll be fine, said Saphira, yet he could sense her concern for him.

Right.

As he prepared Zar'roc, Eragon's hands trembled with dread. Instead of throwing himself into the gray, he fought Vanir from a distance, dodging, sidestepping, and doing everything possible to avoid triggering another fit. Despite Eragon's evasions, Vanir touched him four times in rapid succession – once each on his ribs, shin, and both shoulders.

Vanir's initial expression of stoic impassivity soon devolved into open contempt. Dancing forward, he slid his blade up Zar'roc's length while at the same time twirling Zar'roc in a circle, wrenching Eragon's wrist. Eragon allowed Zar'roc to fly out of his hand rather than resist the elf's superior strength.

Vanir dropped his sword onto Eragon's neck and said, "Dead." Shrugging off the sword, Eragon trudged over to retrieve Zar'roc. "Dead," said Vanir. "How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected better, even from a weakling human."

"Then why don't you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du Weldenvarden?"

Vanir stiffened with outrage. "Because," he said, cool and haughty, "I'm not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you."

No one moved or spoke on the field.

His back to Vanir, Eragon leaned on Zar'roc and craned his neck toward the sky, snarling to himself. He knows nothing. This is just one more test to overcome.

"Coward, I say. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race's. I think that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix's wiles and made the wrong choice of Rider." The spectating elves gasped at Vanir's words and muttered among themselves with open disapproval for his atrocious breach of etiquette.

Eragon ground his teeth. He could stand insults to himself, but not to Saphira. She was already moving when his pent-up frustration, fear, and pain burst within him and he whirled around, the tip of Zar'roc whistling through the air.

The blow would have killed Vanir had he not blocked it at the last second. He looked surprised by the ferocity of the attack. Holding nothing in reserve, Eragon drove Vanir to the center of the field, jabbing and slashing like a madman – determined to hurt the elf however he could. He nicked Vanir on the hip with enough force to draw blood, even with Zar'roc's blunted edge.

At that instant, Eragon's back ruptured in an explosion of agony so intense, he experienced it with all five senses: as a deafening, crashing waterfall of sound; a metallic taste that coated his tongue; an acrid, eye-watering stench in his nostrils, redolent of vinegar; pulsing colors; and, above all, the feeling that Durza had just laid open his back.

He could see Vanir standing over him with a derisive sneer. It occurred to Eragon that Vanir was very young.

After the seizure, Eragon wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand and showed it to Vanir, asking, "Thin enough?" Vanir did not deign to respond, but rather sheathed his sword and walked away.

"Where are you going?" demanded Eragon. "We have unfinished business, you and I."

"You are in no fit condition to spar," scoffed the elf.

"Try me." Eragon might be inferior to the elves, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of fulfilling their low expectations of him. He would earn their respect through sheer persistence, if nothing else.

He insisted on completing Oromis's assigned hour, after which Saphira marched up to Vanir and touched him on the chest with the point of one of her ivory talons. Dead, she said. Vanir paled. The other elves edged away from him.

Once they were in the air, Saphira said, Oromis was right.

About what?

You give more of yourself when you have an opponent.

Rain was pounding harshly in her ears as, Andrar landed firmly on the ground, his talons sinking into the squelching mud, spattering the boots of his rider as she stepped gracefully down from the embellished saddle. Striding through the muck, she drew her sword, gleaming and glowing with fire. As soon as the blade was free from its sheath, it was pressing against another's sword. Pivoting, she threw her opponent off balance, tossing them to the ground.

She tipped the point of her blade underneath the gap below the helmet and pressed the gurgling cry as she severed their throat sounding familiar. Reaching down, she took her gloved fingers and pried the helmet from their face; Mark's blue eyes stared blankly up at her.

Slowly, Mariah woke, wincing as soon as she attempted to move any singular muscle in her body. Bloody patches spattered her clothes from the previous day. "Can Kieran draw a little less blood next time we spar?"

I don't believe she knows how to darling. Andrar sprawled out best he could on the rock he'd claimed for the day, trying to catch every last ray of sunshine. Are we going to ignore your dreams again?

Rolling out of bed, hair messy she stretched and changed. Dragging a horse-hair brush through her black locks before hustling out of her room, she wound up slamming into the person just outside her door, throwing them both to the ground. "Pearce! I'm sorry."

"It's nothing," he insisted, standing smoothly and assisting her to her feet. He blinked once, gray eyes vanishing for a moment. "You seem to be in a rush, are you headed somewhere today?"

She glanced down the hall to reassure herself that Kieran was nowhere to be found. "I'm simply trying to avoid her highness…"

He nodded, grimacing slightly. "Well, she sent me up to get you. Apparently you two have a rematch today?" Pearce shifted his stance slightly, folding his arms and raising his shoulders a tinge.

Groaning, Mariah grabbed up her sword and stormed down to the courtyard where Murtagh was waiting with the princess. "Kieran!"

The princess raised her eyebrow at Mariah, "You seem a might upset, something the matter?"

Unsheathing her blade, she slashed towards the princess in one clean motion, attempting to slice into her shoulder. "I'm done with your games Kieran. If you want to fight, then let's fight."

"Oh, I see." She avoided the stroke and retaliated with a return blow against Mariah's back. "Then we'll simply have to fight."

Immediately, Murtagh scurried off against the wall and away from them, sparks flying as their swords flashed in the rising sunlight.

"Nothing useful?" Rowan gawked at her, "So, you wasted an entire week for nothing?" Eirika was sitting behind him in a chair, turning the pages of a book methodically. She glanced up every once in a while to check on Kendra's facial expressions as she spoke with Rowan.

Kendra's gaze locked onto his face. "Not for nothing Rowan, honestly, you believe that rescuing a town from murders is nothing?"

"In comparison to our main objective, yes. It is."

Eirika stopped turning the pages, staring at the back of his head. Rowan was always going on about overthrowing Galbatorix, but never would he blatantly disregard lives, especially children. He pushed aside the bottle of ink on the table off the map so it set next to its partner – a curling white feather dotted with brown flecks. The fresh ink on the paper beside him had started to dry up.

"Our main objective is to free the people Rowan, or have you forgotten? I'll not stand by while my citizens are murdered and I am able to prevent it. If you don't agree with me you can walk up those stairs right now - wash your hands before they're stained with blood of innocent children that you let die because you're being too pretentious to give a damn about their lives."

"I'm sorry princess but it's not your country last I knew. They aren't your citizens you don't have to-"

Kendra slammed her hand down on the table, her voice strident, "I will do everything I am capable of in order to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I may not rule from a throne, but I will not have you talk down to me like I am less than. This is my country and my home and these people are mine to protect so long as I am here to help them. Don't ever dare to speak to me like that again."

Rowan stared at her from across the table, meeting her gaze with stoicism. "You're being ridiculous Kendra, you can't save everyone."

"I can sure as hell try," she said, turning and pushing out of the room, down the hall to her room.

Mark turned to look at Rowan and raised an eyebrow, "I don't think that was your smartest decision."

"It's true. She can't save everyone. And she shouldn't be running off putting herself and her team in danger for something as irrelevant as a few murders."

"They're still murders."

"They're still irrelevant…"

Mark shook his head and looked down the hallway after Kendra, deciding it better to leave her alone to sort everything out for herself.

At Oromis's hut, the day resumed its usual pattern: Saphira accompanied Glaedr for her instruction while Eragon remained with Oromis.

Eragon was horrified when he discovered that Oromis expected him to do the Rimgar in addition to his earlier exercises. It took all of his courage to obey. His apprehension proved groundless, though, for the Dance of Snake and Crane was too gentle to injure him.

That, coupled with his meditation in the secluded glade, provided Eragon with his first opportunity since the previous day to order his thoughts and consider the question that Oromis had posed him.

While he did, he observed his red ants invade a smaller, rival anthill, overrunning the inhabitants and stealing their resources. By the end of the massacre, only a handful of the rival ants were left alive, alone and purposeless in the vast and hostile pine-needle barrens.

Like the dragons in Alagaësia, thought connection to the ants vanished as he considered the dragons' unhappy fate. Bit by bit, an answer to his problem revealed itself to him, an answer that he could live with and believe in.

He finished his meditations and returned to the hut. This time Oromis seemed reasonably satisfied with what Eragon had accomplished.

As Oromis served the midday meal, Eragon said, "I know why fighting Galbatorix is worth it, though thousands of people may die."

"Oh?" Oromis seated himself. "Do tell me."

"Because Galbatorix has already caused more suffering over the past hundred years than we ever could in a single generation. And unlike a normal tyrant, we cannot wait for him to die. He could rule for centuries or millennia – persecuting and tormenting people the entire time – unless we stop him. If he became strong enough, he would march on the dwarves and you here in Du Weldenvarden and kill or enslave both races. And…," Eragon rubbed the heel of his palm against the edge of the table, "…because rescuing the two eggs from Galbatorix is the only way to save the dragons."

The strident warble of Oromis's teakettle intruded, escalating in volume until Eragon's ears rang. Standing, Oromis hooked the kettle off the cookfire and poured the water for blueberry tea. The creases around his eyes softened. "Now," he said, "you understand."

"I understand, but I take no pleasure in it."

"Nor should you. But now we can be confident that you won't shrink from the path when you are confronted by the injustices and atrocities that the Varden will inevitably commit. We cannot afford to have you consumed by doubts when you strength and focus are most needed." Oromis steepled his fingers and gazed into the dark mirror of his tea, contemplating whatever her sat in its tenebrous reflection. "Do you believe that Galbatorix is evil?"

"Of course!"

"Do you believe that he considers himself evil"

"No, I doubt it."

Oromis tapped his forefingers against each other. "Then you must also believe that Durza was evil?"

The fragmented memories Eragon had gleaned from Durza when they fought in Tronjheim returned to him now, reminding him how the young Share – Carsaib, then – had been enslaved by the wraiths he had summoned to avenge the death of his mentor, Haeg. "He wasn't evil himself, but the spirits that controlled him were."

"And what of the Urgals?" asked Oromis, sipping his tea. "Are they evil?"

Eragon's knuckles whitened as he gripped his spoon. "When I think of death, I see an Urgal's face. They're worse than beasts. The things they have done…" He shook his head, unable to continue.

"Eragon, what kind of opinion would you form of humans if all you knew of them were the actions of your warriors on the field of battle?"

"That's not…" He took a deep breath. "It's different. Urgals deserve to be wiped out, every last one of them."

"Even their females and children? The ones who haven't harmed you and likely never will? The innocents? Would you kill them and condemn an entire race to the void?"

"They wouldn't spare us, given the chance."

"Eragon!" exclaimed Oromis in biting tones. "I never want you to use that excuse again, that because someone else has done –or would do – something means that you should too. It's lazy, repugnant, and indicative of an inferior mind. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Master."

The elf raised his mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Eragon the entire time. "What do you actually know of Urgals?"

"I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It's all I need to know."

"Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history and legends, or the way in which they live?"

"Does it matter?"

Oromis sighed. "Just remember," he said gently, "that at a certain point, your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life."

Eragon resisted the urge to argue. He swirled his own tea in its mug, accelerating the liquid into a black whirlpool with a white lens of foam at the bottom of the vortex. "Is that why Galbatorix enlisted the Urgals?"

"That is not an example I would have chosen, but yes."

"It seems strange that he befriended them. After all, they were the ones who killed his dragon. Look what he did to us, the Riders, and we weren't even responsible for his loss."

"Ah," said Oromis, "mad Galbatorix may be, but he's still as cunning as a fox. I guess that he intended to use the Urgals to destroy the Varden and the dwarves – and others, if he had triumphed in Farthen Dûr – thereby removing two of his enemies while simultaneously weakening the Urgals so that he could dispose of them at his leisure."

Mariah whirled around Kieran, sparks from their blades littering the ground every few seconds as the fight between them only intensified. She forced her entire body into a thrust that the princess spun away from, dragging her sword along the back of Mariah's calf. Blood spurted from the wound, and forced a cry from the younger woman.

"You want to fight with me. Have you forgotten our last? I left you bleeding so profusely even Murtagh thought you were gone forever." She waited for the retaliation, but none came.

Instead Mariah launched another attack, prying the gleaming silver sword from Kieran's dainty fingers. Eirian skipped across the courtyard, landing at Murtagh's feet as he watched from the side of the wall. He looked down at the blade, then back up at the women fighting, watching Mariah throw her sword away and tackle Kieran with her bare hands. They rolled in the grass, throwing punches and kicks, pulling hair and snarling, their shouts and screams could be heard clear across the castle.

She screamed at Mariah, tearing at her hair with her nails. "You are worthless! You would be NOTHING if not for me!"

"No one cares about you PRINCESS." Mariah pinned Kieran to the ground, latching her fingers around her throat. "No one gives a damn about what you think, or who you are. You are the daughter of a pathetic maid, whose only fortune in life was to be forced into bed with Galbatorix! YOU are nothing, Kieran. Most of the country would want to kill you the moment they learned of your existence than so much as spit on you."

Kieran stared up at her, gasping for air as Mariah finally let up off of her neck. She scrambled backwards, heaving as Mariah stood up, stepping over her. "You never tell me what to do again. Your life holds no more value than anyone else's. You remember that. I am your equal, not your inferior, Kieran. And if you ever lay a hand on me, my dragon, or Murtagh ever again… you won't have that hand for very long."

She retrieved her sword, limping as blood trickled from her leg wound. It took her a few minutes to reach the doors of the castle; in that time Kieran dared not even breathe.

Study of the ancient language devoured the afternoon, whereupon they took up the practice of magic. Much of Oromis's lectures concerned the proper way in which to control various forms of energy, such as light, heat, electricity, and even gravity. He explained that since these forces consume strength faster than any other type of spell, it was safer to find them already in existence in nature and then shape them with gramarye, Instead of trying to create them from nothing.

Abandoning the subject, Oromis asked, "How would you kill with magic?"

"I've done it many ways," said Eragon. "I've hunted with a pebble – moving and aiming it with magic – as well as using the word jierda to break Urgals legs and necks. Once, with thrysta, I stopped a man's heart."

"There are more efficient methods," revealed Oromis. "What does it take to kill a man, Eragon? A sword through the chest? A broken neck? The loss of blood? All it takes is for a single artery in the brain to be pinched off, or for certain nerves to be severed. With the right spell, you could obliterate an army."

"I should have thought of that in Farthen Dûr," Said Eragon, disgusted with himself. Not just Farthen Dûr either, but also when the Kull chased us from the Hadarac Desert. "Again, why didn't Brom teach me this?"

"Because he did not expect you to face an army for months or years to come; it is not tool given to untested Riders."

"If it's so easy kill people, though, what's the point of us or Galbatorix raising an army?"

"To be succinct, tactics. Magicians are vulnerable to physical attack when they are embroiled in their mental struggles. Therefore, they need warriors to protect them. In the Warriors must be shielded, at least in part, from magical attacks, else they would be slain within minutes. These limitations mean that when armies confront one another, their magicians are scattered throughout the bulk of their forces, the magicians on both sides open their minds and attempt to sense if anyone is using or is about to use magic. Since their enemies may be beyond their mental reach, magicians also erect wards around themselves and their warriors to stop or lessen long-range attacks, such as a pebble sent flying toward their head from a mile away."

"Surely one man can't defend an entire army," said Eragon.

"Not alone, but with enough magicians, you can provide a reasonable amount of protection. The greatest danger in this sort of conflict is that a clever magician may think of a unique attack that can bypass your wards without tripping them. That itself could be enough to decide a battle.

"Also," said Oromis, "you must keep in mind that the ability to use magic is exceedingly rare among the races. We elves are no exception, although we have a greater allotment of spellweavers than most, as a result of oaths we bound ourselves with centuries ago. The majority of those blessed with magic have little or no appreciable talent; they struggle to heal even so much as a bruise."

Eragon nodded. He had encountered magicians like that in the Varden. "But it still takes the same amount of energy to accomplish a task."

"Energy, yes, but lesser magicians find it harder than you or I do to feel the flow of magic and immerse themselves in it. Few magicians are strong enough to pose a threat to an entire army. And those who are usually spend the bulk of their time during battles evading, racking, or fighting their opposites, which is fortunate from the standpoint of ordinary warriors, else they would all soon be killed."

Eragon couldn't help but think of Mark as one of those people. He was terrifying in a one-on-one fight, but if he was placed in front of an entire army with no other options but kill or be killed, he had a feeling Mark would be the last one standing. Troubled, Eragon said, "The Varden don't have many magicians."

"That is one reason why you are so important."

"Mariah."

She turned her head as Pearce trotted up the stairs behind her, looking at the blood trailing along the floor.

"Do you need some help?"

"I'm fine," she said, bracing herself against the wall.

He caught her as she wavered, "Of course." Pearce lowered her to the floor, pulling his over-shirt off and wrapping it tightly around her calf. "Let's get you in your room." He helped her back to her feet and let her lean on him as they went down the hall. Pearce pushed open the door to her room as footfalls could be heard bounding up the stairs.

Gazing down the hall, Pearce saw Murtagh running towards them, face pale. He locked his eyes on Mariah, half feinted. Hurriedly, he stepped over and picked her up in his arms, carrying her into her room.

"I'm fine," she muttered, looking up at his expression. His jaw set and his mouth a tight thin line. "Put me down, I'm fine."

Pearce looked on from the doorway, "Should I find a healer."

Murtagh didn't so much as take his gaze off Mariah. "I've got it, thank you. Please inform someone however that Kieran needs to be looked after. She is in the courtyard." Pearce hesitated a moment before striding off to find the castle's healers. Once the door was shut behind him, Murtagh's voice erupted. "You are the most stupid, childish, foolish girl I have ever met! Why in the name of the gods would you unleash such fury on Kieran like that? What got into you? Have you completely lost your bloody mind?!" He punched the floor and dragged his fingers through his hair before turning to heal her leg before she lost any more blood. "You will be lucky not to incur Galbatorix's wrath after that little stunt Mariah… you should know better."

"I don't care… she was treating me like a child."

"YOU ARE A CHILD!" He shouted at her, face red. "She is older than you and she has dealt with this life longer than I hope you ever have to. You know nothing…" He stood up and placed his fingers against her forehead before she could argue, wiping her memories from the day and forcing her into a dreamless sleep.

A moment passed as Eragon reflected on what Oromis had told him. "These wards, do they only drain energy from you when they are activated?"

"Aye."

"Then, given enough time, you could acquire countless layers of wards. You could make yourself…" He struggled with the ancient language as he attempted to express himself. "…untouchable?... impregnable?... impregnable to any assault, magical or physical."

"Wards," said Oromis, "rely upon the strength of your body. If that strength is exceeded, you die. No matter how many wards you have, you will only be able to block attacks so long as your body can sustain the output of energy."

"And Galbatorix's strength has been increasing each year… How is that possible?"

It was a rhetorical question, yet when Oromis remained silent, his almond eyes fixed on a trio of swallows pirouetting overhead, Eragon realized that the elf was considering how best to answer him. The birds chased each other for several minutes. When they flitted from view, Oromis said, "It is not appropriate to have this discussion at the present."

"Then you know?" exclaimed Eragon, astonished.

"I do. But the information must wait until later in your training. You are not ready for it." Oromis looked at Eragon, as if expecting him to object.

Eragon bowed. "As you wish, Master." He could never prize the information out of Oromis until the elf was willing to share it, so why try? Still, he wondered what could be so dangerous that Oromis dared not tell him, and why the elves had kept it secret from the Varden. Another thought presented itself ot him, and he said, "If battles with magicians are conducted like you said, then why did Ajihad let me fight without wards in Farthen Dûr? I didn't even know that I needed to keep my mind open forenemies. And why didn't Arya kill most or all of the Urgals? No magicians were there to oppose her except for Durza, and he couldn't have defended his troops when he was underground."

"Did not Ajihad have Arya or one of Du Vrangr Gata set defenses around you?" demanded Oromis.

"No, Master."

"And you fought thus?"

"Yes, Master."

Oromis's eyes unfocused, withdrawing into himself as he stood motionless on the greensward. He spoke without warning: "I have consulted Arya, and she says that the Twins of the Varden were ordered to assess your abilities. They told Ajihad you were competent in all magic, including wards. Neither Ajihad nor Arya doubted their judgment on that matter."

"Those smooth-tongued, bald-pated, tick-infested, treacherous dogs," swore Eragon. "They tried to get met killed!" Reverting to his own language, he indulged in several more pungent oaths.

"Do not befoul the air," said Oromis mildly. "It ill becomes you… In any case, I suspect the Twins allowed you into battle unprotected not so you would be killed, but so that Durza could capture you."

"What?"

"By your own account, Ajihad suspected that the Varden had been betrayed when Galbatorix began persecuting their allies in the Empire with near-perfect accuracy. The Twins were privy to the identities of the Varden's collaborators. Also, the Twins lured you to the heart of Tronjheim, thereby separating you from Saphira and placing you within Durza's reach. That they were traitors is the logical explanation."

"If they were traitors," said Eragon, "it doesn't matter now; they're long dead."

Oromis inclined his head. "Even so. Arya said that the Urgals did have magicians in Farthen Dûr and that she fought many of them. None of them attacked you?"

"No, Master."

"More evidence that you and Saphira were left for Durza to capture and take to Galbatorix. The trap was well laid."

Over the next hour, Oromis taught Eragon twelve methods to kill, none of which took more energy than lifting an ink-laden pen. As he finished memorizing the last one, a thought struck Eragon that caused him to grin. "The Ra'zac won't stand a chance the next time they cross my path."

"You must still be wary of them," cautioned Oromis.

"Why? Three words and they'll be dead."

"Why do ospreys eat?"

Eragon blinked. "Fish, of course."

"And if a fish were slightly faster and more intelligent than its brethren, would it be able to escape a hunting osprey?"

"I doubt it," said Eragon. "At least not for very long."

"Just as ospreys are designed to be the best possible hunters of fish, wolves are designed to be the best hunters of deer and other large game, and every animal is gifted to best suit its purpose. So too are the Ra'zac designed to prey upon humans. They are the monsters in the dark, the dripping nightmare that haunts your race."

The back of Eragon's neck prickled with horror. "What manner of creatures are they?"

"Neither elf; man; dwarf; dragon; furred, finned, or feathered beast; reptile; insect; nor any other category of animal."

Eragon forced a laugh. "Are they plants, then?"

"Nor that either. They reproduce by laying eggs, like dragons. When the y hatch, the young – or pupae – grow black exoskeletons that mimic the human form. Its' a grotesque imitation, but convincing enough to let the Ra'zac approach their victims without undo alarm. All areas where humans are weak, the Ra'zac are strong. They can see on a cloudy night, track a scent like a blood-hound, jump higher, and move faster. However, bright light pains them and they have a morbid fear of deep water, for they cannot swim. Their greatest weapon is their evil breath, which fogs the minds of humans – incapacitating many – though it is less potent on dwarves, and elves are immune altogether."

Eragon shivered as he remembered his fight sight of the Ra'zac in Carvahall and how he had been unable to flee once they noticed him. "It felt like a dream where I wanted to run but I couldn't move, no matter how hard I tried."

"As good a description as any," said Oromis. "Though the Ra'zac cannot use magic, they are not to be underestimated. If they know that you hunt them, they will not reveal themselves but keep to the shadows, where they are strong, and plot to ambush you as they did by Dras-Leona. Even Brom's experience could not protect him from them. Never grow overconfident, Eragon. Never grow arrogant, for then you will be careless and your enemies will exploit your weakness."

"Yes, Master."

Oromis fixed Eragon with a steady gaze. "The Ra'zac remain pupae for twenty years while they mature. On the first full moon of their twentieth year, they shed their exoskeletons, spread their wings, and emerge as adults ready to hunt all creatures, not just humans."

"Then the Ra'zac's mounts, the ones they fly on, are really…"

"Aye, their parents."

When she woke, there was no question of where she had been moved to. Shruiken stared at her from close range, and would have been able to lash out and swallow her whole from where he sat. Moving slowly to her feet, she turned around the room once, looking for Galbatorix. He soon strode into the room, grinning wildly at her.

Her eyes narrow for half a moment as her head tipped. "Yes?"

"I didn't quite think you had that in you."

"I am capable of much more than you believe I am." She said carefully, watching him stride to his throne.

"Of that I have no doubt." He turned and sat in the high chair at the end of the room, "Sit." He motioned to the single chair placed in front of him, dangerously close to Shruiken's tail. The dragon's eyes followed her as she stepped forward, limping slightly still from the residual pain emitting from her wound. Mariah slid down into the chair, back straight, avoiding the black beast's gaze as she stared down Galbatorix above her. He jumped back up from his chair and walked down to her.

"I am so very…. proud of you." Galbatorix said, stretching his hands as he searched for the proper word.

She blinked. "Proud…"

"After searching your memory, I have not found a single trace of a thought to escape. And you finally gave Kieran the thrashing she deserved."

Mariah cringed, her skin crawling. Praise from Galbatorix set her bones aflame with caution.

"The threat was lovely, of course killing her would resolve nothing nor would it be beneficial, so yes, beat her and teach her a lesson. That is how you win a war. I'm quite sure there will be no more confrontation between the two of you. Now I see my commanders forming so clearly…" He clapped once and strode about the room. "I was very concerned for quite some time. I wondered if you would ever be able to be as ruthless as I needed you to be. Threats didn't seem to work on you, though they kept you obedient… for a time. After I found out about your plots to escape, I simply couldn't allow that to happen. Breaking your dragon's wing was the best decision in that regard…"

She stared at her hands, trembling slightly as her vision blurred. Her skin felt hot, her head pounding as blood and adrenaline rushed through her, listening to him speak.

"I have no doubts that you, Kieran, and Murtagh will be able to command the army with no significant difficulties. Especially now, you have proven yourself as equals to one another. This is fantastic. I was so very worried for a time that you would prove completely useless, that you were too soft like your father. But no, you are much more like your mother, as I had so hoped."

He was in front of her now and turned to gauge her expression. Her eyes were wide and she was openly staring at him, hands still shaking as they tightened into fists. "What… are you talking about…?"

"Your parents." He paused, watching her face burning. "Oh, you didn't know…? Of course not. Then, allow for me to share this tremendous information with you." Galbatorix leaned forwards toward her, "Your parents… were two of my Forsworn. Two of my best… not counting Morzan. You are a second generation Dragon Rider… third actually, with that filth Brom being your grandfather. What a pretty pair you and your brother would make for my army… but I suppose I will have to be happy with one. Don't you see? This is where you belong. You have Forsworn blood in your veins, child."