The longfall boots worked perfectly. Harry never felt the impact of falling from his second-storey window. It took his brain a moment to catch up to the fact that he was no longer falling.

He glanced back up at the window. Eragon poked his head out the window after him, his face cast in shadow by the lamp behind him. Harry waved back up at him, then ran into the nearest alley to don his invisibility cloak.

It was a bit odd to put on the Cloak like an actual garment, rather than an oddly shaped blanket draped over two or three people. He had tested it; with the hood up, the invisibility Cloak rendered even his extremities invisible, even if they were not covered by the silken fabric.

Harry knew the Cloak did not cover his broom when he flew, and he did not want to risk being spotted, especially if the guards were still on alert from the scrying debacle. He would leave the city on foot, then fly off when he was out of sight.

He sprinted through the streets towards the eastern wall. His enchanted boots boosted his every step, reducing gravity and increasing the bounce of each magically-silenced step until it felt like he was flying already, bounding in huge strides over the streets. A group of partying men blocked the street on their way to the Green Chestnut. Harry bent his knees and leapt right over their heads.

That function of the boots also worked perfectly, vaulting him two dozen feet into the air, sailing overhead. For a moment he could see the rooftops of Teirm, and the archers at their posts dotted around. Harry wobbled midair to keep his feet pointed down, once again landing with a magically-arrested fall.

It was a matter of minutes before he was standing up against the inside of Teirm's walls, looking up the inside of the quarried stone to where torchlight flickered on the walkway. Harry placed his gloves against the walls and tugged. They stuck fast.

Perfect.

This was the part he'd been apprehensive of. There was only so much testing he could do for climbing gear while stuck in a basement. He pressed the toe of his boot into the wall and began to climb. Just like a ladder, if the ladder was invisible and dozens of feet high over unforgiving flagstones.

The gloves made climbing trivial, reducing his body weight down to an insignificant fraction. The effort of the ascent was just from overcoming inertia. Once he got going, scaling the wall went as quickly as running and soon he was gliding up the wall, too.

He'd tested the idea of flipping gravity for himself against the wall and just walking up, but changing ledges was absolutely terrifying and the whole exercise was disorienting.

Harry peered over the top of the battlements. The guards on duty looked bored. They propped themselves up on their elbows or leaned on the outer battlements to gaze over the shoreline. The walkway was wider than Harry had expected. There was enough room for people to set up a table and gamble with enough extra width for guards to pass by unobstructed. Harry waited for a torch-bearing guard to pass before mantling the ledge and crossing the walkway with three long strides. He climbed up over the outer battlements close enough to a guard to feel the heat of his torch.

Swallowing, Harry eyed the drop from the top of the wall. It looked a lot further than it had when going up. He just had to trust his boots.

Harry jumped off.

The freefall lasted several long, exhilarating seconds before coming to an odd, unnatural stop. The momentum arrest charms held. Harry spent half a moment looking back up at the walls before he was flying over the landscape again, bounding forward with enormous strides that took him faster and faster over the grass, between fields, and eventually towards the mountains.

When he was behind the crest of a hill far enough away, Harry mounted his broom and took off, guided by the direction of his wand. Unburdened by the top speed of slower travelers, young dragons, or unfamiliar fliers, Harry was free to push his broom to its limits. The Cloak seemed to let him slip through the wind like a knife's edge. It did not flap or billow like Quidditch robes, it pressed flat to his body and stayed there like a second skin, keeping him warm against what should have been cold, cutting gales.

The Spine slipped past beneath him, mountains and valleys rolling on as he flew straight over the mountain range, bypassing the long detour the Woadark River had carved which let those on foot access the port city. His wand pointed steadfast to the east, on towards Gil'ead.

Eragon woke early the next morning. The sun had scarcely begun to rise when he got dressed in his cleaned and repaired travel clothes. He opened his mind to Saphira, who greeted him from the opposite side of Teirm. She was on the south side now.

Did I make the right decision? Eragon asked her.

Saphira returned a sense of ambiguity. Time will tell. It was a risk. Idiocy or brilliance are in the outcome.

Eragon packed up all of his things. Harry had expanded his bag a bit. Not too much as to be noticeable, but enough that keeping Domina Abr Wyrda in it wasn't like lugging a pile of bricks everywhere. Most of their things were being kept in the folded up tent, a matchbox Eragon kept safely tucked next to the medkit in his bag, swaddled in his spare clothes.

Jeod was also up, talking with Helen in the dining room. "It will work-"

"One shipment," Helen stressed. "Maybe this one makes it. Maybe your old friend manages to drive off or even sink a couple of pirates. Brom isn't going to be on the next ship, Jeod. Why not run some safer routes? Narda, even Ceunon?"

Jeod sighed. "This is what I can do for my friends. Every decent person hates Galbatorix, but those who act are the ones that will one day see him gone."

"He's not our problem," Helen scowled. "Leave dragon riders and magic in stories where they belong."

Jeod lowered his voice. "He may not be our problem right now, but it will be too late to fight back when he decides that he will be. He is immortal, and will eternally be a problem until somebody kills him. I can't do that, but I can do this, and make a living doing it, too."

"Until you're penniless," Helen sent a parting shot. "I'm thankful for your friends and what they've done for you, but you need to think about yourself. You're no help to them as a beggar."

Eragon stood awkwardly in the doorway. Jeod glanced up at him with a weak smile. "Eragon. Good morning. Did you hear all that?"

Embarrassed, he nodded.

Helen looked between the two of them before heading back upstairs.

"I apologize," Jeod said. "Marriage is not easy. I'm a bit of a dreamer. Helen often sees clearer than me. I wish for the wisdom to recognize when she's right."

"Is she?" Eragon asked.

Jeod tipped his head back in exasperation, staring at the plaster ceiling. "May the gods help us if she is, I don't think I can stop shipping for the Varden. The information I get back from them is…not good."

Eragon wondered if Harry could help with that. The amount of food he'd produced in so short a time, and the way he was able to transport massive volumes of it in his pockets, he could at least alleviate that pressure on the Varden. It would be a way to fight without fighting.

"When are we leaving?" Eragon asked.

Jeod indicated the table. Breakfast was already served, omelets with bacon and hashed browns. "As soon as possible. Tarence knows not to leave without speaking to me, but I understand leaving first thing in the morning is best, when the wind is still blowing from land to sea. Is Harry up?"

Eragon shifted awkwardly on his feet. "I'll, uh, explain when Brom gets here."

Jeod gave him a shrewd look but let it pass.

Brom arrived a few minutes later after a lengthy, profane negotiation of the stairs in the main hall. Jeod and Eragon tried not to grin at each other while listening to the swearing coming from down the hallway.

They both fought grins when Brom came in with crutches under one arm. "Thank you both for your help," he bowed sardonically. He tried to lift himself out of the bow and tripped, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and crutches. Eragon held in a snort and went to help him up.

"Laughing at the crippled," Brom scoffed. "What would Garrow say?"

"I'm still angry at you for not telling me about my mother," Eragon reminded him. "But I bet we're about to be even."

"Oh?" Brom lifted himself up with an uttered word. "And why's that?" He sounded very worried.

"Because Harry left last night to go do an entirely different mission."

Brom exchanged a dreaded look with Jeod. "What mission is this?" he asked urgently. "Something easy, short, nearby, and he will rejoin us at Morzan's castle?"

Eragon shook his head. "We both had dreams of an elf woman who'd been captured and tortured by Durza. Harry scryed her last night. She's being transported to Uru'baen, so it was now or never."

Brom swore. "Durza is going to capture him," he said with utter certainty. "That fucking moron. You two are the princes of fools. You have no idea how dangerous that Shade is. Only two people have ever survived killing a Shade. Laetri the elf and Irnstad the Rider. There are no other cases where a Shade went down without dragging their killer down with them. Durza in particular has been a close ally to the King since before the Fall. You know this! How on earth did you think-"

"Durza probably isn't with them," Eragon talked over Brom. "Harry said he overheard merchants at the South Wind say Durza was probably headed towards Surda to punish them for supporting the Varden-"

"Probably is not good enough to risk your life," Brom stressed. "Probably is when you start looking for opportunities, researching, and confirming your hunches. It is not when you run off on a harebrained adventure into the maw of a dragon on a fucking guess!"

"It would have been too late by then," Eragon said with certainty. "Harry said he had advantages he was keeping secret. I trust him."

"Well I don't," Brom announced. "He has stubbornly refused to acknowledge very real and present dangers to himself and to us in the past, made several blunders, and remains unfamiliar with Alagaesia as a whole. Have you already forgotten why we were forced to leave Carvahall?"

Eragon shook his head. "I have not. But Harry learned from all of that. He's been applying himself to your lessons, adapting to Alagaesia, and he already has some experience."

Brom opened his mouth to argue, but then he thought about it. Eragon saw it in his eyes, the moment Brom let himself entertain the idea that maybe Harry could pull this off.

"Pray he's right about Durza," Brom said finally. "Because he's out of our hands now."

There was a lingering moment of silence around the table before Jeod invited Brom to eat breakfast and told him what time they had to be down at the docks by. They all shoveled food into their mouths and gathered their things.

"Did he leave us his miraculous tent and gear?" Brom asked sardonically.

Eragon nodded. "He took his broom and most of the Wiggenweld, but left everything else."

Brom nodded to himself. "Good. Then we might still be fine. Did he say when or where he was going to rejoin us?"

Eragon winced again. "He had the point me charm, but said you might make us cast wards to block it so the Empire can't find us. If that didn't work, he was going to go to the Varden. And I have a way to get him a message if we need to." Eragon brought out the two wooden birds. "The second one is for Jeod to send letters to Brom."

Jeod accepted the wooden bird, blinking as it came alive. "Tie a letter to its legs and tell it who to deliver to," Eragon said. "That's what Harry told me. Mine should work the same way."

"We should cast those wards," Brom said. "He's right. You remember what I taught you about scrying? If the enemy doesn't know your face, you don't need the wards because he can't scry you anyways. But if Galbatorix manages to get your face from one of his servants' minds, then he will be able to scry you at will, which we obviously cannot allow. I already have such wards. I don't think he knows Saphira has hatched yet. He may still be looking for an egg instead of a dragon and Rider. But the risk is too great to take." Brom muttered under his breath for a moment. "That will last you a while. We'll revisit this when I teach you how to cast your own wards."

They departed from Jeod's house feeling bitter, like the morning had been tainted. Eragon buckled Zar'roc onto his belt and slung his bow and bottomless quiver over his back. The docks were a short walk away. Jeod led the way, feeling somewhat out of place next to the two of them wearing rougher traveling clothes. He wore a tailored set of garments with an elaborate rapier at his side and a hat with a genuine feather in it.

"Peacock," Brom ribbed under his breath.

"Vagabond," Jeod shot back, lips twitching.

"I'll miss you, you bookish, privileged old man," Brom said fondly. Walking side by side, Jeod was a good bit taller than Brom. Somehow, the difference in stature fit the two of them perfectly.

"You're back in the game, right?" Jeod asked. "Running missions, traveling in search of chances to spit in the King's eye. We'll cross paths again. Sooner, this time."

"Aye," Brom said. "Sooner this time. Send me letters. Keep me apprised. Better to recognize opportunities to meet. I'll do the same. Whenever we're in the same part of Alagaesia. Or if we need to know something obscure and useless."

Jeod tipped his hat. "Always happy for a reason to read a bunch of books." The merchant tossed Brom a sack that jingled with coins. "For the next leg of your journey," Jeod told him. "You never even asked. I am used to footing your bills without question."

Brom tried to pass it back. "For once, we are more than well off in that respect."

Jeod raised a brow.

"Harry has his uses," Brom allowed. "If he left us any," he added under his breath. Eragon shifted on his feet.

"About half, half minted, half in ingots," Eragon murmured. Brom whistled.

"We may need silvers and coppers." Brom opened the pouch and picked out the gold coins to drop back in Jeod's hand. "Your contribution to the Varden is appreciated," the old man saluted mockingly.

They passed under the port gate, greeted by the rumbling tide and the smell of saltwater and fish. Tarence was waiting at the top of the gangplank of Jeod's ship, scowling.

"About damn time," the captain called to Jeod. "If I'm to catch the seaward wind, we need to cast off five minutes ago. Who are these jokers?"

Jeod picked his way over the cleats and lines and trotted up the gangplank. Eragon and Brom followed. Eragon immediately noticed the instability of his footing. The deck below him bobbled just a bit, rising and falling. It was not enough to trip him or throw him off balance, just enough to remind him that he was not standing on firm land.

"I brought you a couple of helpers," Jeod said.

Captain Tarence chewed something, spitting a blob of saliva over the rails and into the ocean. "Him I remember," he pointed at Eragon. "You spoke with me at the Chestnut. I only met this one once. And he didn't have crutches. You're bringing me a cripple and a greenboy. A fresh cripple."

Brom shot him a stink eye.

Jeod shrugged. "Bring them with you. As a favor to me, if you must. They don't need to be paid."

"But they need to be fed," Tarence pointed out.

Jeod spread his arms. "If you are beset by pirates, you will be very glad to have them."

"Even the cripple?" Tarence asked dubiously.

"Especially him," Jeod confirmed.

Tarence gave Brom a shrewd look. "You can't fight with your injury, whatever it is. So you've got to be-"

"Yes," Brom interrupted. "But we're not going to speak of it until we're at sea."

"And this one?" Tarence indicated Eragon.

"Actually muscle," Brom said. "My muscle."

Tarence grunted. He turned to Jeod. "These pirates. Do you think they're likely to materialize?"

"Better than even chance," Jeod said. "They're getting off at Kuasta. But you'll remember that the other ships disappeared before they made it even that far. If there is an attack, it'll come either at the cape of Teirm or at Sharktooth Strait. I'll leave the rest up to you."

Tarence chewed for a moment, appraising Brom and Eragon. "Fine," he relented. "Get onboard. But here on my ship, I'm in charge. Understand?"

Eragon and Brom both nodded. "Good. Let's get out of here. The Surdans don't want rotted food."

Jeod and Brom exchanged a hug at the end of the gangplank. "It was good to see you," Jeod said. "Give Galbatorix hell, you wily old dog."

Brom saluted Jeod and headed back up to the ship. Jeod appraised Eragon.

"You're a promising young man," Jeod said. Eragon heard genuineness in his voice. Jeod clapped him on the back. "I look forward to seeing the person you become."

Eragon bade Jeod farewell and got back up onto the ship.

Captain Tarence began barking orders left and right. The men on the deck scrambled to untie lines and throw them back up to the deck, hauling on ropes and letting sails unfurl just enough to get headway in the port. The bobbing ship took on a much deeper, rhythmic up and down, coasting over the waves as Tarence bullied the hunk of wood, rope, and canvas out to sea.

The group of Riders Harry saw in his dream that night were a very different lot to the ones he'd seen last time. They were all gaunt-faced and haggard, deep circles under their eyes and assortments of scratches and minor wounds wherever Harry saw.

"We have to sleep," one of them said, a female elf with hair that rippled through the colors of the rainbow like an iridescent sheen. She sounded desperate and exhausted.

"No," their leader snapped. The man was genuinely afraid, something Harry had never seen before. "We aren't far enough yet. Braxtus-"

One of the dragons roared, a wailing, grieving noise that drowned out the man's voice. It was a pale yellow with a slender, almost serpentine build. Its saddle was also empty. Harry felt the utter desolation in its voice, like heartbreak distilled into a keening sound.

"I know!" the man shouted over him. "I know," he said again, quieter. The pale yellow dragon subsided. "But we cannot get our vengeance now. Not like this. We recover, plan, and then get even."

The whole group – those remaining – took a moment to accept the man's plan. "How much further?" the elf lady asked. The weariness in her voice made Harry feel exhausted, even in a dream.

"The Bay of Fundor," the man answered. "On the water, where the blackened soil and evil gas cannot reach us."

Harry didn't know how far away they were then, but he knew they were not near any landmarks he recognized, which probably meant they were a long way away. And they did not raise a single complaint. That more than anything was sobering.

Harry woke determined to record his dream, every detail he could manage, writing them out into his journal until he felt sure that reading it back would give him an accurate recollection of the dream. He had missed something, he was certain. Something had happened when the group of Riders landed in that valley, the valley he had not been able to see even in his dreams. It had killed one of the Riders and terrified the survivors so much that six dragons and five Riders had fled halfway across the continent to escape it.

What the hell was at the bottom of that valley?

Unsettled, Harry got ready for a day of flying. With the Cloak, Harry could fly during the day. Having privacy and a queen bed again was very nice, even if all the scattered boxes and stuff in the tent made it feel like an apartment he hadn't finished moving into yet.

And Brom wasn't there to harass him into practicing swordplay, magic, or leaving earlier to get more distance. Harry knew from experience he'd get lonely after a week or so, but right now he was riding the high of having nobody else to accommodate for.

He kicked off after breakfast.

As he flew, Harry pondered the dream. He had expected to dream of the elven woman, especially now that he was en route to attempt to rescue her. He looked down at the Spine below him.

Uneasily, he flew as high as he could before the air got too thin, fast, and cold to tolerate. High enough that he could not make out the details of the valleys beneath. He was grateful for the Cloak then, and hoped that nobody noticed the passengerless flying broomstick miles up in the air.

He descended when the Spine flattened out into the plain heartlands of the Empire. It still did not feel like an Empire to Harry. Teirm had been impressive. This…this was just grasslands. The word 'Empire' brought the Romans to mind. Harry had never been there, but he imagined barracks and estates, roads and Mediterranean-style mansions covering the landscape, quilted with farmland and citizens and soldiers. Not a flat, desolate patch of grass that went on for dozens of miles in every direction without interruption. Even from his lofty vantage point, Harry could see nearly nothing at all. Dotted copses of trees where sparse creeks ran, some odd bunches of life among the flat grass. No human presence.

Soon after that, the novelty of flying wore off. Quidditch, acrobatic flight, intense competition, they all got Harry's blood pumping like little else. But flying in a straight line for six hours, even at a hundred miles per hour, eventually got old. Absent the thrill of active competition, what was left was a pretty uncomfortable way to travel.

Harry could not rest on top of the broomstick. He had to keep his muscles engaged to support himself in the proper form for flight, and could not let himself relax for even a moment without throwing off the balance of his weight which dictated how the broomstick steered. Harry became utterly exhausted well before lunchtime, from what was essentially holding a plank on a stick of wood at a hundred and fifty miles an hour for hours.

But he couldn't argue with the speed. Gil'ead came into view before lunchtime, a vague patchwork quilt bordering a great lake. Harry landed a dozen miles out and readjusted his wand, switching his point me spell from tracking the city to tracking the elf.

Again it took a moment for his wand to lock onto her. The exact point was wobbly but persistent in its bearing. Harry checked the time. It was not yet noon.

Did he want to make his move in broad daylight? He deliberated.

On one hand, night was when everybody expected an ambush. Whoever was awake on watch would be tired, and Harry would only have to incapacitate a few silently to get away with the elf. Darkness would make it harder for them to see him, but that didn't matter when he had the Cloak already. All nighttime would do is cover up his mistakes.

Harry decided he would fly as close as he dared. He produced a mirror he'd bought in Teirm from his backpack, the movement made awkward while on a broomstick. He whispered "Draumr kopa" and focused on the elf. She came into view immediately on the silvery surface. The details of the carriage were still foggy. Harry focused on manipulating the image on the mirror, zooming out again and again until he managed to glean an overhead view of the convoy. He zoomed out even further, memorizing the surrounding landscape and landmarks. He squinted.

There was a hill that looked familiar. Harry scrutinized the shape and placement. It was shaped like an ear. Vaguely. From his side of the hill it looked a bit different, but Harry was confident the hill he was looking at was the same as the one in the mirror.

Harry coasted lower and slowed down, approaching the hill from the other side. He did not want to risk being spotted. The closer he got, the surer he was that he was right. That put the convoy about a dozen miles ahead up the road, a proper paved stone highway that Harry knew to connect Gil'ead and Uru'baen.

There were plenty of travelers on just the stretch he could see, horsemen and wagons, carriages and caravans and peasants on foot. It was no M25 motorway, but it was certainly greater than Harry had come to expect from the dirt trail that had connected Yazuac to Daret and to Carvahall and Therinsford, and the muddy disrepair of the road that led into Teirm.

Harry banked to the right and headed south, flying about half a mile west of the road, low enough to skim the sparse treetops with his feet. He hoped nobody would notice the broomstick, or would put it down to a bug or bird. He was flying far enough from the road that he could only barely tell the silhouettes of horse riders, pedestrians, and wagons apart.

He checked the mirror again. The convoy was in the middle of a very flat area with almost zero cover. Harry adjusted and flew even further west as the sparse trees returned to being absolutely flat grasslands. There was nowhere to hide except by ducking under the horizon. He had to fly nearly five miles west before the road was beyond the horizon. At that distance, Harry might as well give up on the idea of flying to approach.

He headed still further from the road and raced ahead. He'd position himself next to the road ahead of the convoy and wait for them to walk past. Once he saw the convoy in person, he'd make his plans.

It took a few minutes to get into position. He had to find a spot between clumps of travelers wide enough to land without them spotting and clocking his broom. Harry landed under the Cloak and stowed his broom in his backpack, then stood by the edge of the road and sat. It was a lip in the cracked pavers, flanked by tough grass trying to grow through the cracks. The grass was tough and pointy, so he sat on the very edge of the pavers, on an intact tile with a thin layer of dust on top. He was careful to clean away the loose dust enough that he did not leave prints in it where he put his feet.

The world was quiet save for the wind rustling the grass of the Great Plains, and the intermittent noise of travelers as they passed by.

For an hour, Harry sat cross legged on the stone shoulder of the road, watching the people go past.

Pedestrians were the most common. They clumped together like groups of friends headed to Hogsmeade, chatting as they walked. Often they had packhorses carrying bags and such. Riding the horses seemed to be for the better off travelers who had two, or a wagon.

When they got close enough, Harry was able to hear their conversations over the slow clopping of hoofs.

"We're from Ceunon," a woman introduced herself and her husband. "Traveling before we have children to tie us down."

"What's it like?" a woman from another group asked. "I've never been so far north."

"Cold in the winter," the first said. "Not too friendly to strangers. But tight-knit in the community. Honestly, I think we do best when the only time we see the Empire is when they collect taxes."

"We're headed back home from Feinster," the second group said. "The Empire is a constant presence. You get used to it."

"But you're never happy they're there?" the woman from Ceunon checked.

"No," the Feinster woman agreed. "We've never seen the Empire make itself useful. For such a heavy-handed Empire, Galbatorix seems content letting corruption fester and local rulers do as they please. It seems each lord and lady is a king unto themselves. We are fortunate to have Lady Lorana in Feinster. Certainly better than Marcus Tabor of Dras Leona. They have slavery there."

The Ceunon woman shuddered. "Awful. How Galbatorix could allow that to happen is beyond me. If there is one thing I'll credit the King for, he keeps a tight leash on magicians. I've heard tales from my grandfather, what it was like in the days after the Riders fell. Magicians had free reign to do as they pleased. Now they were kings and queens unto themselves."

"Aye," the Feinster woman's husband agreed. "Maybe too tight. I knew a neighbor who discovered entirely by accident that he had the gift. Or curse; the next day he vanished. I still haven't seen him since."

They passed out of earshot. On the road, travelers were willing to share details Harry knew most people back in Britain would consider private. They talked to utter strangers about their children, their homes, their jobs, anything. Harry witnessed several groups of people fast on the way to become great friends, even knowing that they would eventually go their separate ways and in all likelihood, never see each other again for the rest of their lives.

It was bittersweet.

"Monford hates our neighbors. The boy won't be cowed, either. The smith's boy picks on him I think. He's got a sharp tongue. I miss him."

"Aye," another man said. "Traveling when your children are growing up is hard. They change so quickly, you return to half a stranger, missing everything that made them who they are. My daughter was a happy little girl when I left last to see my mother's family. I came back to a quiet, haunted young woman. I never found out what happened, but the guards were unhelpful."

Harry grew indignant at the implication.

"The King needs to do something about the corruption," another growled, a dirty man with blonde hair. "He sits in his citadel all day doing who knows what. I've heard he doesn't even show up to court every day. Why overthrow the old kings if he's not interested in actually bothering to do the job of ruling?"

"Careful how you speak when you get to Uru'baen," the first cautioned. "King Galbatorix is not overly zealous in punishing dissenters-"

"He's not overly zealous at anything," the third grumbled. The second one snorted.

"-but he's not deaf to unrest, and while he is not so active and visible, he has many underlings who are. Plenty of people have been killed for being too loud with their dislike of the Empire."

That group passed out of earshot. Harry wished he could keep listening in on those three. The ones with the real gossip were the rich travelers on horseback or stagecoach, and those moved too quickly for him to get more than snatches. He heard about one man's family business selling arms and that the Empire had begun 'taxing' virtually every weapon he made. The truly interesting snippet there was that the man didn't know where his swords were going. They never showed up in the hands of Gil'ead's guardsmen, or anywhere else that he could discern. Empire men collected the swords and spears and they were never seen again. They pressured him to churn out quantity over quality too.

That had to mean the Empire was arming some force, and they wanted it done quickly. They were going to do something soon. Yet nobody that he eavesdropped on had any idea where or who or why. No rumors of a force being deployed anywhere, no gossip regarding some distant cousin leaving their barracks or anything. There had to be some unknown faction, but Harry had never heard any implication from anyone, not even Brom, of people who lived beyond Alagaesia. Maybe the answer was in Domina Abr Wyrda. He had his own copy in his tent he could check. Harry resolved to at least try to read through it if he had the time.

A group of horsemen passed in a hurry, their nerves seemingly set on edge. Harry straightened up and peered down the road. He was fortunate to be able to wear the cowl instead of draping the Cloak over his head; this way he did not have to squint through the gauzy fabric to see. With his makeshift spectacles, Harry's vision was nearly as good as it had been back home when he'd had real glasses to wear.

The convoy was hardly a speck in the distance, yet the road was empty until them. Like people had all agreed to give it loads of space. The helmets and spearheads of the guards gleamed in the early afternoon sun.

Harry let his attention lapse as he waited. He let his eyes glaze over, propping his chin on his palm, waiting. It took nearly twenty minutes for them to reach him, the clopping of hooves, clinking of armor, and creaking roll of wooden wagon wheels on stone.

He immediately understood why they had given the convoy such space. At the head of the convoy, right where the gap had been when he'd scryed it first, a Shade sat atop a bone-white horse, riding in the lead.

He almost seemed to exude an aura of dread. Harry wrapped his cloak tighter as Durza approached. He was supposed to be down by the Surdan border! Harry had no idea how to approach the rescue anymore. From all Brom had said, Durza would defeat him effortlessly. Harry would probably be lucky to be killed; he'd just be able to start over somewhere else. If Durza decided he was interested in Harry-

Harry swallowed. He knew how Durza treated his prisoners.

The Shade was far more menacing in person than in his dreams. He was well over six feet tall, the same papery skin and crimson hair and eyes as he'd seen, but there was something else. A sense of dread. Durza held himself with a sense of twisted, sadistic amusement. Like he was waiting for the opportunity to cause misery, and the very notion of ordinariness existed like a mouse Durza had not yet decided to kill, but was considering toying with.

The similarities between him and Voldemort were significant. Voldemort had never seemed vigilant – except when fighting Dumbledore – but rather was so self-assured in his abilities that he never bothered to be alert. As if even the element of surprise was hopelessly inadequate to defeat him. Durza was the same.

Durza had the same inhuman nature as Voldemort. Like a dark mirror of a human being.

Harry adjusted his impression. No, Durza was worse. Whatever made Durza the way he was, whatever caused a Shade to come to be, it was somehow worse than splitting his soul into eight pieces with a lifetime of habitual, remorseless, premeditated murder. His unnaturalness grated on Harry.

Durza had more humanlike features. But to Harry, some intangible sense deep inside him was utterly certain that Durza was wrong. The very nature of his existence was rooted in something deeply set against any objective measure of rightness. In a way that even Voldemort and his seven horcruxes had not been, Durza was a blight on reality.

The Shade's eyes glossed over the spot where he was sitting. Harry felt fear choke his breath. The pile of bodies and Brom's warnings echoed through his skull. You have no hope of beating him in a fight.

The convoy kicked up dust in the wake of the horses. Durza passed within a foot of Harry's face, the carriage a few paces back.

Abruptly, Durza stopped.

The convoy tripped over itself to halt before running into the Shade.

Durza cocked his head. The mannerism was eerily similar to Voldemort. Harry grasped his wand with a sweaty palm.

"Who's heart is racing?" Durza asked conversationally. His crimson eyes looked straight through Harry's invisible form.

All the soldiers behind him stiffened in fear. Durza's lip curled in disgust. Nobody dared speak up. Durza frowned and cocked his head again, but seemed unable to pinpoint Harry any further. Harry held his breath, not even daring to breathe, even as a breeze blew past that might have covered the sound. His lungs burned as he waited.

The Shade waited for a moment that felt like eternity. Abruptly, he moved on. The convoy lurched back to life a moment after. Harry noticed that Durza never used his reins or feet to signal his mount. It simply obeyed his will.

Harry waited until he was covered by the clopping of hooves and creaking wheels to take a carefully modulated breath. He did not move from his spot until the convoy was far down the road. When he did, he sprinted with his enchanted boots several miles back before mounting his broom and racing in a wide circle to get ahead once more. All the while he wondered; how the hell was he going to pull this off?

Eragon was not having a good time.

After the first hour out of port, he'd become violently seasick. Something about the way the deck of the ship was constantly rocking disagreed with his stomach. If not for the seasickness potion he'd found in Harry's medkit, Eragon thought he might've thrown up his guts over the railing. There were enough doses in there for a month at sea. Fortunately, Brom did not cut into his supply. The storyteller/Varden agent/retired adventurer/liar was comfortable at sea.

Eragon had gotten used to traveling like a king. The tent had real beds, a bathroom with running water, fresh food, and space to stretch his legs. He was used to toilet paper and magic that cleaned his clothes every evening. He had become accustomed to a level of cleanliness that had suddenly been ripped away from him with the reality of life without magic. It was a wholly impossible luxury to maintain without magic or a glut of servants and a massive convoy.

The Fleeting Spirit was even worse than camping in the Spine. Captain Tarence ruled the ship with an iron fist and steel vocal cords that never gave out, even when bellowing orders all day. Eragon was expected to help with odd jobs around the ship, tasks that required no skill and were unpleasant enough for the regular sailors to fob off on him. There were no free rides aboard the Fleeting Spirit. He became very accomplished at mopping the poop deck, keeping the boards damp so they did not shrink and open the cracks between floorboards.

He wanted to use magic. He wanted to do all those jobs with a muttered word and keep his hands clean. What did it matter if Eragon used magic, if Brom intended to drive off the pirates with magic himself? Brom didn't want Eragon to betray his magic to the sailors. Brom was willing to let them know he had magic, but he was more worried about keeping Eragon's secret.

"I'm not unknown to the Empire," Brom said lowly to Eragon, leaning against the rail of the helm, his crutches propped up next to him. "There are already people who know Brom can use magic. If we're lucky, they'll put all the magic our little group does down to me, and the two of you will be able to escape that mark of prey for a while longer."

Eragon made his gripes known to Saphira. She did not like the voyage he was taking, and she especially was unhappy that Captain Tarence was taking it in a wide loop around the cape of Teirm. She alternated being near the ship and resting on land. She flew out from shore to glide somewhat near the ship, high in the air and keeping a lookout for other ships. They could speak to each other then, share stories and enjoy each other's company.

When you make landfall, I am going to stick to you like a burr for twice as long as this foolish voyage of yours, she said. I tire of feeling like an accessory. I am not a vehicle or obstacle you don't know what to do with. I am your dragon, and you are my Rider. We belong together.

Then she would coast back to the cape to sleep and hunt before returning again to keep vigil over their ship from the sky.

With Saphira as their lookout, Eragon was less worried about a sudden ambush. They would see any pirates coming long before they got close enough to even see the Fleeting Spirit. Despite the extra warning Saphira provided, Eragon was still miserable with the life of a sailor.

He had to get used to having no privacy, sleeping in a cubby in the hold below deck with the food, eating tough, stale rations and drinking watered down beer or stale water, relieving himself over the rails of the deck, and constantly laboring to keep the ship maintained even as they sailed, doing whatever difficult and disgusting job the sailors didn't want to do at any given time.

By contrast, Brom was practically having a vacation. He was too injured to be put to work, so Captain Tarence had him up in the crow's nest (possible only after lengthy and awkward negotiation of the ladder) or with him at the helm. Eragon heard the two of them talking whenever his chores took him close to the helm.

By the end of the first week, they had rounded the cape of Teirm without being attacked.

"Then it'll be Sharktooth Strait," Tarence said with surety. "Only other place where we're hemmed in from running further out to sea. Then again, maybe that's all they needed to do to get the last ships; force them into treacherous waters and wash their hands of a job well done."

"Maybe." Brom puffed his pipe and scowled. "Damn weed keeps going out."

"It's wet on the deck of a ship, fascinating discovery," Tarence mocked. Brom scowled.

"Shut up. I don't think they'd just crowd ships out to sea. They probably wanted a chance to salvage or trawl for survivors. Can't torture information out of a dead man."

"Can your, eh, skills keep us from being crowded out to deep sea?" Tarence squinted.

Brom shook his head. "Sailing is up to you. Nobody but the King is strong enough to move a ship by magic. It's just too big and heavy."

Tarence nodded. "Sharktooth Strait then."

"Yes."

"We'll post watches when we get there."

Harry turned the stone thrice in his hands. Morgan's ghostly silhouette emerged from nothingness.

"What need have you?" Morgan asked Harry. "Some magic to defeat Durza?"

Harry shook his head. "Just tell me if you think my plan will work," he whispered.

Morgan regarded him with a haughty gaze. "I am not your babysitter. You are no fool, and you don't want my advice anyways. If it was me, I would sneak up next to Durza under the Cloak and hit him with a killing curse, then dispose of the rest of the witnesses at my leisure."

Harry agreed he was not willing to do that. He had used the other two Unforgivables, but something about the killing curse still gave him pause. It was the one line he hadn't yet crossed, the thing that undeniably set him apart from Voldemort. Despite all their similarities, Tom Riddle was a killer, and Harry wasn't.

Yet.

"Fine," he whispered. "Just- can they see you?"

"They should not be able to," Morgan said. She paused. "The Shade might be able to, anyways. He is…something wrong."

"Okay. I'm going for it."

Morgan began to fade away. "Don't fail."

AN: How I wish 'nerd' was a part of Brom's vocabulary, so he could call Jeod that without it being anachronistic. What a perfect word I couldn't use here.