The baby dragon arched its back and spread its wings, shaking off the yolk like a wet cat. It was no larger than one, too. It opened its tiny mouth and yawned, displaying rows of needle-like teeth and dark gums.

It would be best to get rid of it. Eragon knew if the Empire knew about the dragon, they would come for him. And a dragon was a good bit harder to hide than magic.

But…if necessary, Harry would help him. Eragon knew it. He had a castle. If nowhere else, there he could live and be safe. And the idea of killing the baby dragon was repugnant to him. It was innocent.

Gingerly, he crawled towards the thing. He stopped and offered his palm.

The dragon cocked its head. It crawled forwards and booped his palm with its snout.

Eragon gasped. Ice cold energy raced through his limbs, crackling and burning. His ears rushed with blood. He tried to pull away, but his muscles had seized up. After what felt like an eternity (but was probably only a couple seconds), Eragon snatched his hand back. He fixed the dragon with an irritated glare. Had it meant to do that? He examined his palm.

Where the dragon's snout touched him, there was now an oval scar of shiny skin. Eragon rubbed the patch. It felt no different from normal skin. He looked back at the tiny dragon. It pushed forward and bumped his knee. Eragon startled, expecting another shock that did not come.

"Where did you come from?" Eragon wondered under his breath. He picked the creature up and attempted to discern its sex. The dragon squirmed away from him. "Alright then, keep your secrets."

It bumped him again, more insistently. Eragon frowned. "Are you hungry?" He yawned and got up. He fetched some strips of jerky and cut them into little squares he fed to the dragon, one by one. It ate ravenously, swallowing an impossible amount of food for its diminutive size. "If you always need this much food, we are going to have problems," Eragon wagged his finger. The food they'd bought was enough to get the three of them through winter, but not so much that it could support another carnivore's diet.

Eragon cast about in his room. Come morning, there would be nowhere to hide the dragon. Neither Roran nor Garrow would let him keep it; of that much he was sure. Should he take it to the castle? Eragon wasn't sure he'd be able to carry a baby all the way up the tough trails to the Spine.

Could it survive a winter night? Eragon assessed the blue beast. It looked like a wet cat, still covered in slime from its egg. He sighed. Against his will, he was already attached to the tiny thing. It would stay inside tonight. Tomorrow he would build it a shelter by the forest's edge and move it out there. Then he could bring it food until it was old enough to hunt for itself. And it had better learn to hunt soon, because they were not rich enough to feed the thing forever.

Eragon heard creaking on the floorboards outside.

"Eragon?" Roran asked blearily. "What was that noise?"

"My stone," he rushed out. "Fell off the shelf." He cracked open the door and put his face between. Roran had his quilt wrapped around his shoulders, same as him.

"I thought I heard something break," he frowned.

"The stone," Eragon said, remembering at the last second to inject some bitterness into his tone. "Rotten luck."

Roran's expression was sympathetic. "Can I see?"

"Go to bed," Eragon sighed. "The pieces will still be worth something." He made a mental note to clean the shards of yolk and any other incriminating evidence that it had ever been an egg. He shut the door and turned to the little dragon. On the other side, Roran shut his own door. "You are going to be a whole lot of trouble, aren't you?" Eragon accused the dragon, whispering.

It licked itself off imperiously.

Once Eragon was back in bed and trying to sleep, he noticed something else, something that hadn't been part of his mind before. Like the place he reached for magic, there was another part of his mind that did not fit seamlessly in the field of his consciousness. A part that felt warm, full, and drowsy. Eragon turned towards the little dragon. He poked it with a finger. A frisson of annoyance emanated from that part of him. Eragon reached into it like he did for magic.

Disjointed, sleepy thoughts raced across the foreign mind. A big hairless, scale-less, hornless two-legged creature giving good food, the sensation of air over its scales instead of yolk, and a profound amazement at how large the world was.

Eragon withdrew and smiled to himself. If it was amazed now, wait until it got out of his bedroom.

The next morning, Eragon first tried to communicate with the dragon. If he could hear the dragon's thoughts, maybe it could hear his. He pushed an idea at it. Hide. Stay in this room, stay quiet. And then, just to make sure it understood, Eragon pushed another idea at it. Danger. In the other rooms.

The dragon gave no indication it had accepted his attempts at communication either way. Eragon gave up and made sure to shut the door when he went out. He left right after breakfast and gave no explanation to Roran and Garrow. It was not too hard to construct a rudimentary hut up in a tree, large enough for the dragon but small enough not to be noticed at a passing glance. Eragon wove together loose branches and evergreen boughs to make the nest. He came away from it with a lot more respect for birds than before.

While he worked, Eragon thought about the dragon. Despite the Empire's attempts to quash the knowledge, the legend of the Dragon Riders was not easily forgotten. Just about everyone knew some of the countless tales; embattling Shades, defeating wicked sorcerers, flying from place to place on dragonback, rare was a major legend in Alagaesia that did not feature a Rider in some way.

By keeping the dragon, he was taking his place next to those legends.

He was also painting a target on his back.

Eragon had come to terms with the idea. He only hoped between Harry, himself, and his dragon, they could withstand the King if he came knocking. And while there were few places to hide from the Empire, the Spine was one of them. What he'd taunted the tax collector with was true; the Empire had once lost half its army in the Spine. It was a legendary mystery, the only true defeat the Imperial Army had ever suffered.

Eragon evaded Roran's and Garrow's questions and continued to sneak meat into his room at night to feed the dragon. Its appetite was ravenous and seemed to only grow as it did. By the end of the first week, Eragon had fed enough to the dragon that he began to worry Roran and Garrow would soon notice. He was also fed up with cleaning up after the dragon in his room.

Thus when it was seven days old, Eragon snuck it outside when both Garrow and Roran were out of the house. He hurried with the blue dragon bundled in his arms, trudging through the snow on his way to the nest.

The dragon's eyes were wide with curiosity. It drank in the much wider world around it, peering over his arms to gaze at the treeline, the snow, and the cloudless azure sky overhead. Eragon felt its wonderment through the link between them. It made him stop to appreciate the beautiful winter's day, too.

When he lifted the dragon up to the nest, it sat down. But each time he tried to leave, it would climb awkwardly down the tree and attempt to follow him. Eragon forced himself to look away from its adorable, needy eyes and push a new idea at it.

Stay. This is your home.

It took a few tries, but eventually the dragon heeded his mental command.

Faced with a dwindling supply of meat Eragon could spirit away to the nest, he attempted to feed the dragon something other than meat. It proved a picky eater. It would nibble on his latest offering – bread, cheese, vegetables, even berries – and turn up its snout.

So it was that Eragon had no other choice; he had to hunt, and he had to be successful. Harry had not come down from the mountains since Brom's story. Eragon couldn't afford to waste time in his hall, so he avoided the Spine altogether and hunted in the foothills. He wouldn't try to chase prey he found appealing to eat, he would take any animal he crossed paths with.

At first, he was rusty. It had been months since he'd tried to bag some game for real, longer still since that was the primary objective of a trip out of Carvahall.

But he was also a magician. Accio brought things towards him. Was there any reason why he couldn't summon his arrowhead to his quarry? He tested his hypothesis on his next shot. It was an old wolverine with a missing eye. He nocked his bow, reached for the magic, and loosed his shot at the same time as he whispered. "Accio."

The arrow was going to hit anyways, but his spell accelerated it to even greater speeds. The arrow thrummed as it pierced the air, striking the wolverine clean through the heart. It was knocked over bodily by the force of the shot, skidding a couple feet in the snow.

Eragon let out a manic giggle. That had been…easy.

Field dressing the kill was easy with magic. A quick slash and a summoning spell to pull out the entrails was all it took. He didn't even need to get his hands dirty.

He brought the wolverine directly to the dragon's nest. It was too small to take apart the body itself, so Eragon cut it up for the little dragon. He left rough pieces for the dragon to eat from, chewing bits of meat off the limbs Eragon had parted.

"You're okay with working for your food," Eragon murmured, scratching behind its tiny blue ears. The dragon adjusted its wings and neck to give him better access. It purred. "I hope you grow up soon, 'cause this much hunting is going to get noticed."

Its scales were tiny and soft, like that of a smooth reptile. Eragon could feel the gaps between each one when he ran a finger along its back. A series of tiny ivory spikes ran down its spine, each no longer than a fingernail. "You are the prettiest creature around, aren't you," he told it. The dragon preened, arching its neck and fluttering its wings. "How on earth am I going to hide you?"

Eragon was not there when the dragon first took flight. He had been making arrows with chicken feathers, carefully gluing the fletching onto the straightest sticks he could find when jubilation surged across their link. He felt it so strongly he nearly snapped the arrow shaft.

Triumph resonated across the bond for the next few minutes while he finished up and made his excuses to go out to the forest. He looked up at the treeline as he approached. A tiny blue shape flashed in the sunlight. Eragon ducked under a bough and pushed into the clearing with the dragon's tree. It coasted down to the nest, flapping awkwardly to a tumbling landing.

Pride emanated from the little dragon. As if to prove it could, it leapt from the nest once more and took wing, circling the clearing before landing again, this time with a bit more grace. Eragon noted that the nest and the tree that supported it were beginning to struggle under the dragon's explosive growth. It was now the size of a dog, and big enough to fight some modest prey. The only creatures in the Spine that could kill it now were bears and wolves.

The bones of the kills Eragon continued to bring the dragon were dropped onto the snow beneath the tree. He grumbled when he noticed that the dragon had finished the last animal he brought it, a fat rabbit he'd have missed without using the summoning charm to aim.

Eragon gave the dragon scratches and belly rubs. He sat with it in the snow and talked to it about his day.

"Roran's getting antsy," he told it. "Spring is coming up and Dempton will return soon to pick up the bearings for his mill. Roran knows his chance is coming soon."

The dragon nipped his finger when he stopped rubbing it for too long. "Pushy creature," Eragon grumbled, smiling. "I want to apprentice with Harry soon, too. I'm just not sure how he'll react to seeing you. He told me they use dragon parts for magic where he comes from." Eragon tried to accompany his words with ideas, pushing them towards the creature across their mental link. The dragon growled, its ears flattening against its skull.

"He's never killed a dragon," Eragon assured. "So he told me. But he might not give you the respect you deserve. And it's dangerous. Brom's story makes me wary. I don't know."

Eragon let himself fall back into the snow. His clothing insulated him from the cold. He felt the snow behind his neck and hair melt against his body heat. He breathed out through his teeth, pushing the snow around lazily with his outstretched arms. "I don't think it'll be a problem, but I can't un-tell him about you. I guess I'll just wait and see if the answer becomes clear."

The dragon hopped up onto his chest and stared down at him. It had a displeased expression. Eragon rolled his eyes and went back to petting it. It curled up on his chest, satisfied.

"You can fly now. How long do you think until you can feed yourself? I'm running myself ragged finding enough prey for you and the rest of my family." If it weren't for magic, Eragon knew he'd be falling behind. Since his new trick, he hadn't missed a shot yet.

Purring, the dragon nestled its head under Eragon's chin. It wasn't crushingly heavy, but it wasn't light, either.

"Are you going to let me up?" he grunted. The dragon chirped and wiggled deeper into its spot on top of him.

Within the week, Eragon knew the dragon would outgrow its nest. It was getting big enough to defend itself, and Eragon would know if it got attacked, anyways. He'd notice it through the bond. With that in mind, he put together a new shelter for the dragon.

It was much larger than the nest, made from whole boughs instead of just sticks. It was also too big to put up a tree. Eragon hoped it would be fine. He never saw bears in the foothills; the den would be plenty safe for the next month before the dragon would probably be big enough to kill bears, too.

The dragon took to the shelter easily enough. Now that it could fly, Eragon had to issue it another command. Do not fly this way. Stay away from the house and the village. Do not be seen. He gave it his best mental map of the areas north of the farm. That way is safe.

Cocking its head, Eragon received a sense of acquiescence. It did not like being forbidden from certain places, but would heed him. Eragon rubbed his forehead. Things couldn't go on this way forever.

Harry tipped the candle back and forth. Gubraithian fire was white like paper. The fringes of the flame were every color of the rainbow. It was every bit as hot and bright as normal fire.

"Gu bràth is Gaelic for 'forever.' Gubraithian fire is derived from it." Morgan cupped the wick of the candle. The flame's fringes turned an ethereal blueish. When she took her hand away, it went back to normal. "That is what makes it remarkable. You know varieties of fire that illuminate without consuming. Your bluebell flames could have served in its stead."

He grunted. The Great Hall deserved his best, not just good enough. With a twist of his wand, the candle floated back up to its place in the air. "One down, nine-hundred-ninety-nine to go."

Gobraithian fire did not spread, which was good, because when Morgan had said it never went out, she had meant it. No magic, no water, nothing would put it out. It was a spell like the Patronus charm. The incantation alone wasn't enough. He had to keep the nature of infinity in mind when casting it. Half the candles in the hall were lit. Already, the light brought the hall together.

By sheer repetition, Harry had nearly mastered the spell as he put back up the last candles. "What else do they use this spell for?" He wondered.

Morgan shrugged. "Lighting things up. Keeping things warm. Eternity is indivisible, immutable. It cannot be consumed like most magic demands. There are ways to use it in rituals, and its property of eternity can be made use of in other ways. But it is firstly a fire, and fire is useful as it is."

Harry grumbled. Morgan's gaze darkened. "You are not interested in learning the kind of magic I offer to teach you."

Harry's lip curled. "I'm not going to sacrifice a living person for strength I don't need."

Morgan sneered. "So long as this is your limit, all you can learn are tricks and trifles. Real magic, the kind that makes and breaks empires, that comes at a price."

"There are no Empires around that need toppling," Harry dismissed. "And nobody I ever fought needed human sacrifice to fight."

"You know that's not true."

Harry snorted. "I'm not interested in becoming like Voldemort."

"Nor Dumbledore?" Morgan purred.

He paused. Dumbledore wasn't like that. He never killed, even when clinging to that rule caused him problems. "He didn't. He wouldn't."

The spirit gave a twisted smile. "You know that's not true. You know he was a different man, before he defeated Gellert Grindelwald." She pointed. "Before he picked up that wand."

The Elder Wand was chilly in his grip. Harry rubbed his fingers along the knots running up its length. It was such a light, thin piece of wood. It was hard to believe how many people had been killed over it.

"How do you know?" Harry demanded. "How do you know anything except for a lifetime as an evil Irish witch? Surely you died before Dumbledore's time."

Morgan smirked. "Describing what comes next to someone who has never been is like describing color to the blind. Time is much more malleable there. I have watched every moment of your life, Harry Potter. From the moment of your conception until the first time you picked up that Stone."

Harry blushed. "Er- every moment?"

"Every moment," Morgan purred.

"Well how do I stop it?" Harry disliked the idea of not just Morgan but every dead person watching him use the toilet.

"What will you give me to tell you?" Morgan wondered. "It costs me to let you know this."

"I'll keep letting you cross over," Harry pointed out.

Morgan's eyes flashed with anger. The emotion was gone as quickly as it came. She looked down at her nails. "You use it already, on occasion."

Harry wanted to hit himself for his stupidity. His Cloak was up in his bedroom. "Does this mean you can't see me sleep?" If the Cloak always ended up on him at night, surely that meant she couldn't.

"As of late," she agreed.

An idea struck Harry. "If you can go anywhere and see anything, can you tell me, I dunno, King Galbatorix's biggest secret?"

Morgan sneered weakly. "You really know nothing about necromancy. Even the dumbest pirates knew the saying; Dead Men Tell No Tales. The Dead cannot share the secrets of the living."

Harry knew he was onto something with this train of thought. "The Flamels died a few years ago. Can you tell me how to make a Philosopher's Stone now?"

Morgan's mouth opened, but no sound came out. She frowned and tried again. Harry knit his brows. He reached for the Resurrection Stone and flipped it thrice. "Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel."

But no one materialized.

"They aren't dead," Morgan finally managed. "That must have been a secret."

Harry toyed with the Stone. "And now that I know it, you can talk about it. What are the limits?"

Morgan was grudgingly approving of the question. "Secrets known by one and shared with none are unbreakable. Secrets known by many and held close by many are nearly so. The Statute of Secrecy is one of those secrets. The grey areas are those secrets some guard but others don't."

"What about your own secrets?" Harry wondered. "If you died with a secret only you knew, does that secret die with you, or can you share your own secrets?"

"Another grey area. If one person takes a secret to their grave, they can share it from beyond, but if they are survived by another who knows it and still wishes to keep it secret, there is uncertainty based on who knows the secret." Morgan gestured at the Stone. "If Nicholas Flamel died before Perenelle, but he'd told her the recipe to the philosopher's stone, he would likely still be able to share it over her wishes because that information unquestionably belongs to him."

"You need a name." Eragon sat atop the dragon's back, scratching behind its ears. Since learning to hunt for itself, it had gone through another period of explosive growth and was now the size of a horse, big enough to support Eragon's weight. It still could not fly with him, but soon he was sure it would be.

Curiosity flowed across the bond. Eragon.

Eragon startled. "You can speak?"

Eragon.

"That's my name, pick your own," Eragon groused, digging into a spot the dragon particularly enjoyed. Its ears flattened as it purred with pleasure.

Eragon. The dragon was amused.

Their bond had deepened over the coldest months. Every day the distance at which Eragon could feel the dragon's mind grew larger. He no longer had to go out into the forest to find its mind. Even when he was working on a carving project, fletching new arrows, milking the cows, or doing some other chore, Eragon could feel the dragon out there. When the were close and the dragon was near the edge of the forest, they could exchange ideas, memories, images, and more complex thoughts. But even from afar, Eragon could feel the dragon's emotions like a dull second heartbeat. It was a reassuring feeling, and one he grew to lean on.

"Is that the only word you know?"

Yes, the dragon sent smugly.

"I wonder what kind of names dragons had. The only one I know is Shruikan."

No, the dragon snarled. Eragon flinched back, stung by the sudden, vehement anger emanating from the bond.

"I wasn't too keen on that one either," Eragon admitted. "I bet Brom knows tons of names. I'll ask him. Discreetly."

"You may as well ask me what sorts of names they give dwarves. How should I know them all? They're a whole race of people with thousands of years of history." Brom beckoned him inside. "Sit down. I'll make tea. You're asking for some very long answers."

Eragon took a seat in the smaller of the two chairs in Brom's living room, two of the only pieces of furniture clear of some form of document. Brom busied himself making tea. Eragon kept as quiet as possible. It was always awkward to be a guest in the house of a stranger. He hardly dared move for fear of sending some pile of scrolls toppling. Maybe they were meticulously organized and a sneeze would destroy an hour of Brom's work.

…they certainly didn't look organized, but you never knew.

"Dragon names. What brought this on?" Brom returned with a tray. He poured Eragon a cup from a teapot of polished brass, the spout carved to be the neck and head of an especially fat swan.

"A trader told me a story about a dragon and I've forgotten the name." It was a weak excuse, but the other option had been professing general curiosity, which was even weaker.

Brom sipped his tea. The hearth was already lit when Eragon arrived. The storyteller put his feet up on an ottoman, kicking a pile of scrolls to the ground to make way. "Well if you heard it in a tale, it was probably a dragon of legend, which narrows it down to my area of expertise." He began rattling off lists of names, tacking on a brief mention of why this dragon or another was famous.

"There was Dirnogid and Grilgekr, Akir and Ormobuid, Siola, Ceine, Nigin, Shinvume, she was Irnstad's mount, the only known human to kill a Shade and live through the encounter. I suppose the trader may have been referring to Glilnirvel or Oni, Cuguakr or Arnugr, Bid'Daum or Mahayashir, none of these names ring a bell?" Brom lit his pipe then and puffed a few strong-smelling rings of smoke.

Eragon shook his head. Just a few more, in case it doesn't like those, he thought.

"Well then there was Umaroth, Belgabad, Valdr-" Brom rattled off another list. At the end, he added on one last name hesitantly, at nearly a whisper. "Saphira. They all died in the Fall I spoke of. More recently, but all deserving of their own legends, and more like to stick in the memories of younger men."

Eragon nodded. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll remember it eventually."

"See that you do," Brom said suspiciously. "And when you remember that name and the name of the trader, come to me. I would know who else is telling dragon lore. It's a dangerous thing which requires a brave soul to do, and I would meet this person when they return next year." Then, as an afterthought. "If the Empire doesn't hang him first."

Eragon swallowed. "Yes, well, it got me thinking about dragons. I had some other questions about the creatures themselves. I heard that they grew especially quickly and wondered how big they got."

Brom laughed. "Nobody knows. The oldest dragons were thousands of years old and hadn't stopped growing when Galbatorix killed them all. Belgabad was said to be the size of a mountain."

Eragon despaired for a moment then. How was he supposed to hide his dragon when it would grow to the size of a mountain?

"But they do slow down," Brom added. "After a few centuries, they tended to hibernate rather than hunting all day to feed themselves. And a good thing, too. There's not enough food in Alagaesia to feed a dragon of that size. Their growth tapers off at this point. But they grow to be colossal before this point. They certainly don't fit in houses, barns, or even castles."

He grilled the storyteller on many other aspects of dragon care under the guise of his fictitious trader and some of his own curiosity. Brom's knowledge of dragons seemed to have no end. By the end of their conversation, Eragon now knew that dragons were considered adolescent until they first breathed fire, at which point they were usually old enough to lay eggs, and that that period of time was about a year in most cases. He learned that dragon eggs did not need to hatch for long periods of time, and that the infant dragon could choose when it wanted to emerge. He learned that dragons were also intelligent, at least as much as any human, even if they hadn't the right tongue and throat structure to form the noises required by most human languages. Eragon had suspected that was the case with his own, but it was good to have it confirmed, too.

"Er, there's one last thing the trader mentioned. It sounded crazy; he claimed dragons could speak in the minds of humans?"

Brom scowled. "For such a knowledgeable man, that is dead wrong. I have never heard a single mention of this in any legend, tale, or story."

Eragon frowned. "Oh. Well, thanks anyways."

Brom waved him off. "It's nothing. But if you learn the name of that trader-"

"I'll tell you," Eragon promised.

His dragon was not taken with any of the names Brom gave him. Eragon listed them off to it one by one, appending each name with a brief description of a notable accomplishment or famed feature Brom nad mentioned, so the dragon might know what it was naming itself after. Yet with each name, it repeated its new favorite word. No.

"Belgabad was one of the largest dragons to ever live. Brom said he was the size of a mountain."

Eragon got the feeling the dragon was laughing at him. No.

"What about Thun? He was a great hunter at sea, and at his height was known for hunting whales off the coast of Vroengard."

No.

Eragon looked up at the dragon. What was he missing?

He palmed his forehead. "I'm such a fool. I've been suggesting male names. You're a she, aren't you!"

Yes, the dragon said smugly.

He switched tack. "Then there are many more names for you. Eigu, Olna, Niorvatha," the name Brom had nearly whispered occurred to him. "Saphira?"

She hummed deep in her throat. Eragon felt her agreement. Yes. I am Saphira.

There was an odd correlation, Eragon mused, between how much one enjoyed their time, and how quickly it seemed to pass. The winter felt very short indeed. Since employing magic to hunt, Eragon had been able to bring quite a lot of game back to the farm. It helped them stretch the food they bought from the traders long enough to make it to spring without too many hungry nights.

Since spending all his spare time with Saphira, Eragon found the wintry weeks raced past. He took every excuse to be outdoors with her. Roran and Garrow could not understand how he could tolerate the frigid temperatures of the coldest night. Of course, he knew the incantation to the warming charm, and that had helped immensely.

For some reason, Eragon's magic was much more malleable than Harry's. When he had been visiting regularly, it was a point that had come up several times before. Eragon's magic much more closely followed his mental commands than Harry, who professed to have to twist his focus into knots finding connections between spells, incantations, ideas, and intent.

His spells were also more prone to going awry. When his magic made little distinction between warmth and burning, casting magic on his face was dangerous. Intrusive thoughts and anxious catastrophizing were downright terrifying, and had a way of feeding into themselves until Eragon had trapped his own mind in a cycle of worst-case scenarios and he had to give up on using magic altogether until he could calm down and marshall his thoughts in a safer direction. He'd only had to burn himself once to be terrified of what else he could accidentally inflict.

It was easier, safer, and less tense to just use magic on turnips. Nobody cared if a turnip got mangled or crisped to a black char.

"What are you pondering?" Garrow asked.

Roran had his head down, pushing the last of his stew around in his bowl. He'd been quiet all day. But then, Roran probably thought the same of Eragon. Frequently, his mind was miles away, listening to Saphira send him images of her flight, her hunt, or her prey and what it felt like to eat the warm, soft body of an animal she'd just killed.

"Dempton's in town."

There was a long pause.

"I see. He's earlier than expected." Garrow set down his utensils. "Have you spoken with him?"

"Yesterday," Roran admitted. "The bearings are done, he'll leave the day after tomorrow."

"And he needs to hire someone right away, before the planting, let alone the harvest?" Garrow frowned.

Roran nodded. "The old ones broke before last harvest. He's been sitting on grain that won't stay good forever."

"And if you want until after the planting, he'll leave and find someone else to take the job," Garrow surmised.

Roran nodded again.

Garrow looked at Eragon. "We'll manage," he said.

"You mean-" he paused, uncomfortable with the word. "Magic?"

Eragon rolled his eyes. It wasn't like the word itself was going to bite him. He wondered if it wasn't possible that Roran had magic, too. Selena was Garrow's sister. They both could have it. If neither of them figured out how to access that wellspring of power in their minds, they could live a full life without so much as lifting a feather.

"Believe it or not, I managed the farm before you boys came along," Garrow pointed out. "I'm not about to keel over, either. And Eragon can help. We may not need magic. It is important to pursue your dreams, boys. Both of you. Else you will live a bitter life haunted by regret for the opportunities you allowed to escape you."

Eragon was sometimes surprised by Garrow. He was usually quiet and introspective, prudent and responsible. But sometimes he said something that forced Eragon to reevaluate his uncle and remember he had been a grown man before they were born. Wisdom came from experience, and Garrow still had twice as much as either of them.

Garrow turned to Roran. "I assume you are nearly prepared to go with Dempton?"

Roran nodded. "The things I'll need are already packed. I hoped to leave tomorrow evening and stay at the inn, then leave with him the next morning."

The corners of Garrow's eyes crinkled. "Then we have you until tomorrow afternoon. Let us make the most of it."

For the rest of the evening, Garrow made a point of keeping the conversation merry. He told stories they were too young to remember, reminded them of their missteps to keep them humble, and retold their triumphs to make them proud. He mentioned Roran's many attempts to ride a pig during one of their more prosperous years, and how Marian had chewed Garrow out for letting it happen. He lauded Roran for his audacity and cautioned him to temper it with humility.

"I would not be surprised to hear that in fifty years, the local storytellers will have one or two for the village about Roran," Garrow said. His eyes sparkled. "Both of you are destined for bigger things than I. And I am proud of you for it."

The next morning it finally sank in for Eragon. Roran was going to head to Carvahall today, and he wouldn't come back for months. He couldn't help but feel a bit of animosity towards Dempton. But then he reminded himself that Roran wanted this, and going with the miller would bring him closer to marrying the woman he loved. Then it was easier to squeeze goodbyes through the lump in his throat.

Eragon walked with Roran to Carvahall. Garrow claimed he hadn't wanted to drag out an agonizing goodbye. His cousin had a spring in his step and a smile on his face. He tried not to feel like he was being left behind. Roran was going to go out into the world and make his own future. He was not content to let the path of life carry him along.

A comforting feeling came across the bond. Saphira sent him a sense of belonging. Eragon pushed his gratitude back to her. He saw Roran off with a hug in front of Morn's.

"I'm not leaving forever," Roran said dryly. "I'll be back before next winter."

Eragon rolled his eyes and pushed his cousin out of the hug. "Aye, but you'll be a man then."

"You're almost sixteen," Roran pointed out. Eragon shook his head.

"You'll be building your own home, marrying Katrina-"

"-if Sloan doesn't cause any problems," he muttered.

"-and having your own life." Eragon swallowed. "Even when we see you again, you won't be my brother that lives in the house with us. You'll be my brother with his own family who lives nearby."

Roran fell silent for a moment.

"But I'll still be your brother," he said finally. "It doesn't matter how far apart we live."

Eragon gave a little smile. "We're getting sappy."

"The situation calls for it," Roran decided. "I'll make sure to return the favor when you're preparing to leave and apprentice to Harry for a year. And remind you of this moment."

Eragon snorted. He shoved Roran's arm a bit. "Go get a job."

"Yessir!" Roran mock saluted. "I'll see you again soon."

Eragon let his feet take him wandering around the village for a while. They steered him clear of the inn. The snowbanks flanking the paths were beginning to shrink as the days grew warmer.

He passed by Brom's house and almost knocked, but something stopped him. He did not have a real reason to bother the storyteller. He was just bored and didn't want to go home yet. He wanted to hear news from the castle, but what he really ought to do was go visit Harry himself. Eragon was about to leave when someone called out to him.

"Eragon!" Horst hurried up to him. "Do you still have that stone you tried to sell Sloan?" His brows were drawn in uncharacteristic seriousness. Eragon stepped back, startled by the intensity of the question.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." Horst looked him in the eye. "If you do, get rid of it. Now."

"What-? Why?" Nevermind that the stone did not technically exist anymore. Was that going to cause problems?

"There are strangers in town. Asking questions about your stone," Horst said lowly. "There's something wrong with them. Get rid of the stone and never mention it to anyone."

Some portion of his alarm must have reached Saphira, for Eragon felt her suddenly paying close attention to Horst.

"I don't have it anymore," Eragon rushed out. "I swear. It's gone."

"And who exactly knows of its existence?" Horst pressed.

Eragon thought back. "Garrow. Roran. You, me, Merlock the trader." Then, with a sinking feeling, "and Sloan." He turned towards the butcher's shop. The door opened and two cloaked figures exited. They were covered from head to toe in black fabric, deep cowls shrouding their entire faces in shadow. The way they walked made Eragon uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on it, but his instincts screamed at him that whatever they were doing, it was somehow very wrong.

Sloan stepped halfway out the door after them. The strangers' heads turned to look directly at Eragon. Again he felt the hair on his neck raise as he recognized the unnatural way their necks moved, too smoothly and levelly, and too far to the side. Behind them, Sloan's face was white as snow. His eyes were heavy with guilt.

Eragon's heart fell out of his chest. He felt like he was frozen in time mid-fall, anticipating the agony of striking the ground. Horst's eyes darted between him, the strangers, and Sloan's expression.

"Did you tell Harry about the stone?"

Eragon shook his head numbly.

"Well I think now is the time to do so. In fact, I think you should stay with him for a bit. And wait for word that it's safe." Horst patted his apron with calloused hands. "Brom or I will send word. I'm going to have a little chat with Sloan." His expression was very unfriendly.

Horst gave him a bit of a push. Saphira was paying full attention to what was happening. I am coming to pick you up, she said, leaving no room for argument.

Wait until I'm out of Carvahall, Eragon insisted. We'll only be in more danger if you reveal yourself. They have to know the stone was an egg. If they find out you've hatched…

Eragon received Saphira's bitter, grudging assent.

He walked as quickly as he could towards the nearest alley. On the other end of the street, the strangers moved perpendicular to him. As soon as he had broken sight of them, Eragon turned again and sprinted away from them.

He had nearly made it beyond the rows of buildings when the strangers emerged from another alleyway ahead of him. How the hell had they caught up with him? Eragon was already panting, yet the strangers were still as statues.

One of them exhaled a long, rattling breath. The other cocked its head in that eerily inhuman way. "Have you sseen a sstrange sstone resscently?" it lisped. Its voice was not identifiable as male or female, and sounded like a loud whisper rather than any sort of speech. Eragon wanted to stammer out a denial and keep running, but his limbs refused his orders. His mind fogged over. Dimly, he was aware of Saphira's alarm turning into full-blown fear.

The first took a step closer. Eragon could almost see beneath the cowl of its cloak, something very long and pointy that did not belong on a human face. "He iss sstruck speechless," it laughed, forming its words almost entirely within its mouth. "Come with uss. We sshall help you…loossen your tongue."

"Hey!" a voice barked. Brom approached the strangers quickly, staff in hand. "Who the hell are you?"

The second stranger made a series of unsettling clicks. The other made a noise that sounded like frustration. Without another word, they both turned away and left. Neither of them spoke to Brom.

Hurrying over the storyteller mumbled under his breath, clenching his right hand, the one with the ring. "Eragon? Eragon," he barked.

The fog receded from his mind. "Brom," he gasped. "Who the hell are they?" Saphira's panic abated. Eragon could still sense her fear. She was close to Carvahall. Closer to him than to the farm, just barely out of sight beyond the eastern treeline.

"No one good," Brom said darkly. "You need to get away from them."

"Horst told me to stay with Harry until they left," Eragon said.

"Yes," Brom agreed. "That would be for the best. I'll come get you when it's safe. Now go! Begone with you. Lingering is unsafe."

Eragon needed no more encouragement. He fled to the east, where Saphira was waiting.

She knelt down when he approached. Her fear had not abated. If anything, she was on the verge of madness. Eragon climbed up onto her back. Nevermind that she had never flown before, such was her panic that Eragon wished only to reassure her by being near.

Saphira drove her wings down again and again. It was a struggle against his weight, but she managed to get airborne, and then it was a much easier matter to stay aloft. The ground fell away and left Eragon grappling with the fear of falling from his precarious seat to the unforgiving ground below.

Traitors! She ranted in his mind. Egg-breakers, thieves! Evil.

They covered the distance to the farm quickly, but Saphira was not slowing down or gliding lower to land. She was about to fly over the farmhouse. Eragon tried to make her understand that they needed to land, to pick up Garrow and take him with them to the castle, but Saphira's mind was impenetrable. Like a stone wall, her primal terror blotted out any other thoughts in her mind and stopped Eragon from getting anything through.

"Saphira!" Eragon shouted in her ears. "We need to land! We can't leave Garrow!"

Enemies! Mortal peril! Danger-run-flee-hide.

He pounded on her shoulder with a fist. "Land, please! If we leave Garrow, the strangers will catch him!"

That drew only the slightest hesitation from the dragon, but she discarded his order a moment after. Eragon's heart plunged as she flapped over the farmhouse, passing it by and flapping hard, climbing up higher and higher up to the top of the Falls.

Eragon turned back. If he left, there would be no one to defend Garrow! He was almost driven to wonder if he could survive the fall from Saphira's back, should he leap off. But they were too high, hundreds of feet up. It was certain death. All he could do was continue to prevail upon deaf ears and pray he was not too late.

AN: Thanks to Scarze and alphaprince0 for their feedback and ideas.

This is the first time I've posted a chapter in this fic without having the next one finished and ready to go. There's a lot going on so it will probably end up being longer than usual.

I did kind of speed through Saphira being a baby, it felt like all the time in Carvahall was dragging on and in the grand scheme of things, there's not a ton you can do with a character that doesn't know how to talk yet.