Shruikan's shadow loomed over Dras Leona.

"Split up," Brom ordered.

Murtagh needed no convincing.

"He'll find you by your mind," Brom said urgently. "Either keep your mind sealed perfectly tight and let no reaction through, or leave it wide open and try to blend in with the emotions of the crowd. He will notice the ones that shrink away in terror, and you cannot hope to fight him."

Murtagh nodded once, pale yet determined. "If I can't find you, meet by the south gate," Brom called after him as he led Tornac through the crowd on foot, headed towards the Helgrind Cathedral.

Brom got himself lost in the throng. He lowered the defenses around his mind and emptied his head of thought, trying to immerse himself in the banal trivialities of the ordinary person. There was an awesome dragon, that meant the King! He should try to get a closer look if he could.

The throng had the same broad idea, moving like syrup through the narrow channels of Dras Leona's cramped and helter-skelter streets.

Shruikan's shadow weighed on the city. Brom did not doubt he was made to grow faster with magic; a century-old dragon should not have been a tenth his size.

He banished the thought from his mind. He knew nothing of dragons. He was just excited to get to see one.

Shruikan slowed over his quarter of the city. There was nowhere for the monstrous dragon to land that would not crush dozens of buildings and people. Instead, the black dragon flapped in place for a moment as a tiny figure dropped from his back, slowing midair and descending beneath the rooftops.

Brom's heart skipped a beat.

Murtagh was in there.

The throng was still determined to see Galbatorix and Shruikan up close; Brom needed only to let the masses take him where he wanted to go. They shuffled around him, pressing everyone caught within the mob towards the cathedral.

The mob grew in volume as people sought to chat, then call, then shout over each other. Bodies jostled him in every direction. Brom did not want to risk standing out in the mob by getting up into Moo's saddle. He clung tight to his reins and stood against the piebald's side, resisting the tide. He was an island in a river of bodies, struggling not to be swept away into the jaws of certain doom.

Minutes passed before Shurikan circled back over the cathedral, this time the figure ascending through the air dragged with him a passenger.

For a moment, Brom felt the shadow of Galbatorix's presence fall over the mob, touching ten thousand minds at once. Brom cleared his head of thoughts. The only thing that mattered was catching a glimpse of the King himself, a great story he'd tell his wife about.

Behind Galbatorix's mind, ten thousand whispers screamed in a choir of madness. Brom deadened his emotions before he put himself within notice. He could not try to listen, nor search for one the voice in the assembly. Some part of him knew who he might hear.

Brom deadened his emotions, for if he allowed himself to feel them, his grief and hate would stand out like a lighthouse among the throng for Galbatorix.

The throng dispersed as Shruikan flew away from the cathedral. The monolithic creature dropped a pair of shapes over the city's capitol before wheeling away to the east. The shadow of the King's presence lessened. Lessened, but not vanished. Brom still felt him paying a very low level of attention to the city.

Brom appreciated what a den of misery Dras Leona was; plenty of people were terrified or furious or hateful or desperate. His mind would not stand out among them.

Up at the steps to the cathedral, a familiar figure burst out of the great double doors with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Murtagh retrieved Tornac from a series of rings off to the side of the church, then made his way across the emptying street to Brom.

He looked like he'd been in a fight. Nevertheless, Brom felt a rush of relief that he was safe.

"I saw him land right next to you."

Murtagh wiped the blood from his upper lip, a pointless gesture since his nose continued to bleed. Brom daren't risk using magic to heal it.

"Tabor was in the chapel with me, Murtagh panted. The terror had not yet entirely faded from his expression. "He was in the same building as me. The King. I heard him walk down between the pews in the middle of the ceremony. Close enough to touch. I kept my head bowed. He ordered the Governor to come with him and they left."

Brom gestured at his bloody nose. There had clearly been more to the story than that.

Murtagh huffed. "One of the acolytes wanted me to give a finger for their evil ceremony. We had a…physical disagreement."

Brom chuckled. "We're not out of the woods yet."

"I know," Murtagh muttered, sobering. "He's still here. What are you waiting for now?"

"I want to see if Galbatorix flies away alone or with a blue dragon in tow," Brom admitted.

"So we're stuck here until he's gone."

Brom shrugged. "Leave if you like. I told you I'd catch up with you."

Murtagh seemed to consider it for a moment before shaking his head. Perhaps being so close to the King gave him some false confidence. Brom knew it was unearned. He was keenly aware of how horrifically dangerous every second spent within ten miles of the King was. Galbatorix and all of his resources scouring Dras Leona for minds that stood out. Guarded minds (like his and Murtagh's), terrified ones (certainly Murtagh's), and curious ones that followed or watched him more intently than mere curiosity.

Brom loathed fate's cruelty to do this to him. Knowing who was with Galbatorix, knowing if only he let himself reach out, he might touch her mind–

Brom shut down the ache in his heart before it grew worse than that of a mother split from her child at the slave market. How cruel that he had to hide from her, that she must feel the same way. Blinding herself however she could.

He shook himself of the thought and beckoned brusquely to Murtagh. "Come. We'll head to the slums. Our minds will be better hidden among the desperate."

"Why don't we just leave?" Murtagh wrinkled his nose. They'd bullied a spot to sit with their backs to a wall. Brom held Ferra's pink flower to his nose. It masked the stench admirably.

"Guarded minds among the clergy and assembly of the Church of Helgrind is one thing," Brom said. "And here we're masked by thousands of starving, desperate minds we're comparatively invisible next to. A few fellow travelers on the roads outside the city will hide us much more poorly, and I'm sure Galbatorix expects his enemies to flee at his approach."

"Mmh." Murtagh accepted his reasoning. "What do you think Galbatorix is doing to Tabor?"

Brom chuckled. "I doubt he's having fun. If he's being removed from office, maybe he'll just kill him. Otherwise, I suspect he'll find someone competent in Tabor's cabinet or install one of his own intelligent cronies to govern and force Tabor to swear to obey them in the Ancient Language. As I understand it, Galbatorix has come to value competence more than loyalty. He can force loyalty, but idiots will be useless even if they try their little hearts out to make him proud."

"I wonder if this will have a positive effect on the Empire," Murtagh mused. "Let the other cities see what awaits them if they let things get too far out of hand."

His reasoning was sound. Brom wasn't sure that was exactly the message other governors would get. More likely, they'd look at Dras Leona and come to the conclusion that that was how bad they could let things get before they had to worry about a little visit.

"Marcus Tabor was a uniquely atrocious and caricaturishly corrupt governor," Brom pointed out. "For some reason, I can't see Lord Risthart ever letting Teirm get so bad. Most people are smart enough to keep up pretenses."

"If he does this once, Galbatorix may be prepared to fly out more now than in the past." Murtagh kept his hands busy brushing Tornac's coat. The smell of sewage, rot, and desperation wasn't so bad after so many hours. Brom found he just went nose blind after a while.

Murtagh raised a very concerning idea. Galbatorix alone could subjugate Surda in a day if he chose to fly out and actually do it. There was no resisting direct confrontation. Only the elves stood a chance of thwarting a direct attack. The Varden relied on Galbatorix choosing to ignore all but what was in front of him.

"For the sake of Alagaesia, let us hope he remains preoccupied for a long time yet."

Brom leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. Murtagh nodded to the sign around his neck. "Still hoping Eragon will scry you?"

He shrugged. "Better than nothing."

The sign now read, DANGER: STAY A

WAY FROM DRAS LEONA. REMOVE SCRYING WARD. PLEASE.

"Aren't you going to try scrying him?" Murtagh asked.

Brom looked at him like he was delusional. "Now? With Galbatorix in the city? You might as well march up to the citadel and ask for an audience."

Murtagh winced. "Right. Assuming he doesn't scry you, assuming Galbatorix leaves without capturing the both of us, and assuming we manage to get away unscathed, what will the next move be?"

Brom sighed. "We'll get there when we get there."

The next day, gossip filtered into the slums. Shruikan had been spotted flying over the city again. "Think that means he's gone?"

"Flying over does not mean flying away," Brom said. "I don't intend to poke my head out of my den until I'm sure the wolf is gone."

"How do you live like this?" Murtagh demanded. The slum was beginning to get to him. "They shit in the street, eat whatever food-like objects they can find, fight like alley cats over scraps and coppers– I don't understand."

Brom rubbed his forehead. They'd had to constantly fend off people trying to take their horses – whether to sell or eat, neither of them knew or wanted to know.

"We certainly have a better time of it than most here," Brom said. "We have food and water and a place to lay down, and knowledge that we'll be leaving soon."

Murtagh didn't strike him as the spoilt type. He supposed Morzan's abuse did not wash out an upbringing in the lap of luxury, the son of the lord of the castle, then the son of the King's right hand man.

"The King does nothing but sit in his study and occasionally emerge for entertainment," Murtagh grumbled. "What business can he possibly have here?"

Brom shrugged. "Not much. He'll be gone soon."

True to his prediction, Galbatorix was gone soon. The next day, the news spread; Shruikan had flown away with the King on his back, headed east to Uru'baen.

Brom and Murtagh especially were glad to be shot of the slums. Slavers had begun eyeing the two of them as relatively healthy men, forestalled only by their swords. Brom stretched and got into Moo's saddle. "Go to the south gate," Brom told Murtagh. "I'll be with you by nightfall."

Murtagh needed no further convincing. Brom enjoyed the lack of Galbatorix's shadow over the city. He'd promised to visit if he could. Flicking his reins, he rode into the wealthier area of the city.

Brom knocked on the door.

No answer.

He knocked again.

No answer.

Brom struck the door a bit harder.

When nobody answered the door, Brom glanced around and waited for the street to be clear before pressing his palm against the door. "Ladrin," he whispered.

The lock clicked open.

"Ferra?" he called. He shut the door behind and padded into the quiet house. "I'm leaving tonight. Is anybody home?"

Brom turned into the kitchen and froze. His heart crawled into his throat.

Ferra's pale corpse was splayed across the floor, cold soup and chunks of meat and vegetables were strewn across his shirt, a pot split in half a few feet from his hand.

There were burns across his chest and neck, but nothing that would have killed him. Brom knew what had killed him. Carved into his friend's forehead were three characters.

14?

"Let's go."

Murtagh turned at his voice, a few minutes outside the south gate. He studied Brom's face. "What happened?"

"Never mind that," Brom snapped.

"What the hell else am I supposed to ask?" Murtagh demanded.

Brom looked up into the sky. "Where the hell is Eragon?"

I do not want to.

Eragon accepted that. We don't have to stay, he coaxed. If I am to find the Varden, it won't happen blundering in the wilderness.

I do not want to.

You're being petulant.

Eragon, if I notified you of every time you behaved petulantly, I would have no time to have any thoughts of my own. Saphira sniffed. They coasted high over the ridge of the Spine, watching invisibly.

Petulance or not, that is a problem. Eragon indicated the thousands of Urgals marching east.

Well spotted.

We could head towards Surda. Jeod said they worked with the Varden. They'd be able to point us in the right direction.

I do not want to hide.

Eragon shifted in exasperation, shuffling in his seat. Like it or not, you are a very nasty surprise for Galbatorix whenever we first make an appearance. It seems rather pointless to waste it on vacation in Surda when they– Eragon indicated the Urgals with his mind – are much more likely to give you a chance for a dramatic introduction.

The promise of a dramatic introduction mollified Saphira for the moment. Eragon had to laugh. Saphira was too easy to flatter.

Her saddle tipped and Eragon felt his stomach rise up in his throat before he decided that perhaps needling her could wait until he was on the ground.

What about a nice town? Somewhere with a forest you can fly over.

I do not want to.

Exasperated, Eragon threw up his arms. What do you want to do? Follow these Urgals to the ends of Alagaesia?

Yes. With a sense of smugness.

He laid back against the magic cushioning of the saddle. "Fine," he said aloud. "Fine. I'm supposed to be the one having a meltdown. Why do you get to pick the destination?"

Because you ride on my back. The smugness persisted. Eragon rolled his eyes and sat back as she flapped, flying like she had something to prove.

They are splitting from the pack, Saphira observed.

This feels less like a pack and more like a herd, Eragon mused. I suspect they are all headed to the same place anyways.

Then we follow these ones, Saphira decided, tipping to adjust course.

Eragon was rather enjoying himself. He missed his bed, but sleeping under Saphira's wing was mostly as comfortable, and twice as nurturing as when Saphira slept outside the tent like an overgrown guard dog.

He did miss the shower though. And the toilet.

He had plenty of food in his magic backpack so hunting was no worry at all. With unlimited food and water and Saphira to fly them over difficult terrain, it was liberating to traverse terrain like the Spine which would be tough and dangerous even without the consideration of beasts, running out of food or water, or getting lost. They hadn't a care in the world. The canteen was enough water for the both of them, Saphira did not need to hunt for many days at a time and was perfectly capable of finding her own food, and terrain was nothing to a dragon.

It felt like Alagaesia was theirs for the taking. There was nowhere they could not go, no journey too far to embark upon, their only limitation was how far Saphira could go without sleeping.

They'd left the Spine a few days back to keep up with a particularly massive detachment of Urgals now headed southeast. Eragon was no navigator, but Saphira was confident they were cutting east well before the border of Surda, and that if they did not see a great body of water to the south soon, they were not very close to Surda at all in terms of miles.

It boded well for Surda; the Urgals clearly weren't staging an invasion of the southern nation. But it boded ill for somebody, and neither Eragon nor Saphira was sure yet what.

Saphira followed them overhead all day until they set down to eat and sleep for the night, at which point she landed to rest her wings for the evening. Eragon sat up against the warm scales of her side and snuggled in close as she adjusted her wing to drape behind him and shield him from the evening breeze. He fished through his backpack for a meal. Their campsite was hidden well enough, though Eragon did not dare light a fire.

Saphira was plenty warm.

He felt across their bond her sickness of being forced to hide, and offered his sympathy. I'm in the same boat, he reminded her. I can't tell anybody about my magic or about the other half of my heart.

Saphira harrumphed. It was not the same and they both knew it; the Empire was built for humans. Even if he could not use his name, he could live as he'd grown up living. Yet she appreciated his commiseration.

Do you ever wonder what is beyond Alagaesia? Saphira sent. Brom shows us maps. Here is the Spine, the Empire, the Hadarac, Du Weldenvarden, the Beors, and the Endless Plains to the east. He shows us a window where the frame cuts out unknown reaches, places unseen by any who remember today. How odd is it that we accept that?

I assume getting any further than the edges of the map is difficult and dangerous, Eragon supposed. He shuffled closer to Saphira. It must not have been worth the effort to include or travel frequently to or explore.

I do not think the world has to be useful to be worth exploring, Saphira announced. Imagine we kept flying east until we'd passed the Hadarac and reached the Endless Plains, and then I kept flying east. What then?

You'd run out of food and water, Eragon thought.

Not so. Saphira nudged him to glance down at his magic canteen.

Eragon went back to thinking. He hadn't really considered the issue. Well they say it's endless.

Saphira snorted. Do you really believe that? A flat patch of grass that extends on to infinity? We are immortal, we have unlimited water, we could grow food, do you think if we flew and farmed our way east, in a million years, we would still be flying east over endless grassland?

…No.

Then there must be something, Saphira said smugly. And I want to know what it is. Galbatorix seems rather less menacing when one considers what is beyond the edges of the map.

Something about Saphira's musings unsettled Eragon.

Are you interested in traveling to find out?

I don't know, Saphira admitted.

With a chill, Eragon realized the root of his unease.

"You will leave Alagaesia never to return."

And after you satisfied your curiosity, would we come back?

What if we found someplace better?

Eragon frowned and sat up. What do you mean?

Saphira shuffled a bit in flight. I don't know. After Galbatorix, perhaps.

What makes a place better than Alagaesia? Eragon asked. More humans? Less humans? Dragons? Different scenery?

Dragons, Saphira decided. And maybe less humans. Eragon received a profound sense of loneliness. It was easy to forget with how she spoke that Saphira was hardly six months old. It changed his perspective a bit.

We can rescue those last two eggs, Eragon settled in. You could be the mother of the new race of dragons.

Motherhood did not seem to appeal to her yet. Eragon wondered if that would change when she matured or not.

Suppose they are both female.

Eragon did not want to entertain the notion very much.

Dragons would be doomed, I suppose, Eragon mused.

No.

A very uneasy sense of disgust emanated from Saphira. There would be one male.

…No.

If it is the only way–

"No." Eragon insisted, clearing his throat. "We would find another way."

It could have been his plan all along, Saphira pointed out. To father a new race and ensure he was at the top.

Eragon was revolted. His hatred of Galbatorix deepened. "I don't care," Eragon announced. "No matter what. If we have to search the corners of the world, we'll do that instead."

Saphira was only half reassured, but let the topic drop.

The Beors are sure to be magnificent, Eragon changed the subject.

I know, Saphira said.

Eragon blinked. When did you see them?

Just now. Look.

Eragon looked to the cloudy horizon. What? He asked, confused.

Look up. More. More.

Oh…

…I see it.

The next day Eragon's perspective was different. He only kept half an eye on the Urgals below. They moved so slowly relative to Saphira that every day felt leisurely, flying laps and gliding in circles, keeping an eye out but not worrying very much that they might lose them.

That day, Eragon watched the wall of the world.

The second horizon was a jagged white line softened by fog and enormous distance, so high above the first horizon that he'd mistaken it for strange clouds.

This seems like a more literal edge of the map than the others, Eragon observed.

Saphira silently agreed. Neither she nor Eragon could see a way to fly that high.

Rested and on a full stomach, Eragon felt Saphira's intention to test that. She began flapping harder and harder, climbing away from the already antlike Urgals below. The ground fell away. Eragon clung tight to the invisible saddle as his disembodied point of reference soared higher into the air.

Higher and higher they went.

It's cold, Saphira remarked. Eragon did not feel it. The magic of the saddle, he guessed. Undeterred by the apparently dropping temperature, Saphira flapped harder.

The air was thinner, and Saphira had to work harder to get her win each successive fathom of height. Eragon felt her frustration as well as her determination to rise to the challenge. It was like trying to swim in alcohol, or with weights attached to her feet.

Eragon felt the air begin to thin in his lungs as well. Breathing left him less full of wind. He found himself nearly panting despite doing nothing. He began to feel lightheaded.

I can't go any higher, Eragon sent.

Saphira subsisted and leveled off. It was an odd feeling, filling his lungs over and over and yet never catching his breath. He did not like it. Dizziness made looking down truly daunting; they had to be miles up in the sky. To the south, Saphira's hunch was borne out as Lake Tudosten was visible at the very edge of the horizon.

She was frustrated. Eragon felt her determination, and her confidence that she could have easily kept going.

Despite that, the Beors still towered over them. Far, far over them.

It would be like walking on water, Saphira said. Or walking on air. It is impossible without magic. There would be nothing to push against with my wings.

Eragon looked down.

Was this how the gods felt? Did they stare at the land like this and see all of creation at once?

Or did flying up here make them the gods? Brom had explained how magic put him above those without. Saphira was just as far above. She was The Apex Predator. The food chain stopped with her.

Eragon felt her wiggle happily at his mental assessment. He nudged her without words, showing her his exasperation at her vanity. Saphira sent back a wordless shrug, as if to say, 'It's not vain if it's true.'

What a terrible thing it must have been, when Brom's Saphira died. To have tasted this, to know what it was like to be a god, and then to be torn from the sky. Saphira offered her reassurances through their bond. Eragon couldn't even imagine what Brom must have felt, reaching out to find it severed, his dragon gone forever, ripped away from him for eternity.

Never, Saphira swore. I would do anything, go anywhere, fight anyone to stop that.

That was the problem, Eragon supposed. Like those without magic, sometimes you could do all you possibly could, and it just wasn't enough.

That conflicted tangle of feelings came back to the forefront of his mind. Eragon had tried not to even think of Brom. His father. He was enjoying himself as a man unto himself, his identity undetermined by others. Like Saphira, he pretended he owed nothing to anyone but himself and Saphira.

What do you think? About my parents?

He felt a sense of indifference from her. You did not know either of them. You knew Brom in Carvahall but never well enough that he is any more your father than Horst or Gedric. Saphira circled lower, gently bleeding off their altitude. Eragon was grateful for her consideration. He was not enthusiastic about his stomach's ability to take a mile-high dive while he was already lightheaded.

I used to dream my mother was a princess, Eragon admitted.

She married Morzan. That is not so far off.

And I dreamed that my father was important. That was also true, I suppose.

Eragon halted as his emotions clogged up the words in his throat.

How could he just ignore me? Furiously, Eragon wiped his invisible arm against his invisible face. I mean I was right there. My whole life, he was just down the road and he never said a thing. How could he? Did he not want me?

Saphira seemed to be guarding her mind as she picked her words out carefully.

Brom has never struck me as a parent, she said. He is a man with a century of tragic history, dangerous baggage, and no idea how to raise a child by himself.

No parents know how to raise a child when they have their first, Eragon denied.

Saphira acknowledged the point. But not everybody makes suitable parents. Does Brom's style of teaching strike you as the sort that would have made for a pleasant childhood? I was under the impression human babies are rather useless.

They are, Eragon admitted. Even if he couldn't do the best job–

Was Garrow such a bad parent that you wished for another? Saphira interrupted.

No, but–

Then why are you so furious? Brom was a man consumed by revenge who finally got it. I would imagine he felt empty and lost without purpose, saw that Garrow was doing a fine job raising you after your mother left you with him, and thought you would have a better childhood there with a brother and a mother who weren't hollowed out by trauma and regret. And he was right, was he not?

Eragon searched for words to refute Saphira. His reasoning failed him, yet he still needed to show her his feelings. He presented his tangled emotions at her in hopes of making her understand.

You feel unwanted, Saphira guessed, cutting to the heart of that tangled knot.

Eragon knew she was right, yet having his problem identified just made him feel childish. Brom was gallivanting across the globe with him teaching him magic, swordplay, reading and writing, whatever he knew.

No matter how he rationalized it, in his feelings, Eragon still felt it sting, knowing every time he walked past Brom's house in Carvahall, he was so close to his father, so close to knowing where he'd come from, and Brom watched him pass every time without a word.

Would you like to speak with him? Saphira circled lower. They were back to the height she usually flew at. He could feel through her wings the thick and supportive air that made it easy to maneuver, yet thin enough to glide without the wind stealing her speed.

That same tangle resurfaced. Not yet, Eragon decided. He knows to meet us at the Varden. Or at least to meet Harry. He'll find me there. And just in case…

Eragon groped invisibly for his backpack. Saphira flew far and low enough to become visible while out of sight of the Urgals. He strained to pull a birdcage out of his backpack. Harry's enchanted clay bird cocked its head and shuffled its wings. Eragon got out a scrap of paper and a pencil and scribbled out a message while Saphira held steady for him.

He put the pencil in his mouth and rolled up the bit of paper, handing it to the bird through the bars. Its clay talons gripped the tiny scroll.

"Take this to Brom," Eragon instructed, feeling very foolish for talking to a pile of dirt held together by magic. "He was last at Morzan's castle in the Spine, to the northwest." He pointed.

The bird bobbed its head. He opened the cage and let the magic construct out. It hopped off its perch and plummeted a hundred feet before opening its wings and soaring away northeast instead. Eragon hoped it knew better than him where to find Brom.

He turned back to the horizon where the Urgals were.

Do you know where the Varden is? Saphira asked.

No, Eragon admitted. He glanced down at the Urgals. But I bet they do.

AN: Another midget chapter. Alas, I don't really want to start any new arcs before we get to Farthen Dur. Thanks to Scarze for going over this chapter for me.