"It's smaller than I remember," Murtagh observed, while Brom busied himself stoking the fire in their corner of the main hall. Murtagh was struck by nostalgia, peering around at the huge room. "This place felt impossibly huge as a child."

Brom turned back. "Are you going to bring Tornac in?"

Murtagh shook his head. "I can't open the gate."

"There's a way near the eastern entrance by the stables," Brom remembered. A servant knew all the secret passages.

"You live here?" Murtagh raised an eyebrow, nodding to the tent pitched on the stone floor of the empty main hall. "Did all the furniture rot in the guest rooms?"

Brom was suddenly confronted with the question of how much he ought to trust Murtagh. "We got here only days ago."

"You and the Dragon Rider," Murtagh said without inflection. "The egg the Varden stole finally hatched."

"You're well informed," Brom said with a hint of accusation. "How do you feel about Galbatorix?"

"If you rooted through my horse's memory, you'd see that we parted ways on heated terms," Murtagh said tightly. He was still angry Brom had done that. "You killed my father."

"He had it coming," Brom snapped. "I thought you of all people would agree."

"I do," Murtagh said. "I'm just pointing out that I'm not so sure how happy you are to see his son. You clearly know who I am."

Brom scoffed. "I do not hold the sins of the father against the son. I hope you won't either."

Murtagh blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Swear you're no ally of the King's," Brom demanded. "In the Ancient Language."

Murtagh swore the oath without hesitation.

"That was your half brother," Brom told Murtagh. "Eragon is mine and Selena's."

Murtagh stared up at the ceiling in amazement, then burst into laughter. "You really hated my father didn't you? It wasn't enough that you killed him, you cucked him too?"

Brom raised a brow. "He killed my dragon. Nothing I could do to him would be enough."

That broke the ice. Murtagh sat at one of the benches he'd dragged over to the hearth. "What's the story behind all this?" he asked. "I'd have thought you'd be hiding with the Varden or the elves by now."

Brom didn't want to tell Murtagh secrets when he wasn't certain of the man's loyalty, but he much preferred the son of Morzan travel with him than be left to his own devices in the Empire, doing things unknown.

"I did not raise Eragon," Brom said, lighting his pipe. The stress of the day eased off his shoulders. "He did not know I was his father until about five minutes before you scaled the wall. I imagine he needs time to come to terms with it."

Murtagh whistled. "Tough break. Now what? Sit around in this empty castle and wait for him to cool off and come back?"

Brom shrugged. "If he doesn't show up in the next few days, I'll start after him. You're welcome to join me. It'd be a family reunion of sorts."

"You want the son of Morzan around?" Murtagh asked.

"To be frank, I was there for your childhood. I know you don't hold any loyalty to him." Brom narrowed his eyes. "I'm much more concerned with Galbatorix, who you've been living with for the past fifteen years."

Murtagh huffed. "Worry less. He's brilliant and charismatic, but when he gets angry he's as much of an animal as my father. He's also cruel and apathetic to everyone he feels is unimportant."

"What specifically taught you that?" He was right, of course, but Brom knew the King could hide it well.

"He didn't ever have time for the child of Morzan," Murtagh said. "Once I'd grown up, he took a bit of interest. He wanted to get me involved in the management of the Empire. He laid out his grand vision–"

"I've heard it," Brom said dryly. "If not from his mouth."

"Then you haven't heard it," Murtagh insisted. "The man's a snake charmer. While he's talking, you really believe him. Anyways, he called me back a week later without the mask, ranting and raving about the scourge that was the Varden–"

Brom's lips twitched in satisfaction.

"-and because the Varden had an operative there, Galbatorix demanded that I ride out with a bunch of men and raze the village and slaughter every man, woman, and child as traitors." Murtagh wrinkled his nose. "He's a madman. I fled with my swordmaster Tornac. He was killed covering my escape."

"My condolences. Were you close?"

Murtagh huffed. "He was a better father than Morzan, and certainly Galbatorix. You may thank him for any decency I've managed to learn."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Brom took a deep drag of his pipe. Murtagh was right that the deepest, pettiest corner of himself wanted to see Morzan's son suffer. But Morzan's son was not the only person in front of him. He really was out here collecting all the strays, wasn't he Saphira?

"How long are you staying?" Murtagh asked.

"Tonight and tomorrow night," Brom decided. "I'll give Eragon time to sleep on his emotions. If it's a tantrum, he'll be back by then."

"And if it's not?"

Brom sighed. "Then we'll just have to figure out a way to follow an invisible dragon and Rider with unlimited money and supplies."

The next day was awkward and slow. Morzan's son– Murtagh, Brom corrected himself, did much as Eragon did, much as he himself had done, wandering the castle. Brom had sixteen years of experience sitting around doing nothing in Carvahall.

He reviewed the supplies Eragon had left. Brom had plenty of gold. Eragon had left the tent full with apparently all the food, and had taken no significant amount. Brom didn't know how much food he had in his pack, so he couldn't estimate when or where Eragon might be likely to stop and buy more. If at all. Eragon was capable of hunting for himself even before he learned to use magic.

He and Murtagh didn't speak and when Eragon didn't show, they both had plenty of time to digest the idea of traveling together.

Brom wasn't certain how much he wanted to give away. He nominally trusted Murtagh to be a decent traveler, not kill him in his sleep, keep watch shifts while he slept, and so on. He just wasn't sure if he trusted Murtagh with Harry's secrets. The tent, fine. If he stretched his imagination, it was technically possible to warp space with the Ancient Language, and the shower could just be a magic filtration system. The stasis meals would be a harder sell, but he could imagine the boxes kept meals refrigerated until they were opened, at which point they were instantly reheated.

There were no two ways around the broomstick.

At its speed, its effortlessness, the ability to cross dozens and dozens of miles in an hour, it flew in the face of the cost of magic.

Privately, of course, Brom knew it was common practice for Indlvarn. Those whose dragons' bodies had died would still be able to reach the sky under their discorporeated dragon's energy and their own magic. The Riders had a spell for the occasion, one which took less energy than even walking over an equivalent distance. Neither he nor Oromis had it memorized, and Oromis never managed to salvage any scrolls with the details. Brom's own attempts to recreate the spell fell short of his expectations, and was too costly to use without pressing need.

With only Aren to fuel his magic, and Aren fueled only by his own steadfast efforts, Brom had no intention of burning his stockpile to avoid sore feet.

Brom gathered all his things and put the castle back to rights. Every bed tucked in, every hearth swept. It felt right to leave the place as it was.

Going through the motions was bittersweet. How many times had he done all the same chores sixteen years ago? Clearing away the ashes and sweeping the bricks, beating the broom outside. Once he left, nobody would know anybody had been here.

I'm okay with that, Brom thought. That man can stay in the past, Saphira. I have a new purpose.

"You don't have a horse," Murtagh observed, saddling Tornac.

"Well spotted," Brom said dryly.

"How did you get here if not by horseback."

"We flew," Brom said.

Murtagh seemed embarrassed by the oversight. "The dragon did not seem very large."

"Saphira," he corrected. "She is tenacious." All true, if misleading.

"Unless you intend to cozy up in the saddle, it's a long way on foot." Murtagh stepped into the stirrup and threw his leg over his horse.

Brom thought longingly of the broomstick hidden in the tent. "I have gold. We can buy a horse in Kuasta. It took you just a few days to reach here uphill. We can't be more than a week out on foot."

"How far can a dragon fly in a week?" Murtagh wondered.

"About anywhere in Alagaesia," Brom admitted. "But we have no other choice."

Murtagh shrugged. "Suit yourself."

They set out. Murtagh took the lead, backtracking across the trails he'd reached the castle by. He took it at an insultingly slow canter so Brom could keep up just walking.

"This wasn't how I imagined the Brom traveling," Murtagh remarked.

"Oh?" Brom huffed, leaning on his walking stick. Weren't cripples supposed to get longer to recover? It had only been a few weeks since he'd been injured. His chest still felt tight. "How did you imagine it?"

"Dragonback," Murtagh admitted. "Or maybe you'd just materialize out of the shadows with a knife. And you're a lot shorter than I'd imagined."

"I'm flattered," Brom deadpanned.

Murtagh shrugged unapologetically.

"They say you shouldn't meet your heroes, kid. Nobody is ever as amazing as the imaginary version of themselves in other people's heads." He navigated a tricky slope Tornac had skidded down over loose dirt.

Murtagh glanced over his shoulder. "Who said you're my hero?"

"The legendary identity you assigned to me in your mind," Brom said without hesitation.

"You saw?" Murtagh snapped, twisting in his saddle to glare.

Brom shook his head. "I don't need to. You described him to me ten seconds ago."

Murtagh cringed. "Aye, well, don't flatter yourself. I was just pointing out how you fell short of the mark."

"That's quite the tent for one man," Murtagh observed. He began pulling his bedroll from his pack. Brom waved him off.

"There's plenty of room."

"No offense, but we don't know each other that well." Murtagh nevertheless seemed curious and followed Brom inside.

His jaw dropped.

"I had no idea magic could do this," he gaped.

"Does this better fit the legend?" Brom asked sardonically. He kicked one of the coils of rope Eragon had bought further into the corner to cover up the broomstick.

"Maybe. Though I'd imagine it all shadowy and menacing, maybe with the heads of the Forsworn mounted to the walls," Murtagh hedged. The tent was rather cozy. It had a simple charm to it.

Brom propped his walking stick against the wall by his bed. "Take that bed," he pointed at the third one. "It's not being used at the moment."

Murtagh shrugged and dropped his pack next to the bed.

"Harry will thank you to get clean before you sleep in his bed," Brom added. He indicated the bathroom. "Go wash up."

Murtagh emerged from the bathroom with wet hair and clean clothes, awe writ across his expression. Brom had already finished preparing dinner.

"I had no idea magic could do this," he repeated.

Brom shrugged. "Morzan was more interested in killing than anything else. Galbatorix was a similar way. It takes creativity to get the most out of magic. Can you use it?"

Murtagh shook his head. "I've tried, but never managed anything."

"Shame."

"You'd prefer the son of Morzan have the ability to use magic?" Murtagh ate with him at the kitchenette.

Brom shrugged. "If someone had been crippled and lost both their arms in an accident, it'd be a shame even if they were the son of a worthless, evil piece of shit."

Murtagh raised his brow. "Is that how you see people who can't use magic? Cripples?"

Brom snorted. "Brisingr," he muttered, stuffing his pipe. He cleared his spot and headed outside. "At least a cripple could trip someone, or headbutt them. What's someone without magic going to do against a magician? Die."

Murtagh glanced at Brom as he counted the coins he'd raked in by slitting the purse of a bridge troll.

"Is this how you fund your adventures? Stealing your way across Alagaesia?"

Brom chuckled. "No, the man whose bed you sleep in is perhaps the richest man in Alagaesia. Unfortunately, he only carries gold." He handed Murtagh the four gold coins that had been in the troll's purse. "Usually too suspicious. And I haven't been pickpocketing around Eragon. A father has a reputation to uphold."

"Not around me?"

Kuasta approached.

Brom caught his breath, leaning on his walking stick. "I'm sure you heard plenty of stories. And you strike me as pragmatic."

Murtagh bobbed his head. "If you want to survive in Galbatorix's court."

Brom handed him another fistful of golden crowns. "I don't want to be seen in the city again so soon. If you know your stuff, get a decent horse and tack. Nothing else. We have plenty of supplies."

Murtagh accepted the gold and swung off Tornac. "The guards might remember I had a horse," he warned.

Brom grumbled. "Do you want to explain having two horses or losing one in the Spine? Leave Tornac with me."

He gave Brom a long, assessing look before handing him the reins. "I care about Tornac," Murtagh told him. "Don't let anything happen."

Brom knew that. He'd seen it in the horse's mind. "Of course."

"Alright, now what?"

Brom itched to light his pipe, but Harry would bug him if he found the tent smelling like weed. He spread out a map over the table. "He headed south."

"Doesn't rule out much," Murtagh observed, examining the map. "Not Ceunon, Teirm, or Uru'baen."

"Eragon is not foolish enough to go near Uru'baen." Brom scowled at the prospect. "He knows Surda nominally supports the Varden, though we also suspected many Urgals were headed to the border."

"Surda is far afield," Murtagh mused. "The closest city…" he tapped his fingers.

Brom wasn't sure that was much better than Uru'baen. "Dras Leona."

He shrugged. "Or Feinster, or Belatona, or Aroughs, or Dauth."

Brom didn't think Eragon intended to cross the breadth of the continent to get away from him, he probably just wanted to head anywhere that wasn't where Brom was. "Dras Leona first," he decided. "If we can't find him, we'll keep going south."

"Through the Spine again?" Murtagh traced the barrier of mountains between Kuasta and Lake Leona. On the opposite side of the lake sat Dras Leona."

"There is a pass." Brom indicated two closely huddled mountains, and the wide gap adjacent to it. "On the other side is a town that runs ferries across the lake."

Murtagh shrugged. "Onwards?"

"Onwards."

"You know I was expecting the life of a Dragon Rider to be more interesting."

Brom sighed. He was still adjusting to his new horse, a piebald named Moo. He had not wanted to call the animal by such an asinine name, but the creature had an attitude and didn't listen unless he heard his name.

"What about our current situation is not fit for adventure and legend?" he asked sardonically.

Murtagh shrugged. "A lot of walking, a lot of riding. Not much fighting."

"I picked that guy's pocket," Brom pointed out.

"Hmm."

"If a situation devolves into violence, you've done something very wrong," Brom said. Kids these days.

"I've never heard a song or tale about peaceful negotiations." They crested a hill and began heading on a level path. The trail kept going up and up ahead of them. Brom knew he couldn't use the magic water canteens to water them, either. He tried to drink from his sparingly in front of Murtagh.

"Well, if you head out into the world hoping to inspire songs and legends, you usually end up like the Forsworn rather than Vrael or Belgabad or Eragon. The elf one. Are you after stories in your name, Murtagh? You will have to shine brightly to wash out the shadow of your father."

Murtagh harrumphed, digging in his saddlebags for a snack. He bit the corner off a bit of bread. "No. Just live my life."

"Then why did you follow Eragon out of Kuasta?" Brom challenged.

Murtagh didn't answer.

"Get down," Brom hissed. He urged Moo to skitter off the path and into the trees. Murtagh followed him.

"Freytha du líjotsa," Brom whispered. Light bent around them, the world suddenly dimming despite the high noon sun. Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the abrupt dimness. Murtagh glanced at him. Brom put a finger to his lips, then pointed.

Murtagh glanced and frowned. Brom cupped his ear demonstratively. Finally, Murtagh heard the quiet sound of marching feet and froze, paling.

Stay, Brom mentally imposed upon Moo. He gestured for Murtagh to do the same with Tornac, then crept forwards. The invisibility spell worked poorly in even lighting. He kept to the shifting shadows of the swaying trees in the breeze, climbing up towards the crest of the pass.

Urgals.

Hundreds and hundreds, stretching in a winding line back below the crest to the north and on to the south, carrying spears and swords and shields and armor, kitted for war as they marched. Brom crept back when an Urgal barked a word into the rhythmic march.

A couple of horned warriors split off from the column as it continued. The pair headed down to the mountain pass between Kuasta and Leona Lake. Brom smelled their sweat as they walked within feet of his hiding place. He knew how his spell appeared from the outside; he was almost invisible, but that last bit of light he had to allow in to see with left a very dim mirage.

The one closest to him turned. Brom kept absolutely still, his heart beating so fast he thought perhaps they could hear it. Aren's comforting weight sat on his finger.

The Urgal squinted right through him. A lethal word sat on the tip of Brom's tongue. He opened his mouth to whisper when the Urgal shook his head and turned away, chewing something in response to a question from his partner.

They turned back and climbed back up to the ridge. Brom held his breath until they were back marching with the column before breathing out.

He returned to Murtagh and waited silently with the horses for an hour as a party of Urgals a thousand strong marched past. When a break came in the Urgals marching single-file, Brom snuck back up to the ridge to check. He did not see any more coming.

Brom dispelled the invisibility and the world brightened back to normal. He hurried back to Murtagh and the horses and mounted Moo. "Ride," he ordered. "As fast as you can."

They got back onto the trail and took it as fast as they dared push their horses on treacherous terrain. Not until their mounts were exhausted did they dare slow for a rest.

"Passage for two and two horses."

The ferryman took Brom's coins without complaint, rattling off a list of rules boredly. "You're responsible for your livestock if they wander off the barge. Listen to the captain at all times. Stand where he tells you to. No whinging, no complaining, no shufflin' to stand closer to your friend. With good winds, we'll be there by dinnertime."

He and Murtagh had killed time the rest of yesterday in the village. The ferries only left in the mornings. Longdale was a sleepy place that seemed to exist only to serve the rare travelers who came from that mountain pass, or else to fish on Lake Leona. It had been hard not to notice the roads along the pass getting worse and worse the closer they got to Dras Leona. It was as if just being near to such a shithole made everything worse.

Brom wondered why the hell Galbatorix liked Marcus Tabor enough to let him run the second biggest city in the Empire straight into the fucking dirt. He'd been out of the loop for too long.

The hollow sound of hooves on a gangplank jolted him back to the present. Murtagh was watching him with a strange look. Brom led Moo on after him and onto the ferry. "What?" he asked.

"What was that?" Murtagh demanded. "Back there!"

A sailor took Moo's and Tornac's reins and led them to hitching posts, balancing the load of their body weight around the centerline.

Brom sent Murtagh a heated glare and hoped he got the message to shut up. "Wait until we have some privacy."

They cast off within the hour.

The ferry was about halfway across the lake making good time when Murtagh stopped leaning against the rail and staring over the brilliant blue water. He glanced around to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear.

"You didn't seem surprised to see them in the mountains," he said lowly.

Brom scowled. The boy was sharp. "When you have three fourths of a puzzle completed, pieces begin to fit into place immediately when presented. As less and less remains unknown, each piece fits easier into place."

Murtagh nodded. "What picture is beginning to form?"

"A not-very-pleasant one," Brom said grimly. Indeed, only a handful of pieces were missing.

"What do you intend to do about it?"

Brom gazed over the waves at Dras Leona on the horizon, and Helgrind sticking up like an evil blister off to the right.

"I will do what I can right now: nothing."

Murtagh accepted the answer. Eragon wouldn't, Brom knew. That would be a catalyst for an avalanche of questions Brom would have to fend off for hours. The thought did not fill him with annoyance as it usually did, but bittersweet longing and regret.

He had had all the time in the world to grow close to his son, and he chose to forgo it out of cowardice.

The ferry sailed on under fair winds and the deck was quiet. Murtagh watched the deckhands sitting around, their eyes gliding right over him and Murtagh at the railing.

"It feels as though you are playing a trick on them," he muttered. "They know nothing of who walks in their midst, a man who has reshaped Alagaesia so much."

Brom lit his pipe. The breeze coming off the lake was pleasant, and chased off the whiff of livestock on the barge. Murtagh wrinkled his nose. He offered him the pipe, but Murtagh held up his hand.

"What was it like?" He nearly whispered. "Before everything. Before…him."

Brom popped his lips. A ring of smoke whirled away on the breeze. "Why are you asking? Banal curiosity, or are you wondering if what my friends in opposition are doing is worth it?"

"Curiosity," Murtagh said. "I honestly didn't give…your friends much thought. The first I heard of them being more than a nuisance was when he flew into a terrible rage and bared his madness to me."

The waves on the lake slapped against the hull of the ferry, soft wet noises on the rather smooth surface of Lake Leona. Brom sighed and leaned deeper against the railing. The sun shone in the clear sky, light dancing on the little wavelets. It was a perfect day.

"Much like this," Brom jerked his wrist a bit towards the sky. "But the world was not so empty. I grew up in Kuasta, your father knew. I assume he told his master. You saw how quiet that mountain pass was until the ridge. Kuasta keeps to itself for the most part. But even in our little alcove of the Spine, Kuasta saw more elves and dwarves and dragons than you've seen in your life."

"Sometimes you'd see a particularly sturdy looking ship pull up with the emblem of one of the dwarf clans stitched into the mainsail. Or an elven craft, made from one continuous piece of wood, with triangular sails and a tiny crew. Sometimes dragons flew overhead, and everybody in the fields would stop for a minute to crane their heads and watch the majestic creature go by."

Brom let his pipe droop limply in his hand over the rail. The fond memories took the edge off the worry. "Riders would land and speak with important people in the city proper. Dragons are vain, you know," he added. "Sometimes the wild ones did it too, but mostly the dragons with Riders would occasionally do tricks in the sky or breathe fire, or simply circle overhead and let the valley below behold them in awe."

"You'd get magicians, too. Nowadays they're terrified to show their faces lest he steal them for his army. The ones he hasn't already gotten to. Magicians were rare, but not as rare as they are now. The art had a greater presence. It was out there even in humans, and the Ancient Language was more widespread. Sick or wounded folk could go seek one out and hope to be healed. Sometimes they did tricks, spectacles with flashy spells for the children or for money as entertainers."

Brom sighed and took a deep drag of his pipe. He let all the smoke spill out in a messy stream, twisting his tongue this way and that to direct it. "Not so much nowadays. You ask as a human, how is it different? It is not so terrible. Taxes are too high, the army conscripts too much, magicians are terrified of their own gifts, but the average person survives. The earth still yields crops and the world still turns beneath the sun's warmth. Humans have had it worse than Galbatorix. King Palancar was a madman who kept trying to attack the elves unprovoked, back at the dawn of humans' presence in Alagaesia."

"But the rest of us? You haven't seen them." Brom held the smoke in his lungs till he needed the next breath. "They've been driven to the corners of the world. They cannot show their faces anymore. Galbatorix knows; dwarves hide in the Beors to the south, elves in Du Weldenvarden to the north. They are far from his seat of power, hidden cleverly among vast swaths of difficult and unfamiliar terrain. They survive because they do not make nuisances of themselves and they are too far away for Galbatorix to annihilate at his leisure."

"And the dragons…"

"The dragons are gone," Murtagh finished for him.

Brom held his head. "The world's just colder. There's less in it. It won't be warm again until he's gone. Is that worth fighting for, Son of Morzan?"

Murtagh flinched. He rubbed his back over his shoulder. Brom caught the tic and knew what was beneath his shirt.

"I apologize. That was unnecessary."

Murtagh slid to sit on the deck, leaning against the railing. "I don't know yet."

"This place has gone to shit," Brom remarked.

Murtagh laughed. "Really?"

"Hellfire, yes," Brom swore. "The roads are basically mud trenches and piles of garbage."

"When was the last time you were here?"

"Twenty some years ago?" he guessed. "I was racing your father through here about a week before he died, but I didn't stop to smell the roses. Before that even, it had been a while. I heard Marcus Tabor was a shithead, but this is something else. This goes beyond negligence."

Dras Leona smelled awful. It was as if every municipal service save the guards had been stripped of their funding and left to fester along with the city.

"Dras Leona has always been ugly," Brom told Murtagh. "It was one of the earliest human cities, and Helgrind is probably to blame for the low level of rot and corruption that has persisted since its founding, but I have never seen it so bad."

The line at the city gate by the lakeside docks was bloated. He and Murtagh settled in for hours of waiting. "Like a thousand sheep waiting to be herded into a disintegrating hovel," Brom wrinkled his nose. Sewage was clearly not being managed properly.

"You were in court, right? How the hell did Tabor get appointed?"

Murtagh led Tornac up a step, pushing to keep his spot in the mob clustered around the gate. "He was a bootlicker," Murtagh said. "Galbatorix is usually more discerning than that, but I heard Marcus's grandfather helped Galbatorix in the Fall somehow. That was a few years ago. Recently his court has been hearing complaints about Tabor. To be honest, the fact that he's hearing them at all doesn't bode well for Marcus. He prefers to let cities rule themselves."

"He sees little beyond his nose," Brom agreed. Did that mean Galbatorix still hadn't finished subjugating all his captured Eldunari?

When they finally got to the gate, Brom did not bother negotiating. He unapologetically bribed the guard to let them through. It was gold, anyways. They were not about to run out.

Murtagh had fairly nice clothes and while Brom's traveling clothes were a good deal rougher, he was clean and groomed courtesy of the magic tent's facilities, thus they could get away with a nicer inn than most without question.

"Now what? I don't think you'll be able to find him in this city without asking questions that will draw the wrong kind of attention." Murtagh set down his bag and stretched out.

Brom muttered under his breath for a moment, dispelling one ward in particular.

"You're right," Brom agreed. "We can try, but I suspect Eragon will have to come to us." He fished for a bit of twine and a sheet of paper, scrawling bold letters across the sheet.

Murtagh snickered as Brom hung the sign around his neck. Brom shot him a glare.

"Are you hoping word of a ridiculous man wearing a sign will spread?" Murtagh giggled.

"No," Brom ground out. "I am hoping he will scry me."

MEET YOUR BROTHER, the sign read.

"Are you going to wear that out in public?" Murtagh asked, on the verge of bursting out laughing.

"It seems unlikely he will scry for me in the middle of the day. I shall wear it from suppertime to after breakfast, and leave a lamp on all the while that he may see it." Brom wasn't even sure Eragon would see it, let alone take the bait.

Still, as he drifted off to sleep, Brom could hope.

Asking around the next day, Brom began to feel how pointless it was. Had anybody seen a farm boy who looked like they didn't know what they were doing in the city? Well, yes. Everybody had. It was Dras Leona, there were tens of thousands of those. Didn't he know better than to lose his son in the most populated city in Alagaesia? He would be lucky if he didn't have to buy his son back in the slave markets, which were over that way if he cared to check.

Brom had to go see that. Not because he worried Eragon would be there, but because that was an alarming idea by itself. Slavery had not existed under the Riders. While Galbatorix had never announced that it was open season, the entrepreneurial scum of the earth had discovered that he didn't much care either way.

The practice had steadily grown more common, yet no cities wanted to be known as supporting the practice. Laborers that never left the fields were one thing, and maybe a rich family kept a pretty girl or two hidden in their home, but a market? That was a level of overt evil Brom hardly believed any governor would allow.

He went to see for himself.

Brom was revolted at the sight. A raised platform with an auctioneer extolling the virtues of human beings as beasts of burden, splitting up families between buyers, men, women, and children in chains.

It was all too easy to imagine if not perhaps Eragon, Nolfavrel or Roran or Horst's boys up on the platform. The auctioneer was a smarmy bastard that made Brom itch to whisper a word under his breath and for just a moment, do what the old Riders were supposed to do. Make the world a better place.

Brom wandered for a while after that. Dras Leona's slums had gotten worse. Where before the shelters had been mostly functional if ramshackle, the slums were now a maze of rotted wood and cloth and bodies, some alive, some not. Rot and shit hung in the air like a veil of despair. Animals did not live like this.

He did not want to set foot in the slums. His clothes were sturdy and well made, he was clean, and that was enough to mark him as an outsider. Every desperate pickpocket and robber would be after him. Brom skirted the borders on his way to the wealthier districts of the city.

He asked after a boy with a northern accent and a lot of gold. Maybe he bought a house or spent extravagantly. Brom did not think Eragon was stupid enough to buy a house, but if he had been, it would be nice to know.

No such person, the gossip went. Did he want to hear about Galbatorix instead?

Yes. Actually he did.

"He's coming here!" a rich lady with fake nails and gaudy jewelry insisted, delighted. "The King himself! They say it's the first time he's left the citadel in over a decade."

"What prompted such an action?" Brom hated high society. It was a thousand arrogant idiots pretending their shit don't stink. Still when it came to posers, Brom could hold his own with the best. Eragon's idea to buy nice clothes was a stroke of genius.

"Governor Tabor," the woman confided, with a crafty smile as if this was a great secret she was well-connected enough to know. "Methinks the King is fed up with the liberties Marcus Tabor takes in running his city. Another tune, I think. Have you anything less…folksy?"

Brom swallowed his sigh and smiled, tweaking the A string on his guitar. Another insightful purchase by his son. "Of course."

"Fate has conspired to put us in the worst possible position." Brom came striding into their room at the inn undoing his ascot and unbuttoning his jacket. He reached for his rough traveling clothes.

"Welcome back," Murtagh said. He sat up and reached for his waterskin. "What's happening?"

"Galbatorix is coming here," Brom said shortly.

Murtagh coughed, doubling over. "Here!? As in, Dras Leona?"

Brom shoved his guitar case into the tent. The roof was barely tall enough to fit in their room. "To chastise Marcus Tabor."

"We need to leave," Murtagh said immediately.

Brom paced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, any sane person would leave."

"You are a sane person, right?" Murtagh checked. He seemed genuinely scared. "I do not want to be within a hundred miles of that man."

"We can't."

"Why." Murtagh demanded flatly.

"Eragon might be here." Brom itched to light his pipe. He ignored the desire. He needed to think clearly. He hadn't felt this much pressure since the sprint after Hefring and the stolen egg."

"He might not be!" Murtagh insisted. "You want to stay in range of the most dangerous man alive on a hunch– no, not a hunch, a maybe."

Brom glared. "Even if he were not my son, I would stay. Eragon is the only hope Alagaesia's got of seeing Galbatorix dead. If he is captured, the Varden goes back to being a nuisance rather than a threat."

Murtagh growled. "This is not my fight. The risk to me is far greater than to you–"

Brom just stared at him until he blushed.

"Fine. You're committed. I am not."

"Then leave," Brom said. "It is not cowardice to flee from Galbatorix. I would do the same if not for this absolutely critical reason."

Murtagh sat perfectly still and straight-backed on the edge of his bed, tension writ across his posture. He glared at Brom and thought aggressively.

"Fine," Murtagh bit out. "When is he going to get here? Search for your son. Then get the hell out of town. Do something about the Urgals."

"A week is the prevailing gossip," Brom answered. "You are welcome to leave whenever you like. Head to the south and I'll catch up with you. In fact, if you want to do a great service to the Varden, you might leave early and tell them of the Urgal army headed south, in case I do not make it."

How terrible a disaster would it be to be captured? Brom mused with a bit of gallows humor. It would be immensely damaging, which was why he had suicide contingencies prepared. Some part of him wanted to talk with Galbatorix, ask him if he was consumed by guilt, or if he slept easy on his mountain of bones.

Another part of him feared he did not have the strength to resist if the King should offer Brom a place by his side, when Brom knew what Galbatorix could offer him. Something he could not refuse.

He put it all out of his mind, shaking his head. "We will prepare for all outcomes. In any case, the search has become more urgent. You might ask around if you wish, but don't get your hopes up. We're looking for a needle in a haystack that may yet be in the rafters."

Each passing day brought with it a ratcheting up of tension. Between him and Murtagh, it was almost palpable. It felt as though any minute would see an explosive rupture of the braided steel cable that stretched unseen between them, nearing the breaking point.

Every day, Brom was out in Dras Leona soliciting information as aggressively as he dared risk, connecting with old Varden contacts, very few of whom remained after two decades of retirement. He scried Eragon every night. He scryed Saphira too, and got nowhere. He visited the slums, snuck into the rich districts, circled the wall, visited inns at random, all to no avail.

"Brom, as I live and breathe," Ferra laughed. The big man was beginning to wear with age. The fond glint in his single eye was as bright as it had been when he'd worked with the man twenty-some years ago.

"Garrick," Brom snapped. "You know better."

Ferra chuckled deep in his throat, moving to fix himself a meal. His belly had grown with age, but while some might be fooled by the shape and softness of his body, beneath the fat were big, powerful muscles and bear-like strength. He towered over Brom, making him feel like a dwarf.

"Garrick," he allowed. "Why here, and why now? Nobody's heard from you in years. Decades."

"I'm looking for someone."

Ferra turned from the fireplace with a pot of stew. He ladled a massive bowl for Brom, who tried to make noises of protest.

"Big plans call for big meals," Ferra insisted jovially.

Brom gave the man's gut a meaningful glance. "You must be a mastermind," he said acerbically.

"You know me," Ferra grinned. "Always plotting. Sit, Garrick. It's been too long. You look as old as you did twenty years ago."

Brom accepted the stew and warmed his hands around the bowl. He felt vaguely like a child sitting at a table with someone so massive. It made him wonder if dwarves felt the same way. "The ceiling and floorboards alike struggle to contain you. How have you been?"

He sipped the stew. It was miraculous. With cooking this good, it was no wonder Ferra kept making big plans. "I can't complain. Well, I do live in Dras Leona, but all things considered, I'm doing pretty well despite that. The flowers do well."

"I saw," Brom agreed. The windows of Ferra's house all had flowerbeds filled to bursting with rare and beautiful blossoms. The arrangements of colors and shapes were undoubtedly art, melding together into a sort of living canvas. By his kitchen, the flowerbed was the color of fire and ash. Elsewhere, airy pastels complimented white daisies by the front door. "Plenty of fresh sewage to feed them."

Ferra burst out laughing. "Aye, there is. I'm a bit more discerning than that. The rarer ones are upstairs facing the back. They're picky, and worth enough to cater to their tastes."

"Your day job?"

The big guy grinned. "They say do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life. You said you were looking for someone. Who are you looking for?"

Brom huffed. "A very important person."

Ferra sat with a big sigh and ladled himself a bowl. "Aren't they all? I need a bit more to go on, Dras Leona hasn't released this year's registry of people ranked by importance."

"Ha. Ha." Brom ate some more stew. "If the flowers don't work out, you could always cook. He's got brown hair, blue eyes, a black backpack, and a bright red sword."

Ferra's eyes narrowed at the last. "Red sword."

"Yes," Brom allowed. "Red sword."

"That is something I would hear about, if people had picked up on it." Ferra's spoon clinked. He furrowed his brows. "I'm not as involved as I once was, Garrick. But I've heard nothing. The only thing to go on is the sword, and I'm sure this man knows just as well to keep it hidden. Is he a friend?"

Brom nodded. He didn't trust his words.

Ferra leaned back. "Then I'm sorry to say I can't help you. I'm almost out of the game. They send people or letters to ask me questions, just what I've seen. That's all. I don't snoop or pry or anything more. I can give you names, some of my replacements. I've settled down."

He sympathized. "I'd be a hypocrite to fault you when I've done the same for the past twenty years."

Ferra chuckled and heaved himself to his feet, fetching a wineskin and a couple cups. "I'm getting old. You are old."

"Have been for going on a century now," Brom agreed. "So you've settled down?"

Ferra blushed. "Men my age aren't a hit with the ladies. At least not without money."

Brom drank and scoffed. "You're never too old. If you don't mind a bit of baggage, there's a million lonely widows out there, looking for a big strong man."

Ferra grinned, gesturing as if to elbow Brom. "Granny smasher, eh?'

Brom allowed a small smile. "They're very experienced, you know."

He broke out laughing. "I just bet they are."

They ate and laughed and drank until the sun went down. Ferra cleared the table. Brom elbowed him aside and planted himself by the wash basin, refusing to let Ferra bully him out of helping with the dishes.

Ferra whipped a towel around deftly. "How long are you staying?"

"Until I find him."

The big man turned to him with concern. "I don't know if you've heard the rumors. They're more fact than fancy; Galbatorix himself is coming. Soon. Within the week, if the rumors are to be believed."

Brom dunked his bowl and scrubbed away the bits of food with a rag. "I know."

Ferra raised his brow. "You're not worried?"

"I cannot leave without this man."

"Who is he?" Ferra asked again.

"Very important," was all Brom was willing to say.

"How important?" Ferra pressed. "You understand it's likely he's not here at all? How sure are you that he would be?"

"Not very," Brom admitted. "But I can't take the chance. That may give you some idea how important he is."

Ferra shook his head, blowing through loose lips. "I hope you know what you're doing. Retired or not, our friends need you. Come, smell the flowers before you leave."

Brom snorted. "Do you use that line on all the ladies?"

Ferra chuckled. "All my visitors, maybe. You would too if you were a florist."

"I would have more self-respect," Brom sniffed.

Ferra just laughed and beckoned him up the stairs. They crossed the narrow house to the back. He opened a door and gestured to Brom.

Brom breathed out softly. "Wow."

The room had a glass roof with missing panels opened to the air. Aisles of flowerbeds sat on rows of tables. The evening breeze blew through windows opened on either side wall. All across the tables, blossoms of every shape and color were in various stages of bloom. The whole room had a pleasant flowery aroma.

"I'm still hoping to get my hands on a few seeds. Moonlace is just about impossible to get your hands on nowadays. They use it to make a poison, so nobody likes to admit they have it or sell it." Ferra bent low and breathed in deep over a black flower with white speckles in the throat.

Brom crossed to the edge of the room and looked down. Ferra had a little yard, a ratty patch of unkempt grass and dirt. It was clear where he used his green thumb.

"It's amazing," he admitted.

Ferra grinned. "You think? Care to guess how much this cost me?" He reached over to a pair of ropes against the door and began pulling down on one, turning a pulley. The glass roof began folding in on itself, pieces slotting over each other as they retracted towards the wall.

"A disgusting amount of gold?" Brom hazarded, aweing at the unimpeded evening air as the far wall retracted up and back, opening the flower room to the sky.

"Not a copper," Ferra disagreed. "Maartin, the mechanist, his kid got sick with some exotic disease. He needed a cure that needed a salamander lily. I had one to give, and he made me this in return. Refused to even let me pay for materials."

"A man who can make something such as this must live very well," Brom murmured, padding to the edge of the floor. They still weren't high enough for much of a view; most of the houses around Ferra's were two or even three storeys. But the air was undoubtedly fresher up here than in the streets.

Ferra plucked a vivid pink flower from a bed near the door, slotting the stem into a little clay pot with a bit of water. "For you. A bit of color wherever you go."

Brom accepted the tiny pot. "It won't kill me or turn me into a hag if I sneeze at it?"

"You could eat it if you have impotence," Ferra offered with a mad grin. "Or offer it to a pretty old lady."

"I'll keep that in mind." Brom ignored the big guy's cackling. "I should have known."

Ferra closed the roof and led Brom down the narrow stairs to the front door. "If you can, I'd love to see you again before you leave Dras Leona. We've both got stories to catch up on."

"If I can," Brom allowed.

Ferra opened the door. "Have a good evening, you old scoundrel. I'll keep my eyes and ears open."

Brom hesitated in the doorway. "If you need something more…" he considered if it was worth the risk. "He looks a lot like me."

Ferra frowned in confusion for half a moment before a sly grin crept over his face. "You dirty old dog," he grinned. "Of course. Where should I look to send the info?"

Brom didn't want to give that information up. "I'll collect it when I come back. It was good to see you, Ferra."

"You too."

Brom asked around some more that night. He checked the bars for gossip, making his way around the northwest side of the city checking all the taverns and drinking holes just in case. He returned to the inn empty handed.

Nobody in Dras Leona had seen hide or hair of a boy with brown hair, blue eyes, and a red sword with a black bag on his back.

It was enough to make Brom pretty sure Eragon wasn't in Dras Leona.

…but not certain.

"Do you have any leads?" Murtagh demanded. "Anything? Anything at all? Or are we taking an enormous– nay, the biggest risk for nothing but your anxiety?"

Brom scowled. "I don't need to describe to you how important Eragon is. Any risk is too much."

"Then you never intended to leave!" Murtagh snapped. "What was the point of making contingencies if you knew you would stay until you found him, whether he was here or not?"

Brom wanted to grip his hair and pace a canyon into the floorboards. A week was the prevailing wisdom, but three days had gone by and Galbatorix certainly didn't publish an itinerary. At any moment he could fly in and Brom and Murtagh would have nothing to do but hide and pray.

"I need to be sure," Brom insisted. "The only other meeting place we made was the Varden, and I never even told Eragon where to find them. If we left, I'd have no idea how long to wait before concluding that Galbatorix had caught him, or he'd gotten lost or killed by roving Urgals or starved or died of thirst in the Hadarac. I need to be certain about this, so I can be more sure of the rest of my guesses."

Murtagh sneered. "Have you considered how much worse it might be if Galbatorix captures you?" He got to his feet and jabbed a finger into Brom's chest. "You're involved with the Varden. You know exactly where they're based and whatever other sensitive information someone as involved as you might know about them, about what weaknesses of Galbatorix you know of and might consider trying to exploit, whatever. As I understand it, the only thing as damaging as Eragon getting captured is you getting captured. And you're making a bad gamble on odds you know are bad for peace of mind, rather than the good of Alagaesia. It's time to leave."

Murtagh's chest heaved, glaring at Brom, face uncomfortably close. The silence stretched on.

"Fine."

"What?" Murtagh blinked.

"I said fine. You were right," Brom admitted. Ferra would just have to live with the disappointment. "I have contingencies for getting captured, but you're right about the odds. It's time to leave."

They packed the hotel room in silence.

"Say nothing to the folks at the front," Brom ordered. "Leave without remark."

Murtagh nodded. They headed down the narrow stairs to the lobby and out into the streets, whereupon Brom looked up, his heart plunging.

All throughout the streets, thousands upon thousands of eyes were upturned to watch as a massive shadow blotted out the sun, a winged creature twice the size of a castle and black as night.

"Holy hell," Murtagh whispered.

AN: The last bit was initially at the beginning of the next chapter, but I moved it up. I was feeling evil. Poor Brom hasn't historically done well in Dras Leona. Why, in canon, I remember very well what came after this. Fortunately, you won't have to wait a whole week to find out.

KeeltheSwift don't worry, Mordrin is not forgotten. You may just have to wait like 90 chapters or something for him to make a bewildered reappearance. He might be forgotten by then.

TarheelGrey bubblehead charm in the cabin for pressurization, it was mentioned that Harry was using it earlier when he was flying on broomstick from Teirm.