The flight back was tense. While Murtagh gawked out the window the whole time they flew, Brom had conceded to the impossible flying machine with minimal fuss. The horses were less calm to be sitting in the open room behind the cockpit.

Eragon had never been as far from Saphira as he was then. It was an empty, lonely feeling. He was not used to being alone in his head anymore. A thin, dim strand of thought linked to her far back in Farthen Dur.

"Your mother was Selenea too," Murtagh broke the ice, tearing his eyes from the window.

Eragon nodded, watching his half-brother. He wasn't sure if he should be thinking of Murtagh as more Selena's son or Morzan's. It occurred to him that Murtagh's existence meant his mother had been married – and not to his father. That made him a bastard.

It was an odd thought. Was he in line for Morzan's castle? Technically, if Murtagh died and Eragon spilled the secret. It seemed more likely Galbatorix would simply reclaim it to hand out to his next favorite underling.

"Better hold onto something," Harry's voice came from everywhere in the cabin at once. "We're beginning the climb." The plane tipped back a bit. Not nearly as much as when they flew out of the Beors, but enough to notice.

Murtagh climbed into a seat and clung to the armrests. "Is this common?" he asked, worried.

"I couldn't tell you," Eragon said. "It's only my second time."

"Is it like this on your dragon's back?" he asked.

Eragon's lips twitched. "This? This is nothing. But it's different with Saphira. I'm not connected to Harry's mind."

Brom snorted.

"Where have you been since Morzan died?" Eragon wondered.

"Uru'baen," Murtagh admitted. "In Galbatorix's court."

"What's he like?" Eragon asked, morbidly curious.

Murtagh grew uncomfortable. "He's the most charming madman you'll ever meet. He's intelligent, persuasive, commanding, and powerful. He's got black hair and black irises barely visible against his pupils. It makes him look supernaturally prescient. He has trimmed facial hair right up against his skin and he's built larger than any of us. He never wears armor but always wears his sword, a clear white one like foggy glass. He has little time for governance and rarely spends more than an hour in a day at court. He doesn't seem especially bloodthirsty, and it can be hard to connect him to the legends sometimes. But when he gets mad, he goes mad."

Eragon digested that all, attempting to put together a face for his ultimate enemy. It came together as some faceless dark form with black voids for eyes and a stenciled on beard, smiling in a crowd of faceless nobles.

"Vrael's old sword," Brom remarked. Eragon was drawn from his musings. "Of course he would use Islingr."

"If you want to avoid a stampede, it would be best to put the horses to sleep now," Harry's voice came over again. "Hold tight."

The roar started up again as the plane pushed to get the final bit of altitude needed to clear the juncture between the mountains. Eragon could feel the struggle to catch enough fast, thin wind to keep ascending.

Gravity vanished as they crested the gate between the peaks. Out the windows, Eragon could see the colossal mountains sticking up at least another mile or two on either side. "Slytha," Brom said quickly, before the horses got out of hand.

Murtagh turned green and looked away from the window. Eragon watched the world lurch as Harry pushed the nose even further down, dropping them into a halfway vertical dive. The plane slipped down the air, accelerating to terrifying speed. As far away as the valley floor was, they were racing towards it so fast it was falling towards them.

Eragon saw where Harry was aiming the plane and paled.

"There's no way," he whispered.

"What?" Brom demanded.

Eragon craned his neck to see forward through the big side windows. The runway was nothing more than a horizontal slit in the mountainside, a tiny slit they were careening towards in free fall.

They were going too fast. There was no way, absolutely no way Harry could pull out of the dive in time, even if he aimed perfectly and threaded the needle, they would still slam into the runway at hundreds of miles an hour.

Eragon braced for a horrific crash. Brom paled, Murtagh muttered with his eyes screwed shut. A split second before they smashed into the mountainside, the world outside the windows just…stopped.

He felt nothing. No deceleration, no being thrown across the cabin, the world outside simply stopped. The plane nosed sedately into the mouth of the mountain runway. Murtagh threw up.

"I cannot believe he has devised a worse method of flight," Brom said nauseously.

"Is that a challenge?" Harry called back from the cockpit.

"No!" Eragon yelled back. Their panicked reentry had awoken Saphira. Eragon tried to reach her, but she was shutting him out. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Eragon realized there would be a reckoning for leaving without telling her.

Cleverly, Eragon noted that Harry stopped well before the end of the runway and the entrance to the gigantic room. They took another branch in the side of the runway tunnel down into the ant's nest of Farthen Dur. Brom and Murtagh led their horses through the awkward negotiation of heading down stairs and through narrow passages before finally emerging in the massive open space around Tronjheim.

While Murtagh gawped, Brom seemed itching to ride his horse at a gallop to get to the dwarven city. "Have you spoken to Ajihad yet?" He asked.

Eragon nodded.

"How did it go?"

"Fine, I think," Eragon said.

Harry nodded. "He avoided making any promises, made a good first impression – better than mine, for sure."

Brom pinched the bridge of his nose. "Somehow that is completely unsurprising. What did you do?"

"They've got these two creepy magicians–"

"The Twins," Brom guessed immediately.

"They tried to examine my mind. We had a fight," Harry summarized. "Anyway. I'm not sure how much is Ajihad and how much is them, but the Varden are a bit frosty on me. I heard they have a magician's corps, but nobody's reached out yet."

"Du Vrangr Gata," Brom agreed. "You will have a difficult time working with them without giving away your magic."

Harry rubbed his chin. "I want to say fuck 'em, but the secret's going to leak eventually, and I can do more overtly than covertly."

"Tell me when you're thinking of announcing it so I can convince you otherwise," Brom said. "Your mission was a success?"

"See for yourself," Harry grinned.

They split up after that. Brom announced that he had to go speak with Ajihad, and Murtagh ought to go with him so they could get him living quarters while they argued his case for being inducted into the Varden. Eragon supposed his father was busy, too busy to drop everything and speak with him. Somehow, it fit with Eragon's image of him. Sixteen years a storyteller, three months on the road, and the day Eragon was poised to confront him, he hadn't an hour to talk.

Eragon rode the elevators up to the dragonhold dreading the moment he would have to face Saphira. When a chance to delay that moment crossed his path, Eragon seized it. Maybe it ran in the family. He'd have to ask Murtagh.

"Are you the Rider?"

The woman had black hair and startling blue eyes. She wore clothes of the rich and held herself with dignity. There was a detailed gold bangle on her wrist with a pair of glittering emeralds.

"I am."

She smiled. It was difficult to place her age. Eragon would have said she was in her twenties, but something about her gaze told him she had experience. "I am Trianna. I'm a member of Du Vrangr Gata, the Varden's–"

"Magicians," Eragon finished. "I heard. Harry said you were headed by the Twins."

Trianna frowned. "That's true I suppose. They are no more overbearing on us than they are to anyone else."

Eragon didn't believe her. "They hate Harry, Im' sure they'll make life unpleasant for him and me for being friends with him."

"The wizard," Trianna smiled. "Everybody is terrified to reach out to him after what the Twins did to the first one to try. His mother is very sick and one of our members helps her every week with magic. The Twins assigned Larkin a brutal workload that hasn't let up since. He hasn't been able to get to the cartographer's mother and she's probably going to die."

"Where do I find her?" Eragon demanded.

She leaned forwards, and Eragon realized that she was wearing a rather low cut shirt. "I can take you to her," Trianna said alluringly. "If you'd like."

Eragon swallowed. Maybe Brom was onto something when he said the Varden was dangerous. "Maybe later."

Trianna shrugged. "If you change your mind, Du Vrangr Gata meets on the seventh level behind the top level of the library on the east wing. We can help each other. It is useful to remember we are all on the same side, and we all value honing our skills."

"I'll consider it."

The woman took the hint. "Good fortune," she bade him, stepping onto the elevator platform. "Many people wish to see you succeed."

Eragon took the last turn of Vol Turin dreading the confrontation. The moment he peeked his head over the floor, Saphira was there, standing over the top step, staring menacingly down at him.

Dragons, Eragon realized, must be very terrifying to people who were not mentally connected to and loved by them. Saphira's lips were pulled taut to reveal a couple inches of sharp, gleaming ivory teeth. A growl rumbled in her chest, deep and menacing. Eragon stopped five steps below the top. Saphira's tail swept back and forth.

What am I to you? Saphira stared him down.

Eragon picked his words very, very carefully. My partner. Harry said I'd be back before you woke up.

So as long as I don't find out, you are free to act as you please?

Eragon shook his head. He tried to step up and rub her jaw. Saphira kept him from reaching the top with her nose. No, Eragon said. I went to see my father. It was trivial, wasn't it? It's not even dinner time and I'm back. We're back. Safe.

Do you really think that's what I'm angry about?

No, Eragon admitted. But I think my actions were reasonable. You were asleep. Brom can help prepare for the attack, having him sooner means more time to prepare. I trust Harry not to offer transportation that isn't safe. Well, mostly safe.

Flying is my job, Saphira insisted.

I am not going to fly a plane into battle, Eragon insisted. For a short trip to pick up a couple of stragglers, why not?

Saphira growled again. Flying. Is. My. Job.

Eragon swallowed. "If I agree, will you let me up?"

I may consider it.

"Fine. Flying is your job, Saphira. I'm sorry I went with Harry to pick up my father and half brother."

Good.

Eragon stood awkwardly looking up at Saphira's head. Are you going to move?

I'm considering it.

An awkward minute later, she shuffled aside, flicking her tail at him, and went back to her bed to sleep.

For Eragon, sleep came later. His mind swam with visions of Harry's world, a sky full of metal birds with feasts every night. It seemed too fanciful to be true, yet Harry was here bringing his world's wonders to Alagaesia. He'd said the little plane was going to be a fast plane. Faster than the one he'd flown in today? The vastness of the distance he'd traveled earlier in just a few hours made Alagaesia feel small. An even faster plane would make the whole world feel small.

The Varden thought he was the most important person in this war. Eragon wasn't so sure. He was beginning to suspect nobody had seen the extent of what Harry could do. Maybe not even Harry himself.

As he drifted off to sleep, Eragon imagined the day time came for a final battle with Galbatorix, Harry popping out of the citadel with a silly grin and ruffled hair, announcing that he'd tied the King's shoelaces to each other with a spell and Galbatorix had tripped and died already.

He dreamed of wilder things, of cities sculpted from glass, horses and wagons in the streets, metal dragons and flying broomsticks dancing in the air.

Eragon woke to another pretty woman coming all the way up to the dragonhold to see him. What would Garrow think?

"Nasuada," she introduced herself. "Ajihad's daughter."

"Well met," Eragon said, stretching. "I cannot keep track of day and night under this mountain."

Nasuada smiled. "The dwarves keep good time. Nonetheless, many miss the sun down here." She was rather pretty, with the same dark skin as her father. Her teeth stood out brilliant white against her lips and skin. Eragon wondered if she had dyed it, or if she was born that way.

You like her.

Eragon was confused. Why wouldn't I? I just met her.

You like her. Like Trianna. Like…Arya.

He blushed. Shut up.

"I came to deliver a message."

Eragon wished for a shower. "There must be less important people who can do that."

"And I wanted to meet you for myself." Nasuada studied him for a moment.

Eragon spread his arms a bit. "How do you find me?"

"Young," Nasuada said frankly. Eragon frowned..

"Did you expect a dragon to hatch for a seasoned warrior?"

"Most people expected her to hatch for an elf," Nasuada corrected. "To a human, there is little distinction."

"I'm sorry my ears are less pointy than expected," Eragon said, confused. Nasuada shook her head.

"You have a lot to learn, Eragon. And not much time to do it. The Varden needs you. They need the best version of you that you can be. The message is this: Ajihad wants you to report to the training yard for evaluation."

Saphira had no strong feelings on the matter. Will you fly me? Eragon asked.

Perhaps you should ask the wizard for a ride.

Saphira…

She did not send an answer, rather crawling out of bed for Eragon to hop on. The flight was perhaps not as smooth as usual, either. When they arrived at the training yard, the action stopped for everybody to gawk at Saphira.

That put her in a slightly better mood.

A man rushed out to see him. He was rather muscular with an unkempt beard, and wore ox-hide armor. "Eragon, right?" He shook hands. "My name's Fredric, I'm the Varden's weaponmaster."

"Well met." Eragon could smell his armor at arm's length.

"Ajihad wants me to assess your skills," Fredric said, leading Eragon further into the field. "It would be for the best if your dragon stays here. The men get distracted."

Eragon let his annoyance filter into his voice at Fredric dismissing Saphira as an animal. "I'll ask her."

Fredric gave him a very strange look.

Well?

Fine. Saphira laid down to watch.

"Saphira is willing," Eragon reported.

"I see. Anyways, what weapons do you have experience with?" the weaponmaster asked.

"My bow and sword," Eragon answered, indicating he'd brought them both.

"No polearms?" Fredric checked. Eragon shook his head.

"We'll start with archery and set up some spars after," the weaponmaster decided.

Eragon followed him to the range and put some arrows down range. He was satisfied with his performance, but Fredric wasn't. He kept eyeing his bow like it was inadequate.

"Can I borrow that?" he asked. Eragon handed it over reluctantly. It was a gift from Garrow, and not something he could replace. The weaponmaster took the bow and an arrow and fired a shot.

"This is too light," Fredric announced. "You use it to hunt, right?"

He nodded.

"To have much chance of punching through armor, you'll need a much heavier bow. I imagine you'd be wasted sending volleys from the backline. Your bow might get through leathers and game, but mail and plate require a lot more power." Fredric retrieved a bow from a rack and handed Eragon a longer arrow. "Try it out."

Eragon drew and fired. The bow was much heavier than his own. He had to pull so hard he half worried it would break, and he was not used to having to draw the arrow back so far. When he released, the arrow raced away with frightening velocity, the bow recoiling in his arm with a sort of thrum that shook his forearm and shoulder.

He far overshot and the arrow sank into the bales behind the targets.

Fredric whistled. "You've got the arms for it. How did that feel?"

"Powerful," Eragon admitted. "Harder to draw, but manageable."

Fredric grabbed a bag of two dozen arrows and had Eragon shoot through them all. By the third, he'd gotten back on target, by the tenth, he was nearing the center ring, and by the last, he was reliably nailing his shots.

"It's clear you were never trained for archery in battle," Fredric said finally. "But you can aim and draw and if you're not going to be firing volleys for ages, that's all that matters. Can you shoot from dragonback?"

Eragon admitted he'd never really tried. Fredric advised practice. They were about to move on to swordplay when Arya arrived at the yard.

Fredric bowed to Arya and greeted her politely. Arya went through the motions, but kept her eyes on Eragon. "I was told you were testing Eragon."

"Aye. Has your queen sent you?" Frederic asked. He turned to Eragon. "Have you met Arya? She is the ambassador to the elves. We are honored to have her."

Eragon found his voice. "We've met."

Arya drew her sword and brandished it in front of her. "Guard yourself, shur'tugal. I would see what you are made of."

Eragon drew Zar'roc. Fredric's eyes immediately locked onto the red blade with a sour look. She didn't blunt her sword with magic! He sent to Saphira.

She won't hurt you – permanently, Saphira replied. Fight well.

Fredric backed up and the people around gave them space. Arya struck first while Eragon was distracted staring at her. He hoped Saphira hadn't caught that, but knew she had.

A young man tripped over a rack of swords craning his head to watch the two of them. Eragon felt self-conscious at first, but Arya gave him no time to focus on anything but her.

She was a demon. From the first exchange, it was obvious he was outclassed. She was stronger and faster and her form was utterly flawless. She parried his probing strike with jarring strength. Eragon knew she had an opening to run him through the chest, but she didn't take it. Saphira was right; she was testing him. He had not expected such strength out of a woman.

Well, Eragon thought. Might as well put on a show.

He was out of practice at first and could tell Arya was disappointed. It'd been a couple of weeks – since he'd left Morzan's castle. But as he fought and got back into shape, he saw respect in her eyes. Eragon slashed and whirled, determined to be perfect, to reflect every one of Brom's lessons in his swordplay.

He ran through his forms with mechanical perfection to prove that he could, then abandoned them to improvisation to demonstrate his creativity. Eragon twisted and danced, feeling the push and pull of battle as Arya gave him space to demonstrate his skills, then pressed him to test his defenses.

Eragon ducked under a swing that would surely have cut his head off and lunged with Zar'roc's sword point. Arya seemed to half flinch at the motion, and Eragon actually managed to touch her with the flat of his blade. Annoyed at herself, Arya closed out the fight.

A hail of blows landed from all angles. Eragon desperately fended them off as best he could, but Arya battered him down and in the end, struck Zar'roc from his grip, raising her sword to his neck. Zar'roc landed in the dirt with a thud.

"You are proficient," Arya announced into the silence.

Eragon had not noticed a crowd gathering. Their space was encircled by hundreds of men watching their duel, now clapping and cheering. Fredric stood at the front with a silly grin. He spotted Brom as well, watching with crossed arms and pride on his face. He felt a warmth in his heart at that.

But I lost.

Remember what Nasuada said.

Eragon cast his mind back a couple of hours. Most people expected Saphira to hatch for an elf, and to a human there was little distinction between an elf and a seasoned warrior.

So they're all just that much stronger and faster?

He got the sense of a shrug from Saphira. Or Arya is a freak of nature with incredible mastery over the sword. You are no mean swordsman, little one. Your red claw is sharp.

What do I do if I need to fight an elf? Eragon wondered.

Lose, if Arya is any indication, Saphira said, half joking. Eragon sent her his annoyance. I will help you hunt when your prey is too strong, she added. Some of the strain of the past day eased in their relationship. Eragon smiled fondly and sent her his affection before snapping back to the present.

"Not bad," Brom said, patting him on the back. "Not bad at all."

It was not long after their duel that Arya caught sight of the Twins and hailed them. They were sour to have been noticed.

"What purpose brings you to the yard?" Arya asked. "I would not expect you to visit for trivialities. Martial talents are beneath you."

They winced at the barb. Eragon sensed context there.

"As you have judged him competent with arms, we must examine his proficiency with magic," one said. The left one this time. Who knew if they switched places. Eragon supposed if they both turned in place and approached somebody on the other side of them, they'd be in different spots. He doubted the right one would walk in an arc around the left one to preserve his spot on the right. Or were they so in sync that it didn't matter who stood where, they both considered themselves interchangeable?

"Eragon–" Eragon perked up at his name, "-is not finished with his training in magic," Brom said.

"We would like to be able to testify as to his exact skills," the right one said.

"Given the animus of your first meeting, another member of your group may be preferable in examining Eragon," Arya added with a blank expression.

"No one else is skilled enough," the first said.

Brom frowned. "And you're the heads of Du Vrangr Gata? Does Ajihad know you're such poor teachers?"

The Twins clearly were not expecting to be called out on that. "Du Vrangr Gata is not blessed with an abundance of powerful magicians. We make do with what we have."

"Then I shall examine him," Arya announced. "Queen Islanzadi has a right to know the same."

"As you wish," the Twins bowed and slunk away.

"Methinks those two are not happy there are suddenly many people of higher rank and with the authority on magic to contradict them," Brom mused at their retreat. "I imagine it has been a while since they have faced questioning of their authority." Then, darkly, "Ajihad needs to rein those two in."

"Will you tell me of your pupil's skills?" Arya asked Brom. Eragon was overcome with self-consciousness. They headed away from the training grounds and found a private room to speak in.

Brom looked at Eragon while he gave his answer. "He is broadly creative and adept at reaching for magic. He learned magic first from Harry, and thus did not initially begin using…the usual tools magicians learn with."

Arya's eyes widened.

"He has deduced the fundamental problem of how magicians fit into armies and figured out a basic spell to operate in that role. He's skilled and versatile. The gaps in his knowledge are my own fault," Brom admitted. "We only barely touched on wards, logistics, advanced grammar and vocabulary in the Ancient Language, and finer control. I did not anticipate any magician's duels for much longer. We have not trained for mental combat either."

Arya took all the disclaimers in stride. "In the time given, that is a remarkable achievement. He cannot fight without wards."

"I agree," Brom said. "Fortunately, we have some time."

Eragon was keenly aware of that time as it dwindled. The Varden had incredibly good estimates of when the attack would land. Most people took the number of weeks without question. Eragon was privileged enough to know how repeated flybys were getting that information.

Harry was, in his own words, 'insanely busy.' When Eragon saw him, it was only in passing. It was impossible for the Varden not to notice he was doing big things; he often came and went with wagon loads of supplies, bringing food and taking weapons or armor. He was probably Ajihad's most frequent visitor.

Despite knowing where to reach the wizard, Eragon was kept too busy to visit. Brom had taken Arya's assertion of his inability to fight to heart. Brom had taken a room just a couple floors beneath the dragonhold, as had Murtagh. Murtagh, Eragon soon found out, was just as formidable a swordsman as he was, and the two were unreasonably evenly matched. Thus Brom set the two of them to sparring throughout the day, offering increasingly minute technical corrections or philosophical advice (turn your elbow in more, keep control of your space where possible, trade positioning for touches).

Murtagh seemed bored the rest of the time. The secret of his existence was tightly controlled and even the handful of dwarves who came up the elevators to service the dragonhold were not told of his identity. On his request, the dwarves brought him books from the library to read in his free time.

When he wasn't crossing blades with his half-brother, Eragon was learning magic at an intensity he had never experienced in his life. Rules for grammar, vocabulary, conjugation of verbs, Brom took him from fairly confident in his abilities to suddenly ignorant of the six other kinds of every single verb he'd learned, participles and tenses and sentence construction and clauses and articles, things he didn't understand about the Common tongue, the one he actually grew up speaking.

"It doesn't matter how Common is spoken," Brom lectured. "It changes all the time. People from Palancar's time hardly spoke the same language with completely unrecognizable accents and conventions of speech. Villages far from each other make their own conventions of speech, develop their own slang, and get lazy with pronunciation. A few generations later they're speaking different languages. The Riders and now the Empire help to bind the common tongue together across Alagaesia, but the Ancient Language is different."

"The truth doesn't change," Brom explained. "Brisingr has been the name for fire since the Grey Folk bound magic to their language. If people started saying 'brizingr' or putting the emphasis on the last syllable instead of the first, they'd simply stop casting fire magic. Words can and have been lost and rediscovered. So just because you can get away with being technically grammatically incorrect in common speech, does not mean you can adapt an unchanging set of rules for magic."

Eragon frowned. "Why is it so important now when it didn't matter when you just told me cut was kverst and to use it as I will?"

Brom raised a brow. "How much do you think you can do with a single verb? Quite a lot, if you're a skilled magician. But never as much as somebody who can spell out their intent perfectly. Cut the throats of every one of my enemies in the battalion before me. Cut this piece of fabric in this specific pattern described. Specificity allows you to use more and more complex spells, eventually so complex that much smarter people can craft an incredibly efficient, complex and specific spell and you can come along, read the spell, vaguely understand what it's supposed to do, and use it for yourself."

He held up his hands. "Alright. I concede. Why teach me only now?"

Brom huffed. "Haven't you been paying attention? This shit is complicated. When we started out, I was a lot more concerned you'd need to cut a bandit's head off tomorrow than you'd need to cast well-thought-out wards for confrontation with magicians in a few weeks. And more broadly, you don't give tools to people who are unready to use them. Simple words give spells more malleability. It's much easier to kill yourself with a paragraph long spell where you misworded or misconjugated a verb than a single word and a clear vision."

"This is the reason why knowledge that you can cast magic with no words at all is such a closely guarded secret. The focus of a new magician is not as responsible as one who has trained for years and years and understands the utter disaster that might be wrought by a stupid idea."

Eragon thought that was fair. It also made him realize he was rather fortunate to have Harry as an initial teacher. Unless Eragon inadvertently committed suicide with magic, Harry had proven adept at healing even grevious wounds and massive property damage, as he'd shown at Jeod's house.

"So, wards?"

Brom nodded. "Wards. The trick to them is finding the cheapest way to avert the most damage. Arrow wards are extremely common; no magician wants to die to something as pathetic as a stray arrow. How might you stop an arrow from hitting you with magic?"

"Stop the arrow," Eragon answered immediately. But that was too obvious, so he kept thinking. "Except that puts me directly against the force of the arrow. It'd be better to just make it miss."

Brom inclined his head. "How do you do that most efficiently?"

He considered the problem. "The closer a target is to you, the easier the shot. The arrow has to move further to miss you. From far away, if your arm shakes or you don't release the bowstring smoothly, you'll miss by a mile."

"But further away, you pay the distance tax," Brom pointed out.

"So it's about balance," Eragon reasoned. "You only need to nudge an arrow off course if it's coming at you from far away, but too far and you lose efficiency reaching over that distance. And if you reach too far away, you might redirect arrows not aimed at you, or you might redirect an arrow meant for you into an ally."

Brom nodded. "So what's the solution?"

Eragon closed his eyes and imagined himself an archer sending volleys into an enemy army. How would his shot be rendered useless? Side to side didn't matter, as long as the battalion in front of him was wide enough to cover the misses.

"Elevation," he realized. "Send the arrows into the ground or over my head."

"How are you going to do that," Brom asked. "Force the arrow into the ground?"

Eragon shook his head. "No. Just tweak the fletching downwards at the back, or push the back of the arrow up slightly."

His father smiled. "Very good. And suppose by some fluke, that ward doesn't catch an arrow in time?"

"Have two wards?" Eragon guessed. "Another to stop the arrow."

"What if a magician enchants an arrow to strike true?" Brom asked. "And to pierce wards?"

Eragon frowned. "Is this like a magician's duel?"

Brom tilted his hand. "Somewhat. The true answer is to wear armor. Where magic may be defeated, practicality can still save you. Where mundane protections fail, magic may bridge the gap. Be careful that you don't start ignoring one way over the other."

He digested that and started working with Brom to cast his own wards.

Another area of study Brom introduced him to was politics. And he had this to say about it:

"Politics is the dirty business of selfishness and lying." Brom lit his pipe and sat back across the table from Eragon. A couple of dwarves had brought up the furniture on his request and set it up in the middle of the cavernous dragonhold beneath Isidar Mithrim. It was a bit unsettling to be so small in such an enormous room.

"Everybody in the world wants something," Brom explained. "Politicians are professionals at it. The Twins might have insisted on examining your mind because they wanted to learn new words in the Ancient Language. They might have wanted leverage over you by learning sensitive secrets. They might try to ostracize Harry because he threatens their position as the most powerful magicians in Ajihad's closest confidence."

"Trianna came up here to ask me to join Du Vrangr Gata," Eragon mentioned.

Brom nodded. "What do you think she wanted?"

"A powerful magician to join the organization and make it more powerful?" Eragon guessed. He did not mention that she had seemed to want something more than that.

"I'm sure that's part of it," Brom said. "But think further. How else does she benefit? She becomes your contact with them and your requests go through her. That means she can interpret your requests in such a way that what you ask for is helpful to her. She has leverage over the Twins by being a magician you might like rather than despise, and might be able to ask you for things."

"Relationships are as important as favors, Eragon. They are a nebulous sort of debt, where either party may ask without keeping the score, as long as it is vaguely even. Good working relationships with your allies may save you many, many headaches. A colleague may ask a favor in return. A friend is likely to simply do your favor and expect you'll be willing to help them if they need your help in the future."

Eragon rubbed his forehead. "I would prefer friendships," he said.

"Most do," Brom agreed. "But you must be careful to watch the push and pull of your friendships. Anybody of any importance in the Varden has gotten there by being pragmatic, selfish, and ambitious. Trianna did not get to where she was without knowing how to play the game, so when you make friends with her, remember that she is as aware as you what the expectations are. Some 'friends' will pull and pull if you let them. Be careful not to let them. That sort of reputation sticks."

"So everything is transactional?" Eragon asked tiredly. It made him miss Carvahall. They had debts and favors to repay, but there was honor in the system, and people weren't trying to get ahead. They were just living their lives.

Brom raised a brow and puffed his pipe. "Of course. Why did Garrow raise you and Roran?"

"Because he loved us?" Eragon said. Why had he asked something so obvious?

"It's a strategy enforced by our own instincts," Brom explained. "Garrow will get old one day. You and Roran traditionally take care of him when he's too old to work. Our instincts make us love our children so they survive to adulthood where they can take care of themselves and have children of their own. And so the wheel turns."

"Every living thing has a winning strategy. Some insects kill their mates after they have children and feed the body of a parent to their children. Others spawn thousands of babies on the beach so when birds and crabs and fish kill ninety-nine in a hundred of all of them just on their walk across the beach, enough make it to carry on their race. The cuckoo hides its eggs in the nests of other eggs."

Eragon gave Brom a long look. His father's face fell in regret. "I'm sorry I lied to you Eragon, but I do not doubt Garrow raised you better than I would have."

"Saphira said much the same," Eragon said neutrally. He kept a tight rein on his emotions.

"Dragons often see clearer than humans," Brom sighed. "My Saphira was often the same. If I had her to counsel me, maybe I would not have kept silent."

A new silence lingered between them.

Brom seemed to want to say something more, but couldn't find the words.

"I wish she had still been with you," Eragon said finally.

"As do I," Brom murmured.

AN: It's tough to write these things between Brom and Eragon. If I could make him say what Brom wants to say, he wouldn't be Brom. I didn't love this chapter, it felt like a lot of characterization and only a little action, but the characterization felt ineffective and clumsy. Let me know what you think about it. Despite setting everything up for the cast to have more time in the Varden than in canon, I've been feeling impatient to get through to the battle. There are only a few relevant moments for Eragon in Farthen Dur. As we've seen, Harry is the mover and shaker in terms of derailing the story. More on that in like five chapters.

Thanks to Scarze for going over this chapter.