I did kinda forget to update for way too long here. My apologies.

As always, please review! I love hearing from you all!


Murtagh had to give it to Eragon: the younger man had grown canny and wiser since they had parted in Farthen Dur years past.

The gangly youth who he had travelled with in their mad race across the desert would have pushed, prodded and steamrolled any opposition Murtagh had put up to joining the life of the keep wholeheartedly. This Eragon, however, had only smiled a knowing smile when he froze at the bottom of the staircase to the main courtyard; it was filled with men, elves and dwarves bustling around to their chores, shouting greetings and indications to their brethren. He cursed himself for his cowardice and gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to obey him and join the throng of Eragon's subjects going about their morning business.

A gentle hand on his elbow stopped him before he left the relative anonymity of the grand archway he was standing under. Eragon – for it was he who stopped him – scanned the mulish set of his jaw and the stiffness of his posture and steered him away, deeper into the shade of the entrance.

"I rather think you'd like to not share a room with me, what with the amount of people coming to seek me there," the younger Rider said conversationally as he led the way back up into the bowels of the mountain. "Not that I don't want you close, mind you, but I'd like you to feel at home, not like a glorified houseguest."

Murtagh nodded absently, still startled by his own reaction in front of the crowd. It was not a new development, he had never liked being the subject of so much scrutiny, but it was still frustrating to experience. The thought of the stares, and the whispering, however, made his hackles raise. Here, he was known. Not just another grimy face in the crowd, but an infamous one, hated for valid reasons. One who shouldn't sully the company of good, decent people with its presence.

Eragon maintained an easy stream of conversation as they climbed closer to the peak, with no expectation of him answering. They had dedicated the whole southern side of the mountain to Riders' quarters, with direct access to Eragon's eyrie and the dragonhold, and assigned Murtagh and Thorn one of a handful of the highest rooms as was their right as Elders. And wasn't that a startling thought, to be considered Elders when he and Thorn had no clue what they were doing most of the time.

The quarters themselves were bare smooth stone, clearly shaped by magic. A few columns dotted the wide open space, done in what must have been elven style with vines molded by magic out of the granite circling the slender pillars. A dip in the floor was prepared for a dragon to sit, but other than that there was no furniture or other adornments. A dragon-sized window opened to display sprawling grassy planes and the bright sky above.

It was a blank slate, to be arranged as Murtagh and Thorn wished. He already had ideas for how it would look in the end.

Murtagh sent a glimpse of the chambers to Thorn, who had remained with the hatchlings in the dragonhold above. The dragon's approval flowed through soon enough, and he hummed, I like that it's sunny. We can make it up as we see fit?

That's what Eragon says.

Good. We deserve a nest of our own.

Glad you approve, Murtagh sent, along with a pulse of affection before he tuned back in to his surroundings.

"This is great," he told Eragon. "Thorn also likes it."

The Leader of the Riders bowed with a flourish, a small grin on his face. "Glad you approve. I apologize for it being so sparse, but…"

Murtagh waved his apologies away. "It's a good project to keep me and Thorn occupied while– " He paused when it clicked in his mind what his half-brother had done, gratitude welling up at the skillful distraction the younger man had devised. "You little bugger, you tricked me! Again!"

"Less a trick, more a diversion," Eragon hummed, that same knowing smile from earlier making another appearance. "You didn't look so happy at the idea of joining the crowd downstairs."

"I-"

"No need to explain yourself. Not to me, not for that." He waved a hand at the bare grey walls around them and said, "You also told me via the mirror that you wanted to improve your skills and knowledge with gramarye. Consider my whole library and my knowledge at your full disposal. I think that working on this space would also be good practice in that regard, so feel free to make it your own. Drop by my chambers later, and I'll give you some scrolls that would help for a start."

Only the etiquette pounded into him from a young age stopped Murtagh's jaw from dropping like a gaping fish's. Eragon had thought of everything, the cheeky sod. He was touched that the other had correctly inferred that he preferred to keep busy to hold his many demons at bay, but the more paranoid part of his mind worked overtime to figure out what was his brother's angle in this. Generosity was never to be taken at face value – that lesson had been drilled into his being along with the courtly manners and the loathsome name of his father ever since he could toddle on two feet.

Wariness and distrust slowly lost the ongoing war to the simple gratitude and relief that he and Thorn would have their own space to retreat to, to make their own. Murtagh himself would be able to fix the handicap he had with his lacking knowledge in the Ancient Language. If Eragon wanted something in return, short of swearing himself to him or the Order, Murtagh judged it worth the price.

"Elrun ono," he murmured in the Ancient Language, so his brother would hear the truth of it.

Eragon nodded regally and said, "I'll leave you be for now, though it would please me if you would take lunch with me in my quarters. I'll have Blödhgarm or Astrith bring you yours and Thorn's things up. Any materials you need, ask them for it as well."

On his way out, Eragon paused and glanced back at Murtagh, who was still rooted to the spot in the middle of the unfinished room. At his raised questioning eyebrow, his younger brother only said: "Welcome home, brother."

With that, he left, thankfully before Murtagh lost his composure completely at his words, undone by the kindness he felt he did not yet deserve.


Murtagh threw himself into working on their shared quarters with the same single-minded determination he applied to anything he deemed truly important. He had picked up a few odd jobs when his and Thorn's gold reserves were too low on the road and found out he had a knack for anything to do with carving wood. By the time the sun set on the first day he had made a crude but workable pine box for his belongings, and a simple table and chairs. The elves had brought him everything he asked for, be it materials or tools, and even if his work was rudimentary compared to the slender grace of what they could sing out of living wood Murtagh knew they would be sturdy enough.

Laboring to build something was rewarding in the same way training the horses in Ilirea's stables had been when he little more than a sullen boy running away from his tutors. The satisfaction of making something with his own hands or by his magic more than made up for the effort and gave him a ready excuse to avoid the presence of others apart from Eragon, Saphira and Thorn. Not that he spent too much time with either dragon, busy as they were teaching the hatchlings the ways of their kind. Thorn adored the young dragons, and most evenings were spent sharing the stories of whatever accomplishment he and Saphira had coached them to that day.

Whatever moment Murtagh would spare for rest was soon taken in the dragonhold with a book or scroll, a small part of his consciousness always listening to Thorn teaching the older male tricky aerial maneuvers or Saphira chastising the tiny female for pilfering a dwarf's shiny rings from a table outside.

Eragon's library was another welcome distraction from the physical work. He took full advantage of the open invitation and raided the shelves for anything from treatises on magic to histories and elven sagas. One time, upon finding him cursing at an indecipherable title written in the elves' cursive script, Eragon simply pulled another scroll from a higher shelf and dumped it at the top of the bundle Murtagh was balancing precariously without even stopping on his way to his desk.

"What's that one," he called after the younger rider, who was already dumping a fresh set of correspondence on top of the one already littering the tabletop.

"Dictionary," Eragon replied absently, reaching for a quill.

Murtagh finagled the small tower of books he was holding on an empty shelf and unrolled the thick scroll. "It's written in elvish."

Eragon's arm snaked to the closest shelf to him, pulled another even thicker sheaf of parchment bound in twine which he tossed to Murtagh.

"Careful with those, they're my own notes on the written form of the Ancient language."

"Shade's blood, Eragon!"

The younger rider looked up from the missive he was penning, one slanted eyebrow raised. "If you want to read the treatise on warding, you'll need that."

"It's as thick as my arm!"

Already lost in his work, Eragon missed the annoyed glare aimed his way as Murtagh lugged away his pilfered treasures back to the dragonhold. For three nights he studied the runes before he even dared open the book that was the initial source of his ire. Translation went slowly, between his shaky knowledge of the language and the reedy runes cramped on the pages, but he felt confident that he got right at least the first concepts within.

His first attempt at warding a small wooden box completely disproved that.

What Murtagh wanted to accomplish was for the box to only open if the person in front of it was hungry. He carefully wrote the spell, agonizing over the wording for hours until he felt satisfied, and readied the box on the stone floor of his chambers. Thorn kept silent watch from his padded nest, a singular ruby eye fixed on his partner. Reaching for the magic within him, Murtagh carefully spoke the painstakingly crafted phrases.

BOOM!

The box lit up impossibly bright and vaporized with a whoosh of air and a puff of noxious smoke, leaving a scorched mark on the polished floor. Murtagh coughed at the stench and swore viciously.

"Shur'tugal?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the unctuous voice coming from the doorway. "Blödhgarm," he croaked, trying and failing to clear away the smoke. "I didn't hear you coming."

The blue furred elf stood in the doorway, surveying the results of Murtagh's failed spell. "Am I… interrupting?"

"Not – cough – Not really. I was just… experimenting."

Blödhgarm stepped in, lithe as a cat as usual. He bowed slightly to Thorn, then turned his eerie cat eyes on Murtagh.

"Magic can be dangerous, as you well know Rider. Mayhap I can assist?"

Ah hells, why not. Murtagh handed him the parchment slip he had written the spell on. The elf scanned the phrases carefully, twin creases forming between his eyebrows as he read. He tapped one clawed fingertip on a part of the last phrase.

"I beg your pardon, Shur'tugal," he murmured, "but you made several mistakes. What were you trying to accomplish?"

Murtagh explained his idea and the logic he employed in the crafting of the spell, and Blödhgarm's frown only deepened. "This prefix –" he turned the sheet so Murtagh could see and pointed at the offending word – "twists the meaning of the verb. You made the box devour itself instead of the magic judging your intentions as you meant."

"Crap. Hence the explosion, right?"

"Hence the explosion," the elf agreed. "You are on the right track, though."

Murtagh did a double take at that. "I am?!"

"Yes, Rider. If you have a quill handy…"

Murtagh rummaged through the half finished translations on his table and fished out a goose quill and ink. Blödhgarm sat down in one of the two chairs at the freer end of the makeshift desk and wrote a few lines of neat runes below Murtagh's hasty ones, pausing a couple of times to ponder a word or two.

"Like this," he said, showing the Rider the corrected spell. Murtagh barely swallowed a groan at the obviousness of his mistake. "I have to admit, it is a worthy attempt at a delicate bit of magic. You should be proud of how far you got. I wonder, did you read Tarva's treatise on warding?"

"Part of it," Murtagh admitted. "Translating it goes slowly, what with my only now learning your people's runes."

"Mmm. He only touches slightly on intent triggering the activation of the magic, and further in the book." Blödhgarm put the quill down, and steepled his slender fingers in front of him. "How did you come by this idea?"

"The wards in the Egg Room."

"Ah. Those took Eragon-elda nigh on nine moons to work through. One of the eldest dragons gave them to us, and it took much debate on the meaning of the spells until we cast them. That you came so close with little help shows a sharp mind, Shur'tugal." The elf bowed slightly. "I would be honored to discuss further ideas with you, if you would be amenable."

You managed to impress an elf, despite you butchering his mother tongue, Thorn chuckled once the fur clad spellcaster left. Wonders never cease.

Did anyone ever tell you sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? Murtagh groused as he tidied the sprawling mess of notes and tomes on his makeshift desk. A puff of smoke from Thorn's nostrils sent him coughing and cursing again while the ruby dragon hummed at him from his nook.

It takes one to know one, partner-of-my-heart.


One day, less than a fortnight since they have arrived to Mount Arngor, multiple sets of footsteps startled Murtagh from where he dozed against Thorn's left foreleg in the dragonhold. The hatchlings had climbed on the older ruby dragon as they liked to do and had fallen asleep draped over his bulky back in a glittering pile of scale covered limbs and wings. Murtagh had only chuckled at his dragon's pleading look, pinned as he was under snoring hatchlings and continued reading the elven poems he had picked for the day until the warm afternoon has pulled him under as well.

He looked up to see Eragon, Blödhgarm and three other elves, all tense and silent and watching him and the dragons intently. The hairs on Murtagh's arms raised as if he was about to be struck by lightning and he scrambled to his feet.

"What is it?"

"Come with me, both of you," were the only words Eragon spoke. The Leader of the riders turned on his heel and stalked out, clearly expecting Murtagh to follow him and his retinue.

Thorn had also woken up and prodded the hatchlings off of his back. They grumbled and whined, but a low growl cut off their protests. They cuddled into a greatly diminished pile in the sunny spot the older dragon had occupied, still whining softly.

What do they want, Thorn questioned as they walked seemingly to Eragon's eyrie apartment.

Eragon didn't say, but did you see all of their faces? They're as tense as a fishing line about to snap.

A small pause, then – Saphira won't tell me anything, but she's… worried. Something's off.

Murtagh's hand instinctively tightened where the handle of Ithring would usually sit at his waist. He had taken to leaving his sword in his chambers as he wandered the keep, partly because he felt he didn't need it and partly to send a message that he didn't mean anyone no harm. Now he wished he had buckled it to his sword belt when he left his room in the morning.

Instead of going to the top of the long staircase up the main body of the keep to the eyrie, Eragon veered to another hallway one level below. They passed another high arch nigh on shimmering with protective enchantments and walked into a disk-shaped room filled with a kaleidoscope of colored light.

Row upon row of Eldunari, sitting upon silken pillows, took the center. The pulses of light in the hearts-of-hearts centers mingled with the sunshine filtered through colored crystal windows into a shimmering rainbow. The reflections gave Eragon and his stern-faced companions the air of eerie fae beings in a fever dream.

"This is the Hall of Colors," Eragon explained in a tight tone. "I believe you can guess why we call it that."

"Makes sense. Why are we here?"

"Because… One of the Eldunarya has called for you."

Thorn's claws screeched on the stone floor when his scaly front paws twitched in surprise. Murtagh's jaw actually fell open with the shock. Who would –

A mind, as vast and ancient as the mountains, emerged from one of the glittering jewels in the middle of the room. Its touch was familiar, even if Murtagh had only felt it once before in peace and once in war.

Greetings, Thorn Bloodwing. Greetings, Murtagh Morzansson. I have been waiting for you for a long time.

Glaedr, for it was his growling, avalanche voice speaking, skirted around the edges of Murtagh's mind, tasting the flavor of emotions escaping through the iron shields separating him from the world. The Elder dragon didn't push further into the frozen Rider's mind, staying far in enough to be heard but not enough to break through. He could almost feel the tension rolling off of Eragon and the elves in waves of sour, and deep within their bond Thorn moved silently to shore up their mental defenses in preparation for battle.

Do not fear, younglings, I come in peace. Glaedr chuckled within his mind, the habits of the flesh hard to forget. I only wanted to make a proposal.

A… proposal, Ebrithil? Thorn's musical voice was hesitant in their shared mindscape.

Yes, young one. When we last parted, you and your Rider needed time. Time to wash away the stains of the Eggbreakers deeds, of your own deeds. Time to grow and to heal. My fellow dragons and I promised you that when you are ready, we would have much wisdom to impart.

And are we ready? Murtagh doubted that himself, but hadn't they come all the way across Alagaesia to get help? Didn't they almost fail once already with near catastrophic consequences?

Unaware of his train of thought, Glaedr huffed. That is only for you to know and decide with your partner, Murtagh. What we offer is the knowledge to support that decision.

We thank you, Masters, Thorn said upon a lightning-quick conference with Murtagh. The dragon was all for the idea, only tempering his reactions until his Rider had agreed. Who of you will teach us?

I would do it myself.

Silence, then the elves exploded into whispers. They had all been privy to the conversation, waiting silently on the outskirts of Glaedr's mental landscape. A flash of shock had passed over Eragon and Blödhgarm's faces too, but it was quickly gone in favor of acceptance. The other three, however, opened their mouths to speak up only to be cut off by Eragon with a raised hand.

"It is Glaedr's right to do as he chooses, and it is Thorn and Murtagh's right as Riders in full to get the training denied to them by war and circumstance." He turned to Murtagh and Thorn. "Are you comfortable with this arrangement?"

"If Glaedr is, we would agree."

I wouldn't have proposed it if I wasn't willing to spend extended spans of time teaching you, younglings. The dragon's tone was dryer than the Hadarac Desert in summer and aimed more at their audience than his prospective apprentices. Now, if you are all done questioning my choices, we have much work to do.

Eragon stepped lightly between the smaller Eldunarí up to the dais where a few large hearts-of-hearts sat. He wrapped a gleaming golden one, almost larger than he could wrap his arms around, in the silken pouch it sat on, careful not to touch it directly. Once finished, he handed Glaedr's Eldunarí to Murtagh.

"Be careful," Eragon murmured, almost inaudible before he went back to the throng of muttering elves. Looking down at the heart-of-hearts he cradled in his arms, Murtagh only hoped this idea wouldn't come back to bite off their tail in the end.


Minutes later, in the safety of his and Thorn's vaulted apartment, Murtagh set Glaedr's Eldunarí on the second iteration of the chest he had built. The first one had been lost to one of Thorn's occasional nightmares, smashed apart by a flailing wing arm. The older dragon had been silent for the duration of the trek, but the eerie landscapes of his mind again pressed gently around their consciousness as soon as the oaken doors closed behind Murtagh.

Glaedr surveyed both Rider and dragon for a long moment, and the longer silence spanned the more Murtagh fought the urge to fidget like a child in front of a stern teacher. If he would have poked Thorn, the dragon would have flinched so high he would have gone through the carved roof. Murtagh finally couldn't take the quiet appraisal anymore and drew a breath to say – something. He did not even know what, and before the thought even formed the looming monolith of Glaedr's consciousness softened.

Patience does not come easily to you in moments like this, Murtagh-son-of-Morzan. It was a flat statement of a fact, leaning neither towards approval nor scorn, but Murtagh bristled nonetheless. Vicious retorts and words of defense formed on the tip of his tongue and died a quick death. Finally, he settled on blunt honesty.

Not when I invite scorn or retribution for not defending myself.

Better claw your opponent before it claws you, Glaedr hummed. Why do you think I am your opponent, Rider?

Murtagh flinched, a thousand answers popping up unbidden with their ever-present flavor of guilt, grief and anger. We killed you, he wanted to say. I killed your Rider. I hate you for hiding. I hate you for not being able to save us – save Thorn – from Galbatorix. You hate me for my father's name. There were so many answers he could have given, some valid, some not. He took a moment to mull through them, choosing his words carefully.

As much sense as it made once to hate Glaedr and Oromis for hiding under the leafy green canopies of the elves' forest, he couldn't hold on to it. If he looked at it strategically, they would have stood no chance against Galbatorix and his army of maddened dragons. Better to hide, lie in wait and hope beyond hope that one or more eggs would be retrieved from Uru'baen. Without them and their training, Eragon and Saphira would have joined him and Thorn under the king's iron fist and all of Alagaesia would have been lost.

It did little to soothe the part of him that still roiled at the injustice of leaving him and Thorn to their fate, but he at least understood why.

That left only the rest of the reasons to expect the elder dragon to want nothing to do with them at best, or exact retribution at worst.

I am the son of an enemy who took your whole Order away from you, and I myself, along with Thorn, took all you had left in turn. I would not forgive anyone for taking Thorn from me. Murtagh did not allow his iron stiff spine to bend one fraction of an inch, either in his own body or inside of his mind. Come hell or high water, he would face this unbent. He didn't even let Thorn have a peek at the pit of bubbling, murky fear at the mere thought of losing him, for the dragon's reaction would have sent him drowning in its depths.

The monolith that was Glaedr's mind dissolved into grey hills and dales, haunted by half-formed, eerie shapes for a split second, before a sigh as grand as the wind itself swept them into a smooth pool of golden stars. When he next spoke, the dragon sounded unfathomably old, older even than the roots of the Beors. Losing Oromis… We knew it was likely to happen that either one of us or both would die on the battlefield. It was not an easy truth to bear, and I sense that it terrifies you to lose your bonded partner. I felt the taste of you fear in your thoughts ever since you touched the stones in the yard. That is why I called you both to the Hall of Colors, so I may arm you to not experience what I have.

Thorn shot Murtagh a sad look, ruby eyes wide and full of grief. The dragon snaked his massive head so it would press against his Rider's side and whined low in his throat. Murtagh stared in stunned silence at Glaedr's Eldunarí.

As for your lineage… The older dragon let out a small growl. One cannot help who had sired them any more than they can change the color of their scales. That fact notwithstanding, you have proven that Morzan's path is not your own.

I would rather tear all my father built – Murtagh nearly spat the word – to the ground with my own two hands than follow in his wake. This world has had enough of tyrants.

So, tell me, Murtagh Dragon Rider, what would you leave in your wake?

The answer was as easy as breathing. It rang with so much truth it outshone even the most brilliant star in the darkest night, part of the very fiber of Murtagh's being. It had pride of place in his true name despite all of the flaws codified within, in Thorn's own name, it even adorned his sword. His closest friend's conviction swirled with his own, and Glaedr felt it ripple across their minds before Murtagh even spoke it. Freedom. That is what we will fight for.

The fierce approval of the elder dragon blazed like a bright comet across the mirror-like pool of his thoughts, then rippled out to its unseen edges. Then, Thorn and Murtagh, let us begin your training.


The night of Glaedr's proposal, when they realized there was little chance of leaving anytime soon, Thorn took Murtagh around the mountain cliffs to Eragon's eyrie to use his brother's enchanted mirror. Both he and Thorn had been concerned about their stay away from Ilirea being way longer than planned at first. Leaving Nasuada alone, with a court infiltrated by gods knew how many spies of both the Draumar and the remnants of Galbatorix's loyalists, would have made Murtagh's scales itch if he had any.

"I was about to send for you," Eragon said once Thorn had landed through the large window of the eyrie. "I have checked in with the sorcerer accompanying Nasuada occasionally, but Glaedr taking you under his wing shifts things a bit in our plans. We should let her know you'll be absent longer."

Murtagh jumped off Thorn's back, nodded to Saphira who blinked a massive sapphire eye in greeting, and went straight to the gilded mirror on Eragon's desk. "Any news from the capital?"

"They are only now beginning their progress through the realm. I believe they were last heading to Dras Leona."

"So late?" It had been more than a month since they have left Ilirea, and Murtagh suddenly felt a pang of regret at being too absorbed into his quest to fix his shortcomings to inquire more about Nasuada.

Eragon grinned wryly and dragged the other seat in front of his desk so it faced the mirror. "Don't get antsy, nothing bad happened. This is Nasuada and Arya's plotting at its best. Nasuada declared a whole fortnight of feasts and tourneys in honor of Arya's visit, and then only they started to negotiate on the treaty that was the pretext of the visit. Both parties had agreed on the terms beforehand, of course, but it gave Arya's spellcasters more time to secure the citadel."

"Did they find…"

"Nothing on the Draumar apart from whispers and very little proof, unfortunately." Eragon grimaced, then continued, "They did uncover the beginnings of a new assassination plot by the Black hand, though, and foiled it. The perpetrators were hiding in the manor of one of the pardoned nobles on the outskirts of the city."

Thorn's growl rattled an empty tea mug on the desk. Murtagh closed his eyes and counted back from 10 once, then twice to calm himself. She's with Arya, she's safe. Arya promised. She's safe. We can't leave now, so she has to be. Please gods let her be safe.

"Well then, what are we waiting for," he snapped with more venom than he meant to and waved a vague hand at the mirror. Eragon whispered a short phrase in the Ancient Language, half of it going unheard.

The mirror rippled and instead of showing their faces shifted to the inside of a candlelit tent. Nasuada, wrapped in an ornate dressing gown of red and gold brocade, was reading a thick scroll with a deep frown on her face. She startled at the sight, groping out of reflex for the dagger Murtagh knew she always kept in a small pocket sown in the bodice of all of her gowns.

"What – Murtagh!" Her dark face lit up with surprise, and she leant closer to the mirror. "And Eragon too, I see. You must have reached Mount Arngor."

"Your Majesty," he greeted, bowing with a flourish. He didn't think Eragon caught the tiny fond smile that fleeted on her lips at his antics. "We thought to check on your progress – and let you know about ours."

Murtagh gave Nasuada a short account of the trip and their time in the citadel, ending up with Glaedr's offer of apprenticeship. At Eragon's mental request, he said nothing of the hatchlings, though he made it clear that he wanted to know why afterwards. He half expected Nasuada to be disappointed at their delay, but her calm expression betrayed nothing.

"I don't believe this changes anything in our plans," she said after a long pause. "You went east to learn as much as you could and to warn Eragon. Training with the dragons would only further that goal."

Murtagh sighed and glanced at his brother. The younger man only nodded silently, then made a murmured excuse of needing to check on Saphira and left. When Eragon was far enough away that even with enhanced ears it would be impolite to eavesdrop, he lowered his tone and said, "I'm sorry. I did promise you I would stay, and now it seems I have to break my promise."

Nasuada's whole stance softened, and a sad smile danced on her lips. "As long as you return, I still consider that promise whole. You and Thorn both need this, Murtagh, and I will not deny you what you need to grow." Her expression turned wistful. "Even though I wish it was not half a world away."

"Maybe next time you can come with us a while. What my brother built here… It's impressive."

"That's new," she commented.

"What?"

"You called Eragon your brother."

Murtagh glanced over his shoulder. Eragon was near the dragon entrance, conversing softly with Thorn while they admired the view of the lower keep outside. He could not hear the words the Rider said, but he felt the humor and mischievousness tint Thorn's equally inaudible response.

"We do share a mother," he said mildly, turning back to the mirror. "And I'd think it's about time we acted like it. Took me long enough, at the very least."

The brilliant way her delighted smile lit her whole being at that would feature front and center in his dreams a long time after.