In Search for the Dream

The sun had already begun its descent on the horizon, casting its golden rays sideways. Despite the midwinter chill, his face felt warm. So warm that the solitary tear that had just trailed down his cheek and nestled at the corner of his lips was already drying, leaving behind a salty taste. He noticed the shadows of the boulders lengthening across the desolate plain, while a damp current rising from the ground blurred the distance.

The dragon rider was filled with sorrow. He had been sitting for hours on the side of the sandstone hill, next to the small opening of the cave that had sheltered them for the past few days, staring blankly at the horizon. Deep in his heart, pain mingled with sadness, anxiety, and despair. His companion, the only friend left from his old life—his guide and teacher, the one who had taught him how to survive—the last of the ancient free dragon riders, was dead. Dead and already buried in his stone tomb, the sides of which he had magically raised himself, atop the flat summit of the hill.

"Here lies Brom, who was a dragon rider and like a father to me.

May his name be glorified through the ages."

This inscription, magically carved into the sandstone, marked the old bard's final resting place in this world. It was the last gift from his young companion, who now had nothing left but to mourn his loss. He had once known him as the village storyteller, but he had proven to be so much more.

The dragon rider sighed heavily. Brom had finally succumbed to the fatal injury inflicted by the Ra'zac's sharp knife, an injury that had been meant for him. The dragoness, despite her initial refusal, eventually agreed to share that image with him. Through her memories and eyes, the dragon rider managed to see what had happened to his companion while he was unconscious and bound on the ground.

Brom had saved his life, and for that, he owed him eternal gratitude. If the old man hadn't suddenly covered him with his own body as a shield, the blade would have pierced him deeply, and now he would be the one buried atop the hill under the sandstone. He didn't dare think about what would have become of Saphira.

Brom had saved them, and no matter how hard the dragon rider tried afterward, even combining his magic with that of the dragon, all he managed to do was heal the surface of the deep wound without curing its interior. His knowledge of healing had not been sufficient, nor perhaps his strength. Was it the blow from the Ra'zac and the pain from his broken ribs that had weakened him? Or was it the spilled blood, which had gathered into a deep, dark stain under the skin, that caused his helplessness? The dragon rider doubted it very much.

"We have so much more to learn!"

Even though the dragoness was nowhere near him, and he had lost visual contact with her hours ago, her voice echoed clearly in his mind, offering a faint sense of solace for his great loss. The blue dragoness had flown away immediately after the burial, seeking sustenance.

"Saphira! Our companion, friend, and protector is lost to us forever. Who remains to teach us what we need to know?" The dragon rider sighed deeply, trying to expel his sorrow, an effort that caused intense pain in his chest and made him grimace.

"Perhaps you and I could fly to the land of the elves," echoed the dragoness's hopeful voice in his mind. "Even if they initially refuse to accept us, I can always persuade them with my teeth and claws."

Hearing those words, the dragon rider would have laughed at his beloved's fervor, if the worry of potentially triggering his pain hadn't held him back. "Brandishing claws and teeth isn't the best way to make new friends," he mused.

He gazed up at the celestial dome. Oh, how he longed for her presence! How much he needed her by his side! Where was his beautiful one? Would she be away from him for much longer? He understood, of course, that Saphira needed her sustenance, and so he tried to mask his anxiety during their connection.

The magic they both used earlier that morning to bury Brom in a unique and untrodden grave was powerful. It had undoubtedly left them both exhausted and in great need of sustenance; at least it had left him so. "Brom didn't have much trust in the elves," he remarked to the dragoness. "He used to say they had vanished into their forests, only caring for themselves. I don't see how we could reach them, nor any way to persuade them to teach us."

"Well, then we'll discover what we need, just the two of us alone." The dragoness was always optimistic. What other creature could compare to her in strength, speed, and grandeur? "Make sure to regain your strength, little one, and don't worry about anything else. I know Brom was the last remnant of all you left behind, but he's gone now. He, too, is lost along with your entire past. You no longer belong to Carvahall; you are my dragon rider."

Despite the vain and possessive tone of her voice, she understood through the bond they shared the bitterness of her chosen one. So she decided to comfort him while also piquing his interest in the wide variety of exciting experiences they would encounter in their new life together. "It's natural that you can't forget those you've lost. But you can always honor them while moving toward a new future."

"Brom wasn't the last one, Saphira. There's still Ror..."

"Eragon!"

The voice that made him turn abruptly caused a new, violent pain in his ribs. This new, unexpected companion, who had so suddenly entered their lives, was returning from the hunt. Several hours earlier, he had taken it upon himself to collect water and food for the both of them. Now, he was quickly climbing the hillside, holding two dead rabbits in his hands.

Panting, he reached the other side of the small cave entrance and let the game fall to the ground. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he scanned the sky all around. A few moments later, perhaps relieved that no airborne threat loomed over them, he took a deep breath, sat down, drew the game close, and began skinning the two rabbits.

The dragon rider thought that if they wanted to cook the rabbits, someone would have to start a fire first. However, he felt utterly exhausted and helpless, unable to do such a thing. For now, he would have to rely on this unexpected savior and helper for everything that needed to be done.

"Is your dragon nearby?" his companion asked without lifting his eyes from his work. His hands moved swiftly and skillfully. He had already finished cleaning one rabbit and was starting on the second.

"Not that close," the dragon rider replied moodily.

"But will she return soon?"

"I don't know."

They must have shared the same concern. The sun was setting, casting shadows around them, and darkness would soon follow. It was better to light the fire and cook inside the cave. That way, neither the smoke nor the light from the hearth would be visible. None of them could be sure that the dreadful enemy wouldn't attack them again from above. If his dragoness were nearby, she would protect them.

"How are you feeling?" his companion asked again, his voice carrying deep emotion. His eyes were lowered to his work, and most of his face was hidden by his unruly, dark hair.

"The pain is intense when I move," the dragon rider replied. "But... the pain in my heart is worse."

The other paused for a moment, casting a worried glance in his direction. "But will you recover?"

"I must!"

The two rabbits had been cleaned and prepared, skewered on a makeshift, smoothed spit made from a thin rod cut from the twisted branch of a shrub. "You know… it's not that I want to pressure you. I understand how you must feel and that you're wounded, but… The sooner we leave this place, the safer it will be for both of us. The Ra'zac might avoid hunting us for a few days, since I'm sure I've hurt them with my arrows—one more than the other. But they will certainly pursue us. On the other hand, you need food to regain your strength. And around here, game is scarce; I'd say it's rare. It's the first time it took me so long to catch two rabbits with so little meat on them."

The dragon rider watched his companion rise from his previous position, clean his hands with a piece of cloth, and begin lighting the fire. He felt sorrow that he couldn't help in any way, but due to his physical and emotional state, he was unable to do so.

Later, the spit with the game was set up over the coals, and the smell of fat dripping onto the embers made his mouth water. He was very hungry, and the magic he had used in the morning, along with the horrific events of the past few days, had exhausted him. Leaving suddenly with Brom from Dras-Leona, it had been impossible to replenish their supplies. The small chunk of bread his new companion had provided had barely satisfied his hunger.

The dragon rider struggled to his feet and approached the fire. It hadn't escaped his notice that he was the only one of the two who had eaten anything in hours. His companion had generously given him the last of his portion.

Despite the pain of Brom's loss, he felt a sense of gratitude for this stranger. The stranger had saved him from the attack and captivity of the Ra'zac. He had managed to drive away the monsters and free Saphira from her bonds. From the moment they met until now, he had done everything for him and Brom that he was unable to do in his helpless state.

He sat by the fire, facing the other. Their food was almost cooked, and he felt a sense of relief deep in his mind as Saphira returned, satiated. "Murtagh, we'll leave tomorrow at dawn."

His companion was now tending to the horses. He turned and looked him carefully in the eyes. "Can you ride?"

"No, but if I stay here idle any longer, I'll go mad. So I choose to ride."

Murtagh shrugged, finished his work with the horses, pulled the game from the spit, and began to divide the cooked meat into portions. "You can eat as much as you need, but I suggest we save some for the road. None of us knows if we'll find more game in the barren plain, and going back to Dras-Leona is completely out of the question."

The dragon rider accepted the bowl of roast and began to eat. Despite the sorrow that lingered in his soul, his hunger was great. He found it hard to set anything aside for later. "Maybe Saphira would agree to help with the hunt," he suggested. "She could fly a considerable distance and bring back some game for us."

The other laughed. "It's hard to ask that of a dragon," he commented. "But, of course, you are her rider and you know best."

They both remained silent for a while, occasionally stoking and stirring the fire, watching the flames dance in the evening breeze that entered the cave through the small opening.

It was well past dusk when the dragoness returned. She settled in one corner, as far from the horses as possible, and began licking her sharp claws.

"I'm glad you're back with me, Saphira."

"You should be glad, little one. But don't worry, there is no danger, crawling or flying, anywhere around."

"This will be our last night in this place. We'll leave at dawn tomorrow."

"It makes no sense to linger here unless you need more time to regain your strength."

"I'll be fine."

The dragon rider moved away from the fire and approached the place where he had left his saddle and belongings when they first arrived, his steps unsteady. He chose the long, narrow package containing the sword that Brom had provided and unwrapped it. He examined the iridescent blade, the dark symbol of its previous owner, and the large tear-shaped ruby that adorned the handle wrapped in silver wire. Despite the blade's notorious reputation and the man who wielded it, it was a sword befitting a dragon rider.

He strapped it to his belt decisively. He was the dragon rider now, and since Brom had entrusted him with this blade, he would wear it always, regardless of its previous reputation. Then he approached his dragoness and settled beside her. She half-covered him with one of her wings, creating a safe nest for him, keeping the darkness and the cold of the January night at bay.

Neither of them noticed their companion, who, with a darkened gaze, closely watched the blade of the sword from the moment it was revealed.

.*.*.*.

Murtagh wondered about the dragon rider's name, the thief of Galbatorix's egg. Where had a village boy from the north found a name like that? Who had given it to him? There couldn't be a more fitting name for his current role.

From the history books he had read in the capital, Murtagh knew that the first of the dragon riders was named Eragon. He was an elf who had bonded with his white dragon, Bid'Daum. The pair had been the first of their kind and had stopped the deadly destruction between their two races. Now, the first dragon rider to appear again after the dragons' disappearance introduced himself as Eragon as well. Murtagh suspected that this was no coincidence.

Most likely, "Eragon" wasn't even the boy's real name, but he chose to call himself that after the dragon egg hatched for him. Wasn't that the reason why, when he introduced himself, he avoided saying his full name, omitting his father's? Perhaps he wasn't anything he claimed to be; just a boy who, a few months ago, only knew the work on his family farm. His hands were rough, the skin cracked at the joints, with some marks that might have been left by work tools, or perhaps not. The handling of the sword also left calluses on the inside of the palm. No matter how tough the skin was from the swordsman's gloves, similar cuts marked their hands and arms. Murtagh knew this well from such situations.

On the other hand, Murtagh hadn't introduced himself properly either. Naturally, he would never admit to a stranger that he was Morzan's son. However, he could have used the name Tornac, as he had done for so many years. But when he saw the dragon, something deep inside him held him back.

Something inside him also told him that, despite the sad fact that the elderly companion of the dragon rider had died, if he had lived, they might not have accepted him among them. His fate, having first twisted his ambitions to deliver a thief along with his treasure back to Galbatorix, had suddenly smiled upon him with this death.

The dragon rider was alone and wounded, unable to take care of himself or his horses. The dragon might be able to carry him on her back and fly away, but such a plan did not seem to be in their immediate future. The wound inflicted by the Ra'zac in his chest needed rest. He needed someone else to hunt for him, prepare food, light the fire after gathering wood, clean their utensils, fetch water, and take care of the two horses. Murtagh had willingly accepted this role.

Then there was the sword. The iridescent blade with the ruby in its hilt, which the dragon rider had so unexpectedly presented and so persistently strapped to his waist. Murtagh knew this sword well. The memories of it would be hard to erase, if they ever could be. He had spent endless hours safeguarding the secret of this blade deep in his mind, in a place that would remain well hidden from the observation of any third party.

"Tell me," he had asked the dragon rider the morning they were leaving the hilltop refuge, "your Brom, was he 'the famous' Brom?" The name had become immediately known to him in Urû'baen. There was nothing else he needed to ask. "That was him," the dragon rider had hastily replied before retreating into his silence again.

There were countless times when Murtagh caught the boy sitting silently, his gaze lost in the distance, as if dazed. However, as days went by living beside him, he realized that during such moments, he was conversing with the dragon. Murtagh felt envious. The red egg that Galbatorix had promised him, the reward for his service, called to him. But circumstances had unfolded differently from what he had planned. Since the treasure and the thief were none other than the first dragon and rider to appear in Alagaësia in a century, returning them to the king was out of the question.

He didn't want to use violence against the rider, nor could he, because of the dragon. As for influencing him? Leading him back to the capital? No way! Murtagh understood well that the power emanating from the pair was such that they would become dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands.

He had to forget about the red egg, which he had felt such a strong need for. Duty—once, but now even more urgently—called him to hurry, to lead the dragon and rider to Ajihad... and Nasuada... along with all the other information he had. Information that was not much, compared to the events of the last few days.

For now, he had followed Galbatorix's instructions. He had ensured to stay with the dragon rider and his dragon, becoming his essential companion and, although the boy was particularly cautious, gaining part of his trust.

The dragon rider behaved like a lost soul after the death of his old companion. He may have decided to leave Dras-Leona because of the danger of being hunted again by the Ra'zac, but most likely their path was random, without a planned destination. Murtagh followed and waited. Wouldn't there come a moment when the dragon rider would share his thoughts and intentions? His plans for the future?

That moment didn't take long to arrive. Sitting in front of the fire of their small campsite on the third night since they had left the hill, and after they had finished whatever remained from their last hunt in their sacks, they were forced to confront their true situation.

"If we continue on our current path, we'll reach Lake Tüdosten in a few days," Murtagh said, carefully gauging the other's mood. From the look the dragon rider gave him, the young man realized that the name 'Tüdosten' was completely unfamiliar to him. "To the east of the lake, there are vast forests with plenty of game."

He paused for a moment, waiting for any remarks from the other, but none came. Eragon had that same lost look he often had, likely conversing with the dragon. "The land of Surda is close from that point," Murtagh continued tentatively, "in case you intend to head that way."

For the first time in a while, the dragon rider paid attention to him. He turned toward him and locked eyes with him. "I want to be honest with you," he said. "Saphira insists that we should talk, share our doubts and thoughts."

Eragon instinctively brought his hand to his aching ribs and gently pressed his wound over the makeshift bandages made from a torn blanket that Murtagh had wrapped around his torso. He often made this movement, perhaps to check the pain it caused him. He grimaced once again, as usual, but Murtagh had already noticed that he was becoming more comfortable with his movements. His broken ribs would need time to heal, as would the hematoma. Unless dragon riders recovered faster than ordinary people. Perhaps he had even used the same magic on himself that he had tried on his deceased companion. However, Murtagh had not noticed anything like that. He nodded to Eragon, waiting.

"The truth is, I haven't decided yet what to do. Saphira suggested we travel to the elves, but we don't know where to find them. However, I'm sure that Brom did not have such a course in mind."

Murtagh observed him thoughtfully. It would be easy to lead him beyond Gil'ead, which he knew was the closest point of the empire to the eternal forests of the elves. Galbatorix was gathering an army there, possibly fearing an attack from them. Lord Barst had shown him some entrances to the great forests on a map. However, the paths were treacherous, according to the lord. There was a strange magic protecting them, which the empire's magicians had never managed to neutralize. Perhaps if the king ever decided to attack, he himself might know ways to nullify it. That was what the lord of Gil'ead had implied. Galbatorix, however, did not seem inclined to do so at present; he was merely gathering an excess army to protect his own lands and interests.

Murtagh had heard from some elderly courtiers that the king did not usually leave the safety of Urû'baen's castle. He hadn't done so for about a hundred years. However, circumstances were rapidly changing, as Murtagh had observed. The king himself had sent him to attach himself to the young dragon rider, with orders to deliver him to Dras-Leona. If the king was willing to travel there, it could mean only one thing. Galbatorix was preparing to crush his last enemies before putting into motion his plans for the new face of Alagaësia that he had described to him. Another dragon rider was essential for him. At least, that was what Murtagh inferred from the king's actions and words. But that possibly meant...

The thought of Galbatorix flying on his dragon, leading the Ra'zac to search for them, sent shivers down Murtagh's spine. The king must have already learned of their failure. He would assume—and rightfully so—that since Murtagh had not shown any signs of life until now, he must indeed be where he was: beside the dragon rider.

Would the king delay in Dras-Leona waiting for Murtagh? Perhaps Galbatorix and Shruikan would decide to hasten the capture of the new pair. This turn of events required immediate decisions on his part.

From the first moment he saw the blue dragon and understood the bond that tied him to the boy, Murtagh decided to disobey Galbatorix's orders. If anyone were to gain control over the pair, it should be Ajihad and the Varden, no one else.

Murtagh fixed his eyes on Eragon. "Your companion is no longer here to guide you. You must decide on your own. What I need to tell you is that I will follow you wherever and for as long as you need me."

Eragon nodded. "We appreciate the help you have given us and continue to offer. However, we do not want to be the cause of you being endangered by the Ra'zac."

A sudden, harsh laugh escaped Murtagh. "There are dangers far worse than the Ra'zac," he said. "As for me, don't worry. I've learned early on how to defend myself."

Eragon lowered his eyes to the ground and remained silent, drawing shapeless designs in the dirt with his finger. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable. Perhaps he had never before had to make decisions as serious as these, which would shape his future.

Seeing him like that, Murtagh decided to influence things in his own favor. "There are, you know, the rebels… they call themselves the Varden. If you decided, from the lands of Surda we could…"

"Are you one of them?"

The dragon rider's abrupt question cut Murtagh off mid-sentence. Eragon's head jerked at the mention of the Varden, and his irises flashed from the fire's reflections. He slid back slightly, further away from him, as if bitten by a snake.

Murtagh regretted rushing to open up. It was obvious he had scared the boy. "I didn't say that." He would never admit to being one of the rebels, especially now that he didn't yet know the dragon rider's intentions and plans. He would never risk revealing that part of his identity.

Eragon relaxed. His head fell heavily onto his chest again. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to offend you. As far as I understood, though, Brom intended to keep us just as far from the elves as from the Varden. He said they would be equally dangerous to us."

"You didn't offend me," Murtagh emphasized. "However, you should know that you will need some allies. The sooner you decide, the better. We are hunted in the wilderness. Water is scarce, and game even scarcer. It's not that we will have a problem surviving, but soon our presence will become known to more people than it should. I think you should start making decisions, even by plotting a possible course. Unless…" Murtagh moved his face closer to Eragon's, forcing him to look up.

"Unless… what?"

"Unless one of your thoughts is the possibility of joining the Empire's forces, pledging allegiance and submission to the king," he said in a low voice, continuing to gaze at him with an inscrutable look. What could he do in that case? If the young dragon rider and his dragon decided that way? Fortunately, the doubt did not last long.

"Submission to the king?" Eragon's eyes filled with horror. From the other side of the campsite, Saphira roared into the night. "No, no! Submission to the king, never! What made you think such a thing?" He now looked at him with eyes full of suspicion.

"Nothing," Murtagh replied, trying to hide the relief that washed over him like a balm. "However, I don't see any alternative paths for you. On one side is the Empire, on the other the elves or the Varden. Choose!"

Silence spread between them once again, except for the occasional rumblings of Saphira. The clouds parted above them, revealing a slanted half-moon, hinting at the inclement weather likely to follow in the coming days.

Murtagh regretted his haste to influence him. If Galbatorix knew anything well, besides magic, it was politics. For over a hundred years, he had immersed himself in its practice. When he had advised Murtagh to stay close, first earning the boy's trust, he knew better than anyone. But time was pressing. If anyone attacked them – including the king – Eragon was still weak, completely unable to wield his unique blade. Murtagh intended to defend him to the end. But then what? The dragon rider and the dragon were essential to the overall outcome of the war. They needed to be persuaded to join the Varden's camp. However, Murtagh decided to leave this matter for now. He would follow their path closely, help them, and hope.

"It's hard for me to decide hastily," Eragon finally replied. "I can only start by selling one of my two horses. I don't see why we should delay by leading it and consuming more resources than necessary for our journey."

Murtagh shrugged indifferently. "If that's what you think… In the first village we come across, it will be easy to find a buyer. They are both sturdy and of good breed. By the way, which one do you plan to sell?"

Eragon turned towards the direction where the horses were hobbled for the night. "The chestnut one, Cadoc," he replied, caressing the horse with his gaze.

"Why not Snowfire?"

"Brom had promised to look after him. Now that he's no longer here, I'm going to do it on his behalf."

"It's a beautiful horse," Murtagh admitted, referring to Snowfire. The new direction the conversation had taken was desirable. It would break the unpleasant atmosphere that had developed between them a short while ago.

"And yours is beautiful too," said Eragon. "Horses like Tornac are hard to come by these days."

Murtagh smiled, pleased with the dragon rider's compliments. "I was given him as a foal, and he's specially trained for the battlefield. He bears the name of the one who taught me to fight."

"It must be a very proud horse then," Eragon smiled.

"It should be," Murtagh agreed, "since it bears the name of my beloved father." The words slipped out before he realized it, but it was already too late. Unintentionally, he had revealed one of his secrets to the dragon rider. In the future, he would need to be more careful. Eragon's eyes were already glistening as he observed him.

"Where is he now?" he asked, full of curiosity.

"He has died."

"I'm sorry…" the dragon rider replied, melancholic once again. The brief interlude of smiles and pleasant conversation about the horses had vanished. He was once more faced with the significant problems he had to solve.

"Go and rest," Murtagh suggested. "I'll keep watch for the night."

"You kept watch last night too," Eragon murmured, feeling sullen. "At some point, you need to sleep and rest as well. You do so much for us…"

Murtagh stood up and gathered the empty food bowls to clean them. As he passed by on his way to the horses, he reached out and gently squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry about me, I can manage."

He once again watched the dragon rider spread his blanket and lie down beside the dragoness, as was their custom. She covered his body with her wing, as she did every night, and rested her snout on the ground close to his head.

Murtagh tended to the horses one last time, then approached the fire and sat cross-legged near the embers, placing the bare blade of his sword across his legs. Above him, leaden clouds thickened again, covering the sky's dome and hiding the pale, slanted half-moon. His gaze was captivated by the flames of the fire, dancing among the half-burnt twigs, casting red reflections on the stones. A wave of sparks drifted upward, meeting the wind blowing across the plain.

The wave of heat rising from the blaze reminded him of the small, warm antechamber of the king. The flickers of the fire recalled the glossy surface of the scarlet egg. Deep in his heart, he felt the yearning to be close to it again, to seek out once more the magnificent treasure of Galbatorix. The treasure promised to him by the king himself, which was now lost forever.

.*.*.*.

His dreams lately had been identical. At first, some situations he had already lived through and figures from Carvahall were intertwined with a mysterious quest in Teirm. The Ra'zac were always there, sometimes chasing him through crowded streets, half-hidden among other people, and other times killing his old acquaintances one by one. There was fire around him, hand-to-hand combat, and spilled blood; voices of anger and supplication, sometimes mingling and sometimes standing out among the constant roar that pounded in his ears. And finally, always following… she… the dark-haired woman of his dreams, whose green eyes faded in the light.

…she is still lying somewhere in the darkness… the only thing he can see is the gleam of her eyes… then her eyelids tremble… they shut… her long eyelashes seal the world out… from the slender fingers of her hand, a liquid drips… he knows in his heart that it is blood…

The dragon rider jolted awake, panting in the middle of the night. His eyes opened wide, and a cry of protest escaped from his parted lips. The image of the woman was so vivid that he thought he saw her alive before him.

…there isn't much life left in her body… her strength is steadily waning… the end is near…

"Calm down, little one!" The dragoness nuzzled his messy hair with her snout. "It was just a dream."

"No, Saphira, it wasn't a dream." The dragon rider sat up abruptly, tangled in his blankets. The dragoness's wing pulled away from him, revealing the outside world. The night's chill enveloped him, and the clouds that covered the sky's dome weighed heavily upon him. "I don't know how I can know this, but it is the truth. This woman exists somewhere. Her torment is great, and death is approaching her. I think it has already touched her."

"Eragon, are you alright?"

Murtagh's voice, filled with concern, brought him back to the center of their small camp world. His companion stood tall next to Saphira, sword ready in hand. The dragon rider nodded to reassure him.

"Is it the pain from your wound?" Murtagh sheathed his blade and crouched down in front of him.

"It was… I don't know. Saphira thinks it's a dream, but I know it's reality. I see the same person every time I close my eyes. It's been happening for a long time."

"Is it someone you know?"

The dragon rider shook his head. "It is a completely unknown person to me. Without knowing anything else, I am certain that she is very important."

"She?"

"She is a woman," admitted Eragon, blushing. "She is imprisoned somewhere, and I am absolutely certain that her life is in danger. I must do something to save her."

Murtagh sat on the dirt beside him. "Have you seen where they are keeping her?"

Eragon shook his head. Sadness filled his eyes. The woman's form was always surrounded by darkness. He could only see her, nothing else around her. "I only know that she is suffering. She has terrible wounds and she is losing blood. Her face comes to my dreams for a moment, and then disappears." He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "Usually, I wake up immediately. It affects me that much."

"If you don't know which prison she is in, it will be difficult to try to save her."

The dragon rider shrugged in despair. "Maybe… if I go back to sleep, I might be able to see something more. Tonight's dream was very intense, more so than any other time."

"Then sleep again." Murtagh stood up and turned to the spot where he kept the fire, ready to stand guard at the camp once more.

"Murtagh!" Eragon's voice made Murtagh turn back. "Saphira says you can sleep too until dawn. She will guard us."

Murtagh bowed politely to the dragon. "Thank you, Saphira. Although I can endure it, rest, even if brief, will be a relief." Then he spread his blankets next to the fire, lay down on them, and immediately fell asleep.

"Lie down again, little one. Perhaps the dream about the important woman will return."

"That is what I intend to do, oh light of my eyes."

The dawn found the dragon rider awake and in an enthusiastic mood.

"Murtagh, wake up Murtagh!"

"Mmm?"

"I know how to find the woman of my dreams. I know!"

Murtagh sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Did you dream of which prison she's in?"

"She is no longer in a prison. Don't ask me how I know, I don't know how. But I know! They are transporting her in an iron-barred carriage."

Murtagh rose, puzzled, and began folding his blankets. While he slept, the fire had gone out, as there was no one to tend to it. Only a few embers smoked among the stones. Eragon grabbed him by the sleeve, tugging him.

"Listen to me, you must listen! It's very important."

Murtagh sat back down in front of the extinguished fire, on the pile of his folded blankets. After much thought during his night watch, he had decided to adapt to the dragon rider's whims, however strange they might be. Only in this way would he gain his complete and absolute trust.

Eragon's eyes were now shining. His movements were nervous, and his cheeks had blushed. With his sudden movements, there was a fear that his broken ribs might shift, something he did not need at all. He was already lucky not to be coughing up blood. "Sit beside me then and tell me." Murtagh folded his hands over his knees and breathed rhythmically, calming himself, ready to listen to him.

Eragon settled beside him. "At some point last night, the dream came again. This time, however, I was prepared, it did not surprise me. First, I saw her face. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed unconscious. But I was not just a passive observer as before. I spoke to her! I told her my name and that she could trust me. I emphasized that I intended to help her. The image of her face flickered constantly, I was about to lose her among other dream events. But I focused and persisted.

I continued speaking to the woman, repeating the same reassuring words and promises over and over. Finally, I saw her open her eyelids, and a lively green gaze was fixed directly on me. I asked her to tell me where she was, but the woman remained silent, just staring at me. She might not have spoken, might not have said anything, but I knew she was being transported in a carriage.

Then the strangest thing happened. I saw through her eyes! I felt her body dragging over a black, hard surface, trying to reach up, climb, and hold on to something. The next thing I saw was a landscape seen through a small, iron-barred window. I could understand that she had found a way to show me the place where she was being held captive.

I became certain that they had her in a moving carriage. I saw armed riders accompanying it. I don't know how many, but they bore the symbol of a twisted flame on their chests, Galbatorix's crest. They moved along a course parallel to a large river carrying vast amounts of water. Everything I could see around were desolate landscapes. Far in the distance, a tall, solitary mountain with its peak shrouded in mist faded away. A series of hills approached the river. However, it is not the Spine; I would recognize the place.

Eragon paused for a moment and awkwardly rubbed his chest over his bandaged ribs. "Even though I 'saw,' how can I now discover this place? Especially if she is constantly on the move?"

Murtagh shifted beside him, filled with interest. "Maybe you could draw the image you saw on the ground," he suggested. He himself had read and copied so many maps of Alagaësia, not only during his apprenticeship with Lord Barst but also before that, with his other teachers.

Eragon shrugged sadly. "I can try, but how would that help us?"

Murtagh laughed spontaneously. "I know the geography of Alagaësia very well, I assure you. Perhaps I can figure out the place from the map you will draw. Imagine you are flying high above, as if you were riding on Saphira's back. Imagine seeing that scene from this height."

The dragon rider looked at him initially puzzled, then his eyes lit up. "Saphira, you have seen the same image as I have through my memories. Help me!"

He broke a small piece off the branches of the bushes they had gathered the day before to feed the fire. Then he smoothed the dirt with his palm and began to draw. "Here is the distant mountain... and the hills approaching the river... there is the mass of water, flowing foamy... here is a bend in the river..." He finished his work by marking the possible position of the carriage with a dot. He stepped back a little, inspecting his work.

"A good effort, little one!" At least Saphira seemed pleased with the imprint of the image.

"That's what I saw. I can't do any better."

Murtagh bent over the ground, examining the crude drawing. Points on the map of Alagaësia flashed through his mind with astonishing speed. A river as wide as the one described by the dragon rider must be none other than the Ramr. Tons and tons of water flowed in its bed. The young man imagined the distant mountain and the range of hills approaching the river on the map.

"It must be the Ramr River, Eragon," he said with a hint of doubt coloring his voice. "That tall mountain you saw in the distance…" he pointed at the ground, "must be Mount Marna. The bend in the river you drew is the smaller, northernmost one of the Ramr; further down there is another, larger one. Judging from this range of hills approaching the river, the carriage must be south of Gil'ead, but they haven't yet reached the junction with the Bullridge tributary."

With eyes gleaming from excitement, Eragon added another mark to the map. "It was predawn when I saw this dream image. However, I'm sure of this, the sun was rising from this point behind the hills. Therefore, the carriage is moving from north to south."

Unconsciously, Murtagh turned his gaze towards the sun, which had already blazed, igniting the dawn and was rapidly rising into the sky. "One more reason for my assumption to be correct. Look here!"

First with his finger, then with a small piece of stone, he improved the formation of the hills. He included other places, as he remembered from Lord Barst's maps. "Here is Gil'ead, south of Isenstar Lake and west of the river. The tall mountain you drew in the distance is certainly Mount Marna. The official name of this range of hills is 'the Emperor's Highlands.' Do you see this one standing out from the others, approaching the river? Its common name is 'the Hermit's Mountain.' I don't know why people call it that, but that's the name that has prevailed."

Murtagh continued to draw. "Look! Here is Bullridge. At this point, the Ramr takes its large bend southward, then turns back northward, following the mountains northeast of Urû'baen. Here, at this point, is the capital." He completed his drawing by marking an X on the ground where the metropolis was located.

Eragon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How can you be so sure?"

Murtagh shrugged. "If your drawing corresponds to the actual image you saw, then there is no doubt, we have approximately found the area where the carriage is moving."

"If they started from Gil'ead, then their destination is unlikely to be Bullridge," said the dragon rider thoughtfully. "Do you think they are taking her to Urû'baen?"

"Most likely. There is no other major city along their route."

"How far are they from there?" wondered Eragon.

"It depends on the speed at which they are moving," replied Murtagh. "Also on the stops they might make. However, a carriage cannot move very fast, at least not with the speed that riders with rested horses can."

Lord Barst had assured him that a group of trained infantry from the army needed about two weeks to travel from Urû'baen to Gil'ead, camping each night and taking designated rest stops during the day. A lone messenger rider, if changing horses at regular stations without any rest, could cover the distance in perhaps three to four days.

"And how far are we from Urû'baen?" Eragon's eyes were wide open, looking at Murtagh full of hope. His companion knew so much about the locations in the country, as if he had done nothing else in his life from the moment he was born but travel. Perhaps he had an answer to this question as well, just like all the others.

"Murtagh is much more than he appears to be," Saphira commented. "Take care, little one."

"Stay calm, beloved of my heart. I am careful."

"More or less as far as they are from the capital," replied Murtagh. "I would say about a week, perhaps less if we push the horses." He turned to Eragon and fixed his eyes on his face with particular interest. "The issue is whether you can ride without rest. Your wound is relatively recent. Maybe you shouldn't..."

"I will do whatever it takes to save this woman," Eragon cut him off abruptly. His fiery gaze fixed on his companion without a hint of hesitation or doubt. "But are you sure you still want to risk this adventure with me?"

Murtagh nodded calmly in agreement. "I will follow you wherever you go. I've told you that before."

The dragon rider smiled, pleased. "I deeply appreciate it. I recognize there are many things I am still incapable of doing. However, I believe that soon I will be in better physical condition than I am now. It has already been an entire week since... then."

"I suppose you have weighed the dangers of being with your dragon so close to Urû'baen?" Murtagh asked cautiously. From the rough calculations he had made the previous night, it wouldn't take them more than ten days to reach the forests east of Furnost from their present place. Once they crossed into Surda, it would be easy to reach out to a magician for help. Ajihad needed to know about the great danger threatening him. On the contrary, the dragon rider seemed ready to risk his life and freedom for a stranger. Murtagh would follow him anyway, which meant, besides danger, a significant delay to his mission.

…Ah, Nasuada!...

However, he had decided that there was no way he would leave him alone. The dragon rider looked at him with eyes full of hope. The boy had made his first big decision, which might shape his future, but now he seemed to be waiting for him to decide everything else. Murtagh thought not to disappoint him.

"Since you are so determined to risk everything for this woman's freedom, let's then devise a plan before we start moving in the new direction," he suggested.

He began to draw the continuation of the map on the ground, including the probable location where they were. Then, he tackled some makeshift calculations of the distances. He marked potential meeting points with the carriage and suitable ambush spots.

"We must move fast with the horses, avoiding any inhabited areas. However, one of us must go in disguise into the first settlement we encounter to buy supplies. Quick food that we can eat while traveling on the saddle. We won't have time to camp at night. We can sleep in turns on the horses, with one of us leading the other."

His eyes turned to the dragoness, who was sitting on the opposite side of the camp, watching their discussions with a vigilant gaze. "I suggest you tell Saphira to fly as high as possible. She must not be recognized from the ground."

Eragon nodded eagerly. "Everything will be done, we just need to hurry... to catch up before the woman is taken to Urû'baen."

"Memorize the map first," Murtagh recommended as he began to fill his leather saddle bags with his belongings. "If you're in such a hurry, there won't be another chance to go over it again."

They packed up the camp in a short time, securing their belongings to the horses' saddles. Saphira leaped high, pushing off with her hind legs. She soared towards the sky with such speed that she soon disappeared almost from their sight. At the height she was flying, an observer from the ground would have thought it was an eagle, perhaps, and nothing more.

"Fair winds to your wings, heart of my heart," wished Eragon.

"Safe travels to you too, little one. I will watch over you from up here, wherever you are."

They set off at a brisk trot, as much as the wounds on the dragon rider's chest allowed. The road stretched open before them, calling them to this new great adventure, leading their steps into the unknown that awaited them.