Inheritance Cycle 1. Chapter 1: Summary

For a hundred years Galbatorix has ruled as King of the Broddring Kingdom and Emperor to the Empire of Alagaesia. With his thirteen loyal servants, the Forsworn, Galbatorix's rule is set in stone, firm.

Almost.

There is a group called the Alliance who opposes him. This group is comprised of the Elves of Du Weldenvarden, the Dwarves of the Beor Mountains and the mysterious organization known as the Varden. This Alliance also has the aid of five of the last free Shur'tugal, or Dragon Riders, to help depose Galbatorix and restore order to Alagaesia.

Arya Drottningu, an elven warrior and magician, is captured by a Shade called Durza three months before the events chronicled hereafter, on the orders of the King Galbatorix. This event leads the elves to cut off all contact with the other Alliance members. Arya was carrying a Dragon egg, the last free egg. Its disappearance has caused much worry and frustration by both the King and the Alliance. Only Arya knows where it could be, and she isn't in a position to tell anyone.

This is where the hero, or anti-hero, comes into the story. He is a man renowned in Alagaesia. He is renowned for his skill at arms, his skill at unarmed combat, his skill at espionage, and his skill at assassination. Able to complete his missions without a trace and with no other known name, he has been nicknamed the Wraith. He is a mercenary with no equal, his services always on demand. He is hired for an espionage mission by a man called Brom. This mission leads Eragon into a world he never wanted to enter. Fighting for the greater good never was at the top of Eragon's "To Do" list. Nevertheless, after an irresistible proposition, Eragon goes on a mission to find the fate out the fate of Arya Drottningu and the missing Dragon Egg.

This is the beginning of the Legacy of the Shur'tugal.


	2. Chapter 2: Prologue

"Curse you, old man!" Eragon spat for the umpteenth time that night.

He drew his cloak tighter around his frame. Winter in the Plains was, as usual, very cold. Eragon's body had learnt long ago to acclimatize quickly – which was only to be expected with the virtually nomadic life he led – but still the chilling breeze of the night let itself be felt. Eragon's horse shivered and snorted under him, despite the extra layer of blankets Eragon had added under the saddle. Eragon instinctively reached down and rubbed the horse's neck reassuringly. Despite being quite small, it was nevertheless a fine beast. It had carried him well.

"Mind your tongue, boy!" Brom warned. The winter night was worse for him, and, as usual, he was not in a good mood. That did not make for a good combination. Brom could feel all of his years, and every battle scar he had ever garnered seemed to be clamouring for his attention. Eragon had given him his own blankets but still Brom was cold. They would have to stop soon if the weather continued like this. Both men, and the horses, could smell the snows on their way. The good thing about the Plains was that they rarely ever got snow, but once it started it had a nasty habit of not stopping until the ground was buried under several feet of the stuff.

"We're going to have to stop soon," Eragon sighed. "The horses need food and rest, and this weather isn't helping one bit. You don't look too good yourself," Eragon teased.

Brom spared Eragon a filthy look before turning to survey the land they were traversing. "A couple more leagues," Brom said. "We are near a copse. We can find a little more shelter and comfort than out here in the open. Come." Brom twitched the reigns of his own mount and the horse instantly changed direction and started to head north-east. Brom urged his mount into a slight trot. It would hopefully warm the horses, but not exhaust them, if they were to travel a little faster. Eragon urged his own mount and began to follow a few feet behind Brom. After a few minutes his body got used to the horse's gentle up-and-down rhythm and his mind began to relax, relinquishing a little bit more control of the journey to the horse. As his mind relaxed into a comfortable blank state, he began to remember the events that had led to this journey.

XXX

_The city of Belatona. _

_With the exception of Uru'baen, which had been crafted by elves, it was the most beautiful city in the Empire. Renowned for its skilled craftsmen, Belatona had been built over two millennia past by the first human settlers on Alagaesia. It was the first human capital when King Palancar and his subjects first arrived in Alagaesia, and had continued to be the symbolic seat of power of the Broddring Kingdom until Galbatorix conquered the Riders and forced the elves out of Uru'baen, which up until that point had been known as Ilirea. Ilirea had been an elven city and stronghold for many millennia, since the time the elves had arrived on Alagaesia._

_Belatona was a true monument to human creativity. Not only had it been built with defence in mind, but it had also been built with beauty in mind. The entire city was made from marble, with the more opulent areas also built from expensive materials and wrought in intricate designs that astounded the mind. But the city was not pure rock, as that would have defeated the purpose of the architects. The city was supposed to be a monument toward all humans held precious, and so the one thing more abundant than the beautiful buildings - and the population, of course - was the wide range of vegetation present. Where marble ended you were guaranteed to find vegetation that had been carefully transplanted from all over Alagaesia and had taken to the new soil spectacularly. But unlike the buildings, the architects had made sure that once the plants took to the soil, they would not be interfered with. After all, they were trying to show the beauty of nature and therefore tempering with it would hinder the motive. Belatona was overrun with vegetation. This only added to the beauty of the city.___

_By unspoken consent, Belatona was rarely the sight of much violence. Polluting the atmosphere and the land with needless acts seemed brutish. But humans, being human, always strove to be the best. They strived to be acknowledged as masters of their realm, wealthy and intelligent. With violence out of the way, there was only one way for this acknowledgement to be achieved; Politics (and by proxy, espionage and assassination).___

_Politicking was both a necessity and a hobby in Belatona. Left, right and centre you were bound to find shrewd men and women who were as dangerous as a pack of wolves and as slippery as eels in water. Belatona was home to the main headquarters of every Guild in the Empire, although there were now also secondary headquarters located in Uru'baen so that should the King order something, it would be dealt with immediately.___

_In order to preserve the peace and protect the place their ancestors had built, Belatona had its own small army that was second best only to the King's Immortals. The army was only one and a half thousand men and women strong, but Belatona was a large city. Thieves, mercenaries and bandits were always a problem where a treasure such as Belatona was concerned, and the problems had only gotten worse as a few Urgal Clans had made their way south into the Empire so as to enjoy a warmer climate. Unfortunately, like all Urgals, war was a way of life. The fact that Belatona was on the edge of the Plains and right by the shore of Leona Lake only served to make the city the light to the metaphorical moth, in every sense of the saying. Time and time again every Urgal war chief who had sought to win favour for his Clan from his Herndall by looting Belatona had been sent back home licking his wounds.___

_Eragon's mind went over this entire history, and more, as he sat in a tavern which was located in the poorer district of Belatona. He had been to Belatona a few times before and he had to admit that it was the most beautiful city in Alagaesia. He hadn't seen any of the famed Dwarven or Elvish cities, or the mythical Utgard, the only large scale city the Urgals had ever supposedly built. It was mythical because no man, dwarf, elf or any other person had ever seen proof that it existed. Urgals claimed it did, but that was as far as it went. They refused to give any proof. It was holy to them. Apparently only a chosen few were allowed to enter. And, of course, there was the fact that Utgard, which meant _Stronghold of the Giants_, was the name of one of the oldest of the Rider's outposts in Alagaesia. Not many humans knew this, but Eragon had learnt that Utgard was actually an archaic Dwarven word that had been used by a dwarf clan called the "fire-workers" or the "smiths" to describe one of their greatest monuments. This monument was the first and oldest of the dwarf monuments, and was a point of pride for the dwarves. Eragon had only learnt some rudimentary Dwarven in the last year of his apprenticeship to his master when he had stumbled upon some Dwarven texts in his master's private library, one of them a Human-Dwarf dictionary of some sort, and had subsequently taught himself a little of the language, with the other Dwarven books on literature and metal-working helping perfect his grammar and pronunciation. Surely this place, this __Utgard__, was only invented to add an element of fear to the Urgal race. Who wouldn't be afraid when they found out an entire army of giants, of giant Urgals bigger than the elite Kull, would swarm out of a mythical place if the Urgal race was ever threatened?___

_Eragon regretted that his stay in Belatona was of utmost secrecy. Belatona had always appealed to him, mainly because of the lack of violence. Despite his job, Eragon personally abhorred violence. He and his master had always laughed at Fate's cruel joke, to gift him in the one area he disliked. No; to survive in the cutthroat society of Belatona you needed to rely on the one muscle most humans never exercised; the mind. When in Belatona, one could visit the Parthenon, a Temple dedicated to the Goddess of Wisdom, and where most of the politics in Belatona was conducted. Politics was conducted in public because there was a principle of openness that all the people in Belatona subscribed to. If you were into politicking and could convince the masses yourself, then well done to you. If not ... well, maybe politics wasn't the path for you. Or you could visit the Great Library, which was located underground and traversed the length and breadth of Belatona. It could take over an hour to go from one end to the other, and reading every scrap of information contained in the library would take decades, if not actual centuries. After all, this was the repository of all human knowledge. It was here Eragon had spent an entire year of his life, simply engrossed in the act of absorbing all the information he could, in-between carrying out missions for the numerous and ambitious politicians of the city. Or, of course, you could visit the Gymnasium in which people engaged in various sporting activities for the entertainment of the populace. The Palaestra, in which the Belatonian army itself trained and practiced their swordsmanship, among other things, was open to the public as well. It was only in the Gymnasium and Palaestra that any violence could be tolerated. After all, everyone needed a barbaric form of release now and then, right?___

_Eragon finished his pint of mead and ordered another one. He had learnt that Belatona was a place of many changes, even if on the surface things could look the same. He needed to gather information on what had transpired since his last visit before he made his next move. One good thing about the public politics was that it was a hobby everyone understood and constantly talked about. Belatona was a city of the intellectual. The trouble with politics was that it was forever changing as one person after another won one battle after another. To get a rough idea of everything he had missed Eragon would have to travel the entirety of Belatona and every public establishment because different matters affected different people. It was a hard job and would take at least a couple of weeks before he would be ready for the next stage. But he was getting paid handsomely for his efforts so he wouldn't complain._

_XXX_

_It took him a while but finally he was ready for the next stage of the operation. He already had the name of his target. Now all he had to do was unobtrusively shadow him for a week or so before he made his move. The task proved hard simply because of his surroundings. Deception was a way of life in Belatona and so he would be spotted a mile off if he so much as made one slip. And things weren't helped by the fact that he was following a magician. The Magician's Guild had slowly been drying up over the decades, as well as the Wizard's Council and the Sorcerer's Sect. This made arcane artists rare, but it also made them very dangerous. They had to learn to survive in a world where they were regarded with suspicion and treated with hatred. Any arcane artist was guaranteed to be a slippery person. These days any magic users hid themselves when in public by discarding their robes and dressing inconspicuously. Only magic users like the Arch-Mage, the Arch-Wizard and the Arch-Sorcerer walked proudly in public. After all, who would be stupid enough to attack someone who had been acknowledged as the best magic user among his or her peers?___

_Eragon had finally managed to find the pattern to his prey's movements, after an extra week of near-static surveillance, and it was time to initiate the second phase of the plan. The next morning Eragon, still dressed in his inconspicuous garb, followed the magician closely. He knew the magician was taking a pre-planned route that would eventually lead him to the Magician's Guild headquarters. Naturally the route was well monitored so as to ensure no magicians were followed. Eragon was spotted after the first ten minutes. As Eragon turned down into an alley, the short magician barely visible ahead amid the morning traffic, he was suddenly grabbed by two tough looking men. No one stopped to even stare. Minding your own business when in public was a very healthy thing in Belatona. No one would dare take such drastic and public action in Belatona unless it was sanctioned. It was bad publicity. As Eragon was dragged away into another, smaller and darker alley, he allowed himself a brief smile. Things were going exactly according to plan.___

_Eragon was thrown roughly against a wall. "Who are you!?" the first heavy asked gruffly.__  
_

_Given no time to answer, he __was slapped heavily across his cheek. "Why were you following that man!?"_

_  
__"I was paid to!" Eragon cried shrilly, his eyes wide and his body twitching with fear. "My client wanted to find out who that man was!"___

_The two heavies looked at each other. Eragon was sure the two were magicians. Although they were well muscled and had the look of men well acquainted with violence, maybe even privately hired mercenaries as they were too young to be retired soldiers, they also had eyes that radiated an inner power. Eragon was sure they were skilled. After all, you wouldn't have a recently weaned pup or an old hound guarding your house, would you? But Eragon wasn't without skill himself. As a warrior, Eragon had spent his whole life learning and refining his skills. Everything he had learnt had been taught by a Child of Shan, and that path was only walked by the best. Strength, speed, agility, excellent skill and raw talent more than made up for the lack of experience where older opponents were concerned.___

_A few years previously Eragon had had a run in with a rogue shaman in the Hadarac Desert. Someone from inside the Royal Desert Palace had paid him to go and eliminate the shaman. The Palace had once belonged to the Sultan of the Desert, leader of the Desert People and the Desert nomads. This was before Galbatorix and his Forsworn had conquered the Hadarac Desert, of course. Now the Palace was ruled by Donar, a Dragon Rider, one of the Forsworn, and a vassal of Galbatorix. The shaman, in exchange for his life – for Eragon had caught him unawares, his knife a millimetre from the man's neck – had promised Eragon to teach him what little he knew of the arcane arts. That had been an easy decision for Eragon. Knowing how to protect himself from magic users was a valuable tool to possess for someone in his business. And so for the next year the shaman had accompanied Eragon, teaching him how to increase his magical reserves so that he wouldn't tire easily. The shaman was a weak magician and knew very little of the Ancient Language, the Language of magic. However, the shaman had stolen one of Donar's scrolls and so the two learnt how to speak the Language passably well. The shaman knew little in the way of spells, but the little which Eragon had gleaned had allowed him to completely fortify his mind as well as learn numerous mind techniques. It had always peeved Eragon to no end, even though he had denied such emotions to the shaman, that he had never been able to actually use magic. If he was a wraith now, just imagining what he could do with magical abilities had kept him awake for nights on end.___

_Eragon was sure that the magicians would try to enter his mind to divine the truth. To do that, though, they would have to lower their own mind barriers. While Eragon was confident in his own combat abilities, this avenue of action, trying to take over the two guardsmen's minds, was much more effective. The two wouldn't be expecting any resistance from such a weak looking person. When the two men's minds reached for Eragon's, Eragon moved onto the third phase of the plan._

_XXX_

_Ten minutes later Eragon was walking between the two men, another inconspicuous person in the crowd. The process of erasing their memory of him as well as hypnotising them had taken a short while. While it wasn't physically exhausting, it did take a toll on the mind, even for experienced magicians, and he didn't even have the luck of being magically gifted. All he could rely on was the skills of his mental techniques and his knowledge on how the human mind functioned. Once again Eragon thanked whatever official within the Desert Palace that had hired him to track down that shaman, which had led to his meeting with the same frail shaman who'd turned out to be no threat. His only desire for the rest of his life had been to spend it with his dear, if a tad young, wife in peace. The fact that Eragon could perform mind magic like few magicians could, wipe memories and hypnotise, had earned him a very big reputation that had culminated into the legend, the alias, known as the Wraith; a silent and invisible operative for hire. His services were constantly in demand. Business was booming. But if he screwed up today, he might as well kiss that goodbye. It only took one mistake for the prospective clients to start wondering if his services were worth anything at all, and from then on it was downhill. _

_He was marching into the headquarters of the Magician's Guild and he was going to steal something that was securely and heavily guarded. One wrong move and he'd be dead, plain and simple, and that would be a merciful death. If he left a trace ... well, he'd heard rumours about the King's prowess, being in the business that he was in. At least he could take comfort in the fact that the great Wraith had been dispatched by the King himself.___

_Or he could succeed and live. Eragon thought it was a very simple decision to make._

_XXX_

Eragon leaned down and to the right, and his right hand blurred left and upwards. In the blink an eye he had caught the arrow in-between two fingers, from just below the head. He thanked that particular practice as he saw a dark liquid glinting dully on the pointy tip. With instinct more than thought, Eragon reversed the arrow before throwing it with all his strength. Although it didn't have the same power as it would have if it had been fired from a bow, the arrow nevertheless flew fast and steady into the tree from whence it came. A second later there was a grunt of pain and a man fell to the ground twenty feet away with the arrow in his throat. Eragon did not stop moving to admire his handiwork. He jumped off his horse and started running. Brom could take care of himself. They had just entered the copse of trees and so Eragon was sure there were no bowmen behind him. He had surveyed the copse as they had entered. But for these bowmen to escape his senses like that ... they were skilled. And they also had to be indigenous. That was the only way they could blend into their surroundings so well. So he was dealing with Plainspeople, then. But why had they laid an ambush for him? It made no sense. Eragon always made sure to be on good terms with everybody he met. It made him less suspicious if something went wrong and it also made situations easier to deal with if he didn't have to worry about other people trying to kill him. And then it clicked. This ambush wasn't for him. It was for Brom.

Eragon cursed and changed direction. The old man hadn't paid him yet. He couldn't die without paying Eragon money. If this ambush was for Brom, the Brom Eragon knew, then whoever had planned it would have taken into account all of Brom's capabilities. The old man wouldn't stand a chance. Eragon ran swiftly and silently, his footfalls not disturbing the ground. He stopped behind a tree, listening to his surroundings. It was quiet. Eragon looked around the tree trunk. His horse lay dead on the almost indistinguishable path. For some reason the sight evoked a strong sense of anger and injustice in him. Eragon firmly clamped down the emotions and concentrated on the current situation. No one had chased him, which cemented Eragon's theory that Brom was the target. They had to know he was still alive, however, so the attackers would have covered their tracks. A dead horse with supplies tied to its saddle was the juicy worm on a fishing tackle: No doubt there would be an ambush set up for him, in case he came back. Eragon turned his back on the horse and started navigating the thick foliage of the copse.

XXX

_The headquarters was disguised as a simple administrative, multi-storeyed, building. It extended many floors above ground as well as below ground, which was where most of the magic was practiced without fear of magic escaping to the surface. The two men led Eragon as he had instructed them to. Their goal was the magician's chambers, the magician Eragon had been shadowing for the past week. Eragon was lucky these two men knew the magician on a first name basis, or else things would only have gotten very complicated. They weren't best friends or anything, but what tenuous friendship did exist between the two guardsmen and the magician could be exploited effectively if he knew what he was doing, which he did. It was also lucky that these two men were constant patrols because they knew all the ins and outs of the headquarters. In minutes Eragon stood beside the door. He could feel his excitement mounting. He gave a nod to one of the men. The man knocked politely on the door. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Two men walked in, smiles on their faces. _

_The door was left slightly open._

_"Will, John!" the magician exclaimed, a smile colouring his voice. "To what do I owe this visit?" _

_The magician had been one for years now, and he had learnt to recognise when something wasn't right. He looked at Will and John's eyes and couldn't help but shiver at their blank stares, and John's rigid posture only served to heighten his suspicions. Something wasn't right. As he reached for his magic to incapacitate the two, however, he heard a few whispers and suddenly felt himself unable to move his body or open his mouth. John's body was even more rigid with concentration. The binding was quite strong, and it was going to stay that way. As the magician half-closed his eyes in concentration as he tried to find weaknesses in the binding, his mind exploring the invisible coils that held him, he was slapped. Hard. The magician looked up. His face instantly paled. Standing in front of him was a man he had never hoped to meet in his entire career. While no picture of the man existed, the black rose held lightly in-between the man's thumb and forefinger were more than enough to identify the stranger. Only one operative was known to use a black rose as a signature; The Wraith._

_"If you promise to behave, I will have you released." The magician nodded fervently. The pressure around his body and mouth disappeared._

_"You're ... you're the Wraith," the magician said slowly._

_"Indeed," Eragon replied._

_"You're ... younger than expected." _

_Eragon smiled._ _"You're never too young," he replied._

_"But you look like you've barely passed into manhood, if you have at all!" the magician protested. Eragon said nothing, his posture relaxed, his face calm and his eyes impassive. The magician gulped audibly. It wasn't a good idea to antagonize the man who held his life in his hands. "What do you want with me?" the magician asked softly._

_"Your name is Aran," Eragon said, "And you are a member of Galbatorix's spy network which goes by the name of the Black Hand. In your possession at this moment in time are all of the Black Hand's records, including a list of all of the Black Hand's operatives, a list of all of the Black Hand's past missions and most importantly, a list of all the contacts the Black Hand has. Please give them to me."_

_Aran hadn't really been listening, although the friendly request at the end had nearly thrown his concentration. He knew there was only one reason the Wraith would come looking for such a lowly Black Hand operative such as himself. Aran also knew that he was more scared of Galbatorix than the Wraith. Every member of the Black Hand was handpicked and briefly tutored by Galbatorix himself. Their loyalty was above reproach. Aran knew that even if he wasn't dedicated to his King and his nation there was no way he would betray the King. He had given his word – in the Ancient Language. And right now his vows were forcing him to act. The records he was keeping safe for his superiors were a sign that he might just be moving up the ladder. He would never betray that. And so as the Wraith asked him to hand over the records, a pre-set spell suddenly exploded out of Aran. It would kill the Wraith instantly but at the cost of knocking Aran unconscious, so great were the energy requirements. Aran was a relatively weak magician, purely in terms of strength, and therefore so much energy expended at once was more than his body could take. The deadly spell was silent. It did not even create a wind. There was suddenly an orb of light surrounding the Wraith. It was glowing orange. It contracted into small ball, taking the Wraith's body and life with it. It then dissipated into black ashes onto the floor. Aran smiled as he blacked out. He thought he could feel something at the edge of his mind but he ignored it. He had killed the Wraith. The records were safe. Everything would be alright._

_When Aran was unconscious, Will, the other patrol magician who had been standing beside John started going blurry. A second later the spell that had been cast on him by John – and the reason why John had seemed so rigid and full of concentration – was lifted. The man Aran had killed was the real Will. Eragon felt no emotion over Will's death. This was business, after all. People died all the time._

_Eragon had invaded Aran's mind and quickly perused everything it held. He went over to a blank wall and slowly pushed a seemingly solid portion of it. It moved an inch before there was another sound in the room. A portion of the floor unlatched to reveal a secret compartment. In there was a small wooden chest. In the chest was the booty, so to speak. Eragon smiled. It was time to move to the final phase of his plan._

_"Come, John," Eragon commanded. "We have to copy every record and replace everything as it was in the next hour." After that Eragon would wipe his influence from John's mind and plant false memories. It would leave him very weakened but it was necessary. Having the world believe he was dead would give him a reprieve, maybe for a year or so, depending on how long he decided to stay in retirement, in which he could relax before going back into the business. He had a lot of books to catch up on._

_XXX_

Eragon approached the campsite silently. There were five Plainspeople, twenty Empire soldiers and a tall slim man. The man was dressed in black, had crimson hair and eyes, and wore a large black cloak that seemed to be made from shadow. Eragon's heart sank. Knowing what this man was, it wouldn't surprise him if the cloak _was_ made from shadow. The man was a Shade. He would also be Eragon's first target. Eragon knew his wood lore and he was confident he could get close enough to the Shade to incapacitate him. He wasn't the first man to think this. But Eragon had no choice. Brom owed him money and until he was paid, he had no option but to risk it. Eragon slowly made his way around the clearing until he was behind the Shade. He took firm hold of the bow he had taken from a fallen Plainsman, one of the two he had incapacitated after he had destroyed their ambush, and notched an arrow. He was a hundred feet away, a safe distance away from the Shade. He pulled the string. He aimed. He fired.

The arrow flew fast and low. The Shade heard it coming and dodged to the right, but it was too late. The arrow struck the Shade in the back of its head and came out the front with barely any reduced speed. The Shade staggered. It could feel its body Dissipating. It looked behind, hatred etched onto the features. Eragon let fly another arrow, intent on getting its heart, but before the arrow got to it the Shade got a brief flash of his face as it staggered round to face him before it suddenly burst into vapour and disappeared. The arrow passed harmlessly through a haze of shadow and thudded into a tree trunk.

This distraction had been all that Brom was waiting for. He uttered a spell and the soldiers and the Plainsman fell down to the ground unconscious. Eragon ran to Brom and whistled. He'd had no idea Brom could perform magic, and that was some impressive magic. He'd have to revise his analysis of Brom's abilities. But Brom had paid the price. The toll of the spell and the fact that his mind already felt abused from the Shade's attempts to get into his mind added up to an unconscious Brom. Eragon grunted and picked up the man and threw him over his shoulder. Eragon started walking. He was joined a few minutes later by Brom's noble white stallion. Eragon put Brom on the horse before climbing up behind the man. After taking his supplies from his dead horse, Eragon rode away from the place.

XXX

Brom woke up two days later. He was groggy and he had a headache. He looked around. It was night. He was in a cave. His horse was tied deeper into the cave.

"You're finally awake."

Brom turned his head slowly in case it was still feeling delicate. It was Eragon. Brom shivered on the inside. The sight of this boy who wasn't even a man and yet was an accomplished assassin sent shivers down his spine. No child should have to live that kind of life.

"How long was I unconscious?" Brom asked.

"It's been two nights," Eragon replied. "That steed of yours is a wind demon. We managed to clear the Plains this morning. Right now we are camped by the edge of Du Weldenvarden. Ceunon is a few leagues away; we are north-east of it." Brom nodded. He felt weak. It reminded him just how old he was. A century previously that little spell wouldn't have fazed him much. Now it knocked him unconscious for two days. _But then again_, Brom reflected, _a century ago I had a dragon_. He heaved a sigh and stood up. There was a fire away from the mouth of the cave and a pot was stewing nicely over it. Brom took a deep breath. It smelt good. He helped himself to some food, and by some it was the whole pot. Eragon was glad he knew about how magic worked, and the effect it had on the body, otherwise he would have just cooked normal portions.

"Thank you," Brom said when he was finished.

"No problem," Eragon said, his lips quirking upwards momentarily. Brom dismissed his observation. He must have been seeing things. Certainly his head felt like it was in the mood to be seeing things. "But now there is the matter of my fee." Brom looked at him hard. Eragon continued regardless. "I'm not going to ask you who you are to have a Shade and Empire soldiers looking for you, but the fact of the matter is that I saved your life. On top of that the Shade saw what I looked like. I am effectively in the Empire's bad books. The Empire happened to be my primary employer, or at least its citizens. I am now jobless and a public enemy. I think it's fair to say that my fee has tripled."

"Tripled!" Brom exploded. "I don't have that kind of money!"

Eragon shrugged. "Find it or I go to the Empire with a peace offering – your head." Eragon's voice was cold. The threat wasn't an empty one. In truth Brom didn't know if he could kill Eragon to save his own life. Eragon would put up a very big fight. And then there was the fact that Eragon had been smart enough not to meet Brom with the information. Eragon alone knew where the information on the Black Hand was. If Brom made a move Eragon would die with the information, making Brom's efforts useless. Brom was still tired. Using magic at this juncture was suicide.

"Fine," Brom grumbled. "You'll get your money."

"Good," Eragon said. He took out a phial from a pouch that hung round his waist and rested against his right buttock. He threw it at Brom. "Drink up," Eragon instructed. Brom did not question Eragon. He instantly realised this was some antidote to a poison that had undoubtedly been in the stew. That explained the brief smile that had been on Eragon's lips. Brom had been thanking him for a meal that would ultimately kill him! So even if Brom had won against Eragon and managed to extract information from the boy's head, Brom would still have died before he could make use of it. _Smart boy_, Brom thought. _It's a shame he's not on our side. We could use an operative like him. Things are getting desperate for the Alliance. Only five Dragon Riders are left to oppose Galbatorix, but at the moment they are too busy helping the Alliance fight the Empire's soldiers and keeping the Alliance's domains free from spies and enemy magicians. Eragon has the Power. I can sense it. He is already a great fighter. With training he could be a great magician as well. He could be a very valuable asset. Too bad he isn't interested in joining a cause.___

"So when am I going to get paid?" Eragon asked.

Brom sighed. "I need that information now so I can pass it on to my comrades," Brom started explaining.

"Ah," Eragon interrupted. "So you're with the Varden, then? I wouldn't have pegged you for a freedom fighter."

Brom ignored him. "So the only place I can get that kind of money would be-"

"-With the Elves," Eragon finished, his tone sounding surprised, a rare tone for Eragon. Eragon looked hard at Brom. "You're serious, aren't you? You can actually go to the elves and they will welcome you? Last time I heard the Alliance was falling apart. Something to do with the elves…"

"Where did you hear that?" Brom asked sharply. Eragon did not reply. You did not live long in Eragon's business by disclosing sensitive information. Brom let out a breath. Sometimes he forgot that the twenty year old boy in front of him was an accomplished assassin, spy and general-purpose mercenary. "It's true," Brom admitted, not wanting to make Eragon suspicious by lying. People like Eragon had to learn to detect lies or they didn't live long. "That Shade who attacked us, Durza, captured an elf while she was on a routine mission in Du Weldenvarden. The only way that could happen would be if there was a leak in the Varden, and so the elves have cut off all contact with the Varden until the situation is rectified and the elf's fate is known. However I ... I have ... a special status with the elves. They will not ignore me."

Eragon raised an eyebrow. Something told him Brom wasn't lying. He suddenly smiled. A chance to be in the Elven Kingdom was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"Very well," Eragon said.

"We leave immediately," Brom said standing up. "Remember this; the elves never had much interaction with humans in millennia past, and Galbatorix's betrayal only served to increase this chasm. Some elves don't have kindly feelings towards humans, whom they have deemed untrustworthy unless proven otherwise. They will not be very warm towards you; they will be polite and maybe even charming, but they won't trust you. So for your sake, please don't take it personally."

"My sake?" Eragon asked.

"Yes, your sake. Most of the stories you have ever heard about elves are true. The weakest elf could easily overpower a strong human. They are faster and more agile than you could imagine and tire slower. Fighting them will only result in defeat. Be courteous and don't lose your temper, no matter what happens." Eragon frowned before slowly nodding. Brom stood up and put his cloak on.

"So where exactly in the Elven Kingdom are we going?" Eragon asked.

"Why, Ellesméra of course," Brom replied.


	3. Chapter 3: Ellesméra

The journey to Ellesméra was a long one. While either man could have travelled at a much faster pace alone, it seemed that the two did not trust each other enough to give up the secrets of their trades. For Eragon – the skilled and talented assassin, spy and hired blade known as the Wraith, renowned all over the length and breadth of the Empire, and someone who could vanish in the blink of an eye – giving up his secrets might as well have been getting out of the business. If Brom ever sold his secrets – which he might do to blackmail and control Eragon, for then the Wraith's name and reputation would be ruined, seeing as the Wraith's methods of operation would be assimilated by numerous copycats in an attempt to make themselves into legends in the criminal underworld. For Brom – the assassin, spy, freedom fighter, magician, tactician, the last Elf Friend, fearsome warrior and a former Rider – letting even a fraction of his true powers show in front of a man – or boy, rather – of Eragon's skill and intellect would be tantamount to walking into Uru'baen and introducing himself to Galbatorix under a false name: that is to say it would be a suicidal act as he would be immediately rumbled.

And so the two warriors slowly made their way to the Elven capital.

For Eragon, although he remained calm and unmoved on the outside, this was a novel experience, and one he was enjoying very much. He had travelled the length and breadth of Alagaesia since the day he had left his village, never staying in one place for long. Doing so would create a week point in his armour as someone skilled enough could use that permanent residence as a starting point to tracking him. He enjoyed watching the forest slowly pass him by, or rather watching the forest as he slowly made his way through it. To him it felt as if there was no distinction. It was an endless tapestry of greenery. Just because he was enjoying himself didn't affect his normal behaviour, of course. He was still as alert as a hunted deer, always on the lookout for danger.

"Do you ever relax?" Brom asked one night as they sat in their small camp.

"Do you have to ask?" Eragon countered. Brom grunted at that and left Eragon alone. After they had finished eating and cleared all signs of their camp, so that they wouldn't have to do it in the morning, they sat by the fire in silence. Eragon had his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees and his eyes closed. His pack was beside him, as was his sword, a rapier. The sheath was made from a type of black leather Brom had never seen before. It was pitch black and immaculately clean. Brom had noticed that although the sheath was hard, it was also pliable, bendy. A golden cap was fitted perfectly at the tip of the sheath. The actual rapier had an unusual hilt: it had no pommel; the grip was wrapped in the same black leather the sheath was made from, and wrapped in fine silver filigree (Brom noticed the grip had just enough space for someone to comfortably wield the sword with both hands); and the crosspiece was two quillons, with a decorative, patterned golden fist guard starting from just under the crosspiece.

Although the blade was sheathed, Brom had seen it before. It had an inch long ricasso, on which a coiled serpent was etched onto both sides. The blade was single-edged, sharpened from the top end of the ricasso to the tip of the blade. The edge was extremely sharp, but thick and blunt on the reverse edge of the blade, with the flat of the blade two inches wide, and so twice the width of a normal rapier. When Brom had first tracked down Eragon to a tavern in Narda, Eragon had naturally sought to find out how this man had managed it and, failing that, kill him. Eragon had attacked Brom with skill, speed, strength and agility the old man had never seen in any human before. Being a former Rider he'd been surprised to find someone who could provide a challenge for his skill, and that moment of shock and inattention had earned him a gash on his chest that had later healed into a long, if light, scar. Brom wasn't certain who would win in a duel between the Wraith and himself, which was testament of Eragon's skill; as a Rider, Brom had bested every opponent he had ever faced in the field of battle – even among the Riders – apart from only three people. Brom looked at the sheathed rapier, his mind busy. Rapiers were duelling swords, and therefore weren't quite strong. Eragon's blade was quite different, however. It was rigid to the core, as strong as any broadsword. Brom's expert eye had analysed the blade and he'd come to the conclusion that the more pressure that was applied, the more it would bend. Only a great amount of force would break such a blade. Brom had never seen such craftsmanship among the humans, which begged the question of where the Wraith had acquired it. Brom's eyes traversed the length of the blade, trying to find some kind of signature left by the sword-smith. Whoever had forged it was good at what he, or she, did.

"It's rude to stare," Eragon suddenly said. His lips barely moved, and for a second Brom thought the voice had come inside his head.

"Just curious," Brom replied after a second.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Eragon said.

"The cat didn't owe curiosity a small fortune," Brom countered.

Eragon laughed at that one. He finally opened his eyes and looked at Brom. "You are a strange man, Brom," Eragon mused.

"Oh? How so?"

"I have never met a man with so many skills. Your swordsmanship is superb, nearly as good as mine-"

"Humph," Brom snorted.

"-your mental techniques are excellent," Eragon continued, ignoring the interruption, "Your espionage tactics are good, your unarmed combat would compare with the Children of Shan themselves, and from what I've seen you're a talented magician. If you had any sense you'd either be a self-employed worker, like I am, or you would be working for someone who can afford you, like the King, King Orrin, or one of the Forsworn perhaps. Instead, you waste your life fighting for the Varden and the Alliance. They are going to lose in the end, you know that. The King and his Forsworn are too powerful for the Alliance and the remaining Dragon Riders; the Riders haven't even showed themselves in the past few years. The Black Hand is working constantly to stop any of the Varden's spies from getting any information from the Empire, and is always on the lookout for Varden agents trying to recruit the Empire's citizens. This rebellion of yours … It's a losing war."

"That's a matter of opinion," Brom replied. "And there is more to life than fulfilling your own desires."

"Undoubtedly," Eragon said earnestly. "I myself am a student of spiritualism; rising above and conquering the various hungers and desires of the human animal has always been a goal of mine. It's just but one step in the quest to self-discovery. But tell me, what good reason do you have to be altruistic?" Brom opened his mouth, and then closed it. He hadn't expected Eragon to agree with him so readily, or so intellectually. He had his reasons, but they weren't to be shared with hired help.

"There are reasons why the free Riders don't display themselves in public," he said changing tact.

"Yes," Eragon agreed. "They will get killed. Simple. History proves that. In the last half century thirteen Dragon Riders of the Alliance have died while the Forsworn have only lost seven, and last time I counted there were originally thirteen Forsworn and eighteen free Riders. It takes great skill and power to kill someone who is similarly gifted, that's common sense."

"... I'm not having this discussion with an outsider," Brom finally said, gruffly.

Eragon laughed mockingly. "If I had any real interest in the war I would have little trouble finding out the truth, you know that."

"We are better defended than you think," Brom said.

"There is no defence against corruption, Brom," Eragon stated simply. "Everyone has a weakness, everyone has a breaking point, and everyone has their price. Find it and you can have anything you desire from them." _But that's not how I would infiltrate the Varden, Brom. I have done it before and I can do it again, and the best part is that you will never guess how I was doing it_.

"Some people actually value morals and obligations, Wraith," Brom spat. Eragon cocked his head to one side. Ever since their meeting Brom hadn't called Eragon by any name, only "boy" or some other synonym. Very few people alive knew his name, and though Brom was one of them, Brom, for some reason, hadn't chosen to use the alias Wraith or the name Eragon. The fact that he did added emphasis to Brom's declaration. At the end of the day, no matter his skill, Eragon was just another knife-for-hire with no scruples, or at least that was how Brom saw him. Eragon frowned.

"You cannot survive on morals and obligations," Eragon said. "Greed, immorality, self-preservation; these are the things natural to a human and help him survive. The King and his Forsworn, once warriors sworn to bring and defend peace to Alagaesia that turned into self-serving monsters, are an excellent example of this."

"You actually acknowledge that the King is flawed?" Brom asked in surprise.

"Of course," Eragon said with a shrug, "But that changes nothing. I do not care about monarchs and their politics. Some people will always feel cheated by the current government, and therefore feel the need to remove an obstacle quietly. That's where I come in. My line of business is unaffected by war. In fact, in times of unrest, my business booms, though I haven't been in the business long enough to have experienced this effect to the maximum. Either way, I win. I have no care about the masses. They have never cared about me to begin with. Explain something to me though, Brom. No King has ever been flawless. Galbatorix might be more powerful than any King in history, more powerful than any Dragon Rider ever recorded, but he's nevertheless human. Surely you did not expect a King to be a saint.

But he is smart. Apart from the small pockets in Alagaesia where the Varden and its allies attack the Empire and create unrest, attacks which have become more infrequent over the years, the rest of the Empire is relatively calm and peaceful, maybe even prosperous. Have you ever been to Belatona? No war has touched that city in centuries. Even _Du Shur'tugal Fyrn Mikill_, The Great Dragon Rider War, which reached Feinster to the south-south-west, Melian to the south-south-east, Dras-Leona to the north-east and Leona Lake to the north, did not touch Belatona at all. In times of great danger people actually flock towards it for safety. These same people are the ones you harm when you're fighting against the Empire, trying to depose Galbatorix. How can you explain to them, or any other person who is affected by your war – like the thousands of innocent soldiers whose only mistake is to be on the wrong side – that your war is justified?"

Brom did not answer.

XXX

It was after nearly three weeks of travelling on foot that the two finally made it to Ellesméra. After a month of nothing but endless green foliage Eragon had begun to sicken of it. He longed for the dirty floors, for the sweat and mead laden air – and for the camaraderie – that could be found in any decent tavern. He briefly wondered if leaving Brom's horse in the stables back in Ceunon had been a good idea. With a horse, this journey could have been much shorter. But he did not let it show. His life had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself. But he did find the fact that they had encountered no elves slightly unusual. No elf existed beyond the borders of Du Weldenvarden, and so it only made sense that once inside those borders elves would be abundant. And yet their trip had been as quiet as a church mouse. He had seen strange creatures, creatures no doubt indigenous to Du Weldenvarden and wouldn't be found anywhere else in Alagaesia. He had even scared off some of the predators which had come a little too close for comfort, despite Brom's assurances that they would be left alone, but he had seen no elves.

"Why haven't I seen any elves?" Eragon asked suddenly. Brom had announced they would be by the borders of Ellesméra in a few more minutes.

"Because I made sure to pick a route where we wouldn't meet any," Brom replied absently. Eragon did not question him further on that. Instead he mused out loud about something that had occurred to him.

"The King has been trying to get into the Elven Kingdom for a century now, and has been repelled at each try. Since we are just walking through the forest I'm assuming the Elven defences are more magical than physical. But for the same reason I'm wondering how we are able to simply walk through them. I think it's fair to say that the King is more skilled in magic than you are, and far more powerful. That means there has to be either a sentient magical being protecting Ellesméra, and the rest of the Elven Kingdom, which according to my admittedly limited knowledge of magic tells me is impossible, especially with the distances involved. The only other explanation is that there are multi-layered spells and enchantments that have been cast repeatedly and over a long time to give such a dense protection. This seems the more likely of the two. And again I run into a wall; us! We are walking through the defences like they aren't even there. This tells me, then, that the elves have given you a key of some sort that will bypass these protections, or else we would have been found out long ago. The key can't be in the form of a spell because I haven't seen you, heard you or felt you use any magical spells on yourself or on me. The only other form this key can take is in the form of a talisman. I'm not completely positive but I would be guessing the key would have to have more than a spell placed on it to bypass such complex spells without leaving a trace of our passage. And what's more, you'd have to have a way of activating this key or else anyone could use it if you ever lost it. And once active, you'd have to keep the key active until we reach Ellesméra, or else we'd be discovered. I won't speculate as to why you don't want us found out – perhaps the elves aren't as peaceful and welcoming as they are thought to be – but the only object that fits these speculations would be that silver ring you wear on your right ring finger, the one you've been working so hard to hide from me. The sapphire setting is engraved with an Ancient Language rune, if my Liduen Kvaedhí is anything to go by, and the silver metal is also engraved with other small runes as well."

Brom stopped walking and looked back at Eragon. Eragon stopped walking and met his gaze. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Brom spoke.

"We're here," Brom said, ignoring everything Eragon had just said. "We've arrived within Ellesméra's borders."

The world suddenly blurred for Eragon. He could feel something, some alien being, attacking his mind. It wasn't the normal, direct mental attack Eragon was used to dealing with. It was much more subtle than that. It was like quicksilver, seeping through the miniscule cracks in his mental defences. He had no defence against the attack whatsoever. Other people would have panicked. Eragon knew better than that. Panic would only make it harder to think and easier for his enemy to attack him. But still the impulse was there, just within reach, his human instinct. Eragon ignored it. He quickly assessed the situation. Someone who was incredibly skilled in mental techniques was attacking his mind. But this was no normal attack. Instead of attacking his whole mind, this person was simply layering their own consciousness on top of his, putting pressure on Eragon's mind, and then slipping in-between the cracks of Eragon's considerable defences. Eragon could not defend against this attack simply because he could not fix the cracks he had never thought existed. All he could do was compress and tighten his defences as much as he could, but that would only provide a short respite. Already he could feel the foreign presence building in pressure, forcing the cracks open and slipping through. Eragon felt a flicker of frustration. What could he do!? Slowly the presence forced its way toward Eragon's protected core, building in power. Eragon knew that in a few more moments he would be overpowered and likely destroyed.

_What a way for someone like me to die_, he chuckled to himself. _I'm not on a battlefield and my sword isn't even drawn. I'll be turned away from the Halls for sure._

As the presence was on the fringes of Eragon's protected mind, Eragon braced himself for whatever was coming. He felt a tiny drop get past all his defences and-

-Suddenly he was aware of himself standing in Du Weldenvarden. He looked around in confusion. Brom was gripping his shoulder, and for a second Eragon thought he detected a flicker of concern, but then it was gone. Deep within his mind he felt the presence that had been about to smother him flee like shadow from light.

"Huh?" Eragon uttered and he immediately felt angry with himself. How inarticulate could he get?

"What's wrong, boy?" Brom asked, and from the tone Eragon guessed this wasn't the first time he had been asked that question. Quickly he filled in Brom on what had just happened. He saw no harm in it, and he reasoned Brom was much more skilled in these matters than he was. He wouldn't like to be caught in that situation again. It was better to get some advice. Eragon looked down at Brom's hand on his shoulder. The ring Brom wore was glowing slightly. Brom looked down at it was well and his lips pursed.

"Seems you were right, boy," Brom said after a while. "This ring is special."

"It would seem it does more than you thought it did," Eragon agreed.

"But I looked over the ring myself. There were no additional spells I could detect," Brom argued.

"These are elves, what did you expect?" Eragon asked. Brom opened his mouth to retort but then thought better of it. Why tell the boy he was as proficient as most elves when it came to magic? It would only make the boy more guarded, which would make Brom's self-appointed mission harder: to convince the boy to join the Varden.

"True enough," Brom agreed. He frowned. "This will bear closer investigation. If this is some kind of measure against humans in the Elven Kingdom then I will need to outfit you with some protection. I don't think it will be a good idea to go complaining after I just smuggled you into Ellesméra, breaking so many rules. But what you described to me sounds strange, even by Elven standards. I don't think this was one of their counter-measures. At any rate, let's keep going. We have a couple of hours before we get to the Queen's Court. I have to present myself before her, and present you as well. Try not to be insulting, especially to any nobles and especially not to the Queen herself. They could destroy you with a flick of their thoughts."

Eragon suddenly smiled. Brom was taken aback by the eagerness and wild energy shining from this boy. With the heavy shadow surrounding them from the canopy, combined Eragon's unusually creamy-pale complexion for one who travelled so much, Brom could appreciate why he was called Wraith.

"I always love a challenge," Eragon said.

"Be careful you don't go out of your depth," Brom warned gravely. Something in the man's voice made Eragon pause. Slowly he nodded.

XXX

"Lord Dáthedr," Brom said, bowing.

"Brom-elda. It is a pleasure to have your company again."

"Thank you, Lord Dáthedr. It's good to be back."

"It's auspicious that you should appear now, Brom-elda. Fate has a smiled upon us all, for the Shur'tugala have called a War Council in Tronjheim. It has been years since any major offensive by the Alliance was taken, and Ajihad fears that our reticence has made us somewhat less popular in the Empire. There have been fewer and fewer recruits joining the Varden, and as usual Galbatorix's Black Hand is limiting most of the covert operations we have been running. I am due to leave in a week's time, along with Lady Nuala. The Shur'tugala are already there, and King Hrothgar is set to be on the Council as well."

"Auspicious indeed," Brom replied. "Very well, I shall accompany you. I must confess, Lord Dáthedr, I had thought the Queen would be on the War Council herself..."

Lord Dáthedr sighed. "She has been ill at heart, Brom-elda. But of course, you wouldn't know. Please forgive my lapse. A few months ago Arya Drottningu disappeared on her way to Osilon. Our Hunters found their horses slain, as well as Arya Drottningu's guards, Glenwing and Fäolin. Arya Drottningu and the egg are missing. As you can imagine, it's a disaster. It's one of the main reasons why this War Council has been called. We have to get that egg back at all costs, and Arya Drottningu, of course. The Queen has not left her chambers since finding out about the news. She weeps day and night. I fear for her. It was such a cruel trick of Fate for her to-" Dáthedr stopped himself in time. Silence reigned. Brom pretended he hadn't noticed the elf lord's near-breach of etiquette.

"What!? I should have kept closer contact with the Varden! How could this happen?"

"Do not blame yourself, Brom-elda. If anything, the fault lies with us elves and our lack of tighter security. For Arya and the egg to be snatched under our noses like that... It's our shame to bear, and therefore our responsibility to see this situation rectified."

"Thank you, Lord Dáthedr."

The elf lord paused for a second and took in Brom's companion. The child looked to be about twenty years of age, so therefore still regarded as a youngling by human law, at least for another year. He was tall, standing eleven inches above five feet. He had black hair, the colour of a raven's feathers, which was woven into a single braid and tied in a topknot. The clothes he wore were worn with travel, but Dáthedr noticed they were simple and of great quality. Dáthedr noticed the clothes were comfortably loose, the hems of the sleeves of the boy's tunic and leggings widening toward the end, and he got the impression that they were deliberately made that way. Not only would they afford the wearer great flexibility for movement, it would also be easy to hide a few items up those sleeves. A rather elegant rapier hung at the boy's right hip, and Dáthedr found himself silently praising its workmanship; what he could see of it, the sheath, the crosspiece, and the hilt were excellently made, concentrating more upon usefulness than beauty. On top of the pack the boy carried on his back, there was a large brown leather pouch tied around the boy's waist, hanging against his right buttock.

"Who is your friend, Brom-elda?"

For the thousandth time that morning Eragon cursed his limited experience of the ancient language. He had barely been able to follow the conversation. But thank the gods he was smart because what he did hear was enough to fill in any missing gaps and for him to get a picture of what the two were talking about. He was interested with how Brom pretended not to know that the elf, Arya, had been captured. Brom's reactions were very convincing. In fact, if Eragon hadn't already known Brom knew, he would have been fooled. This old man was better than he had expected. And there was the fact that Brom had misled the elf. Eragon knew no one could lie in the ancient language, and Brom hadn't actually lied. He had given the impression of being shocked and unaware but had not said anything to actually indicate he was aware of the situation. Interesting. But never mind that. The Riders were in Tronjheim, and this elf lord and some elf lady were going there. He had recognised the name "Ajihad". It was the name of the Varden's leader. Eragon had never met the man, but he had heard plenty about him on his brief forays into the Varden's headquarters. Ajihad was supposed to be a great strategist and tactician, and his combat skills were unrivalled within the Varden. Eragon wondered if shadows like Brom were counted in that reckoning.

Brom had told Eragon to put on the hood of his cloak so that no elf would recognise he was human. Eragon had felt really strange walking through an entire city of elves without them being any the wiser to his identity. It was ... surreal. The elves were exactly as he had imagined and heard of, that and more. They seemed to flow through everything they did. It was unnatural. Now he could begin to truly understand what he'd learned from the desert shaman about magic and magical beings. And Ellesméra itself, what a wonder! There was a moment, as they had delved deeper into Ellesméra, when his keen senses had started picking up conspicuous trails and trees, but every time he tried to concentrate on them, they vanished. But after a few minutes of walking he felt that something was off, and when he blinked it was like a lens had been fitted over his eyes. He could now truly see the trails, which were so narrow and inconspicuous that he would have thought they were made by wild animals. And the trees that had seemed oddly shaped, they were houses. To think of it! What kind of mad people built their houses in trees? And the wonderful shapes the houses were, too. He had no doubt he was among the elves.

What surprised him most was the amount of attention and veneration Brom received from the elves. Everyone they met made a point to stop and greet Brom. He noticed that they placed two fingers – the index and the middle fingers – over their mouths, shared some kind of formal greeting that Eragon could just comprehend before launching into brief chat about random subjects, most of which Eragon had to concentrate hard to follow. He still only understood about one in five words, so fast did they speak, and had to guess the rest. His resolve deepened. Brom was not as he appeared.

"This is the man I employed to find information on the Black Hand. Galbatorix's shadow organisation has become a nuisance to us."

"I'm assuming you trust this operative of yours if you are bringing him here?"

"No, I don't," Brom replied, which was the utter truth since he was speaking in the ancient language. "But I know he will not betray us. Besides, I took care on our way here. He has no idea how we got here, so even if he did go to the King or the Wyrdfell they couldn't make their way here." The elf lord's eyes bored into Eragon's but Eragon stared right back, his face calm, and his gaze unflinching. He had stared down fiercer opponents than this elf. The elf's lips quirked upwards, just a fraction, and if Eragon didn't posses perfect vision – vision some of his colleagues had termed unnatural – he would not have seen it.

"And what is his name?" Lord Dáthedr asked. Eragon thanked his training and experience to not let him down. He managed to stay exactly the same, not one single muscle shifting whatsoever. But he wondered. Would Brom reveal his real name or would he simply use Eragon's alias?

"His name," Brom said, and Eragon knew the deliberate slowness of the reply was meant to needle him, "Is, as I'm led to believe, not known by many people. He goes by the alias of the Wraith, however." The elf's eyebrows raised a fraction.

"This child is _the_ Wraith? I have heard of him. Isn't he the one who is rumoured to be one of the deadliest assassins in the Empire? And isn't he also in the King's pocket?"

"No, I'm not," Eragon interjected, speaking in the human tongue. The elf's eyes narrowed slightly. This child could understand the ancient language? "I work for myself."

"Really?" asked the elf, his face impassive.

"Yes," asserted Eragon. He managed to keep his tone neutral. This elf was trying to get under his skin, and it was working. Eragon had to still himself for a second before he regained his composure. He hated it when people started getting personal with him. His life was his own and he would share it with only those he deemed trustworthy, which at the moment amounted to three people. He did not trust Brom.

"I see. And why have you brought him here, Brom?"

Eragon answered. "Brom screwed up," he said bluntly. He saw both the elf and Brom's postures harden slightly. Both of them were old and he guessed having some young whelp like him admonish someone of Brom's age and skills was unbecoming. He smiled inwardly. "On our way to Ceunon, across the Plains, we were attacked by Empire soldiers, plainspeople ...and a Shade. Because I had not yet been paid for my efforts in acquiring extensive information on the Black Hand, information no one knows I acquired by the way, I naturally set out to help him. I managed to get close enough to the Shade to fire an arrow to him, to the head, and he disappeared, but not before he saw my face. Brom managed to disable the rest of the troops. Now I am stuck in a quandary, you see. The King seems to have himself a Shade, and this Shade saw me. It will look for me. Luckily for me I have measures against anyone looking for me magically – scrying I think it's called, but I'm not sure even my defences will hold against a Shade. And what if he circulates my description? While no one knows what the Wraith looks like, they don't have to, now that someone is looking for a certain boy who is travelling with a troublesome old man."

"I see," Lord Dáthedr said, digesting this information. This child, if what he said was true – which Brom's silence indicated it was – was more talented than he would have thought. And this Shade ... he felt with certainty that only this Shade could have slew Glenwing, Fäolin, Vascilla, the Varden's Guards and captured Arya and the egg. But how had a Shade come in the service of Galbatorix? And how had the information on the egg's itinerary come into the Shade's knowledge?

"Do you?" asked Eragon, his face turning impassive, his manor more serious. "My whole way of life – which ironically relies on the death of others – is in jeopardy because Brom didn't warn me of any potential dangers that could affect our professional relationship. He effectively broke our contract. Anyone who does that, I kill. The only reason he is alive is because some part of me still has a semblance of morals and knew Brom's death would be a heavy loss for the Varden. Either that or I realised the Varden would pay a lot to have him back, safe and sound. I could have still made a lot of money with the information I have on the Black Hand."

"Hmm," the elf lord hummed. His eyes locked once again with this youngling. The boy had spine, and he was deadly. But he stood not a chance against Dáthedr. The elf briefly thought of simply overpowering the boy and extracting what information the boy had. He could send the boy away after that, his mind wiped of anything regarding Brom or the elves.

"That would be unwise, elf."

Dáthedr didn't know what was more shocking; that the boy had been able to discern his musings or the transformation the boy seemed to have undergone. A second before the boy had just been that, a boy. Now Dáthedr could appreciate how this boy had remained so hidden for so long, his identity a secret. The boy's very aura seemed to have metamorphosed. He now radiated barely controlled energy, an inner power filled with strength, determination, and malice. For a fraction of a second Dáthedr's surprise was so much that he was actually paralysed. In that fraction he saw how the boy's muscles moved instinctively, and how he had to force himself to calm down. Dáthedr knew that if they had been enemies facing each other, the boy would have struck then, fast and true. But Dáthedr was an elf, not the oldest but definitely not young. He was a master spellweaver, having achieved the status over a century previously. He was a warrior who had faced many an enemy. He had been there on the plains of Ilirea, along with Brom and his King, and had fought the Wyrdfell, Galbatorix's magicians and Empire soldiers. It would take much more than this display to completely unsettle him.

"Wraith!" Brom hissed, his mind having traversed the same path of thought as Dáthedr.

Eragon blinked. He didn't know why but he had risen to the challenge and dispassion the elf had shown toward him. He had thought he had better self-control than that. Then he figured out why. He was in Ellesméra, the elven capital, and was nowhere near familiar territory. Only his faith in Brom's words had made him agree to come here. He was nervously aware of the fact that any resident in this city could kill him without any effort. Even his extensive mental capabilities would crumble if he was interrogated for long enough. He was backed into a corner, with Brom his only saviour.

_Shit. I should have thought this through better and come more prepared. I don't think I could even make it out of the immediate environment with the tools I brought with me. Shit! What's wrong with me? I have never been this lax before. And I might not have a chance to rectify that mistake. Shit!!_

_Calm down, child. Dáthedr will not act against you. I think your display impressed him, and maybe unsettled him a little. I am curious myself as to how you did it. I saw it through the eyes of the dove just outside the room, to your right. I had to stop it fleeing and attracting attention. It appears your little display is consistent with that of predators in the wild._

Eragon had to force himself not to panic. He checked and sure enough his mental barriers were intact and activated. How had this person got through them? Then he remembered that drop of consciousness that had dripped into his mind before Brom's ring had saved him. But it wasn't possible for someone to split their consciousness, surely. Fair enough he was no magician, his only experience with the arcane being his extensive arsenal of mental techniques, but he'd never heard of or read of such a thing. When it came to the body and the mind, he was as knowledgeable as the best healers and magicians. So that meant that the drop that had seeped through his defences was the spell equivalent of a criminal sleeper cell. It allowed this person to be able to get past his barriers and reconnect with the drop it had left behind undetected. This meant that the presence back in the forest hadn't fled because Brom touched him, even though that might have been a factor. This mind had left a seed in his mind and then left, planning to contact him at a more leisurely time.

_Very good, child. You are brighter than I thought. Brom is right about you. You would be an invaluable asset to the Varden. You don't know much about Brom, but if you did you would appreciate why I say this. But enough of this. Concentrate on your conversation with Dáthedr. When you are finished, take your first opportunity and make your way to the northern edge of __Ellesméra._

As abruptly as the vast, alien, and powerful mind had come, it was gone. Eragon blinked. From the silence in the room he guessed he had been silent for a short period of time. Brom was looking at him, his brow furrowed, and the elf had an eyebrow raised.

"Forgive me, Lord Dáthedr," Eragon said. "It was an instinctual response."

Dáthedr realised this wasn't much of an apology. The child wasn't apologizing for his outburst, simply giving a reason why it had happened. He did not comment on it.

"It is alright," he said. "So how do you propose to give us the information you collected? You are not going to be paid until you have given us some information. And we have to be sure your information is trustworthy."

"I swear that my information is trustworthy and that I will give it to you in full," Eragon said in the ancient language. The elf's eyebrow rose another millimetre.

"I still need some information," the elf pressed.

"I have thousands of pages worth of information. I will need time to write it all down for you."

"You mean you'll be writing from memory?"

"Yes," Eragon replied simply. Dáthedr thought to press the issue, and then relented.

"Very well, then. I will find you quarters until you can finish. If you can, please give me any information that will be helpful to the War Council Brom and I will be attending. I do not know when we will come back, but you are welcome to stay until we return." _Translation: You aren't going anywhere until we return_.

"Your generosity is appreciated," Eragon said with a bow, his manner once again calm. Inside he was dancing. He was in the elven capital. What wonders he would see! And he'd really have to go to the northern border of Ellesméra and find this person who was playing mind games with him, literally. He didn't like people who toyed with him.


	4. Chapter 4: The Wraith

Tialdarí Hall.

It was just as he remembered it, a grand monument to the elves' mastery of gramarye. Brom sighed, allowing memories of times past to momentarily incapacitate him. Things had been harder then, but also simpler, in a way; the routine of life was so set that you knew what the next day would bring. Certainty in life brings peace of mind, while ignorance can at times not be bliss at all. Day by day he wondered if it would finally be the day Galbatorix took it upon himself to fly into the Beor Mountains to find and eliminate his enemy. Day by day he wondered if Galbatorix had finally gained enough power to sweep aside the elves' defences and conquer the elves of Du Weldenvarden. Day by day he wondered if it would be the last free day in Alagaesia. Brom did not think it out of pride but he knew that his Varden was the backbone of the Resistance. Galbatorix was human, and having human enemies who protested his reign had a power of its own. It added an element of reality. If only elves or dwarves opposed Galbatorix, Brom knew they would not be as successful in defying the King's might. Race was very much an important issue, whether in times of peace or war, although those in power tended not to publicize this fact. Harmony amongst different races was a much sought-after political position.

"Brom-elda."

Brom turned round and surveyed the elf that stood bowed before him, two fingers placed on the elf's lips. Brom mimicked the gesture but said nothing, watching the elf impassively. Inside he was both angry and sad at what he saw in the elf's demeanour. He had grown up in a very large family, with parents that very much loved and cared for their children, but weren't always able to provide everything. After being chosen to become a Rider, life had dramatically changed for him. His quality of life improved dramatically, although the other humans and elves would have disagreed, having come from much better and richer backgrounds. Brom had tried his best to help his family from his new position, but he quickly realised he couldn't after all his efforts to earn some money to send to his family were rebuffed and reproached by his mentors. Angry, he'd confronted his master and asked why he couldn't help his family. Very calmly, the elf had explained that firstly Riders did not deal with matters of money – not lightly, at least, for a Rider was supposed to let go of the material world to better gain spiritual harmony, and besides, money provided a source of temptation that could in the end lead to corruption – and that secondly if enemies ever found out the existence of his family, his family could be used to control him through blackmail.

When a Rider was chosen, they discarded their family names and affiliations until they graduated from their apprenticeships and were recognised as full Riders who would be able to deal with any such situations if and when they arose. Coming from such a poor background, everything in his new life had always glimmered to Brom, exciting and enticing, but he'd slowly learnt to get used to the finer things in life until they made no impressions on him whatsoever. And now here he was, a man of the world, dressed in rags, being addressed by a young elf that couldn't control his expression enough to hide his surprise and dismay that the great Brom was nothing but a ragged old human. Elves were the most different of the races in Alagaesia, partly due to their own nature. Even though no one said it outright, especially the elves themselves, the elves were regarded as perhaps the best race in Alagaesia, perhaps barring the now near-extinct dragons. But Brom disagreed. Every race and culture had its pros and cons, and from personal experience he had to say the elven cultures generally tended to have more cons than pros. Immortality is both a blessing and a curse.

Enough said.

"May good fortune rule over you," the elf said.

"Peace live in your heart," Brom replied.

The elf straightened and approached Brom, his movements graceful. Brom realised that this youngling was a warrior who had earned his name and the accompanying titles and responsibilities. Brom smiled inwardly as he realised that no matter what race, all younglings carried themselves in a similar way when still buzzing with the joy and triumph of their achievements.

"I am Rían, of house Thorn-apple."

Brom inclined his head at the boy, for even though the elf was immortal, Brom was older and more experienced in the ways of the world to think of the elf as anything more than a mere boy. "Lord Dáthedr has sent me to request your presence at the training grounds, in three hours' time."

"Please let him know I will be there," Brom said bowing his head slightly.

The elf bowed at the waist. "I will," he replied. He bowed again before walking away. Brom watched him for a while before slowly making his way to the rooms he had occupied in his previous visits to Ellesméra.

XXX

Eragon sighed with content as he stretched on his straw bed. Even though he had quite a lot of money – which he didn't have any uses for, for the most part – he had never forgotten his simple beginnings, and as such found it easier to relax in simple surroundings. His acting skills, so important for any spy worth his salt, were good enough to get him through any situation, but something about the simple life appealed to his soul. It was too bad his career path forbade that.

The accommodations he had been given by Lord Dáthedr were naturally located as far away from elven civilization as possible, which was a hard compromise seeing as elves lived in villages, towns and cities almost as much as in the wild. The entirety of Du Weldenvarden was their home, and all elves could live in any location of it, as long as they were old enough to have had combat training and were able to survive the more dangerous areas. But still, it was relatively secluded here. Eragon explored his tree house, curious. Even with magic, Eragon knew feats could only be managed if the magician knew exactly what he or she was doing. You couldn't twist a tree's branches to make a house unless you understood trees intimately, your control of magic was superb, and you also knew the physical aspects of the venture. If you tried without knowing these things, the end result would be far from quality, if it actually worked at all. Eragon had never quite understood those aspects of magic, but what better time to learn than when he was in the depths of Du Weldenvarden, in the heart of the Elven Kingdom?

Everything about the tree-house was perfect, never contradicting nature, instead flowing with it. Eragon walked out of the house and then climbed down the tree so as to better appreciate the house. Lord Dáthedr had led him here in complete silence, and had only stayed long enough to tell him the bare essentials of his stay. Eragon hadn't had time to look at the house because he had barely been able to see it through all the foliage. But now that he knew what to look for, he could make it out. He whistled. These elves knew their architecture, alright. He found himself both impressed and disgusted. Humans took what land they had and used it to their own ends, building cities and towns, and left the rest to nature. But elves had nothing natural about their surroundings. Everything was permeated with magic. To find anything natural, Eragon had the feeling that you had to walk very far from any form of habitation.

_No one has ever looked at it that way_.

Eragon twisted around on instinct, a knife in his hands. No one was there. His most primal instincts held him there, still as a stone, his senses alert to any movement. Finally, when he sensed nothing, his more human instincts told him the voice hadn't been physical, it had been mental.

_Looked at what, what way?_ Eragon tentatively thought.

_No one has ever looked at the elven way of life in such a critical way._ Now Eragon remembered. It was the same voice that had spoken to him back when he was in audience with Lord Dáthedr.

_It is either because they have never had the chance to view it or they were too much in awe to think such a thing; Ellesméra, and I suspect your other cities, have a certain surreal, even ethereal, appeal to them. Or maybe they did not want to offend such a powerful race._

A mental chuckle_._

_A fair enough point. You are an interesting person, Eragon -_

_How did you know my real name!?_ Eragon couldn't control the anger and fear in his voice. His whole body was tensed, ready for some kind of fight.

Another mental chuckle. _I know many things, Eragon. But this is not the time for questions. I would have had you come to the northern edge of Ellesméra right away, but you have to concentrate on appeasing Lord Dáthedr. He leaves for the Varden soon, along with Brom and Lady Nuala. You need to give them any information that might help them in their deliberations for the War Council. After that you shall come to me. We have many things to discuss._ Eragon felt the presence recede so suddenly it actually hurt.

_Bloody elves_, Eragon thought darkly as he made his way up the tree to his hidden house.

XXX

It took Eragon five intense hours of concentrated effort to reproduce the information he had copied and memorised back in Belatona. He was quite pleased with himself, and also a bit annoyed. If his task was finished, there was nothing keeping him in Ellesméra anymore, and therefore Brom would probably take him to wherever the War Council was being hosted. Oh, well. Shit happens.

The sky was dark by then, and Eragon was completely bored. When called for, Eragon's acting skills were good. It was what made him such an excellent spy, that and his knack for good disguises, which had earned him the legend "The Chameleon" among other spies, and why he rarely had to rely on his mental techniques to mask his presence. But at the end of the day he was still a twenty year old boy filled with energy. For Eragon, who had been in the business since that fateful night ten years previously, there was no feeling greater than when he was in the midst of a mission. The excitement, the fear – although Eragon could truthfully say he didn't feel it anymore – and the unpredictability of the situations brought rushes of adrenaline and endorphins that could not be equalled. He had a family, deep within Palancar Valley, but he rarely thought of them. That didn't stop him from loving them, and indeed they were the only people he trusted in the whole world, but he knew they would be safe no matter what happened to him, especially after all the precautions and countermeasures he had put in place, and so there was practically nothing else he lived for. Without his occupation he knew his life would be empty. Maybe one day when he grew tired of the cut-throat world of assassination and espionage he would join his only living family, but until that day...

Eragon sighed. He hated these moments of self-reflection. He knew it was good for him, good for his psyche and his soul, or so he had discovered during one of his missions a couple of years back, guarding a spiritual healer, but he still hated it. The healer had specialised in healing wounds through the spirit, and although words in the ancient language were used, Eragon suspected no actual magic occurred. His instincts had never been wrong. And so he put aside small moments of his time for self-reflection. If his subconscious – or so the spiritual healer had referred to it as – did not like something, then he would simply have to come up with a solution. Eragon couldn't help but wonder, though, what he would do when his mind told him the shadow world he lived in was no longer suitable. That was the only world he knew.

Determined to get the thoughts from his head, Eragon decided to go to the northern edge of Ellesméra. Whoever was playing with him would soon see the darker side of his personality, the wrathful snake constantly poised to strike. The poised snake was also the emblem Eragon had chosen to be engraved onto the ricasso of his rapier. But after long years of operating, Eragon knew he couldn't go into a battle situation unprepared. He had to be prepared, mentally, physically and spiritually. With that in mind, Eragon unpacked all the goods from his pack. He set aside those he wouldn't need and then laid down those that would be useful. There were the obvious prerequisites, like throwing knives and so forth, and then there were other tools. All of them were divided into three holders: his handle-less blades, with holes at the bottom of the blade, went into a pouch that would be strapped on his right thigh; his star shaped throwing discs went into a pouch that would be strapped on his left thigh; and the rest went into an oval pouch, dubbed his "weapons pouch", that would be strapped to his waist, laying on his right buttock. All of his tools were kept clean and razor sharp, serviced daily, because in his line of work you never knew when you'd need to use them.

After those preparations were done with, Eragon set about working with a game plan. He did not know where exactly his quarry would be waiting, but he guessed finding the bastard had been part of the invite at any rate. That aside, the general idea would be to stay away from the wind, and in a land dominated by trees, it wouldn't be too difficult. Engagement of the target would depend on the conditions of the terrain, position of the opponent, et cetera. Eragon went through the information he knew about elves, chanting it like a mantra. He knew even that whether trained or untrained, young or old, male or female, he could expect to be overpowered and outlasted. Therefore his attack would depend largely on three Ss; stealth, speed, and mostly, surprise.

That part of the plan finished with, Eragon set about getting his body into gear. With all the travelling and sparse food, he was leaner than he had been for a while, which would help with stealth and speed, but not strength, so he needed his muscles geared for a hard fight. With this in mind he set about doing callisthenic exercises, getting his blood flowing and his reflexes at their fastest. Forming a diamond with his thumbs and forefingers, he did a thousand push-ups before switching to one handed, finger push-ups, and doing five hundred with each hand. Sweat was glistening on his skin at the end, but he wasn't even breathing hard. His body had endured so much worse. Afterward he set about doing what he liked to call the "rain dance", in which he spread his legs, lowered his centre of gravity and then hopped on the balls of his feet, switching from one foot to the other as fast as rain drops hit the ground. It was much more exhausting than it sounded, and he only indulged himself in that activity for ten minutes. He then did his last round of exercises, the ones he did before every job. They were an amalgamation of different poses he'd put together that would loosen his body and help him find balance, both physically and spiritually. While they weren't physically demanding, a tense body wouldn't have a chance of doing them. He liked the haze that descended on his mind whenever he did them, a haze that heightened his senses whilst dampening his awareness of his surroundings, leaving him to float in peace.

_Finally_, Eragon thought. _I'm ready_.

XXX

Brom attended Lord Dáthedr's audience feeling refreshed. After an hour long bath and putting on new clothes, courtesy of the Queen's House, of course, he felt like a new man. His simple but elegant sword hung at his hip, a reminder of the struggle his life had become. Also in attendance were several elves of great import, warriors and nobles whose thoughts on the issues plaguing Alagaesia would be a valuable and welcome contribution to the War Council. They had all met at the training grounds, away from prying eyes, and had then been led by Lord Dáthedr to his private chambers. When they had greeted each other Brom had, for the most part, spoken second as most of the elves present had some form of respect for him, but he knew when to show respect. You did not want to be conceived as conceited or self-important. Elves were masters of manipulation. They would soon set him in his place if he got on their wrong side.

"I thank you all for accepting my invitation," Lord Dáthedr said after all introductions had been done with. They all sat down on a circular table, and Brom instantly knew that this was a deliberate move on Lord Dáthedr's part. With no table heads, no one could claim or seem to be superior to anyone else. This meeting was the coming together of powerful elves who would formulate the elven opinion that would be voiced by Lord Dáthedr and Lady Nuala at the War Council, in the Queen's stead. Whatever was said here would have to be said honestly and not as part of some political or vengeful ploy. Elven life was even more complicated than its politics.

"We are honoured to be here," Lady Nuala, of house Thorn-apple, said. They were all seated, and they all instantly noticed an empty chair.

"Are we expecting others?" said elf named Líang said, who had been the King's right-hand elf, and a renowned tactician in his own right. He had since taken to advising the Queen after his King's death, but their professional relationship was not as valuable or as close as that of Evandar and Líang.

His tone of voice held the right amount of nonchalance, curiosity, and disdain that anyone would deign to be late to such an important meeting. Lord Dáthedr smiled knowingly, something no elf would do unless with good reason. Fortunately the elf lord had a good reason.

"We are expecting one more guest," he said, looking at the empty chair. "Gilderien-elda requested permission to join this council," he continued, pausing just long enough to let everyone know just what an honour and unusual request this was. Prince Gilderien had long since vanished from daily elven life and the political scene, although his power was still present, his word almost as powerful as that of any monarch in possession of the knotted crown. "He should be with us shortly..."

Even as Dáthedr spoke, the purest white light started gathering into a ball in the empty chair. Just as it got too intense to look at, it dissipated, and the chair was suddenly occupied by an elf robed in white, no part of his skin discernable with the long sleeves and deep hood of his robe. The elf raised his right sleeve and presumably touched his lips, though none could see beneath the hood, which was unusual for elves could see in the dark, apart from the darkest night.

"May good fortune rule over you," the elf murmured softly, honouring all present by speaking first.

"Peace live in your heart," everyone else replied at once.

"And may the stars watch over you," the elf said, finishing the greeting quite formally.

"I am glad you are able to join us, Gilderien-elda," Dáthedr said, bowing his head deeply. Everyone else followed suit.

"So am I," Gilderien said. Although he spoke softly, almost a murmur, his voice nevertheless managed to grab the attention of everyone present. A few of the elves couldn't help but exchange glances. Gilderien was an unknown quantity. That combined with his political, physical and magical prowess made him dangerous and unpredictable. No one had ever tried to set him limits, not even the past monarchs, and it was now considered wise to leave it that way. Besides, Gilderien-elda's task was a very demanding and respected one. No one in their right mind would dare jeopardise it or risk angering him.

"Oh?" Líang said his voice just curious enough.

"I am interested in the youngling Brom-finiarel brought with him," Gilderien said, getting right to the point.

"What youngling?" Lady Nuala said, her gaze alternating between Dáthedr – for he had to know of this mystery – and Brom himself.

"Master Brom hired a human operative to acquire information for us, in hopes of countering Galbatorix's and the Wyrdfell's movements," Lord Dáthedr said, his voice impassive.

"He operates under the alias "The Wraith"," Brom began. "He is considered by many to be the most skilled mercenary at the moment. He acquired the alias "The Wraith" because of the fact that he can accomplish his tasks without leaving a trace, leaving only a black rose as his mark. Like everyone in that business, he has his share of vanity, I suppose. He is also known for being quite honourable, as much as someone like him can be honourable, and will not betray any information he has about us no matter what he is offered. I know first hand that he is a skilled warrior, and his mind is very sharp. Several of the Forsworn have been trying to recruit him into their fold for many years now, and probably would have succeeded, eventually, if it weren't for the fact that he is near-impossible to find. I only managed it because I know him more than most and I was therefore able to use what I know to my advantage.

If any of the Forsworn was to get a hold of him and he joined them ... if someone of his talent and skill was to be taught sorcery or magic in the service of the King and the Forsworn, he would be a very major threat. Within a decade I would not be able to match him in a fight, and if he spent a few more years under the instruction of even the weakest Forsworn, he could be a great threat to the Alliance and the remaining Shur'tugala. And his greatest attribute is not even his talent, or his potential, or even his skill. No, his greatest attribute is his mind. He is quite young, but has knowledge and wisdom far beyond his years. He is a great tactician. His success is due more to his fore-planning than anything else. He can engineer situations to suit his purposes in a way that is almost frightening."

Silence followed the little speech as everyone digested the information. "I saw he was skilled, for a human, but I do not think he could be that much of a threat." Lord Dáthedr's disbelief was perfectly masked, but ultimately unnecessary. Everyone there shared his disbelief.

"Underestimating him would be a very grave mistake," Gilderien said. "He is the one responsible for Micah's death."

A deafening silence followed as everyone perked up and their faces went white with shock. Brom looked at Gilderien with sharp, searching eyes. He thought he'd been the only person, apart from Ajihad, who knew of that particular fact. Micah had been one of Galbatorix's most loyal servants, on par with Morzan in skill, despite the fact that he wasn't a Dragon Rider. After Brom duelled and killed Morzan twenty years previously, Micah had been the King's favourite, his word and strength only surpassed and questioned by the King himself. Unlike Morzan, and any other of the Forsworn, Micah was not prone to wanton violence, instead exuding calm and cool calculation that in some respects made him more dangerous than Morzan. His sudden death had been a great loss to Galbatorix, especially after losing Morzan only eighteen years previously. No one was sure how he had died, but nothing untoward had been detected, and so it was written off as a natural death. Certainly healers had discovered that Micah's heart was a little smaller than it should have been, so maybe a weak heart attack was responsible for the death of such a powerful man. The Alliance's position had been strengthened greatly and the King weakened. Although Galbatorix still had six of his a-cursed Forsworn left, none of them had the presence of mind they had enjoyed before their betrayal. Not many people knew why, but that fact made them of less use to Galbatorix than they would otherwise have been. It was why Morzan's loss had been such a great one; Morzan had been the last truly sane of the Forsworn. The last free Shur'tugala now had a much better chance of defeating their traitorous brethren since Morzan's betrayal.

"Are ... are you sure?" Lady Nuala asked, her hesitation and the fact that she was directly questioning Prince Gilderien proof of her shock and disbelief.

"Yes, he did," Brom answered, looking at Gilderien with calculating eyes.

"How did he induce a heart attack without leaving a trace?" Líang asked, his face intent. "How could he get close enough? Micah was even more paranoid than Morzan!"

"I don't know," Brom said. "But I know he is responsible. I recommended his services to Ajihad."

"Just how much have we used his services?" Líang asked. Brom did not fail to notice the inclusive "we", although elves had never been involved in anything operational, merely providing sustenance and other material forms of support. Only humans had any direct confrontational contact with the Empire. This suited everyone fine, of course. The dwarves and elves would make a nasty surprise for the Empire's soldiers when all-out war broke out.

"This would be the second time," Brom replied.

"The Wraith," an elf named Aíkó murmured. "Is that not the mercenary we debated a few years back on hiring to serve the Varden?"

"Yes," Brom said. "Ajihad wanted proof of his skill, determination and loyalty, seeing as he refused to have his mind examined. Upon my request, Ajihad paid the Wraith to do something that would help the Varden greatly. A few months later word of Micah's death reached us. We do not know how he did it, but we know it was him. Micah was simply too powerful to die from a simple cause like a weak heart. His protection spells were learnt from Galbatorix himself."

"Then why is he not on our side," Lady Nuala asked.

"We couldn't find him," Brom replied simply. "I only managed to locate him a couple of months ago, and he refused to work solely for the Varden. Apparently he does not believe in joining "causes". He likes being a freelancer."

"What did you ask him to do when you located him?" Aíkó asked.

"I asked him to gather as much information as he could on the Black Hand, the shadowy organisation that answers only to Galbatorix and has been hindering our efforts lately."

"What did he manage to uncover?" asked Lord Dáthedr, his voice a tad more insistent than usual.

Brom paused, savouring the moment. "He managed to copy the entirety of the Black Hand's archives up to a couple of months ago, which includes the names of many operating agents, sources of information, the locations of safe houses, and previous and current operations."

"He is ... good," Aíkó said. Aíkó himself was a great warrior who had fought beside the King on the Plains of Ilirea a hundred years previously.

"And he managed to do so without alerting the Black Hand or the King to his actions," Brom added. Silence greeted that information. With The Wraith's information the Varden could undermine Galbatorix greatly. That is, as long as their counterattacks did not alert the King to the fact that they had any information concerning the Black Hand.

"The reason I requested to attend," Gilderien said, talking after his long silence, "is so that I can show you a glimpse of his skill. Brom sought him out so as to convince him to join the Varden. With someone like him, I feel the Varden and the Alliance as a whole will be in a greater position to oppose Galbatorix. It might not be accomplished in his lifetime, but he will be an invaluable asset."

"I understand," Lord Dáthedr said. "How are you going to test him?"

"I have requested an elf's assistance," Gilderien said, bowing his head slightly to Lady Nuala, "an elf named Rían, of House Thorn-apple."

Lady Nuala bowed her head. "Rían is a very capable fighter," she said. "He is one of the best in my House, despite his young age."

"How did you know about him?" Brom asked, "And of my intentions to enrol him as a member of the Varden?"

Gilderien looked at Brom, and although none could see the expression on his face, they were all sure he was smiling. "Let us watch," was all Gilderien said. His form was suddenly consumed by that pure white light, and when the light faded Gilderien was gone, and the table's top had become reflective. The scrying spell was focused on The Wraith, and at that moment he was leaving his tree house.

XXX

Eragon crouched down on the ground, surveying his surroundings. He was attired in worn dirty clothes, the clothes he had been wearing on his trek through Du Weldenvarden. These clothes had best absorbed the atmosphere of the forest and would be less detectable to an elf's sharp senses. Besides, he planned on finding some wildlife to rub against, to add a more indigenous scent to his clothes. He wished he knew more about elves and their diet. He had once spent three weeks eating nothing but fish so as to get the right skin tone and body to be able to pass as a fisher coast-man, so in turn he could infiltrate a Fisherman cult and assassinate the ring leaders, who had been making life a living hell for a small town in Surda. It had been a ridiculous mission, and he'd only accepted because he was bored and needed to kill some time while he waited for his former master to come back from a trip. At the end, however, he'd learned a great deal about human psychology, so all was well.

But he had to do the best with what he had. He had thought that since Ellesméra had some kind of magical barriers, it must follow reason that it had to have some kind of recognised, marked, definitive boundaries. It would be safest that way for everyone, especially friends and allies, if they could recognise certain landmarks and know where not to go unless invited. After finding those boundaries, he had learnt that the northernmost point in Ellesméra was an outcropping of rock. He could suspect his mysterious elf to be in that area. Since the elf was expecting him, all ways there would be watched … Apart from one. He hoped. The sheer rock-facing below the cliff would hopefully be unwatched. After all, who would be mad enough to use it? It would be hard to plan and execute an attack with such a high and open terrain as the focal point, but Eragon would be damned if some elf decided to start playing mind games with him. One of the reasons why he liked his job was because he had freedom from such trappings of civilisation. He liked simplicity in life. Also there was the more practical matter of this elf having penetrated his mental defences, defences he had long since thought of as flawless. He needed to find out just how his mind had been broken into and turned into an open book, instead of a secure fort. Eragon held his privacy very dear to him, and did not like feeling threatened. While the elves may not mean him harm, Brom seemed to be an accepted and respected member of their society, and if Brom could use that influence with this elf to break into Eragon's mind, who knew what could happen... Eragon needed to fix this problem, quickly and permanently.

He jogged to the north-western edge of Ellesméra, the map of Ellesméra still fresh in his mind. He'd had to use quite a lot of his make up, but he had managed to pass off as Brom to one elf. Apologising for being an imposition, "Master Brom" had confessed to not have visited Ellesméra enough to remember it's lay out. The elf had been very accommodating and had drawn a very accurate map of the city and its surrounding lands, and had even labelled most of the places and buildings. Anything for Master Brom. Eragon smiled. Elves may have been called the fair folk, but they were still similar to other races in the fact that they tended to believe what they saw. Sight was very precious to sentient races. That's why seeing something engendered belief, and why illusions were so entertaining and enrapturing. The mind and body were Eragon's areas of expertise, and he excelled at any tasks involving them. He'd decided to leave the map somewhere else, in case things went sour. He did not want to be discovered with it, just in case he failed the night's excursion. It might come in handy later, when he was back in human lands and needed to buy back the favour, or rather, the blind eye, of the Powers That Be.

After reaching the north-western edge of Ellesméra, Eragon continued on walking for an hour. On his way he came across a herd of deer. Very slowly, he walked toward them, his manner relaxed, whispering in soft voices. The deer watched him balefully, wary of his scent, but Eragon managed to reach them without alarming them. He made sure not even glance in the direction of their young or the does, instead focusing on the stags. He did not want his behaviour to be read as a threat, or a challenge. Reaching one, he started stroking its pelt softly, still whispering softly. It was easier than he had expected. Something was off, though he couldn't quite say what it was. Usually it only worked with a small portion of animals he tried it on. He'd learnt this art from a woodsman in the Spine, and it had helped him a few times. The reason he was so good at his job was because he'd learnt to survive in cities as well as in nature. The jungles could be more cut-throat than the cities, sometimes. Gently, he started rubbing himself against the stag, covering as much of his body as he could. After a while the stag grew annoyed and nipped him. He took the bite gracefully and retreated. This behaviour seemed to assure the other deer and they paid him no more attention. He sat in the shadow of a tree, completely still, and watched them go about their business. They would soon fall asleep and he needed to collect information on their characteristics as fast as possible. After half an hour, in which the sky lightened a little as more stars came out, Eragon got up and left quietly, his departure not even noticed by the ever vigilant stags.

Eragon reviewed his location by using the heavens as a map, and figured out he was in position. Now all he had to do was move eastward until the outcropping came into sight. The walk was quiet and uninteresting, with all of Eragon's concentration focused on remaining silent and unnoticed. He came upon a brook and took the chance to wash off his sweat, which would give away his human identity to any wildlife in the surroundings, as well as the elf, if he got close enough. He then muddied the bank a bit more and rubbed the mud on any exposed flesh, which would cut off the reflectivity of his skin. Continuing on his journey, he ran through the plan in his mind, making sure everything was perfect. He hoped his earlier preparations would be effective. In fact, he hoped he would progress far enough in the plan to be able to use them. So much of his plan depended on the luck, on the fact that his opponent wasn't expecting him or was able to use magic, or at least wasn't using magic on him at that very moment. His thoughts briefly flitted to the shaman he had spared and was at that moment enjoying old age with his wife. Would the shaman's spell hold against the elves and a Shade? Would both groups be unable to scry him?

When the outcrop came into view, about a few hundred metres to the left and just as high, he reached into his weapons pouch and took out a small cylinder, about a hand span long. It was made from treated mahogany, with the rims at both ends ringed with dull brass bands. Eragon had taken the idea of a spying glass used by pirates at sea, and after a little tinkering in the chambers of a helpful alchemist in Surda, Eragon had managed to come up with the little beauty in his hands. The innards of his spying glass were very specifically manufactured and treated quartz crystals. Even the convex glass at the end was made of quartz. To operate the complex mechanism, all Eragon had to do was twist the imperceptible band in the spying glass' midriff, which would either enlarge or minimise objects. Cleaning the thing was a lot of hassle, but it was worth it. Remote viewing was a valuable tool in any mercenary's arsenal. Getting the thing built, and the other three replacements, had cost him his weight in money, literally.

Eragon placed the spying glass over his right eye and systematically started searching the land in front of him, and then the base of the cliff, and the vertical climb up to the outcropping, and then the outcropping itself, and finally the forest beyond. He did it three times, just to make sure nothing set of his inner alarms. Nothing did. The elf, which he had spotted on his first run, was just inside the first lump of trees, standing in the shadows. Eragon thanked that wily alchemist: the man might be lewd and repugnant, but he knew his stuff. Eragon had learnt quite a lot from him. Thankful for his dull coloured clothing, Eragon made his way toward the cliff, running the plan through his head one more time.

XXX

Rían stood partially behind the tree, completely still. Gilderien-elda had run through the procedure with him quite thoroughly. The human would be coming to attack any elf he met on the outcropping, possibly kill. His task was to pretend to be Gilderien-elda, subdue the human and bring him to Lord Dáthedr's private quarters. It seemed like a simple enough task, but he hadn't expected it to take so long. He knew the human had no other information to draw upon, other than Gilderien-elda was waiting for him on the northernmost point of Ellesméra. Personally Rían felt the human was getting way too much credit. From what he'd learnt, humans tended to be quite forward and dense, at the best of times. Still, as a warrior, he shouldn't underestimate his enemy. But he could relax, surely. And so after waiting about two hours, he sat down and let him mind doze. His superior senses would detect anything amiss. After about half an hour, he suddenly had the impression he was being watched. It was not the feeling he got when he was being scried ... it was more like someone was actually watching him, physically. He stood up and looked all round him, but he could not detect anything. He knew it was his frustration at being used like this that had him so tightly wound. He had finally earned his silver ring, a mark only worn by those deemed skilled enough to protect the royal house, which was presently House Drottning. Surely someone else could have done this job? Forcing himself to relax, he took deep breaths. Such impure thoughts would only corrupt later on. He needed to keep an open but strict mind, or else he would never survive as a warrior.

His eyes suddenly detected something. Down below, walking slowly toward the cliff face was the human. Rían almost laughed. The man had covered his face and hands with mud, to cut off the reflectivity, no doubt. But elven eyes were sharp, and he had managed to pick out the enemy's approach. So the human, The Wraith, would be climbing the cliff onto the outcrop, then. Rían took the bow from its tube on his back, strung it and nocked an arrow. Just one correctly fired arrow to the shoulder or belly would disable the human. He waited for ten minutes and heard nothing. He supposed the human was taking his time with the climb, trying to be stealthy. To give him his due, he could not hear anything. A part of him said to move, find a new position from which he could observe the human's approach. But he couldn't risk it. The cliff was practically vertical. If he looked down he would be seen. And besides, this was the best vantage and attack point on the outcrop, without moving deeper into the forest. After another ten minutes he thought he heard a sound behind him. He twirled, surprise on his features, but his keen eyesight penetrated the darkness of the forest and saw the hide of a deer as it bounded deeper into the forest. His ears picked up the bouncing trot of the animal, a stag perhaps, and he calmed down. There was a herd near the cliff, he knew. He turned his attention back to the ledge and waited patiently for his quarry to come.

And suddenly there was a blade pricking the back of his neck. His whole body stiffened as he tried to work out what had happened. It couldn't be the human; he would have heard the approach. And besides, he'd heard a rock dislodge earlier on, round the time the human would have reached the cliff face. His options at that moment, though, despite the identity of his attacker, boiled down to two options. He could either keep still, let the situation run through its course, or he could move so suddenly that he would have a chance of escaping. He opted for the second option. It would give him a better position if the situation escalated into something bloody.

Slowly, he lowered his arms, removed the arrow from the string and gently lowered them to the ground. The blade pressed forward and pierced his skin, drawing blood. He slowed down his movements, to reassure whoever was behind him. As soon as the bow and arrow were on the ground, he suddenly lunged forward onto the open outcrop. It wasn't the best tactical position, but it would have to do. As he flew through the air he reached for his right hip and drew his knife. He rolled when he hit the ground, turned round and came back up facing the tree line, his body low to the ground. His eyes widened as he recognised the human. The Wraith was leaning against the tree, legs crossed, and in his right hand was a handless blade, about five inches long, and it had a brass-ringed hole at the bottom of the blade, a hole big enough to accommodate two fingers. Blood was on the blade, his blood.

And something else, too. Something ... green?

"My attack depended on three Ss," The Wraith said conversationally, his head tilted to one side. "To achieve surprise I needed stealth to get close enough to draw blood with this blade, which would depend on my speed, on how fast I could get to you once your attention was focused on somewhere else. Elven senses are sharp, so I needed the right opportunity when they weren't focused on my position. I still can't believe you bought my deer ruse, though. I was a bit careless there and slipped. Still, it all turned out right in the end." The significance of what The Wraith was saying was not lost on Rían. The Wraith had meant to be seen, down below the outcrop. While Rían accepted the easiest explanation, the Wraith had somehow climbed up behind him. The deer thing was quite good, too. Rían's nose had detected a faint whiff of deer, and he had seen a brown hide, which he now realised was the Wraith's tunic. And the Wraith's plan had been to use that blade on him all along? That meant...

"Yes," the Wraith said, smiling as he saw the truth dawn in the Rían's eyes. "This blade is coated with a muscle relaxant mixed with some venom. I didn't have even enough to paralyse a human for long, so I suspect I will have even less time with an elf. Still, there is the venom. Now, tell me, who are you?"

"Rían," Rían rasped, his jaws not working properly. The Wraith frowned.

"You're not the elf who has been invading my mind," he said, his voice cold. "Who are you and what are you doing here? Who sent you?"

Rían kept quiet, his eyes glaring at the Wraith. The Wraith shook his head, reached into a pouch behind his back and took out a small tube. "If you aren't going to talk, you are useless to me." He put something in the tube ... and Rían suddenly got the feeling back in his limbs as his fear at an imminent death coursed through his body. The Wraith took one look and realised what it meant. He didn't even try to fire the dart. He simply turned and ran. Rían struggled to stand for a few seconds before he got the feeling fully back. Picking up his bow and arrow he ran after the Wraith. He nocked the arrow, sighting the human a few hundred paces ahead. He was surprised at how fast the human could run. But, still, he was faster. He let the arrow loose, missing the Wraith's shoulder only by a hair's breath. Something in his gut, for some reason, told him the Wraith had dodged rather than that he missed. He didn't like that feeling. He had been made a fool of already. He could not believe how he'd been misled. Slowly he started catching up, taking his time to aim his arrows. Just as he'd nocked one arrow and had one more left in the quiver, the Wraith tripped and fell. Rían moved in like a predator. His pace tripled and he was upon the prone human figure within seconds. He let his arrow loose as soon as he was in sight, but to his frustration the Wraith moved at the last minute, escaping another shoulder wound.

"Wait!" the Wraith shouted, his expression and voice frantic. Rían looked at the Wraith grimly. He needed to get the anti-venom.

"I have been instructed by Gilderien-elda to bring you to Lord Dáthedr-elda's private chambers. If you do not resist I will not have to harm you."

"Very well! Very well. Just ... just don't hurt me." The Wraith's voice was panicked. Slowly he got up, but in a flash his hand darted down to a pouch on his right thigh, unclipped it, took out that particular handle-less blade and threw it. It all happened within a second. It was just too bad Rían was a lot faster. The elf took aim, less out a breath, and fired. Three things happened at once: firstly, the Wraith somehow managed to dodge the arrow; secondly, Rían realised that the Wraith had missed, and on purpose: thirdly, Rían heard a hail of things flying through the air, managed to see glimpses as they flew past him, and felt a sharp stinging pain on his neck. The Wraith's panicky demeanour suddenly disappeared and Rían realised that everything preceding this attack had been a ruse designed to lead him to this place, where there were traps. Rían reached back for his last arrow, determined to act before the Wraith's plan worked. He felt nothing. From within his tunic, the Wraith produced an arrow whilst giving Rían a chilling smile.

"How...?" Rían couldn't even finish his sentence. How had this happened?

"I managed to take one of your arrows before I pricked your skin," the Wraith said. "It wasn't that hard. With me smelling like the rest of the forest and its animals, which helped me not alarm any of them, by the way, I managed to get close enough to relieve you of one of your arrows. A miscount on your part seemed to have saved my life. I admit this was more challenging than I would have thought. Certainly I could never reproduce such a scenario, the terrain wouldn't permit it. And if I even attempted a fair fight ... well, I'm certainly glad I'm a dirty, cheating, and dishonourable mercenary." Rían wondered how someone could be so calm and jovial in such a situation. How could you be so cheerful about someone's potential death?

"What was coated on the dart?" Rían asked as his body began trembling. "And on the blade?"

"The blade had a small strength muscle relaxant. No venom. I just needed something to spur you on to chase me to this place. It took me forever to set the trap, and even then I couldn't be sure it would be accurate, which is why I set the trap with such a wide range. One had to hit."

"And if none did?"

The Wraith pointed upwards. Rían glanced up and saw a small vial hanging by a silver wire. The Wraith took a star shaped disc from his left thigh pouch and threw it at the vial. The moment the vial shattered upon impact, there was a huge explosion, with the shockwave strong enough to create a gusting wind, and the heat and light intense enough to force Rían to shut his eyes and turn his head away. When Rían gazed at the aftermath a minute later, he saw that a ten metre radius had been destroyed.

"A little something an unscrupulous alchemist gave me," the Wraith answered lightly. "If nothing worked, I could have simply terminated you. By the way, the dart in your neck contains an extra dose of muscle relaxant, which is why your body feels like rubber, real venom, which is why your organs feel like they are on fire, and a little special something called a neurotoxin, which is why every word I'm saying feels like I'm shouting in your ear. Now, tell me where I can find this Gilderien-elda."

Just as Rían was about to protest, he was covered in pure white light. The last thing he remembered was thinking about how the light didn't hurt him at all.

Eragon looked at the spot where the elf had been. The elf had just disappeared, just like that. _Magic_. Eragon looked around but no one was there. Grumbling to himself, he set about covering his tracks and removing all signs of his traps and the elf's chase. It was a shame about using the last of his golden liquid. It cost him a lot to make, too, seeing as all the ingredients were so damn expensive. Oh, well. Back to square one.

"I'll find you, Gilderien-elda!" Eragon muttered darkly as he walked back toward the outcropping.

XXX

Back in Lord Dáthedr's chambers, the table returned to normal as the scrying spell was released. White light gathered in one of the empty chairs, and a moment later Gilderien was with them once again. On the table, in front of him, was a pile of papers.

"The Wraith thoughtfully organised the information in order of usefulness and importance. As for Rían, do not worry, I have healed him and he is sleeping back at in his chambers."

"What about the Wraith?" Brom asked.

"Do not worry about him. I have a mission for him that needs to be carried out in human lands. The fate of Arya Drottningu, and the fate of the dragon egg, needs to be ascertained. He is the only one who can do it successfully."

"He will not do such a mission lightly," Brom warned. "Galbatorix has a Shade working for him, and the Wraith saved me from Arya Drottningu's likely fate on our way here. He might even refuse, once he finds out his mission objectives. Opposing the King indirectly is one thing, but this might be too much for him. There was something special about Micah's case, why he did it, although I don't know the actual details."

"And can we trust him with such a delicate mission?" Líang added.

"We have no option," Gilderien said. "You saw his planning and execution. Is it such a surprise that Micah fell when the Wraith has shown to be able to kill an elf with so little planning time? I will take care of the details, but I would require you to tell the War Council that they need not worry about Arya Drottningu and the dragon egg."

"What about his fee?" Brom asked. "I still have not paid him for his services with the Black Hand, and I need to go to the Varden to get the money. He will only take used coins in payment, which will take time gathering for such a large sum. I brought him here in the hopes of Lord Dáthedr keeping him occupied while the money was collected."

Gilderien paused for a moment. "Very well. I will keep him occupied until the money gets here, and then I shall send him on the mission. Besides, it will give me more time to gauge his skills and formulate a plan. And it wouldn't go amiss to give him knowledge that would help his mission."

"Thank you," Brom said, bowing his head.

"Luck on your War Council," Gilderien said, bowing his head, before disappearing in a flash of white light.


	5. Chapter 5: Intermission I

Eragon woke up three hours before dawn, feeling tired but resigned to another day of torture. Simply getting out of bed was a chore. His whole body hurt. Every fibre of his being was in agony. He could not remember ever feeling this way, even back when he had walked away from his family and his life in Carvahall, and had apprenticed himself to his now former master. The days and nights had been long, arduous, and taxing in every conceivable way, but he had managed. His body had been young and still capable of adapting to the strenuous training regime he had been given. His muscles and bones had still been developing, and therefore developing a warriors muscles and bones instead of a farmer's had been no great problem. This new training regime, however, had been more than he could have imagined possible. He supposed it had to do with the fact that he was being taught as if he possessed elven capabilities while he was still merely human. As a result he couldn't do half the exercises assigned to him, and the other half he succeeded at very slowly. He barely had enough energy to drag his aching carcass back to bed each night. But he must endure. That had been made clear. If he was to carry out his latest mission, he must see this rigorous training through. It was the only way to ensure he was strong enough to see it through. Besides, deep down he knew he was enjoying it. He was not only perfecting and augmenting his skills, but he was also satisfying the thirst for knowledge that had always been present in him since he was but a child.

Groaning slightly, he walked to the privy to relieve himself, his body working unconsciously as his mind tried to guess what new things he would be learning as the day progressed. After he relieved himself, he took an extra set of clothes with him as he went to the nearby stream to bathe. Although the water was cold, it was nevertheless refreshing and relaxing. He indulged in a short swim upstream before allowing the current to carry him back to his original bathing place. Getting out of the water, he caught his reflection in the shimmering water. Turning fully to face the surface, he studied himself. He had grown since he had first come to Ellesméra. At six feet and three inches, he was over average in height, but not too noticeably so. His build was slim and streamlined, like a predator's, with wiry muscles that held more strength than would be expected. Despite the fact that he was a mercenary for hire, he had very little scars to show for it. Being of such a high calibre, he had avoided most of the situations which ended badly for his other tradesman. But the scars he _did_ have though were quite the sight. Running down diagonally from his chest to his belly was a thick, jagged scar that had once been a grievous wound; he'd gotten the wound from a skilled swordsman in Uru'baen only a few months previously while he was on the trail of the Black Hand. On his right calf was a circular scar, the faded teeth marks of a _Shrgg_, a giant wolf indigenous to the Beor Mountains, where his lower leg had nearly been amputated; he'd got it only a few months after leaving Carvahall with his master. The only innocent scar he had was on his right wrist, where he'd cut himself with a scythe when he was four.

Eragon sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He'd cut it off, at the request of his temporary master. Well, he'd actually shaved it all off. It was only now growing back, but it would be a while before it got long enough for him to be able to tie it on top of his head in the knot he favoured. He fingered the gemstone tied tightly to his neck by a leather belt and sighed once again. This innocent looking adornment was the cause of all his suffering. He could have survived all the physical training if it weren't for the fact that the ensorcelled – correction, the term that applied here was _enchanted_ – necklace he was wearing seemed to multiply his body weight fivefold. For the first few days he'd had trouble just doing simple things like standing up and sitting down. But now he had a better sense of control of his body. It was dangerous to do anything unconsciously, like sitting down, knowing if you simply plopped yourself into the chair it would collapse under so much weight. Eragon shook his head from his musings and concentrated on the task at hand. He had two and a half hours in which to complete the exercises he had been set, so he promptly began.

XXX

Two hours later, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, Eragon walked back to his tree house. He could barely walk in a straight line, and it was only morning. By nightfall he would be unable to function, just like the previous day. And then the cycle would begin all over again the following morning.

"I'm sure there's a law against this," Eragon muttered darkly.

"No, there isn't."

Eragon looked up in annoyance at the source of all his misery. "Gilderien," he said evenly.

The events of that night nearly three months previously came back to him vividly, as if it were only yesterday.

_XXX_

_Eragon was, to put it bluntly, pissed off. _

_Not only had he wasted a whole night that could have been spent sleeping, and also wasted most of his already scarce tools and materials to fool an elf into thinking he was Brom, but it had all turned out to be for nothing. Nothing! Eragon hadn't tasted failure like this in a long time, not since he was fourteen. His master had always impressed upon him the importance of success, of never failing, of completing the mission without incident, of defeating your enemy, and above all of achieving all this with intelligence and eloquence. After that failed spying mission when he was fourteen, Eragon's master had punished him heavily. It was why Eragon's mind and psyche were so unusually strong. His master had always been especially adept at mental techniques; psychological torture, mental invasion and mental defence, and a whole list of increasingly nasty things. Not one mark would have been found on Eragon, and yet for a whole month Eragon was a vacant, gibbering mess that would have turned the stomachs of even the staunchest of war veterans. After that incident Eragon had pushed himself past his limits and attained a new level of skill that very few other assassins had ever tasted, his master included. His mind was his one and only fortress, and Eragon defended it with a near manic frenzy. And in attaining such skills, Eragon had come to understand the mind in a way only a few people realised. It was why his own mental techniques were especially potent, and why at the tender age of sixteen he had ceased to become a pupil and had instead become a partner to his master. His master could no longer dictate anything to Eragon simply because he could not force or punish Eragon any longer. He had not the mental or physical prowess to do so. Instead he had spent the rest of his time being amiable to Eragon and protecting the secret of his power rigorously from Eragon. After that failed mission, Eragon had never failed again. _

_Ever._

_Until tonight._

_"Barzûl!" Eragon spat, indulging in the Dwarven curse. It seemed an apt profanity to use against his enemies, and it described his situation perfectly, too. __Ill__fate!_

_Sheathing his rapier, Eragon climbed up a pine tree next to him, all the way to the top. Balancing on the topmost branch, he looked around and found trees everywhere he looked, most of them pine trees. He felt a pang as he remembered the comfort and warmth of _The Parrot_, a tavern patronised by all kinds of criminals most of the time, and where you were as likely to buy a contract as get yourself killed. In fact, you were more likely to get killed. Period. Even the vermin of the human race needed a place to relax and not be bothered. After getting his bearings, Eragon quickly scampered down the tree, his movements nearly primitive in their smoothness. That was another thing he had learned; if you can't move quickly and deftly, you won't live for very long. That was why all mercenaries specialised in certain trades and geographical locations. It was because they knew those places like the backs of their hands. For someone of Eragon's ambition, however, he had to be comfortable in all terrains. Being such a high profile operative, there were a lot of people who desired his head on a silver platter with an almost pious fervour. He therefore had to be able to function at his full capacity wherever he went, so as to be able to carry out jobs and hide effectively. Whatever the situation called for._

_"Bloody elves," Eragon muttered darkly as he made his way back to his tree house. He usually refrained from swearing, or any other medium that expressed emotion. It was detrimental to the mission, and it showed lack of control and therefore weakness. You can't afford to show weakness when every person you meet is more likely to want to kill you than help you. But this time he couldn't help it. For once in his life he was out of his depth._

Elves,_ he thought with an ironic smile, _aren't human, despite their appearance. Maybe that's why their race has endured through the millennia with no discernable incident. Humans and Dwarves and, of course, Urgals and Dragons, are more in touch with their emotions. War comes more naturally to us. But there has never been a record of there being war among the elves. They are too much in control, of their minds and of their society. They seem like the type who would prefer to settle a dispute through trickery and politics rather than a good fight. An elven assassin would have to be extremely perfect, otherwise he or she wouldn't succeed, or live for long. I am nowhere near that league. For one thing, all my stealth and skill means nothing to people who can be as silent as a shadow and are far stronger than nature intended. Perhaps that's why they're so reserved. If everyone has so much power, no elf can afford to start a war because the results would be disastrous._ Eragon took in a deep breath and sighed, before a smile slowly stretched across his face. _It's a good thing I like a challenge, then, he thought. "**Wraith, the first Elven Slayer****"** ... I might drop the "**first****"** though ... in any case, it certainly has a nice ring to it.

_"Indeed it does."_

_Eragon's reaction was borne of habit and fear. His one sanctuary, his mind, had been invaded once more, and by the same person, who also happened to be an elf much more powerful than he was. After that stream of thought, Eragon sheathed his rapier and held his hands by his side, palms open, showing he was unarmed. There was no reason to get killed when he could avoid it._

_"Mere musings," Eragon said to the white robed figure sat by the roots of his tree house._

_"Of course," the elf said, sounding both disbelieving and believing at the same time._

_"So you are Gilderien-elda?" Eragon asked, walking closer to the elf._

_The figure bowed its head. "I am Prince Gilderien, the Wise, of House Miolandra, and wielder of the White Flame of Vándil. I am the guardian of Ellesméra. None may enter Ellesméra without my approval."_

_Instantly Eragon understood._

_"When you entered my mind, you were trying to stop me and find out who I was and what I was doing here, well within Du Weldenvarden. But you were stopped just before you gained access to my mind, no doubt by Brom's ring."_

_"Aren," Gilderien said, nodding._

_"So I was right, then. The strange glyphs on Brom's ring allow him unlimited, unrestricted access to the Elven Kingdom. The moment he touched me, the ring must have encased me in its protection. It's why you withdrew. You knew I was with someone who was a trusted person; a ... what was that phrase Elric used ... Vinr Älfakyn! That's it, it all makes sense now. Brom's an Elf Friend!" Eragon shut up. He tended to get carried away once he made a breakthrough when thinking about something. So, Brom was an Elf Friend. But how had he become one? From all he knew about elves, Brom had to have been practically a saint to be honoured like that. And when had this happened? Elves allowed no one in their forest, absolutely no one. The feeling that Brom was much more than he seemed reared its inquisitive head once again._

_Eragon bowed at the waist. "Please forgive me, Gilderien-elda. I was afraid and acted irrationally." Eragon stood up straight again and found Gilderien examining him closely. Or at least that's what it felt like. He hadn't been able to see past the elf's deep hood so far, not matter from what angle the moonlight came at the elf._

_"All is forgiven," the elf finally said._

I highly doubt that_, Eragon thought. _But I'll take whatever graces I can get.

_"However," Gilderien said, and Eragon thought_, there is it, the catch_, "I have a contract for you."_

_Eragon stood there mute, sure he had misheard. An elf, one of the most powerful elves in his uneducated, though correct, opinion, was asking him to do a job. There was something definitely wrong with this picture._

_"Continue," Eragon said evenly. All thoughts were dispelled and he was concentrating only on what was being said. "And tell me everything. Leave nothing out. It might be important."_

_"Very well." Gilderien paused for a second, as if gathering his thoughts, and then continued. "Just over two decades ago, a scholar by the name of Joed found a scroll that contained the blueprints of Galbatorix's fortress in Uru'baen. In those blueprints he found a secret tunnel that hadn't appeared in any other blueprint. He immediately got in touch with the Varden and told them about the tunnel. Brom went to meet this Joed, and after a few days ascertained that the scroll and the information it contained were true. The Varden then commissioned a man, a thief, named Hefring, to steal the three dragon eggs Galbatorix had managed to rescue from his war with the Riders. We do not know what happened once he entered the fortress, but for some reason he only managed to steal one dragon egg, and further more he did not take it back to the Varden, but fled with it. That was the beginning of one of the greatest manhunts in history. Both the Varden and Forsworn expended all their resources trying to find Hefring. It was Morzan and Brom who finally found the dragon egg, in the city of Gilead. Morzan had already acquired the egg and so Brom had no choice but to fight Morzan for the egg. It was a great battle. The Queen and her court watched it on the surface of her scrying pool. It took three hours, but finally Brom smote Morzan in the chest, slaying him. He took the dragon egg to the Varden for safekeeping. There ensued another conundrum. The Varden obviously wanted to keep it safe for the next Rider, the elves wanted it as well, for the same reasons, the dwarves thought the egg should be thrown away to the mercies of Fate ... and the remaining free Riders thought it was their right and responsibility to look after the egg. None of those factions were willing to give ground on their claims, even though the Riders had more claim to it than anyone else. It was Brom who came up with a solution. The egg would be ferried between the Varden and the elves, with a complement guard of Varden soldiers, elven warriors and at least one of the remaining Riders. No dwarf was willing to guard a dragon egg. There is bad blood between those two races. _

_This went on for just about two decades, until a week ago when the dragon egg and its guards disappeared on their way from the Varden to the elven city of Osilon. When this was discovered, scouts were sent after the egg. The scouts discovered that the egg's route had been found out by the enemy. The guards had been ambushed by Urgals. All of them were killed, even the Rider Vascilla. However, one of the bodies wasn't accounted for, an elven woman, and neither was the egg. Both have disappeared. My mission for you is to find out what happened to both the elf and the egg. With the news you and Brom bring of a Shade working for Galbatorix, even that mission may become too difficult for you to manage. Indeed it might have been the Shade that ambushed them, with the help of the Urgals, although I more suspect they were under his influence. Although, there __has__ been rumour of Galbatorix recruiting the Urgals for his army... In any case, once you find out what you can, go to the Varden or return here, whichever route proves quicker, and report to either me, or Brom, or one of the Riders. Report only to those I have mentioned. We cannot take the chance of you reporting to a double agent, or to people who will act not out of altruistic motivations. Here is the full compliment of reports from the scouts and all other relevant information."_

_Eragon stood there and digested what he had just been told. It was a lot of information, most of it almost fantastical in nature. It was one thing to know of elves and Riders and Shades, but a whole different matter to fight a Shade and meet elves and hear about the clandestine war that had been raging between the Empire and the Alliance. But whether or not he believed and accepted was beside the point. This was time for business, and he never let his personal opinions get in the way. He walked up to the elf and retrieved the sheaf of papers bound together by string. He stood there for about twenty minutes and read through the information three times, until he was sure he had absorbed every little detail. His memory was near perfect, but he didn't like to leave anything to chance. He let out a deep sigh. Why did things always seem to get so complicated when Brom came into the picture? Brom, and magic, and anything else not human. Jus that business with Micah had taken up a whole year of his life and he had come as close to dying as he ever had at the end. _But this is my specialty,_ he thought in a resigned manner. _Dealing with the problems all other mercenaries are incapable of. It's why I became as skilled as I am today.

_He sat down in the fudoza position, his right foot resting on his left knee, and his left foot on the ground. He breathed in and out deeply three times, put his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Eragon retreated deep within the safe confines of his mind, as usual, and began to think everything through._

It is obvious the Shade is behind this. He is the only one who could have defeated two elves and a Rider, even though it was a dragonless Rider like Vascilla. So, three dead elves, including Vascilla, one more unaccounted for, and a dead twelve man unit that had the Varden's best warriors. Now the Alliance has lost a great advantage, and there are now only five free Riders left to oppose Galbatorix and the Forsworn. Things are going to get bloody, and soon, if the Empire decides to press this advantage. The Forsworn alone are an equal match for the last Riders and the elves, and on top of it the Forsworn now have a Shade among their ranks. Galbatorix has shown no sign of being interested in the Varden and I doubt he will be much of a problem until he is directly threatened. Until then his servants will deal with the arising problems. Great. It only means I will have to deal with some of the most powerful men and women in Alagaesia if I'm discovered to be working for the Alliance. Fun, fun, fun... That name, Hefring ... why does it sound so familiar? I know I have heard of a thief named Hefring somewhere before, but where? And I knew there was something not quite right about Brom. He is on a whole other level from mine. Being able to best Morzan in single combat, the real Morzan, the original; Morzan the Destroyer, first and most powerful of the Forsworn… The power Brom must wield ... it's a good thing he never thought to use magic against me or else I would never have survived our first meeting. Learning magic seems like a pretty good idea right about now…

So I have two missing principles; an elf woman and a dragon egg. They were captured by a Shade, with the aid of Urgals. It does not matter whether it was co-operational or not, because there are very few Urgal villages so far south and west as the bottom edge of Du Weldenvarden. With Elric's help, and definitely the Prince's help, I might be able to locate which village these Urgals came from. For them to be able to kill so many skilled warriors, they had to be very fine rams, and any village will know if some of their finest rams is missing. That will definitely be a starting point. And then of course, on the off-chance that the Urgal rams were not indigenous to the south, I can always search for the Shade's lair. Since he is working for Galbatorix, he must have been given a posting where he could bring back prisoners, a posting where he would have secrecy and safety from both the Forsworn and anyone else who might interfere. There are very few places that fit that description, and there is always the chance that someone saw them on their way to this lair... Damn it, this is going to be a long job, and I'm more likely to die the deeper I get involved.

_Eragon opened his eyes and looked at the hooded elf. "I think you realise this is going to be very expensive," Eragon said. "And not to mention that Brom still hasn't paid me for my previous contract with him."_

_The elf bowed his head. "Brom is on his way to the Varden to get your money," Gilderien said, and Eragon was sure he heard a hint of distaste in the elf's words. "He said you were to wait for the money here. An elf shall bring it. Meanwhile, since I realise just how big a situation you are walking into, I thought I would prepare you for your mission."_

_"How?"_

_"For one thing, if you are going to survive, you are going to need to understand the principles of magic, or gramarye as it is properly called, and for you to understand it, you are going to need to learn and get a basic grasp of the ancient language. It would take several of your human lifetimes to understand it like an elf does, but hopefully you can get a basic understanding, if you are as brilliant as Brom seems to think you are. There is a lot of other information that you will need to know if you are to become successful as well, such as what Shades are and what their abilities are, and also information concerning the Forsworn, should you be unfortunate enough to meet them. And of course I will need to make sure than you are physically up to the task."_

_"Sounds fair," Eragon said. "Although I think I should tell you I am already aware of some of the principles of magic, I am well versed in the ancient language by human standards, and I know quite a lot about the Forsworn. Information is one of my main trades, so I cannot afford to be ignorant."_

_"That will make things easier, then," Gilderien said after a pause. "Although I should warn you that if you agree to this, you will do things my way, at least for as long as you are under my guardianship in Du Weldenvarden, and I am no easy taskmaster."_

_"Very well," Eragon agreed. "But I should warn you, elf. I am no one's slave, and my mind is my own, my sanctuary. Do not go where I do not permit you to go. And lastly do not judge or patronise me. You know nothing about me and cannot appreciate anything of the human world. Not all of us are lucky enough to command great power with a whispered word."_

_Gilderien sat there silent for a long while, gazing at Eragon. Eragon stared back, his face calm, his eyes impervious. His mind had gone into its operational stage. From this point on until he completed his mission, he would remain like that._

_XXX_

"Your money has finally arrived. You leave within seven days," Gilderien said as he sipped on a cup of tea. Eragon was busy breaking his fast on some eggs and cheese and bread, trying not to burn his mouth with the tea.

"I see. How am I going to leave?"

"That depends upon you, Wraith. Where do you want to go? How shall you start?"

Eragon took another two minutes before he finished eating. He settled back an enjoyed the aroma of his tea. He had found out that he shared something similar with the elves, or Gilderien at least; there was nothing he liked more than scalding-hot green tea.

"I will require only a few coins for my trip. You can send the rest back to Brom. He can hold it for me until I have finished this mission for you. In fact, can you tell him to take the money to ... tell him to take the money back to his home. I will collect it from there."

"Very well," Gilderien said. "You can spend the rest of your time among our pines as you see fit. You will find all the books you requested on your bed. I will come back in seven days time to transport you to wherever you wish to go, as long as it's within a few miles of Du Weldenvarden. Any more and someone is bound to notice, which I think will be detrimental to your efforts."

"Very well," Eragon said with a slight bow of his head. He felt light playing on his cheeks and when he looked up, Gilderien had pulled one of his disappearance tricks. _I have got to learn how to do that_, Eragon thought. With a slight groan he stood up and made his way to his bedroom. The floor was strewn with books and random pieces of parchment he'd scribbled on. During his stay he had read as extensively as he could, to the point where he only got a maximum of four hours of sleep per day. He had read the entire _An Elementary Introduction_ series by an elf named Vramis; it was a comprehensive guide, learning or teaching guide, depending on who was reading it, to everything a young elf needed to learn in order to grow into a knowledgeable and skilled warrior and mage. There were seven volumes in total, each volume containing more than two thousand pages of information, instructions and diagrams, and Eragon had read them all through three times. The principles of magic, wizardry, witchcraft and sorcery were outlined, and spell-casting was explained step by step. Half of the sixth volume contained nothing but elementary spells, all of which Eragon had memorised, just like the whole series. He might not have any magical talent, but he knew they would come in handy at some point in his life, if only to trade with certain known scrupulous magicians in exchange for a favour or two. The elves certainly did nothing in halves. From the ancient language, Elven culture, Urgal language, Urgal culture, Dwarvish language, Dwarvish culture, Human language, Human culture, Literature, to even all of the Sciences like Alchemy and Biology; the elves had it all. Several works of fiction written in many languages were also on his floor; there was no way better to learn a language than by using it.

With a contended sigh Eragon gently slipped onto his bed and picked up the top book from the pile that had been waiting for him; the first volume in the _An Intermediate Introduction__,_ by Vramis. He'd have finished the whole series in a couple of days, and then the rest of his time would be dedicated to the great Dwarven Epics. Eragon smiled. He would be leaving this sanctuary for more danger, which he didn't mind, but he had to say that, for the moment, _I am content_.


	6. Chapter 6: The Varden

Beneath the twilight sun, deep in the Beor Mountains, a thick mist rolled between the hills and vales, reducing visibility to only a foot in any direction. The ground was hard and cold, which could have been said for the air as well. The two shivering dwarves cursed at their bad luck, and to a lesser extent, their own lack of strength. Although a roster had been drawn up for guard duty at all the entrances, none of the dwarves followed it, at least not in the middle of winter. That was one of the reasons why the dwarves preferred their tunnels; in a place like the Beor Mountains where just about everything was hundreds, if not thousands, of metres above the level of the sea, the perpetual moisture created by the clouds above and the low temperatures always made summers enjoyably cool but winters extremely cold. At least in the tunnels below there was the warmth of hearths, of mead and of comrade dwarves to be enjoyed. Out in the mountains, however…

"We shall not have to bear this for much longer," the first dwarf said. That was the first piece of conversation the two had shared since taking up their posts nearly six hours previously.

"Ungh," was all the reply the second dwarf gave, although the tone of voice carried a mixture of emotions, hope and relief foremost.

The two shared another long, sullen silence, the only sounds coming from their hands as they drew their Feldunost furs closer to their bodies. At length the first dwarf spoke again.

"I'm going to get some mead from the guardhouse," the first dwarf grunted. "Let us finish this guard duty with some warmth in out bellies!"

"Ungh," the second dwarf grunted again, this time with a little more excitement. Say what you will about winter guard duty, the mead provided was of excellent quality. The first dwarf turned to enter the giant stone doors in behind, but after six hours his fingers had become frozen in position and his long hafted axe fell from his fingers with a resounding clatter. With a deep frown of discontent the dwarf bent to pick up his centuries old family heirloom. It was the only thing that saved his life. His comrade-in-arms, however, was not so lucky. The hail of black arrows thudded into the second dwarf and the rest bounced off the sleek, dense rockery behind him. Reflexes gained from decades of combat and training saved the first dwarf from certain death. With a muttered curse the dwarf turned the simple motion of picking up an axe into a roll. He came back up with his knees bent and his axe in his hands, all signs of fatigue and stiffness momentarily dispelled by the adrenalin rushing through his veins. Dwarves were of the rock, sturdy, and the heat of battle was passed down from parent to child, trapped within their very bones.

From the misty road ahead numerous shadows formed, and from their size the dwarf instantly knew who his enemies were. With another curse he ran for the giant stone doors, in particular the circular metal ring jutting from the stone beside the door. With a great heave he pulled it from the stone, and he knew that from within an alarm bell was ringing. The good news was that reinforcements would be with him in a couple of minutes. The bad news was that he'd have to survive that long. He swallowed his momentary fear and squared his shoulders. His ancestors had survived far worse scrapes and had lived long and full lives, sired children and had passed down the axe he now held. He would not disgrace them. He would not disgrace them!

"By my beard and axe, I shall not fall to such cowardly and fouls creatures as thee!"

He took the initiative, and, with the element of surprise on his side, he charged.

A small voice in the back of his head wondered whether the cold had robbed him of his senses.

XXX

Brom lit his pipe with a muttered word, and with another mutter cursed the confounded cold weather. He was getting old. The cold sapped at his strength more than it had done even a decade before. He knew what it meant. Time was catching up with him. Chewing on his pipe, he stared resolutely at the sky, determined not to let his thoughts wander such dark paths. He still had a lot of work to do before … he still had a lot of work to do! As he sucked absentmindedly at his pipe, the patterns of the sky became clearer to him. His past allowed him more knowledge of meteorological matters than most people.

_We're lucky_, he thought. _Another two or three days and the snows would have fallen, probably trapping us in-between passes, and I don't think even the elves' magic would have gotten us out without a little trouble. And with this kind of fog, getting lost or stumbling into a ravine would have been very likely._

"Brom-vor."

Brom turned to look sideways in his saddle, nearly making him fall. After a few seconds of righting himself he turned to look at the speaker. It was one of the elven ambassadors, Lady Nuala, of House Thorn-apple, and one of the handful of elves Brom considered closed friends – or as close a human could get with elves at any rate – as indicated by the honorific she'd used.

"Milady," Brom said in reply with a dip of his head.

"Tell me what you have been up to these past two decades, Brom. You have barely been in contact with The Alliance."

Brom took a deep drag from his pipe and faced forwards, deep in thought. Elves were harder to lie to than humans, simply because their culture was steeped in deceit and subterfuge. He could lie if he wanted to, but it was cold and he did not have the energy to do so.

"I have been a storyteller," Brom replied simply. "After recovering the dragon egg from Morzan, I felt that my time in the werelight was nearing its end. I had done enough. With my dragon's murderer dead, I had no reason to continue on defying the Empire so openly." Brom chuckled. "I lost my suicidal drive and came back to my senses. I guess I realised the folly of my actions. Challenging the Forsworn without a dragon? No, I felt sure that between them, Ajihad and my brethren could take care of things from there. Besides, in the likelihood that the egg hatched for someone, especially a human, I was first in line to teach and instruct them of their heritage and duty. With that in mind I decided to find a secluded little village and settled down in Palancar Valley, in Carvahall, where I mainly served as a storyteller and a minor advisor and elder. It helped explain how I seemed to survive every winter without actually working for a living." Brom chuckled again. "And there is also the fact that I am getting old. Magic does not run as thickly through my veins as it once did. Time is catching up with me. I felt it was up to the other Riders to pick up where I'd left off. Vascilla, the only other dragonless Rider, was bonded with her dragon a century before I was even born, and not forgetting that she was an elf to boot, made her much stronger than I was. I needed to stay put and gather my energy for when I would be needed one last time … a time which I sense is fast approaching…"

Brom puffed at his pipe, lost in his thoughts for a couple of minutes. Nuala watched him from the corner of her eye, and she could not help but admire him. Merely the name Brom still inspired fear among the Forsworn. His quest for vengeance had led to the death of five of the Forsworn, two of them resulting from direct confrontation with Brom himself; Morzan was one of them. A memory flashed through her mind. It was over a century previously, when she had gone on a state visit with the King, to Vroengard. Brom, along with his master, had been the one to greet her and the King, and he had shown them to Vrael's quarters. He had only been a youngling, barely fifteen years of age. And now here he was, a great warrior, and in many respects one without equal. After all, how many humans, let alone elves, had died at the hands of the Forsworn? And yet Brom had killed five of them. With nothing but his sword and his magic. Without a dragon to help him.

"Indeed," was all the Lady said, a nostalgic smile on her face. The two rode on in silence for nearly ten minutes before the conversation picked up again.

"Why ask, milady?" Brom queried. As far as elves went, he was relatively on very friendly terms with the elven lady. He felt it safe to ask such a question. However, Nuala hesitated, just for a second, before answering.

"The Alliance hasn't been the same without you," Nuala replied frankly. "It hasn't been the same without your constant presence. Your … direct way, shall we say, of addressing issues was sorely needed. You know of elven culture, of how we behave; we have contributed little beyond supplies and other forms of aid. And the dwarves have recently started to bicker again. Aiding the last free Riders has lost its appeal, and the fact that they lost so much to Galbatorix and his accursed Forsworn has made the matter even pricklier. And the Riders themselves …" This time Nuala paused. "You shall see for yourself," was what she finally said.

Brom did not like the sound of that. He didn't like it one bit. What had his fellow Riders done now?

"And the Varden?" he asked. There was no point in pestering an elf once they had made up their mind. He knew Nuala would not talk about his fellow Riders any more.

"They are surviving," Nuala said. "Ever since your last visit to them two years ago, the number of magicians among their ranks has increased dramatically. After much persuasion, King Hrothgar has agreed to help in their training. Ajihad was going to ask for the Queen's aid as well, personally, but then Arya Drottningu was abducted and the Queen refuses to see anyone now. If we are to succeed, we need the Varden's mages to be sufficiently up to par."

"Indeed," Brom agreed. "I would have helped with the training regimen myself, if I weren't otherwise occupied." _Also my oaths forbade me to pass on Rider knowledge. I had hoped that the Varden could get past this particular hurdle without my help. Without magicians we stand no chance of usurping Galbatorix and his Forsworn._

Suddenly the advance guard stopped, halting the procession. Brom looked ahead with interest but couldn't discern the source of the trouble.

"What is it?" he asked out loud, to no one in particular.

"Urgals," was the reply from ahead. The lilting, musical voice was at odds with the venom of word. "There are tracks coming from higher up in the mountains. It looks like a small group, around fifteen of them."

Brom cursed as something occurred to him. "The north-eastern entrance to the dwarf tunnels and to Farthen Dur is a few kilometres from here. Where are those tracks headed?"

"…Toward the entrance."

Silence reigned for a few seconds, everyone's thoughts revolving around the same issues. How had the Urgals made it so deep into the dwarf kingdom? What were they doing here?

"I suggest we make haste," Lord Dáthedr said from near the front of the procession. "Nari, will you please backtrack these footprints and find out where the Urgals were coming from." The elf named Nari immediately slipped off his horse and ran into the surrounding forestry as silently as a wraith, his spear held tightly in his right hand. Lord Dáthedr uttered a command to the horses, "Hlaupa!" and all their steeds started running, following the path left by the Urgals.

XXX

It was a short fight, one steeped in adrenalin. The dwarf's surprise attack was just that – a surprise. Because of the dense fog, the Urgals had seen two shadows fall and had assumed both dwarfs dead. They did not even see him until he had felled three Urgals with three swift and mighty swings of his axe. Dwarves were natural fighters, but when it came to the pure adrenalin and bloodlust of battle, no creature surpassed an Urgal, barring maybe a dragon. Even though this particular band of Urgals appeared to be at death's door, they roused to the challenge with such vigour that the dwarf hesitated and felt fear, if only for a heartbeat. But then he pushed on, killing two more Urgals before any Urgal could reach for his weapon, and another two as the Urgals finally started addressing the threat he presented. A flurry of sword and axe slashes were aimed his way, and he was lucky enough to parry or evade most of them. He wasn't able to defend himself against the axe that slashed across his chest though, leaving a deep gash, or against the stab from a sword that pierced his hauberk and into his chest. The dwarf quickly retreated back a few steps so that all the Urgals were in front of him, the adrenalin putting off the pain of his injuries. He thanked _Gúntera_ that these were only Urgals, and not Kull. He wouldn't have stood a chance against the Urgal elite.

"Be gone, vermin!" he roared, stalling for time. His reinforcements would be with him in less than a minute. He just had to live that long.

The Urgals did not bother with idle banter, though. He could see from their eyes that they were on the verge of madness. They appeared exhausted and hungry, and for the first time in his life he wondered just how appealing dwarf meat was to an Urgal. Certainly these Urgals appeared ready to try anything. And then he thought of his partner, lying dead, his axe his hands and his eyes still twinkling in anticipation of the mead he would never drink.

"Be gone!" he shouted again and attacked. This time the Urgals were ready for him, though. He only managed to hack off one Urgal's sword arm before he had to fall back from hail of overwhelming attacks. The Urgals did not give him time to recuperate, though, and gave chase immediately. The dwarf only had time to parry a couple of blows before a sword found a way past his guard and pierced his side. He felt and heard a crunch as a couple of his ribs cracked trying to accommodate the wide blade. Despite that he remained standing, however, refusing to lose this battle and his family's honour, and he most certainly refused to lose a priceless heirloom like his axe to lowlife. He roared again, or at least tried to – his left lung had been pierced and was filling with blood, and his breathing was growing heavier and more strained with each passing second – and attacked the Urgals. He ran at them, keeping low to the ground, and managed to avoid or parry all their attacks as he made his way through their ranks, also managing to fell the Urgal he had amputated previously. He knew the outlying area better than they did, and he was aware that fighting in such an open space would only disadvantage him. Right now distracting the Urgals and attacking indirectly were his best options. With surprising energy and agility and ran into forestry, the Urgals hot in pursuit. He faltered for a second, his vision swimming and the beats of his heat becoming as loud as drums in his ears. He was at death's doors, of that he was sure. He watched with horror as his knees failed him could only groan as the ground rushed up to meet his face.

The first thing that occurred to him was that the ground was vibrating.

_What?_ He wondered idly. He tried to turn around but blinding pain flashed throughout his body. _I'm spent_, he realised. _I've pushed myself past my limit. These Urgals will take my family's heirloom … and my body shall be denied … its resting place alongside my ancestors. I will be denied stone … and Helzvog will not allow me into his hall… Still, I felled seven Urgals … or was it eight? That's something … to be proud of…_

The dwarf managed to turn around so he was facing upwards. He watched as the Urgals slowly stalked towards him, hunger reflecting in their every movement. The dwarf blinked.

_What was that?_ He wondered. _I'm sure … I just saw…_

Suddenly a white stallion burst from the fog, an old man on its back. He held a grey metal sword in his right hand and as he came upon the last few remnants of the Urgal band he swung it twice in swift and sharp strokes, beheading two. He immediately jumped off the horse, leaving it to slow down on its own. The last two Urgals had been so utterly focused on the dwarf they'd completely missed his arrival, and now that they'd noticed him, a grim warrior fresh for battle, and all the fight seemed to get drained from their limbs. Brom saw this and felt a stirring of pity. He reached forth with his mind and uttered one word. Both Urgals' bodies went limp and fell to the ground long after they'd died.

Brom turned away from them and hurried to the dwarf's side. He put his hands onto the dwarf's two injuries, the pierced chest and side, closed his eyes and started to murmur softly.

The dwarf smiled drowsily as all his pain suddenly vanished and was instead replaced by tingling warmth. Brom looked up from his work, at the dwarf and smiled.

"Don't worry, Orik, you'll be fine."

XXX

"None of our elves could follow the tracks further than a league," Lord Dáthedr said. "The weather and the ground helped hide them. The snows have already started to fall in the north and west. Within half a day, a day at most, Farthen Dûr will be completely inaccessible over ground."

"I see. Thank you for your help, lord Dáthedr." The man that said this was tall, dressed opulently in silks of purple and gold, and wore a golden loop in his ear, a golden band on his ring finger and bronze manacles on his wrists. He was broad of shoulder and very muscular, confident in stature and spoke in a slow and calm manner. The most peculiar thing about him, however, was his skin; it was very dark, a shade similar to mahogany or teak. Not many people in the Empire left it anymore, and so most kids now grew up without any knowledge of the dark-skinned tribes that roamed the Hadarac desert.

The elf lord nodded but did not reply.

"We expected you to arrive tomorrow, and so did the Shur'tugala. That's why they are not here. We expect them back at noon tomorrow."

"That is fine, Ajihad," Nuala said. "We will rest where we can. Events seem to be starting to move apace."

Ajihad raised an eyebrow at that but did not otherwise enquire. _The meet tomorrow will prove interesting_, the leader of the Varden thought.

"Do you know where Brom is?" Nuala asked with a frown. "We were parted after we brought in Hrothgar's injured nephew."

Ajihad laughed. "If I know that cantankerous old man he's probably sleeping in the dragon hold where he knows he won't be found or waken. But please, allow me to extend my hospitality. I'm sorry about the lodgings as I know you prefer your open forests, but I managed to get you and your elves quarters close to the dragon hold." What he didn't say and what everybody in the room knew was that very few people went to that area and so no one would bother the elves. "Your mounts are being tended to by Hrothgar's personal grooms."

"We shall thank him," Dáthedr said.

"Let us go, my lord," Nuala said. "I haven't journeyed so far from home in a century. It has taken a greater toll on my spirit than I realised." _And being surrounded by all this stone does not help, either_.

"Of course," Ajihad said. "My men will escort you to your quarters. I will send a helper and she will be at your disposal. Will you be joining me for the night's meal?"

"That would gladden us," Dáthedr replied.

"It gladdens me as well. Until then."

XXX

Eragon blinked, and in that fraction of a second he traversed thousands of leagues from the heart of Du Weldenvarden to the outskirts. He was taken aback for a second, which was a very large reaction by his standards.

_That was no ordinary transportation spell_, Eragon thought. _There is no way I could have moved so fast, no matter how much power Gilderien may possess. This has to be a space-and-time spell that affords the user near-instantaneous means of transport from one location to the other without having to traverse the intervening space. Hence the moniker "space/time" I suppose…_

Eragon looked around. He was near Ceunon. Even though Gilderien had offered, Eragon had refused to have his horse transported with him. The animal would be much well looked after in Du Weldenvarden and would be much more likely to live till its old age. Very few people managed to survive a few weeks, let alone years, in Eragon's company. Not that he gave them the chance to get that close, but the point still stood. Besides, he didn't like using the same mount more than a few times. Anonymity was the key word in his profession, and having a recognisable mount defeated that purpose.

"Well," Eragon sighed to himself. "It looks like this is where my hunt begins."


	7. Chapter 7: Meetings

_The thrill of the hunt is utterly intoxicating_, the Wraith reflected as he jumped silently from one rooftop to the next. His target, a middle-aged man, was walking briskly along the street below, his form clearly visible despite the highly overcast moon. It was lucky for him that they were in the poor quarter of the city, the slums, or else the street-torches would have made the Wraith's task much harder. With the regular City Watch patrols imposed upon the streets every day and night, Kuasta was one of the safest cities in the Empire, and had managed to earn a reputation of being "The city with the lowest crime rate" three decades in a row. The King himself had stated Kuasta was one of his most favourite cities, and that he couldn't be prouder of such a productive and civilised place. The populace was quite proud of its achievement, especially when the fact that Kuasta was a coastal city that constantly accommodated foul-mouthed and foul-tempered sailors who were prone to over-indulgence after months at sea was taken into account. It was rumoured that most pirates used Kuasta and its waters to hold meetings; in addition to the rigorous patrols by the City Watch and the high calibre of its soldiers, Kuasta also had one of the best naval fleets in all of Alagaesia. No pirate lord had attacked Kuasta in twenty years, not since the Black Baron himself had had two-thirds of his fleet destroyed. For all these reasons and others besides that had made the small city-state of Kuasta one of the richest earldoms in the Empire, the aging Earl Longford and his entire line was much loved by the people.

_And with good reason, too_, the Wraith thought as he remembered one of his earliest missions, which had been to find as many black secrets about the Earl's past as he could, but he had been unable to find anything of help. The Earl was a genuinely good human being. Either that or he had been very thorough in burying all the bodies and destroying any incriminating evidence. For a man whose genius had allowed most of Kuasta to be rebuilt during one winter so as to repel the pirate attacks the following spring, the Wraith doubted Longford was the kind of man to leave any loose ends untied. The Wraith shook his head slightly and concentrated on the man below him. The man had sped up slightly, and the Wraith was now having a hard time keeping up without making noise. The fact that he had to hide every ten minutes or so from the patrolling guards of the Watch only served to make things harder, but so far he had managed. As the Wraith once again jumped to the following rooftop, he saw that the man had turned left, and this gave him pause for thought. They had finally made their way out of the slums, and from here on the going was going to be much tougher. The Wraith could not afford to be lax or too cautious, however, because the next stage of his mission depended solely on the information he gained from the man he was currently shadowing. Anything could happen in-between night and morning, and the Wraith could not take the risk that the man would be silenced as a loose end. It's what he would have done if he had been in charge of the operation that had captured an elf and a dragon egg.

With a grim look on his face he jumped from the rooftop to the ground below, a fifteen foot drop, landed smoothly and immediately made after the man. He adjusted his clothing slightly, making sure his hidden weapons remained hidden and snug in their various sheaths, pouches and thongs. As he rounded the corner he found the man waiting for him, a wicked looking knife held resolutely in one hand. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.

"Put the knife away you idiot," the Wraith whispered fiercely, but he wasn't the Wraith anymore. Somehow his facial features seemed different, as if some muscles had shifted. The shadows cast by the street torches helped as well.

The man blinked. "What?" The man blinked as he realised how close they were and jumped back theatrically. It was blatantly obvious to the Wraith that the man was not regularly in the field. In fact he seemed like he hadn't been an operative for a long time, if the paunch in his midriff was anything to judge by.

"Who are you and what do you want? Why are you following me?" The illusion of being in charge had given the man some backbone.

"Try not to shout," the Wraith whispered in a Narda brogue. "The patrols are hard enough to deal with without you telling them where we are."

"Answer my questions," the man whispered vehemently. He had started sweating.

"My name is John, and like you I am a member of the Black Hand."

"No you aren't," the man said at once, and the confidence in his voice confirmed something the Wraith had suspected for a while.

_Looks I was right_, he thought as he spotted the two small tattoos on the man's temples. _Galbatorix marks his assassins and I think I know how._

The Wraith rolled his eyes. "You're a thick one you are," he grunted. "My dragon's eyes are tattooed on my chest. I would be more than happy to show you, but seeing as the next patrol is due any minute, I think we should at least move to somewhere private. Whether you believe me or not, the next stage of this meeting will need to be held somewhere where no law enforcement will see."

The man hesitated, clearly afraid and confused. The Wraith correctly guessed that it had been a long time since the man had been in any kind of dangerous situation. After a few seconds of mental debate he finally nodded and indicated with his head. _He's trying to appear in control_, the Wraith thought amusedly. _Oh, my poor friend, you are far from being in control of this situation_. The two men walked as only spies could, flitting from shadow to shadow without ever slowing or speeding up; completely invisible. At least the man hadn't lost all his skill. The Wraith memorised the route perfectly, and having visited Kuasta before he was instantly aware when the man backtracked or doubled up, which would have confused anyone following and would have certainly made it harder for the Wraith to memorise the route. Unfortunately for the man the Wraith had trained his mind to retain any and all information it received.

"We are here," the man said. The building was innocuous, just like any other on the street. The only distinguishing feature was the ancient brown stone from which it was made. Most of the other buildings were painted, and those that weren't were made from a grey stone.

_This building has stood here for a very long time_, the Wraith realised. _From what I know this brown stone is indigenous to the south and hasn't been used in a very long time – not since Surda seceded from the Empire, in fact. Only recently has it begun to be imported again_.

"I have never been to a coastal Black Hand safe house before," the Wraith commented in his Narda brogue, keeping in character. He'd thought very hard on which Black Hand operative to imitate, and he'd finally settled on one of the magicians he had encountered in Belatona. Not only was John the easiest to imitate, but his recent recruitment and subsequent low rung placement made him one of the many unknowns in an organisation as large as the Black Hand.

"But your accent – you're from Narda, yes?" The Wraith could hear the suspicion rising in his target once more.

"Yes," the Wraith agreed nonchalantly, "but up until six months ago I was an acolyte at the Temple of Death. I was only recruited when I travelled to Belatona to take care of my sickly aunt."

"Is she better now?" the man asked. He had relaxed. The Wraith's show of emotion and sharing a vital piece of personally history had lowered the man's guard. Like all the other people involved in the dangerous business of spying, the man had a profound respect of close familial ties. He might not care much for them himself as most operatives were wont to do, but he nevertheless respected them when he saw them.

"No, she died last month."

"You have my condolences."

"Thank you."

The man opened the back door and the two men walked into the building. The Wraith counted three men guarding the entrance, and from the preliminary look of the building's dimensions he guessed there was a secret corridor on the left side of the building. That would mean there was at least a man on each of the three storeys to secretly observe the goings on. It was a complex set up that hinted at the complex thoughts that had gone into creating the Black Hand. The Wraith could appreciate why the organisation had given the Varden such a hard time. The Black Hand had men and women who were either very loyal to Galbatorix or weren't stupid enough to double cross the most powerful person in Alagaesia. The complexity of the missions and conducts of the Black Hand operatives also meant that only one person could be completely certain of what was really happening – Galbatorix himself. This "shadow-under-shadow" way of operating meant even if someone infiltrated the organisation, they couldn't be one hundred percent sure what they learnt was real, and if they did act upon any information they found out, it could almost always be traced back to them.

_Say what you will about Galbatorix_, the Wraith thought, _he is one cunning fox and wouldn't have been easy to defeat whether he was abnormally powerful or not._

In a third floor room the two men sat down opposite one another. The man opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a clay bottle.

"Surdan red?" the Wraith said with a raised eyebrow.

"You know your wines," the man said approvingly. "I got this one recently from one of our informers. He's a merchant who constantly sails south. In exchange for little gifts like this I allow his business to thrive without interference from Longford or any criminal syndicate." The Wraith smiled inwardly. From those words he knew instantly that he had been right in targeting this man. Only the spymaster for the area had that kind of power. Now all that remained was to see if he had been right in targeting this man. He braced himself. Even though his mind was extremely strong, he possessed no magical power and therefore any mind techniques he performed had to be done perfectly. If not a powerful mind could fight them off and he would be found out. Also if another mind sensed his he would have a big fight on his hands. Carefully he began his work.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself," the man said. "I am Edward."

"And please forgive me for being harsh-tongued earlier. I haven't done many missions yet and I was afraid of being caught."

Edward laughed. "That is quite alright lad. Why I remember how scared I was when I started out."

"Thank you for your understanding, sir," the Wraith said.

Edward waved away the statement with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "So what news do you bring from Belatona?" he asked.

_He might be a sub-standard operative but he has a got a spymaster's mind alright. I bet he hasn't forgotten anything I have said._ "Well we fear there may have been a breach in security, sir. One of our magicians and a friend of mine – his name is Will – disappeared without a trace just of three months ago."

"It has taken you this long to find out?" Edward's scepticism was understandable. This kind of situation should have been discovered and dealt with immediately.

"It is much more … complicated," the Wraith said. "You see, at the same time our Archives were being … well, archived, in the Great Library."

Edward perked up. "By Archives you mean…?"

"Yes, all the information about and gathered by the Black Hand since the last archiving, which was thirty years ago if what I heard is right."

"By the gods!" Edward exhaled. "Many are starting to believe the Archives are just a myth. But I knew they were real. Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps. The Archives, the documents that contain the real happenings in the Empire and Alagaesia for the past century, are actually real."

"Century and a half," the Wraith corrected, "at least according to my spymaster. Our great king and emperor, in his wisdom, began the Black Hand decades before he overtly moved against the corrupt Riders of old. That is how and why he managed to conquer Doru Araeba and Alagaesia within three months, despite all opposition. He was well informed."

"Ours truly is a powerful organisation," Edward mused in a hushed tone.

"Truly," the Wraith agreed. _So close…_ he thought as he continued his covert mental activities. Already he had penetrated the man's subconscious without being discovered. The two drank in silence for a few minutes before the Wraith continued.

"Anyway there was an incident," he continued. "Apparently, according Aran, the man who held the Archives at the time, someone tried to steal them."

"Who was this idiot?" Edward laughed.

"The Wraith."

Edward blinked and looked like a man who had been slapped into sobriety. "I have heard of him. But then again in our profession who hasn't? He is a freelancer, the best from all I've heard, but he has never been stupid enough to act against the crown like this. In fact most, if not all, of the missions he has allegedly taken have benefited the Empire. What changed I wonder?"

"No one will ever know," the Wraith said in his John persona. "Aran killed him. As the protector of the Archives he was impregnated with some sort of magic, a spell, which would kill whoever tried to take the Archives from him without the proper identification. When Aran awoke he immediately moved to the Great Library under Belatona and began the process of securing them. It took him a month to finish, in which every Black Hand in Belatona secured the city and protected the Great Library. When he resurfaced he told us what had happened. Apparently the Wraith took control of two magicians and used them to infiltrate the Magician's Guild where the Archives were being kept. When Aran awoke after killing the Wraith, both magicians were gone. After a lot of investigation we have finally come to the conclusion that these two magicians were in fact working with the Wraith, and that after they had the Archives they were planning on selling them to the Varden and live the rest of their lives in luxury."

_Thank the gods I took precautions before I moved for the Archives_, the Wraith thought. _Although I am sorry two men had to die because of it. Still, that's two less magicians who will abuse their power._

"The Wraith was a good operative, very thorough," Edward mused. "He might have set things up so that it would seem as if these two magicians had betrayed us."

"That had occurred to us, but we dug extensively into their personal lives and history. The Wraith could not have waylaid us. He doesn't even have access to magic users to fool us."

_But he was a mindbreaker powerful enough to take control of two magicians without anyone noticing_, Edward thought, which amused the Wraith to no end.

"So I'm assuming you're here because the information you gained about one or both of the two magicians indicated they have ties to Kuasta?"

"You are sharp, spymaster," the Wraith said honestly.

"I have to be. Very well, leave my men downstairs with the information and they'll start in the morning." This was a clear dismissal. It was lucky that Eragon had finished what he had set out to do.

"Thank you for you help, sir."

"We all have a duty," Edward said grandly. "It was good meeting you John–"

The door to the room burst open with so much force it shattered one hinge. The man who entered was tall, slimly built, with dark hair and intense eyes and a young and unlined face that belied his true age. An indigo longsword was at his right hip – a left-handed swordsman, then – and he wore armour and a cape of purple and indigo. Eragon recognised him at once. This was Nótt, one of the Forsworn. A shiver went up the Wraith's spine. If he was suspected for even a second, that would be the end of him. He could not stand up to a Dragon Rider, not even on his best day – even if that day was Nótt's worst. Both Edward and the Wraith immediately stood up and bowed deeply.

"My lord!" the said simultaneously. The Wraith made sure to keep the protection around his mind simplistic and of poor quality. He let John's persona swallow up his deeper thoughts and allowed fear and mundane thoughts to occupy the forefront of his mind. A second later he felt a very light mental presence hovering in the room, monitoring their minds.

"Be seated," Nótt intoned in his monotonous voice. Both men sat down immediately. The presence of power in the room was enough to make even the Wraith uncomfortable.

"I am told you planned the mission that resulted in the capture of–"

"My lord!" the Wraith interrupted.

"… Yes?" Nótt did not sound happy in the least. But then again he did not sound anything at all.

"I am just a lowly servant to our King and only came here to deliver a request. I am not based here and know nothing of any missions. Please allow me to leave so I can get back to my duties."

"Do I make you uncomfortable, child?" Nótt asked and the humourless smile that spread over his impassive face made him a truly frightening spectacle.

"You frighten me, my lord," the Wraith said in a quivering voice, as if trying to control his own fear.

"Good," Nótt replied and he seemed satisfied by something. "Very well, begone with you. I have important matters to deal with." Nótt turned away and the dismissal was clear. The Wraith turned around–

–And ran straight into the Shade. He let out a strangled cry of honest surprise, which attracted the Rider's attention.

"You," Nótt said evenly.

"Nótt," the Shade replied likewise.

"Why are you here, Durza?" Nótt's posture was nonchalant and it was clear he was confident he was superior to the Shade. Whether or not this was true the Wraith hoped he would not find out then and there. Edward looked at this point as if his worst nightmares had come true. Whatever happened, the Wraith knew the spymaster would not live to see the sun rise. It was at this point the Wraith realised he was standing between a Dragon Rider and a Shade. A more precarious position he couldn't have imagined.

"Tying up loose ends. The King does not want anything to jeopardise his acquisition of the elf." Durza moved into the room and the Wraith would have wept with joy if he didn't think he'd be killed on the spot.

"Only the elf? So you failed to acquire the egg, then."

"Yes," Durza said, and it seemed to pain him a lot to admit.

"I see," Nótt said. "It would seem that my presence here is unnecessary, then. I had come here for the same reason. You will be happy to know, I'm sure, that I have razed the Urgal village to the ground. There is nothing anyone can use to trace back to you."

The Wraith did not move a muscle or otherwise do anything to attract attention. That was the last thing he wanted.

"That makes me very happy indeed." Durza showed his sharp teeth in what must have been a smile. Nótt's face did not even twitch.

"I wonder, though, Durza," the Rider said, "how is it you have not broken her mind yet? You have had her for four months. Surely she isn't strong enough to defy a Shade of your power?"

"She is proving more difficult than I thought, that's all. I am nearly there. Another week and all the secrets of the elves will the King's for the taking."

"I'm sure," Nótt drawled. Durza's face twitched. "I will be leaving, then." Without another word the Rider headed out the door, the Wraith hot on his heels. He hoped to give the impression he was the Rider's servant, and seeing as Durza didn't call him back it must have worked.

_All this stress and terror isn't good for my heart,_ the Wraith thought. In all his life he had never felt so frightened. The pure gripping terror of being a trout amongst sharks had actually paralysed for a few seconds. It was strange and new feeling. And there was something else, too. What was it…?

The Wraith followed the Rider down three flights of stairs, passing unconscious forms on each floor. The Wraith hoped against hope that it had been the Shade and not the Rider who had decided to get rid of any witnesses. When the two finally reached the street outside the Wraith let out a slow breath. One hurdle jumped safely, one more to go. Nótt looked at the sky for a good long minute and the Wraith didn't interrupt. He didn't even leave in case it distracted the Rider.

"You handled yourself well," Nótt said at last, which shocked the Wraith.

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

"Despite being with more powerful men you did not cower but planned a simple if effective escape."

"I got lucky, my lord."

"Perhaps." Nótt turned to look at the Wraith. "Your eyes show you have great strength and intelligence."

"Thank you, my lord." The Wraith stood up straight to show what a positive statement Nótt's had been.

"Hmm," Nótt hummed and suddenly disappeared. The Wraith blinked and looked around. After a full reconnaissance, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't necessary when dealing with Riders, he correctly surmised, "Magic. What I would give to be able to do things like that." The Wraith let out a long suffering groan.

_I'm going to die young if I keep going at this rate_. After a quick look around he headed for the docks. _The Parrot_, his favourite tavern, was a-calling.

XXX

"I would like to thank you all for coming," Brom said. He allowed his gaze to lock onto the eyes of every person sat around the table. Equally intense gazes met his. "I will be the mediator for this meeting. I will now introduce everyone present." Brom gestured with his right hand.

"On my right is Ajihad, the leader of the Varden. Next to him is Nuala, the elven ambassador. On her right is Rider Aakash, the Riders' ambassador to King Orrin, who is the monarch of Surda. Aakash has been given the authority to speak for Surda by King Orrin in this meeting. Next to Aakash is King Hrothgar, the monarch of the dwarves. Directly in front of me is lord Dáthedr, one of the four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies. He is a close companion of the Queen and the ruling House. Next to him is Jörmundur, Ajihad's second-in-command. On his right is Rider Savitā, the Riders' ambassador to the Varden. His observations about the Varden's current state will be welcome to this council. And you all know me. Very well, let us begin."

Beyond the round stone table four scribes dipped their quills in ink and prepared to start writing.

"There is a chair empty," Jörmundur noted.

"Our last guest will be with us shortly," Brom replied. "It's just a matter of finding him and bringing him back here."

A lot of raised eyebrows met this statement but no one commented.

"Ajihad, if you would like to continue," Brom said.

"The Varden is not in a good state," Ajihad said in his deep voice. "Our primary problem stems from our lack our magic users. The number of recruits is at an all-time low. We haven't even had a magician or sorcerer join us in the last five years. At the moment Du Vrangr Gata numbers at three-and-thirty magicians, eleven sorcerers, five wizards and three witches. Four witches, actually, if you count Angela, but seeing as she does as she pleases and refuses to join Du Vrangr Gata I do not count her. Du Vrangr Gata totally numbers at two-and-fifty, and that is still seventeen less than Galbatorix's personal corps of magicians. What's more these magicians have been trained by Galbatorix himself from an early age and they have decades of experience as spell-casters. Of Du Vrangr Gata's two-and-fifty magic users only twenty could hope to match up to Galbatorix's magicians' corps. We haven't even started counting the hundreds of magic users Galbatorix can call upon from the Magician's Guild, the Sorcerer's Sect and the Wizard's Council. This deficiency will impair the Varden when we come to battle. With the Riders countering the Forsworn, the dwarven and elven magicians concentrating on protecting their own forces, my own forces will be left wide open for slaughter."

Silence greeted this report. Ajihad hadn't honey-coated anything. It had been a simple analysis and evaluation that went right to the root of the problem.

"I have pledged my nation's support in this matter," Hrothgar rumbled. He hadn't opened his eyes since sitting down, which only served to give him a wizened and wise atmosphere.

"You aren't exactly young," Ajihad said with a smile. "If you topple over dead tomorrow there are many of your people who would weaken the Varden by retracting your support, including those from Ingeitum, your own clan."

The elves stiffened, including the Riders, stiffened at this lack of respect and candidness. Hrothgar finally opened his eyes and glared hard at Ajihad. Ajihad simply continued smiling. After a few seconds of silence Hrothgar started chuckling.

"Insolent child," Hrothgar said.

"You were falling asleep," Ajihad said. "Someone needed to rattle those bones."

Hrothgar just chuckled. "You speak true enough," he said. "I will have my magicians start their program with yours on the morrow. I think I can last a few more years for them to be of some use."

"Thank you," Ajihad said with a gracious nod.

"I will stay," Nuala said which caused a ripple of shock to go through the room.

"You will?" Ajihad blinked.

"Yes," she stated. "When it comes to magic we elves fancy ourselves masters." This caused another ripple of shock. Elves never displayed such candidness, never admitted to vanity and most certainly did not display such uncomplicated humour.

"Thank you," Ajihad said with another nod. He might have been happy but that did not rob him of his senses. Showing more gratitude to Nuala than to Hrothgar would have sparked up trouble.

"As to the matter of not enough magicians," Rider Savitā said in an uncharacteristically deep voice for an elf, "there is little we can do about that. The most we can hope for would be to slowly siphon some of Orrin's own magicians over a long period of time so Galbatorix does not notice."

"Both the Magician's Guild and Sorcerer's Sect have branched into Surda over the past few decades," Rider Aakash said softly. "Orrin has been using his spy network to root out Galbatorix's Black Hand while also trying to find sympathisers to the Alliance's cause. There have been a few unexplained deaths, which he has taken to mean, and I agree in his evaluation, that Galbatorix is killing any overeager sympathisers who look like they might join us. If we can get these men and women before they are assassinated, it would greatly help us."

"If you will give me any relevant information after the meeting, Rider Aakash, I will get my people on it right away," Jörmundur said.

"Of course."

_This is what Nuala meant,_ Brom realised as he saw how his fellow Riders were behaving. _They have finally lost heart. They do not plan and speak with the passion they once did. To them this cause has become hopeless. I guess a century of skirmishing and small victories has finally started to take its toll._

"The next issue," Brom said, "is the issue of provisions. Farming has been lean this past year, and with the Varden's ventures being shut down one by one by the Black Hand, Galbatorix won't need to face us on the field of battle to destroy us."

"Did you not pay for the services of a spy to get information on the Black Hand?" Savitā asked with a frown.

"It cost me three thousand crowns," Brom said.

"Three thousand!" Hrothgar ejaculated. It was truly a shocking amount. Three thousand crowns could fund both the Varden and the dwarves of Farthen Dûr for a whole year.

"It was worth it though," Ajihad said. "Brom's man managed to get every little piece of information about the Black Hand's activities ending three and a half months ago, for the past thirty years."

"Thirty years?" Jörmundur said in surprise. "You mean to say your man got a part of the Black Hand's Archives?"

"Yes he did, and with his information I have come up with solutions that just might help us regain the advantage against Galbatorix."

XXX

Eragon swallowed the pint of cold ale in one long gulp. After a good lord burp, which went unnoticed in the large and busy establishment, he signalled one of the maids for another one. Leaning back in his chair Eragon looked up at the ceiling. The past few weeks had been the most tiring of his life, including the year he had spent getting close to Micah and assassinating him.

_That's what I get for associating with the Varden and elves and Riders and the gods know what else_, Eragon thought sourly. The maid arrived with two pints and laid them on his table with a tired smile. Eragon looked up at her and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you, Maria," he said.

"Just doing my job, Evan," she replied.

"True," Eragon replied with a cheeky smile. "But do you give every other customer that lovely and inviting smile?"

Maria chuckled. "You're reading too much into a simple smile."

"Perhaps," Eragon replied. "But I notice you didn't answer my question."

Maria looked at him for a second before she ruefully shook her head before sitting down opposite him. Without being invited she started drinking from one of the jugs. "How did you get involved in this shady business of yours," she asked. "You're not even a man yet."

"Yes I am!" Eragon replied in a mock shocked voice. "I turned twenty-one a few weeks ago."

"Begging your pardon," Maria replied with a roll of her eyes. "So how did you get involved anyway?"

Eragon's face went impassive for a couple of seconds and images flashed through his head. "It's a long story," he said with a tired smile. "I'll tell it to you one day."

"I'll hold you to that," Maria said. She scrutinised Eragon's face for a few seconds, noting how easily he hid his pain. The boy was much more mature than the pretended to be. _Who is he really?_ She wondered. _The name Evan doesn't suit him. Like every other crook in here he probably picked it at random to hide his true identity._

"How did a young thing like you become embroiled in this dodgy establishment?"

"Young?" Maria chortled. "I'm five-and-twenty years of age. I should have married a long time ago, had a family of my own."

"Why didn't you?" Eragon asked.

"My lover was murdered. He borrowed money from a businessman. The man demanded it a month before the deadline. He owed money as well. When my Ivan couldn't pay it back he was killed as an example and everything we owned was taken. I was taken as a slave to work off the rest of the debt. I was with child then … it was aborted, against my will. I have nothing left."

Maria spoke in a nonchalant tone as if her circumstances didn't faze her, but Eragon could see the pain in her eyes. He reached out with his right hand and touched her left cheek. The burn mark there had pinched the skin, making her left eye seem slightly smaller than the other one.

"You still have your beauty," Eragon said truthfully. "And you're stronger than most men I know, in body and spirit."

"Smooth talker!" Maria accused with a laugh, trying to hide her blush.

Eragon grinned. "Guilty as charged." His eyes moved to the bar where the owner of The Parrot, a cruel man named Loran, was serving a customer. "So Loran killed your man?" he mused. "Can I give you some advice?"

"Sure."

"Don't seek revenge. Killing Loran won't change anything, and it certainly won't make you feel any better. Trust me. I know a bit about killing."

Maria blinked in shock. "How … how did you know?"

"Like I said, I know a bit about killing. You have the eyes of an amateur whose about to do something stupid. Every time you look at him you get all tense and start looking angry. Personally I would be surprised if Loran doesn't suspect your intentions. Men like him are very careful."

"Hmm," Maria mused as she looked at her master. She turned back to Eragon smiled wickedly. "Amateur you call me. This coming from the boy who hasn't known the pleasures of a woman."

"Excuse me," Eragon said seriously. "I'm a _man_ who hasn't known the pleasure of a woman."

Both of them fell into a giggling fit as the mead hit their system. Maria stood up. "I finish my shift in a couple of hours."

Eragon blinked, perplexed. "Excuse me?"

Maria just winked at him before resuming her duties. Slowly the truth dawned on Eragon and he actually blushed.

_The downfall of a man_, he reflected sourly. _I've killed since I was ten years old, I'm a deadly warrior and exemplary mindbreaker, but at the smile and promises of a pretty woman I suddenly turn into a pile of mush. If anyone ever found out that's all it took to weaken the Wraith my carrier would be over in the blink of an eye_.

Eragon finished his pint. It was best not to drink too much. He had to have a clear mind in the morning. He stood up and made his way to the first floor where his room was. Even as he reached for the knob he knew something was wrong. He hesitated, looked around and then at the floor.

_If anyone is in my room they already know someone's outside. My shadow gave me away. Dammit when did I become so incautious? I should have approached from the other direction._

Eragon knocked on the door. "Sir, there's a man who wants to see you downstairs," he announced in a croaky voice. Silence greeted his announcement, followed by the unmistakable sounds of a man walking in the dark.

"Who is it?" the voice came from behind the door.

"He says his name is Brom, sir," Eragon replied.

More silence. Eragon listened closely and could just about pick up whispering. There were more of them, then. The door rattled and swung open. A short man was standing there, holding an axe. Eragon kept his posture weak and his head down.

"Take me to him," the man demanded gruffly.

"Yes, sir," he replied and led the way. The man picked up his stride to walk alongside Eragon, and in that instant Eragon struck. He hit the man in his throat with his left hand, and the man tried to hack but no sound came out. He couldn't shout for help. The man was no amateur and tried to swing his axe at Eragon despite being in pain. Eragon caught the arm, squeezed a nerve and the man dropped the axe. With his left foot Eragon caught the head before it clattered onto the floor. As hit left foot gently settled onto the floor Eragon moved his right leg and hit the man in the sternum with his right knee. All the breath and fight exploded out of the man. Eragon gently placed the man's limp form onto the ground and dived into his mind. It took him only a second to know what had happened. The Varden, Brom to be accurate, had sent this man and the two others in his room to secure Eragon. Eragon could quite understand what would happen afterwards as the man's mind was starting to get foggy but he knew he was in no danger.

"Brom you conniving bastard," Eragon cursed. "What do you have planned?" Eragon picked up the man and his axe and walked to his room.

"I have your comrade," he said out loud. "I mean you no harm. Don't attack." With that he walked in and found two shocked men standing on either side of his bed.

"What does Brom want?" Eragon asked in a cold voice. He was back in his Wraith persona. It was all business now.

"He…" the man on the right licked his lips, clearly in shock. Eragon had tricked them and neutralised one of their men within seconds. "He told us to give you this." The man took out a small gemstone from his tunic. He threw it in a jerky motion. Eragon caught it without looking, his eyes assessing the two men. After a few seconds he dismissed them with a look, which would make them feel even more inferior, and looked at the gemstone.

"Now what?" Eragon asked.

"He said you are to speak your name."

Eragon raised an eyebrow at that. He looked at the gemstone and frowned. "Eragon," he murmured so softly even he couldn't hear. The gemstone, however, seemed to have understood for the spell on it took effect. A blue haze surrounded Eragon and in the blink of an eye he had disappeared.

XXX

Thousands of leagues away in Farthen Dûr Eragon materialised in a blue haze in the empty chair on Brom's immediate left.

"Ah, they found you," Brom said. "Just in time, too."

Eragon blinked and looked around. He didn't have to think about it to know he was surrounded by the Alliance's leaders. He recognised the elf Dáthedr, Jörmundur, Ajihad and one of the Riders, Aakash. Aakash had been in Orrin's palace a few years previously and Eragon had seen him while on a mission. That was one assassination that had frightened Eragon nearly as much as the past few weeks had.

"I am offended," Eragon said calmly as he looked around the table. "You sent complete amateurs. I nearly killed them."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't," Brom said easily. Eragon snorted.

"So this is the Alliance," he mused. "It's smaller than I imagined. I thought there were five "free" Riders left?"

"There are," Savitā rumbled. "The rest of my brethren couldn't make it. Who are you?"

"I'm the Wraith," Eragon replied. A shocked silence met the announcement. "Ah, I see you have heard of me. I disparage any emotion when conduction business, but I cannot deny it's gratifying to have such a grand reputation."

"You are proud to be known for being an assassin?" Savitā asked.

"Don't bandy words with me," Eragon said in annoyance. "I'm not in the mood."

Savitā stiffened. "You should show more respect toward your superiors," he said coldly.

"Superior? I highly doubt that. A mere twist of fate allowed you to be chosen to wield great power. It is not a personal accomplishment to be a Shur'tugal. If, however, you were a Rider who had used his power to destroy the most powerful Order that has ever existed and conquer a whole continent … well, then you would most definitely be my superior."

Outrage flashed across Savitā's face. Before he could utter a word Brom forestalled him, and it was a testament to Brom's power that he could silence a Dragon Rider with a wave of his hand.

"Savitā," Brom said calmly. Savitā gazed at Brom and then at Eragon. He let out a long breath and kept his mouth shut. "Thank you," Brom added. The old warrior turned to Eragon. Eragon had observed the exchanged with interest. Who exactly was Brom…?

"Boy," Brom said in that familiar way. Eragon looked into Brom's eyes and something in them thawed his cold mask. He sighed and closed his eyes. His whole frame was trembling and it took him far longer than it should have to calm down – the ideal time being instantly, of course. Certainly before anyone noticed.

"_Eka eddyr harmfullr wiol __pömnuria ordar_," said Eragon. _I am sorry for my words_. Many around the table were surprised by Eragon's mastery of the Ancient Language. His pronunciation and flow would have allowed him to pass for an elf had he possessed the musical lilting tone of voice all elves possessed. Eragon laughed humourlessly as he looked at his hands. Brom frowned and lines of worry creased his forehead.

"What happened?" Brom asked.

"I am beginning to feel my mortality," Eragon replied. "I had hoped I wouldn't suffer from this until much later in life. Pretty soon I won't be able to function for fear of dying. It's a curse that all in my trade suffers sooner or later."

"What happened?" Brom repeated.

"Just over half an hour ago I found myself in a position I would wish on no one," Eragon said after a few seconds of silence.

"Which is?"

"Standing with an angry Shade two feet to your left and one of the Forsworn three feet to your right."

"What?" Aakash demanded. "Where was this? What happened?"

"I have already been asked that," Eragon said sharply. He looked up from his hands and all signs of weakness had gone. His face was once more impassive. "I was in Kuasta searching for spymaster Edward, who works for the Black Hand. He is the man who planned the operation that resulted in the capture of the elf woman, Arya, and the disappearance of the dragon egg. To be honest I was surprised he was still alive after all these months. The Shade must have been engrossed in the task of breaking into her mind."

"You'll be happy to know," Eragon continued with a raised hand when Aakash looked like interrupting, "that he hasn't managed to do so. As I was saying, I tracked down Edward and under the guise of a Black Hand from Belatona trying to track down a rogue magician I was invited back to the Black Hand headquarters in Kuasta. While I explained the fake situation to Edward I slowly and surreptitiously broke into his mind and siphoned all relevant information pertaining to the incident. It was as I was leaving that Nótt burst into the room demanding answers from Edward. Before he could excuse me the Shade Durza turned up." Eragon shook his head. "They looked ready to fight but somehow managed to end the matter without drawing their swords. I left just behind Nótt. I doubt Edward is still alive." Eragon closed his eyes for a second as he remembered Nótt mentioning he had razed the urgal village Durza had used to recruit his minions. Eragon had visited that village looking for information. It was where he had found information about Edward. There had been over a score of urgal young ones, cubs, in that village. Now all of them were dead. Life truly was a fleeting gift. Or was it a curse? Eragon wasn't sure anymore.

"Boy?" Brom urged on.

"I managed to get the mission specifications from Edward's mind," Eragon continued. "From what I found out I'm pretty sure I know where the elf is."

Gasps of pleasure came from the elves. "Where is she!?" Dáthedr demanded.

"Not so fast," Eragon said.

"What do you mean?" Savitā's face had gone cold once more.

"Don't give me that," Eragon scorned. "Let's say I give you the information. What are you going to do? Fly to the fortress and rescue her? What about the Forsworn and Galbatorix? What if they detect you and set out to meet you? You'll be dead before the next sunrise. The only person who can rescue her is me simply because I do not attract unwanted attention. I am a master of my trade. The few that know my face think I died in Belatona. For the moment I do not exist, which means no one will be looking for me. And let us not forget there's a Shade waiting, a Shade that killed one of your brethren fifteen years ago. There have been five Shades in Alagaesia's history. Two were killed by Riders and one by an elf. The other two killed themselves in a duel. Do you think you can match up to him?"

Savitā did not reply but his eyes glittered with some emotion.

"I asked you a question!" Eragon said sharply. "Do you think you can match up to Durza!?"

"Boy, calm down," Brom said gruffly.

Eragon snorted and looked down at his hands once more. "And so I set off tomorrow on a possibly suicidal mission to outsmart a Shade and rescue an elf." Eragon shook his head and smiled. "I prefer the old days when all I had to do was sneak into someone's chamber and slit their throat."

Nuala drew in a disgusted gasp.

"I'm jesting my lady," Eragon said. "I would never slit anyone's throat. It's too crude a method. I prefer more subtle ones that make the death seem natural. They're more challenging."

"That's enough," Brom said sternly.

Eragon shrugged. "In case I die tell that annoying elf Gilderien to give my money to you Brom. You'll know what to do with it." Eragon gave Brom a significant look and Brom gave a sharp nod in return. "I'll also leave everything I know in coded writing to your men Brom, just in case I don't succeed." Brom gave another nod.

"So it was Gilderien-elda who asked you to find Arya and the egg?" asked Aakash.

"Yes. He's quite entertaining, for an elf. Brom if you could send me back, I have a late night tryst with a rather comely barmaid."

"Sounds fun," Brom said.

"You lecherous old man," Eragon snorted. He might not be looking forward to the next few days and weeks of mind numbing terror and struggle, but at least he could enjoy the night and be inducted into his manhood by a good woman.


	8. Chapter 8: Hell

"Why do you trust him so much?" Savitā asked. "Not only is he morally perverted but for the most part his words and actions seem so set against our cause."

"They would," Brom muttered to himself. He shook his head slightly and looked up at the Rider. "I trust him more than I trust anyone in this room." There was an air of heavy silence and disgruntlement from nearly everyone in the room.

"I am inclined to take offence at that," Nuala commented calmly. "Explain yourself."

"Very well," Brom said. I will explain myself because I know in my heart of hearts that the boy is very important, and that he will be instrumental to the Varden's future victories. I will explain, but first you must all give me your word, in the Ancient Language, that you will never reveal what I tell you, especially to the Wraith; not until he has revealed it himself. Do not worry," he added to Savitā and Aakash, "I will tell the other Riders for I think they should know."

"You value a killer so highly?" Ajihad said with a frown.

"He killed Micah at your behest," Brom said calmly. "You can't exactly claim a moral high ground, whether the assassination was necessary or not."

Ajihad's frown deepened at that and he seemed to be mentally debating something.

"Micah?" Hrothgar rumbled. "Galbatorix's right-hand man? The brute that was in charge of the Black Hand?"

"The very same," Brom replied.

"Hmm," Hrothgar rumbled. "Well, whatever be the boy's occupation, his story sounds interesting enough to bind myself. Very well, I will give you my word." And he did. The syllables were heavily tinged with the east dwarven accent but they were quite clear. Slowly everyone else in the room gave their oaths until finally Savitā gave his own oath, albeit grudgingly.

"Very well," Brom said with a slow exhalation. "To tell his story I must begin six-and-twenty years ago and take you back to the time of someone I'm sure you'll all know quite well."

"Who?" Ajihad asked.

"Selena," Brom replied, "Morzan's personal Black Hand and one of the most deadly humans to ever walk Alagaesia. I wonder, how much do you all know about Selena?"

"Scant little," Ajihad replied. "She appeared at Morzan's castle one spring morning and from then on she lived as his servant, mainly involved in assassinations that undermined the political power of the other Forsworn. Galbatorix is said to have had a soft spot for her, although I never understood why. From all the accounts I've heard he never actually met her."

"He did," Brom corrected, "although always under Morzan's strict and overprotective supervision. No, Galbatorix liked her because of her methods, particularly the most sadistic one she employed early on in her carrier."

"So it is true," Savitā mused.

"What is?" Hrothgar asked.

"As the final test of her initiation as Morzan's servant Selena was ordered to kill twelve of Morzan's private guard. It occurred somewhere deep underneath Morzan's castle; the guards were ordered to kill her, not knowing Selena had been ordered to do the same to them. They were as ruthless a bunch as you will ever meet. Selena always did have a talent for healing and so she used her magic to heal those twelve men of all their hatred and anger. She cured them of the things that make man want to harm and kill, and while they stood there grinning like idiots and as harmless as sheep she slit their throats. I'm told the incisions were made as small as possible so that they died as slowly and as painfully as possible."

A look of revulsion spread across Nuala and Dáthedr's faces, mirrored in one way or another by everyone else sat around the table. Brom pretended not to notice and continued on.

"Two years into her service, two years in which her name had become as feared as any of the Forsworn, she became pregnant with Morzan's child. You all know the tale of Morzan's child, Murtagh. Selena, despite all her actions, still had some humanity left in her. She tried as hard as she could to protect her child from Morzan's intentions – for she knew Morzan would raise him to be a weapon to use against his enemies – and the other Forsworn. As we all know she failed. Murtagh was marked by Zar'roc, Morzan's blade, at the tender age of three, and after I killed Morzan and Selena died something worse than what Selena could have predicted happened; Murtagh was taken in and raised by Galbatorix himself. But that's neither here nor there."

"You see," Brom continued as he steepled his fingers, "what nobody seems to realise is that at some point in time a year or so before she died, Selena became pregnant again." Brom paused momentarily as old images played through his mind. "I investigated myself and the secrecy surrounding the pregnancy and have come to the conclusion that the child may have not been Morzan's. Selena, in a bid to protect her second child as she had been unable to do with Murtagh, disappeared for six whole months. This was public knowledge as Morzan flew across the length and breadth of Alagaesia looking for her. What nobody knows is that she fled to her home village and had the child there. She left immediately after, leaving the baby boy to be taken care of by her younger brother and his wife."

Realisation spread across the faces of everyone in the chamber. "The boy, this Wraith, is Selena's son?" Savitā asked. His face had gone remote and it was obvious he was in deep thought.

"The Wraith could be Morzan's son," Aakash stated simply, saying what Savitā had not.

"I highly doubt that," Brom said. "As I have said, I investigated deeply into the matter. It was around the time I started plotting to take down Morzan so I made sure to know everything concerning him."

"Hmm," Aakash hummed and Brom could tell the sound was meant to indicate disbelief. Brom didn't pursue the matter, however, and continue to tell the story.

"The boy had a hard time growing up," Brom said. "You see the village of his ancestors had learnt who and what his mother was, and in their fear and hatred and shame they used the boy as a surrogate for Selena and expressed their displeasure toward him. The village Headman at the time, a wise and lecherous former Death priest, did all he could to protect the boy. He passed a law that no one was to speak of the Wraith's parentage so that the boy could grow up with his peers without having to deal with the stigma of his parentage. But as children are wont to do they imitated their elders' behaviour and by the time the Wraith was five he had not a friend in the world, save maybe for his cousin. But this was not the only disaster in the child's life. The village was attacked by an army of two hundred urgals and there were quite a few Kull. This village, by the way, is named Carvahall and it lies deep within Palancar Valley."

"The valley of mad kings," Dáthedr said softly.

"Carvahall," Nuala said softly. "Isn't that the village you have been living in for the past twenty or so years?"

"Yes, it is," Brom replied and he saw how they were all reading into that. His settling down in Carvahall coincided with the boy's birth. Could he possibly have been keeping an eye on his old enemy's son?

"As you all know," Brom continued, "Palancar Valley has always been renowned for producing a high class of warriors. It is the only place left in all of Alagaesia where the human's old ways, the ways they practiced from before humans came to Alagaesia, still survive. The martial ways of Palancar Valley still remain pure and unrivalled, even by Galbatorix's elite soldiers. Galbatorix knew this. It was after I had killed Morzan, and perhaps he was feeling his mortality, for Galbatorix ordered the band of urgals to attack the Valley. He hoped to remove a possible future threat in case the valley people turned against his forces. Also Palancar Valley remains the only place where the true blood of kings runs and I think Galbatorix was hoping to destroy Palancar's bloodline just in case a descendant was found and the Empire turned against him in order to crown the rightful monarch. Unfortunately for Galbatorix he severely underestimated the valley people. Carvahall alone massacred the entire force, although they lost quite a few fighters themselves. Also, unlike most of the Empire, the women of the valley train and fight alongside their men. It's what made Selena so dangerous to begin with. Her skills were quite deadly when Morzan found her, and by the time he was done tutoring her she was unparalleled by any pure human."

"I think you can begin to appreciate the effect war has on a person. At first you shake and tremble, and your mind refuses to accept the death and horror surrounding you. You try to find some deep and hidden meaning in the madness, and when you cannot your mind breaks and you slowly start to go insane. Nightmares are pretty common, and they never really get better with time. Most soldiers learn to accept the reality and live with it, saving their sanity. They harden their hearts to the necessary horrors. Now try to imagine the effect war would have on a five year old boy. A very sensitive and empathic boy at that."

"It destroyed him," Nuala said. "That's how he became what he is. The reality of war broke something in him."

"Right and wrong," Brom replied. "While the reality of war did change something in him, it was not for the worse but for the better. It made the Wraith the most peaceful soul I have ever met. Before the battle he'd been engulfed with bitterness and hatred toward his fellow villagers, but after seeing the results of hatred and anger and ill will his whole outlook on life changed. He no longer felt hatred towards his fellow villagers. He realised that they only behaved as they did out of fear and misunderstanding. They dealt with life as best they could. His passive nature actually managed to mitigate the villagers' attitude toward him. It's hard to bear ill will toward someone who treats you kindly."

"Then what happened to turn him into what he is now?" Ajihad asked. The Wraith's story had all gotten to them. It was very easy for them to imagine what he had gone through for they were all war veterans who knew its effects well.

"Galbatorix happened," Brom said and the venom in his voice shocked them. "Galbatorix was not happy. The massacre of his urgals angered him. What had once been a fleeting moment of spite turned into a vendetta. He could not let the villagers defeat him. Yes he could have flown to Palancar Valley and laid waste to it, and no one could bring him to justice for it, but you must remember that Galbatorix is a cunning one. For the past sixty years he has concentrated his efforts on making his empire as prosperous and happy as it can be. The reason is obvious. We, the Alliance, cannot depose him if the people do not see him for the monster he is. They will fight for him till the end to maintain the illusion of peace he has laid. And so he connived to find some unlawful fault in the valley. Based on the ever rampant rumours about the Spine Galbatorix concocted a rumour about the valley containing malignant spirits. Pretending to be very concerned he approached the Temple of Death and asked them to investigate. These spirits were apparently planning to find a perfect human host, possess him and turn into a Shade. All Shades are natural enemies of Angvard, the god of death, for they practice unholy magic, such as necromancy, which encroaches on Angvard's territory. As you all know the gods are quite territorial."

Brom sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Galbatorix sent a regiment of soldiers to escort the Death priests and magicians to "cleanse" the valley. And now a new element enters the picture; the man who turned the Wraith into the person he is now."

"Who?" Aakash asked.

"Sren," Brom answered.

"Nótt's right-hand man?" Savitā asked in shock.

"The very same," Brom answered tiredly. "You see Nótt, always praised as the most sadistic and cunning of the Forsworn, had found out about Selena's second child. He wanted what he thought as Morzan's second son for his own. You can see his train of thought. Conceal the boy, raise and train him, and then reveal him to the world. Not only would the child be a vital tool but the political power gained from possessing Morzan's other child would be enormous. Since Morzan never married Selena both sons are illegitimate and therefore cannot inherit. But with a Dragon Rider's political power Nótt could use the Wraith and claim all Morzan possessed for himself. Galbatorix, a lover of games as he is, wouldn't object and would very much enjoy the strife caused by two estranged warring brothers. So Nótt sent his right-hand man, disguised by the best spells Nótt could come up with, to find the boy, take him away and train him. Sren found the boy, alright, and offered him a life of luxury. The Wraith, who had always been a simple person in tune with nature, refused. Angry, Sren revealed that most of the valley would be destroyed by Galbatorix's men and the boy should leave while he still could.

Now I've told you how sensitive and peaceful the boy was. He had seen the results of war firsthand and did not wish to have more fighting. The people of Carvahall and Palancar Valley at large had by this point learnt it had been Galbatorix who had sent the urgals against them. They believe in forgiveness and love a peaceful life so they did not bring their grievances to light. But the Wraith, who like his kinsmen is a true descendant of Palancar, knew how the valley would react when another of Galbatorix's forces came to destroy them under false pretences. They would go to war. They are, after all, a proud people and do not suffer wrongdoings in silence. A war would ensue, no doubt about that. The valley people would attack Galbatorix and the Empire seeking retribution. They couldn't win, of course, but they would cause a lot of damage before Galbatorix wiped them out. Even at ten the Wraith realised this and sought a solution that would in its own way placate both parties involved. This is where the Wraith's personal hell began."

"The massacre of the valley," Ajihad realised in a horrified tone. "A ten year old boy _did that_!?"

"I do not understand," Dáthedr said.

"Then let me explain," Brom said as he placed his hands on the table. "The Wraith secured Sren's help by promising to do whatever Sren ordered him to. The people of Palancar Valley take oaths very seriously, no matter what language they're uttered in. Together Sren and the Wraith approached Carvahall's Headman and his Council of Elders, and outlined the situation. Angry, the Council did exactly as the Wraith had predicted and decided to rouse their warriors and meet Galbatorix's forces head on. The Wraith suggested a different way. He proposed to give Galbatorix exactly what he wanted, or rather what he needed; peace of mind. Sren has always been a skilled magician, not magically powerful, but nevertheless extremely skilled. The Wraith's body was slowly and constantly infused with energy over a three day period, the result being that he was temporarily granted the physical abilities that could match an elf's. This worked to two advantages; the first one being that were anyone to scrutinise the boy they could instantly tell he had been touched by malignant magic, making it believable that he was actually possessed; and the second being that as a normal ten year old child the Wraith wouldn't have lasted long fighting hardened veterans, not unless he had a great advantage over his opponents. On the third night the Wraith descended howling from the Spine, as if possessed by spirits, and attacked Carvahall.

What no one ever realised, not even the villagers, was that most of the people the Wraith killed were actually bandits he and Sren had rounded up from the Spine in those three days prior to the attack. Although he values all life, killing criminals who would be executed if they were caught anyway was much easier than killing innocents. Only two actual villagers were killed, and they were killed by bandits that had managed to escape from the control of Sren's mind. When morning came, and Galbatorix's troops arrived with Death's priests, they found the air filled with smoke and the smell of death. The villagers, ignorant of the Council's plans, welcomed the priests with open arms and asked them to help kill a possessed child. You can imagine the shock the priests experienced, for some of them had overhead the soldiers talking and had learnt that the King only wanted potential enemies removed, that their mission was only a cover, but their training kicked in and in short order those same potential enemies turned into staunch allies. The villagers forgave Galbatorix and swore their undying allegiance for the man who had sent help. Sren and the Wraith remained in the Spine for a short while, leaving false trails for the soldiers and the priests. After a suitable amount of time had passed the Wraith and Sren ambushed a search party. They overpowered them and with Sren's help – for the Wraith was still young and could not even reach out to other minds with his own, let alone create false memories – altered their memories. When the search party awoke they hurried back to the village with the news that the spirits had been destroyed, along with the possessed child. No doubt Galbatorix was surprised by the remarkable turn of fate but he did not question his good fortune. He had gained valuable allies."

"And so a ten year old child averted war." Brom took out his pipe, put some dry leaves in the end and lit them with a muttered, "_Brisingr!_" He puffed long and deep before exhaling with a contended sigh. The scented smoke ascended to the ceiling slowly. Brom kept his eyes trained on the smoke.

"The Wraith and Sren left soon after, after extracting a promise from the Headman, who died shortly after, and the Council that they would take the secret of what had happened to their graves. Although the valley people take oaths seriously, the Wraith nevertheless demanded they promise him in the Ancient Language, no doubt at Sren's behest. Sren served his master and the situation had turned out well for him. Now that the boy was officially dead no one would ever think to look for him. The Wraith belonged to Nótt utterly and completely."

"That's why you were shocked earlier," Ajihad realised. "When the Wraith mentioned Nótt you looked like you were about to have a heart attack. Two questions; how come the Wraith doesn't work for Nótt now – he's certainly skilled enough – and why didn't Nótt simply claim him tonight?

"To answer your first question, the Wraith grew up. He's the most skilled and powerful mindbreaker I have ever met. At some point he stopped being Sren's apprentice and became a partner, and by that time it was far too late. Sren could no longer push the boy around. Like all of the Forsworn Nótt had given his right-hand man a jewel containing a part of his power, which is how and why Sren was able to use magic and possess a powerful psyche. After the Wraith found the jewel and took it from Sren, Sren was just another human. I don't think you can understand how hard it was for the Wraith to do that. Even after all the years he was still a valley boy and followed their way of life. Breaking his promise to Sren was the height of dishonour, but after the Wraith learnt Nótt planned on using him – how he did not know – he had to escape. Like I said, he abhorred violence and being an instrument of war, whether political or physical, would have been a far worse option. Even when he was with Sren he used what he was being taught for the betterment of others. He has a lot of high profile assassinations but what nobody realises is that he chose them deliberately. I myself can confirm that each one of his victims threatened to create unrest, which was why the Wraith eliminated them. Even after all he had been through he still looked out for others, sacrificing himself in the process."

"And the second question?" Ajihad prompted gently.

"That I cannot answer. I'm pretty sure Nótt knows what the boy looks like. He would have recognised him tonight. Why he didn't claim him I have no idea." Brom looked down at his pipe and frowned. "The boy is lost now."

"Lost?" Savitā queried softly.

"He has lost his direction in life. I think he has adopted the Wraith persona for so long that sometimes he forgets who he really is. He chose a life of violence and pain so others wouldn't have to live it. I don't know for sure but I'm willing to bet my life that all the money he has ever earned has gone to those in need. It's the kind of man he has become."

"If all this is true–" Savitā began but Brom interrupted him.

"_Eka __thorta du ilumëo_," Brom said in the Ancient Language and therefore he couldn't be lying. _I speak the truth_. Savitā frowned.

"If all this is true," Savita continued slowly, "then why doesn't the boy join us, join the Varden?"

"Haven't you been listening!?" Brom sudden outburst actually frightened everyone in the room. He was a man of great power, after all. Only the Riders and the elves had ever seen him so enraged; it was when he lost his dragon and vowed to kill Morzan. "The boy hates war and violence and all that comes with it! Joining us would be betraying his principles, don't you see!? We attack the Empire and try to weaken it, causing suffering for both sides. This goes against everything he has lived for since he was five years old! Simply associating with us causes him great internal conflict. He knows we're right but acknowledging it would mean his life has been wasted, and more importantly he must destroy who he is in order to accomplish a greater good; fight Galbatorix and his Forsworn. I've kept this from you but the Wraith has infiltrated the Varden on numerous occasions, his goal to assassinate us all."

"What?" Jörmundur demanded. "When?"

"He's been doing it for years," Brom whispered hoarsely. "He comes here under the guise of a Surdan sword master. He's actually trained all of your personal guards, Ajihad, and the Varden's elite soldiers, the Swordsmen."

"Evan?" Jörmundur said in shock. "The Wraith is Evan? But Evan's a middle-aged man!"

"Have you forgotten that the Wraith's a master of deception and espionage?" Brom said. Silence met that rhetorical question. "Some have even started to call the Wraith the Chameleon, on account of his ability to blend in with any surrounding and remain undiscovered."

"Brom-vor," Nuala said, using the elven honorific for a close friend as she always did when talking to him. "Are you well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Brom replied in a voice that clearly indicated otherwise. No one challenged him, however.

"And now he is going to anger a Shade, Galbatorix and the Forsworn by rescuing an elf, a known enemy of the Empire and possibly reclaiming the lost dragon egg." Hrothgar's deep voice penetrated all their thoughts. "Poor child. Internal and external conflict seem to dog his every step."

Brom suddenly stood up and without another word left the chamber. He didn't try to hide his face and everyone clearly saw the tears streaking down his cheeks.

"He went to Carvahall to guard the child," Ajihad said slowly. The realisation had struck him the moment he saw Brom's distress. "He failed to protect the Wraith, no doubt due to absence furthering the Varden's cause, and now the poor boy is caught in the midst of the biggest war in history."

"Fate, _Wyrda_, can be cruel," Dáthedr said softly.

"What I would like to know," Hrothgar said slowly, "is the boy's name."

It suddenly hit them. During Brom's tale he had not once referred to the Wraith's given name, and it only took them a second to realise he had done so deliberately. But why?

XXX

Eragon sneezed suddenly and without warning.

"Someone's talking about you," Maria said.

"Probably," Eragon said. He stretched his limbs slowly, enjoying the way they rubbed against Maria's. She giggled.

"Are you sure you're an amateur," she said with a smile. "It felt more like _I_ was the one being tutored in the ways of lovemaking."

Eragon laughed. "That kind of praise is going to go straight to my head, if you aren't careful." He turned on his side and looked her in the face. "I have to leave now," he said softly.

"I understand," she said. She brought up a hand and palmed his cheek. "You carry a great burden, Evan. I don't know what it is but it shows in your eyes. You have known great pain."

Eragon gave a small smile. "You're overestimating who I am. I'm just a simple swordsman whose known his fair share of life's hurts."

Maria didn't reply to that. She simply looked into his eyes, those dark and intense orbs, wondering who he really was.

"What are you doing?" Eragon asked.

"I'm trying to see into your soul," she replied. That remark made him laugh.

"Good luck with that venture. Even I've failed to see into my soul."

"Then maybe you should try harder," she replied.

That made Eragon pause. "Hmm," he said, "maybe I should. But not right now. I have other, more urgent business to attend to." He got out of the bed and slowly started dressing. Maria unashamedly watched him do so, her eyes pouring over his lean and muscular frame. He had few but spectacular scars, like the gash across his chest. It took Eragon a full five minutes to finish, by which time he could feel his Wraith persona hovering, ready to resume its role. It was time to get on with the mission.

"You honoured me greatly," Maria said.

"How so?" Eragon asked, confused.

"You decided to lose your virginity to me. I'm originally from the west, a village just outside Bullridge, and we take such matters very seriously. Thank you."

Eragon smiled. "You're welcome. And thank you for welcoming me to your bed."

A wicked smile suddenly curved Maria's lips. "It was my pleasure, believe me." To his utter embarrassment Eragon blushed, which made Maria laugh.

"This is where we part ways," Eragon said.

"You're not good at farewells, are you?" Maria guessed.

"No," he replied.

"Then leave. All is well between us. No words need be said."

Eragon cocked his head to one side before slowly nodding. Without uttering another word he left the room, only pausing by the door to leave a small pouch.

"Farewell, my Evan," Maria whispered softly. "I have a feeling we will never see each other again." The thought made her inexplicably sad.

XXX

Eragon left Kuasta under cover of darkness, his new steed plodding along sedately beneath him. Despite the hot spring night he kept his cloak on, the hood up. It gave him a suspicious look, but then again anyone who wasn't the City Watch and up at that time was pretty suspicious themselves.

_I wonder how you are doing, Roran_, Eragon thought. It had been a while since Eragon had thought of his cousin. As children they had been inseparable, closer than any brothers could ever be. Eragon sighed. _I'm getting maudlin. It's time to concentrate on the mission._ Eragon took in a deep breath. _Right. Durza is holding Arya in the dungeons under Gil'ead. I need to get in and out fast, without being detected, obviously. The only way I can accomplish this mission is to pretend I'm a soldier. Gil'ead has the biggest barracks in the Empire. The law enforcement presence there is annoyingly large and frequent. If I pose as a soldier for more than a few hours I'll be found out, which also means I'll have to give a full day to reconnaissance before I make any move. From the sound of that conversation between Nótt and Durza the Forsworn are getting antsy. No doubt they have men watching the barracks, ready to snatch the elf if possible, which means I'll have to pick them out and neutralise them. I doubt they have any soldiers in their employ. Durza has no doubt ensured any soldier within throwing distance of the elf is not being influenced in any way._

Eragon sighed. The small time within the mission had to be completed made it extremely difficult to complete. And because of the incident that had happened earlier, when Eragon had tracked down the urgal village Durza had recruited from, Elric and the Prince, the two reliable operatives he had always outsourced to, had been killed. This meant there was no one reliable enough to approach for help. Eragon hadn't had time to mourn them, being busy with the mission, but he missed them. They had both been vitally alive people who laughed a lot, a trait very rare in their line of business. Eragon looked up at the sky. Dawn was just over three and a half hours away. He had roughly one week – for Durza had said he only needed a week more to break into the elf's mind – to get to Gil'ead. To do so he had to cover many leagues going up the coast to Teirm, get a new mount, hire quick passage partway down the Toark river, and from there ride for many leagues to Gil'ead. He had to travel extremely fast, and even if he traded for new mounts at every village he encountered it would be hard to make it to the city within six days – the seventh being left for reconnaissance. His quick passage would also raise a few eyebrows and if he was unlucky the wrong people would notice.

Eragon sighed again. He should have never involved himself with Brom, with Varden, and with their damned Alliance. They were nothing but trouble.


	9. Chapter 9: Rescue

The Wraith stood very still as the patrol walked past him. He let out a breadth. Ever since he had made it into Gil'ead he hadn't slept. The trip there alone had taxed him physically and mentally and he knew he really shouldn't be undertaking any missions while he wasn't in top performing condition. It would lead to silly mistakes which in turn would lead to failure and, taking into account the kind of people he was dealing with, death. But he had no choice. He had to extract the elf woman before the Shade broke into her mind. The fact that about three odd months had gone by without Galbatorix himself taking charge of the elf's interrogation was a godsend. Luck was on the Alliance's side and the Wraith couldn't squander such good fortune by not acting swiftly and decisively. He hadn't had much time for reconnaissance as well, which only added further to his feeling of apprehension. Something was going to go wrong, big time.

_But then again what would I expect when I'm consorting with elves and Riders_, the Wraith thought. _After this, I'm retiring. That's it. I don't think my heart can take this much adrenalin and terror… I'm going to miss it, though. I have grown addicted to this life, and the danger and intrigue that come along with it._

After staying still for a minute more to make sure the coast was clear the Wraith slipped out of the alleyway and made his way toward the non-descript building in the eastern quadrant of Gil'ead. The jail cells in the city were under tight control by the City Watch. Seeing as Gil'ead was more a barracks than a city there was a heavy military presence that needed to be kept in constant check. To that end not only was the City Watch highly trained and organised but within the city limits it was the ultimate authority. Only commissioned officers patronised by the King himself could countermand an order given by the watch's Captain, and there were currently only three. The military was highly disciplined and so if the Wraith acted out of character for even a minute he would be arrested and taken to his commanding officer. Seeing as he was only dressed as a soldier and not an actual one it wouldn't take long before he was found out as an imposter. That couldn't be allowed to happen. Although very few people knew that the elf warrior Arya was being interrogated somewhere within Gil'ead, those who did know would be on the lookout for spies. If he was found out … well, it could be said that dying would be the least of his worries.

"Soldier," the Wraith was greeted as he stepped into the jailhouse.

"Sir," the Wraith greeted back, everything about his demeanour and tone of voice exactly like a normal soldier.

"How can I help you? You look young so you might not know this but all military personnel are confined to their specified quadrants unless otherwise stated. What brought you here?"

_This guy is no fool_, the Wraith thought. The man, a middle-aged and diminutive figure of a person, had thinning hair and shrewd eyes. Although he hadn't seen anything to arouse suspicion, something had roused it nevertheless. The Wraith cursed inwardly. When on the job there was no worse enemy than a bystander with excellent instincts. They were often the first ones to screw a plan up. The Wraith had to end this conversation fast before the Watchman saw through the disguise.

"I was sent by Major Dean. He said that I was to assist in the interrogation of the prisoners brought in by the twenty-first platoon."

The man blinked in surprise. "You're a mindbreaker?" he asked.

"I barely passed the tests," the Wraith said with a small smile, "which is more than most of my comrades were capable of, so here I am." He threw in a helpless shrug just to complete the picture. The Watchman relaxed almost imperceptibly as he nodded.

"You have the eyes of a mindbreaker. Always sets me on edge because they remind me of assassins and those sneaky magicians…" the Watchman said. He furrowed his brows for a second in thought before he nodded again. "Very well. Take the third door on the right and take the staircase all the way to the bottom. It's the fifth door on the right in the initial corridor. The password is 'Miranda'."

"Sir!" the Wraith said as he gave a crisp salute. _Phase one is complete__…__ Am I being paranoid or was something __…__ off about that conversation. I can't place my finger on it but__…__ Hmm, looks like I'll have to just stay sharp._

The Wraith walked away with the fast, measured stride of a disciplined soldier, his posture straight and taut, for all intents and purposes a man on a mission. The irony almost made him smirk. He took the third door on the right which led onto a small landing enclosed on all sides by stone. After five feet there was a spiral staircase that led downwards. He took it and kept descending until he reached the bottom, a trip which took him two full minutes.

_I must be several hundred feet below ground_, the Wraith mused. _I can see why these secret jail cells are called The Pits of the Doomed. Not only are their locations hard to discover but the geography does not allow easy access, and escape is virtually impossible. To think that Galbatorix managed to create three underground fortresses within the city limits of Gil'ead and no one knows… What a cunning and powerful foe the Varden have chosen for itself…_

The Wraith took out a small wooden compass and looked at it; he smiled. He'd feared that the staircase would leave him facing the wrong way and therefore unable to find the entrance to one of the underground fortresses but he was in luck. If the information he had extracted from Edward, the spymaster he had tracked down in Kuasta, was correct then the entrance for the fortress would be straight ahead. All he had to do was get there. Letting out a pent up breath he followed the corridor. There were a lot of doors, all of them nondescript and unmarked. They were no doubt designed like this to confuse people so that not only could uninvited guests have trouble finding their way around but also to discourage curiosity. In the dark and gloomy atmosphere every door seemed like a gate to unknown misery and pain. Staying away seemed like a good use of the self-preservation instinct. The Wraith made his way to the fifth door and was about to push open the door when he paused. It occurred to him that there might be some wards in place to stop unwanted people from entering, especially seeing as the cells were used to imprison the Empire's most undesirable and dangerous enemies. After all, what would he need a password for? The fact that he was already down there should prove that he was on the Empire's side. But then again the Empire wouldn't be so arrogant as to assume that their security procedures were infallible. There might be more to the password than met the eye. For instance it could be used to indicate-

The Wraith scowled. His mental deliberations were getting him nowhere. This was exactly why he detested making a move without the proper reconnaissance. Being unprepared was just asking for failure.

"_Miranda_," the Wraith said out loud, going out on a limb. The door shimmered softly and almost imperceptibly for a second before it swung open on silent hinges. The Wraith breathed a sigh of relief before scowling again. An operative of his skill and reputation shouldn't depend on luck to complete missions. It was unprofessional and unbecoming. The Wraith set aside his emotions and stepped into the room. There was a guard standing inside the room and a chill went down the Wraith's spine as he looked at the man. Any animal has the ability to recognise a predator when it sees one and human beings were no exception. The Wraith, ever in tune with his instincts, recognised danger when it was staring him in the face.

_What's with this aura__…__? And the look in those eyes__…__?_

Those few moments of deliberation were all the Wraith got before the man attacked. And he was _fast!_ The Wraith blinked and the guard had traversed the ten feet between them and was aiming a blade at his neck. The Wraith's instincts kicked in and faster than the eye could blink a blade appeared in his left hand, almost as if by magic and he parried thrust. Even as he was parrying another blade appeared in the Wraith's right hand and he aimed a thrust at the guard's neck. The guard's left hand came up to block but the Wraith detected the intent of the motion a moment before the guard put it into action and prematurely ended the parry with his left hand and used it to aim a thrust at the guard's neck as well. The guard's eyes widened slightly as he realised that he was a fraction of a second from death, but that was the only reaction he showed. His body moved as if independent of conscious thought. The Wraith could only watch in fascination as the guard's body, instead of trying to back away from both attacks, used the momentum of the initial attack and ducked under both of the Wraith's blades, diving off to the right. A controlled roll later and the guard was ten feet away again, facing the Wraith in a crouched and ready position. During the roll he must have pulled out another blade because now the guard was holding two gleaming knives, one in each hand. The Wraith looked at the guard with impassive eyes, relaxed and nonchalant. The guard was likewise impassive but his whole body was tense. It would be easy to read his movements if the guard's muscles were so obvious to the eye. All movement was preceded by certain twitches in certain key points just below the skin as the signals from the brain reached the muscles and if one knew where to look one could predict how someone was about to move with an accuracy of nearly one hundred percent.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Wraith demanded, still choosing to employ his soldier facade?

"This is the endgame, Wraith," the guard said in an emotionless voice. "Fool us once, shame on you; fool us twice, shame on us. This time I will make sure you die."

In the second it took for the guard to cover the distance between the two warriors, ideas, implications and consequences raced at the speed of thought through the Wraith's mind and sent a chill down his spine and back in time to dodge the guard's block. The 'guard', for by then the Wraith had deduced that his attacker was no mere guard, had said enough for the Wraith to know just how much trouble he was in, and how much more his employers, namely the Alliance, was in. First of all the guard had known who he was attacking. He had called the Wraith by name. That meant that the guard had been expecting him. The only people who knew that the Wraith was attempting a rescue mission were at that very moment in the dwarven city of Tronjheim and all of them were trusted members of the Alliance. There was a traitor in the Alliance. That was the only explanation. Someone had alerted the Empire to the Wraith's movements and a trap had been laid. Now not only did the Empire know that the Wraith had not died in Belatona but because of his performance there and his seemingly miraculous escape the Empire would make sure that the Wraith would not only be able to rescue the elf woman Arya but they would make sure that the Wraith wouldn't be able to escape at all. Any idiot could figure out there was a traitor within the Alliance leaking information, which the Wraith was not. The Empire couldn't afford to let the Wraith escape. That meant that they would go all out in capturing the Wraith alive. The Empire would need to capture him alive for several reasons. The first was that the Wraith was a top class operative who no doubt possessed a lot of secrets within his mind. They would want to extract it all. The second reason was that the Wraith had managed to fool the Empire into thinking the Wraith was dead and they therefore needed to ascertain whether or not the Black Hand's Archives had been compromised. Whether or not the traitor had passed on this information was in question for if Galbatorix and the Black Hand changed certain protocols and rendered other information false, the Alliance would begin to suspect something. The Wraith also knew both Galbatorix and the Black Hand to be ruthless and so if the fact that the Black Hand's Archives had been compromised became known to them, the Wraith knew that sacrificing a few people in return for giving the Varden misinformation that could be used against it would be an easy choice for either to make. The last thing the Wraith realised was the seeing as he was the focal point of turning the tide of war against the Alliance the Empire would deploy its most powerful resources into capturing him. There were a lot of frightening options but the Wraith kept the list basic and logical. Gil'ead possessed the largest concentration of military troops and battle mages so the Wraith could expect magic to be employed against him. Spies and assassins skilled in combat would also probably be employed. And seeing as the elf woman was currently in Gil'ead being interrogated, there was a big chance that another weapon the Empire deployed in capturing him would be…

_Durza, the Shade_, the Wraith thought. No matter how much he tried to remain objective and unemotional about the situation he couldn't help but be gripped with a bone-chilling terror. Just the thought of fighting against such overwhelming odds seemed like a futile endeavour that would end not in death but unimaginable pain. He could feel the fight slowly going out of him. Surrendering and begging for mercy would make his punishment easier. He could surrender all he knew and beg for asylum and join the Empire. At least then he would live…

And as the guard slashed at his eyes the Wraith suddenly bared his teeth and summoned all of his will, dispelling all the emotions and thoughts that had previously been about to paralyse him.

_I am no coward! I will carry out my mission or die trying. I will not betray any confidences! A clansman's word is his honour and I refuse to be turned away from the Halls because I became weak toward the end!_

The Wraith dodged the slash, his mind suddenly clear and focused again. He dodged two more slashes, his eyes never leaving those of his attacker. As the Wraith side-stepped the last slash the guard leapt off his back foot and aimed a kick at the Wraith's sternum. The Wraith leaned back until his torso was nearly parallel with the ground. As the foot passed by overhead the Wraith straightened up again, and just as the guard was landing the Wraith aimed a powerful side kick at the guard's sternum, catching him when he was at his most unbalanced. The guard flew back fifteen feet and slammed into the wall with a solid thud. The Wraith didn't follow up but secreted his black blades away, his eyes never leaving the guard.

_I am being watched. I can feel it. But from where? I know it can't be through magical means. The spells that shaman laid upon me all those years ago combined with the enchanted sapphire Brom gave me will make sure I am invisible to magical viewing. There is someone else here._

The Wraith closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. He repeated the procedure two more times until his whole body was relaxed and his mind focused on one task only; listening. He concentrated on his sense of hearing, ignoring the sounds of the guard shaking off his dizziness and slowly getting up; instead he tried to locate sounds of suppressed breathing. Whoever was watching couldn't be in a comfortable position and therefore their breathing would be elevated. Even when not directly involved in the incident a person's fight-or-flight survival instinct would kick in and pump adrenalin into the body whenever violence occurred. It was a basic human condition from hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. As the sound of flying blades reached his ears the Wraith caught it right at the edge of his hearing, the sound of quickened breaths.

_Got you_.

Without opening his eyes the Wraith dodged the five blades the guard had thrown in quick succession. As the fifth passed by beside his head the Wraith took out three of his own blades and threw them at the guard. He ran in just behind the blades, his face still unemotional. The guard blocked the blades but was too slow in defending against the Wraith's attack. The Wraith kneed the guard in the in the diaphragm, emptying the guard's lungs of air. As the guard gasped for breath the Wraith hit him in the throat, making the guard unable to get any air into his lungs. To the guard's credit he didn't claw at his throat but rather tried to fend the Wraith off. His efforts were in vain, however, for the Wraith brushed away the clumsy attack and punched the guard in the chin, lifting him a clear foot into the air. Before the guard even started descending towards the ground the Wraith kicked him across the face, sending him flying into another wall. The Wraith knew the guard would not get up for his neck had been broken. Even as his foot came down the Wraith had already slipped a long needle into each palm, and pivoting on his back foot the Wraith used the extra momentum to throw the needles. As the guard slammed into the wall on the Wraith's right the needles flew cleanly through the two spy-holes, past the eyes and into the brains of the spies that had been watching the fight.

The Wraith stayed completely still, listening to any other sounds of movement. Through his feet he could feel the vibrations of many feet marching. That didn't surprise him. He hadn't for a second thought an assassin and two spies would be all the force the Black Hand, and by extension the Empire, unleashed on him. After making sure he was alone in the antechamber and checking the rest of the cell he opened the door and walked out into the corridor. The one thing in his favour was that no one knew the Wraith had information on exactly where the elf woman was being kept. No one could tie him to either the Urgal village or Edward the spymaster, the only two sources of information the Wraith could have gotten to, with the exception of the Shade, Durza. The Empire would at best expect the Wraith to be aware of the Pits of the Doomed because rumour was rampant in the Empire about them anyway but the fortresses were a whole other thing. Anyone who knew about them was sworn to secrecy in the Ancient Language, the language of magic that forced any and all who spoke it to speak nothing but the truth. Any oaths uttered in that language bound the speaker to follow through with the oath no matter what. The Wraith had bypassed Edward's mental wards and surreptitiously extracted the information from the spymaster's mind. He knew exactly how to get into the fortress.

He turned right and started running down the corridor. Instead of going into the next corridor he entered the door at the end, giving the password 'Light' in the Ancient Language, and closed the door behind. Waiting a few seconds to make sure the antechamber was empty he walked into the cell in the adjoining room. On the right, in the far corner, was a bucket meant for excrement. Even though the cell looked and smelled filthy the bucket was clean, which would have seemed odd to anyone. The Wraith grabbed it and turned it a quarter circle anticlockwise, half a circle clockwise and a quarter circle anticlockwise. The wall on his right shifted silently and an entrance appeared. Without a look back the Wraith stepped through and took the short staircase down to another door. Instead of opening the door the Wraith instead put his ear against the wood and listened carefully. After ten seconds he could hear the vibrations of voices talking casually. He stayed like that for a whole minute before he was sure of the positions of the people the voices belonged to. From the frequency of the vibrations and the echo he deduced that the door opened into a large foyer possibly made of marble. Marble was the only stone capable of producing such a unique echo.

The Wraith took a deep breath. He was facing at least a dozen guards and if all of them were as good martial artists as the guard he had fought in the cell above then his chances of escaping the confrontation was very small. After a full minute's deliberation the Wraith reached into an inner pocket and took out a golden band with an amethyst attached. He looked at it as if expecting the answer to the meaning of life to be hidden somewhere within the gemstone. The ring was the one he had taken from Sren, his former master. Although very few people were aware of the fact, all of the Forsworn gave their Black Hands a ring. The ring contained … something. The Wraith had never been able to fully define how the rings had been enchanted. Maybe the Forsworn gave the ring part of their essence, or perhaps they imbued it with power, but whatever they did it gave the wearer, the chosen Black Hand, a small portion of his or her master's power. The rings allowed those otherwise ungifted the ability to use magic. The rings also enhanced the wearer's mental and physical capabilities to the point where they were superior to just about any normal human being but still far inferior to the Riders. Sren had been Nótt's right hand man, his Black Hand. After the Wraith had found out that he was a pawn in a game Nótt was playing against the other members of the Forsworn, he had stolen the ring, and using its power he subdued Sren and extracted oaths from the man in the Ancient Language that made sure Sren would never try to conquer the Wraith ever again. For some reason the Wraith had never discovered the ring only worked partially for him. It would augment his mental capabilities and enhance his physical capabilities but it would not gift him with the ability to use magic. The Wraith had taken the ring to alchemists, sorcerers, wizards, witches and magicians in an attempt to divine its properties and understand how it worked. The first two people he had taken it to died instantly upon trying to examine it. After that he had managed to guess what kind of protection the rings had against unwanted intrusion and pre-warned the rest. He had only been able to learn one thing; the ring had some kind of trace on it. There was a link between it and its creator. That meant that Nótt could find the ring wherever it was in Alagaësia and by extension could connect with whoever was wearing it. Seeing as Sren was no longer Nótt's Black Hand it was reasonable to assume that Nótt knew that not only was Eragon on the loose but that he was possibly in possession of the ring. Even if Eragon wasn't in possession of the ring any competent man with that much power at his disposal would think to make sure the next time the ring was used he would be alerted. If the Wraith used the ring there was a whole range of possible outcomes, none of them positive.

But he had to take the chance. He was too close to completing his mission. And there was also one other reason he could afford to take the risk. Fortresses like this, secret to almost everyone in Alagaësia and created by Galbatorix himself would no doubt be guarded with numerous magical wards that would protect the fortress from any external influence. Whether or not Galbatorix had authorised his Forsworn to make use of the fortresses however… Well, that was where the risk came in. There was an equal chance that Nótt could locate him as not.

The Wraith put on the ring.

Nothing happened.

He opened the door silently and before the guards registered he was even there he aimed a psychic shout at all twelve people in the room. It was a technique he had learned early on in his career when he was still ten years old. He had learnt it from observing how Fanghur, flying lizards kin to dragons, hunted. They sent out a mental shout that paralysed the mind and incapacitated the body of their prey. The Wraith had practised the technique since he was ten and as a result his psyche had been trained to become very powerful. On his own the Wraith could have incapacitated maybe five or six people. Twelve people would have made the technique useless as he would have been spreading himself too thin. But with the power of the ring the Wraith incapacitated eleven of the guards without a problem. They dropped to the ground without a sound, the artificial terror the Wraith had aimed at them rendering them useless. On the twelfth guard the Wraith only broke past the man's weak mental barriers and take possession of his thoughts. The Wraith had chosen that guard specifically because of how the situation had seemed to him in the moments before he had let loose his attack. That particular guard had seemed somehow superior. You could always tell who was in charge based on body language. It wasn't an exact science but in this instance the Wraith was glad to have been proven right. It took no more than half a minute to peruse over everything the Black Hand – his name was Evan, a fact the Wraith found quite amusing – had seen, heard and done over the past few months. The Wraith needed to go that far back because it was only up until four months previously that he had first been approached by Brom to work against the Empire. Up until the time he revealed himself in Belatona the Wraith knew that only Brom and he knew of the operation and he was glad that the memories in the Black Hand confirmed it. Of course Evan the Black Hand could simply not be aware of some information but thinking like that would get the Wraith nowhere so he continued on. After the Wraith's apparent death in Belatona the Black Hand had gone on the assumption that he was dead and that Will, the magician that had taken the Wraith's place and had been killed in his stead, was a casualty of the Wraith's operation and that Will's body was hidden somewhere. The Wraith found it interesting that the Black Hand had only found out that he was involved in the attempted – aha, so the traitor _hadn't_ said anything about the Wraith successfully stealing the Archives – stealing of the Archives up until nine days previously, the same day that all the members of the Alliance that had been at the meeting the Wraith was magically summoned to had arrived at Farthen Dûr, the dwarven mountain. It was only up until eight days previously that the Black Hand had been made aware of the Wraith's attempt to rescue the elf woman Arya, which would be the exact day the people present at the Alliance's War Council had been made aware of the plan. That was all the proof the Wraith needed. Someone on that War Council was leaking information. The only thing the Wraith could be sure of was that the leak wasn't Brom. The two might not agree on many points but they had fought as enemies and worked as allies. They had looked into each other's hearts. In many ways they were the only people the other could trust because their relationship was that of a respected enemy, and there was no better way to know someone than if you were enemies.

_Is this what Gilderien was hinting at?_ The Wraith wondered. _Is this the reason why he told me to report to him alone? Does he suspect there is a traitor among the Alliance?_

The Wraith incapacitated the twelfth guard. As he went around the twelve unmoving but conscious figures applying nerve pinches that would render them unconscious for a few hours another facet of information floated up to the surface of the Wraith's mind. Evan the Black Hand had been the one to receive the message from Farthen Dûr, from the traitor, and deliver it to the Shade Durza, who had in turn laid the ambush for Brom and the Wraith on the plains. The Wraith hadn't been able to see who the message had come from for even Evan was unaware. What information the Wraith uncovered he filed away for future use. After he had knocked out the last guard he reviewed the information he had extracted from Evan. The plan to capture the Wraith had been simple. Allow the Wraith to enter the Pits of the Doomed and keep him down there. If the first assassin had failed the two hidden ones should have been able to get the job done. After they did they would contact the Shade and he would come down, accompanied by three Black Hands that also happened to be war mages. The walk down the spiral staircase took on average three and a half minutes. The Wraith had managed it in two. By four and a half minutes the Shade would have been expecting communication. When there was none and the Shade couldn't reach the minds of the assassins he would come down to investigate. It would take him and his escorts a maximum of two minutes to rush down and see what had happened. When they discovered the dead bodies they would search all the other cells and corridors before coming down to the fortress. Even if the Wraith was unlucky and they came down to the fortress straight away he would still have time to act.

_It has been five minutes since I entered the door of the jailhouse above. I have a minute and a half to act at the very least before the Shade enters the fortress._

The Wraith didn't need encouragement to start moving. Using the directions from Evan the Black Hand's mind he raced on silent feet to the elf's cell, which was even further underground. Three times he had to pause to avoid patrols but after forty seconds he made it to the cell. Without preamble he entered the cell to find a short magician healing the elf. At least the Wraith assumed it was healing. Certainly enough the flesh was knitting back together, slowly but surely. The Wraith did not interrupt. A healthy elf was better than one who wasn't when it came to escaping. When it looked like the magician was done the Wraith ruthlessly broke into his mind. With Nótt's ring it was surprisingly easy. Ignoring the magician's struggle to regain the use of his body the Wraith extracted all he needed from the magician, including all information about the elf and her interrogation. After he was done he took control of the magician's voice box and forced the magician to say an oath in the Ancient Language.

"I … will help … you … in any … way I can!" The last was said in such a thick accent as the words were practically forced past the magician's lips. As soon the oath was finished the magician's mind stopped fighting for if it did it would hinder the Wraith, which ultimately would not help him escape.

"Is there a way out of this fortress I could take that wouldn't get me caught?" the Wraith asked as he went over the elf. He resisted the temptation to raise his eyebrows in surprise as he saw that her face had been mutilated. Facial wounds bled the most and hurt very bad. And that was just the beginning of the torture. All over her body there were plenty of marks that hadn't been healed as yet. The Wraith could only guess that either the magician had been ordered not to heal them or he had concentrated on the more life threatening ones. And the Wraith knew why the Shade would want to heal the wounds; repetitive torture and healing not only wore away at the body but it also gradually ate away at the spirit. Most people could only last a day of constant torture in that fashion before they broke. And the elf had been at the hands of the sadistic Shade for a little over three months.

_She is strong, I'll give her that_, the Wraith thought.

"There are numerous entrances and exits," the magician said with a clear voice and tensed body. It was obvious he was trying to fight but having given his oath he could do nothing but obey. "Master Durza has placed numerous forces around them all, however. You are trapped."

"You promised to help me," the Wraith said impassively. "Think of a way for me and the elf to escape unharmed and undetected from this fortress."

"… Very well…" the magician said through gritted teeth.

"You might want to hurry up," the Wraith said unhurriedly. "I have two minutes at most before the Shade turns up outside that door."

"The ventilation system!" the magician said. It was clear that the answer had been ripped from his lips from the grimace on his face.

"This is a very large building," the Wraith said as he saw what the magician meant. "And it is always occupied by large numbers of people. Seeing as it is deep underground it must have a big ventilation system to make sure the air stays fresh."

"Yes," the magician said. "There is one shaft we can take that will bring you out by the shore of Lake Isenstar."

"Lead the way," the Wraith said. He picked up the elf and threw her over one shoulder. The magician had already exited the room was making sure the coast was clear. The Wraith used a lock pick to lock the door behind them and in seconds they were off down one corridor. The trip was a long but silent one. The Wraith could only guess that the troops had been marshalled and were even then scouting for him. As he ran something he could only describe as mounting excitement filled the very fibre of his being. It was like being energised, like having a refreshing cup of green tea after a long day. The Wraith didn't question the feeling but merely embraced it as it gave him even more energy to fuel his escape. He was running as if he wasn't carrying an adult woman on his shoulders that weighed nearly as much as he did. After five minutes they reached the entrance to the shaft. The shaft was more like a tunnel twenty feet in diameter. It was an easy task traversing it but again the main problem was that it took time. It took the Wraith and the magician just over ten minutes and by then the Wraith's keen sense of hearing could pick up sounds of pursuit behind them. The magician, who was much shorter than the Wraith, was sweating profusely from having to keep up with the much taller and more physically fit mercenary.

The Wraith hushed the magician before taking a peek outside the mouth of the tunnel. His heart almost skipped a beat but he kept calm and didn't react. Standing not thirty feet away and facing the other way was none other than the Shade, Durza. He was facing skyward, his hands clasped behind his back. The Wraith looked skyward too and his heart _did_ skip a beat as he saw a large black creature briefly in-between clouds.

_Shruikan! That must mean Galbatorix decided to come and resolve the matter himself. Forget the Shade, if the King even sees me I am done for!_

The Wraith reached forward with his mind and touched the magician's. _You gave an oath to help me._

_Yes,_ the magician replied with growing terror. It battered against the Wraith's mind but he brushed it aside.

_You need to distract the Shade long enough for me to reach the waters of the shore. It will help me and the elf escape._

_Please, don't do this! I don't want to die!_

_Help me!_ The Wraith screamed into the magician's mind.

The magician quailed but moved to faithfully obey. The Wraith watched from inside the magician's mind as the Shade turned around.

"I thought you were attending to the elf, Thomas." The Shade's voice was silky smooth, soft and calm.

"I finished working on her, my lord," Thomas the magician said. "I came to tell you that the Wraith has just been captured by the guards you set at the main entrance."

The Shade smiled. "Good. Another gift for our King to play with."

The Wraith wondered how long it would take the Shade to ask how Thomas had known where to find him.

_Instantly, apparently_, the Wraith thought a second a later as the Shade suddenly tensed. _Bind him!_ The Wraith shouted inside Thomas' mind a fraction of a second before Thomas screamed, "_Malthinae!"_

The Shade was rendered immobile and even before the Shade started uttering a counter spell the Wraith was racing for the shore. He'd taken off Nótt's ring, sure that the fortress' wards had been protecting him from being discovered. Even as the Wraith felt Thomas die and the Shade begin to turn, he reached the waters. The gemstone Brom had given him flared to life as the Wraith maintained a clear path and destination in his head as he uttered a word in the Ancient Language.

The Water rose up and swallowed the Wraith and the elf woman Arya.

The last thing the Wraith heard before he was transported was the enraged shout of the Shade being drowned out by the bone shaking roar of a dragon.


	10. Chapter 10: Escape from Gil'ead

_**I'm back...**_

Eragon materialised in the Ninor River, just outside the village Yazuac. He burst out of the water, maybe due to the impetus of the spell that had transported him down the river, but he was still a professional and had the presence of mind not to take in a huge gasp of air and not only risk choking on water but announcing his presence as well. He waited until he was calmly treading water before he risked drawing much needed air. He made sure the elf woman was breathing well before he started for the bank. Of all the places he could have materialised it had to be in the middle of the bloody Ninor during winter time. He had to be thankful he materialised on the south east of Yazuac, though, because this far out the water was still liquid. A few more miles ahead and by now the surface water would be frozen and both Eragon and the elf might have died from drowning, or if they somehow managed to escape, from their bodies' core temperature dropping too low. Still at that moment in time Eragon found it hard to be grateful for such a small mercy. He was freezing! When he got to shore he ran a quick check over the elf and decided that she was in as good health as could be expected under the circumstances. He surveyed the surroundings and found he was on a flat plane. The faint tree-line he could make out in the distance let him know he was standing on what was basically the beginning of the great plains of Alagaësia. He let out a long sigh before he picked up the elf and slung her over his shoulder. He gauged the distance to the Yazuac watchtowers before he set a path that would follow the river awhile but ultimately put him just beyond the range of visibility. Without preamble he set off at a brisk jog.

It took him several hours of valuable sunlight before he reached the tree-line he had spotted earlier. He jogged for a further ten minutes until he spotted an ideal spot to rest. Laying the elf down at the roots of a large tree he let out an explosive breath before he sat down beside the elf. He had contemplated going into Yazuac to get a couple of horses but he decided it was probably best if he got the elf to his safe house without leaving a trail his enemies could follow. He didn't understand the spell Brom had weaved that had transported them away and didn't know if there was a way he could be tracked but if he continued on foot without interacting with any other people the chances that he could be found would be extremely slim. He was a master woodsman and once he got into the safety of the Spine very few people would be able to find his trail, let alone follow it.

_But then again I have a Shade on my trail and it won't be long before the Ra'zac are called to join in the hunt. This elf is a very valuable commodity at the moment._

Eragon got up after five minutes. The journey between Yazuac and his safe house was about four days of hard running, but if he soldiered on without any rest he could be there in three. On horseback he could be there in a day, a day and a half at most. He'd had to learn endurance the hard way but even this exercise would push him to the brink of his limits. Setting his mouth in a grim line he once again started jogging. By the time the sun had completely set he was at the edge of the Spine. His clothes were covered in his sweat and it was all he could do just to make it into the covering foliage of the trees. He set the elf down unceremoniously before plopping down next to her. He was breathing hard and his entire body felt like it was about to shut down.

_Maybe __I __overestimated __myself_, he thought ruefully. _Sometimes __I __forget __that __at __the __end __of __the __day __I__'__m __just __another __human __being._

So lost was he in thought that he almost failed to notice how eerily quiet the surrounding forest had gone until it was nearly too late. It was only his hard earned survival instincts that warned him that something was amiss. One second there was the background noise of any forest inhabited by life and in the next there was an utter silence that even the wind seemed unwilling to break. Eragon did not so much a twitch a muscle. He simply sat there, his eyes closed, breathing as normally as before and tried to use his other senses to find out what kind of predator had scared the usually hardy animals that could be found in the Spine. After a full minute he opened his eyes and slowly stood up. For the first time he regretted having left his sword in Gil'ead but he couldn't have gone around carrying it and maintained his cover. The Spine was still one of the most mysterious places in all of Alagaësia, even after millennia of quests into its mysterious depths. After Galbatorix had lost half of his army decades previously anyone with common sense had stayed well away. Most of the Spine's ecology was still relatively unknown. That meant that Eragon literally had no idea what kind of creature could be causing such a deafening silence. All he knew was that he would have felt better facing it with his sword in hand. That blade had gotten him through some tricky situations before.

And that was when the predator chose to show itself. Eragon blinked a few times in confusion, his mind trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"You're joking," Eragon heard himself say out loud. "You can't be real."

The predator was about the size of a newborn foal, if that. It had pitch black fur, long limbs, a long tail, gleaming claws and daunting large, pale white eyes that made the pupils all but indiscernible. It stopped its silent padding – and in that instant Eragon realised had it chosen to sneak up on him he would not have stood a chance in hell – sat down on its haunches and quirked it's head to one side. The gesture was odd and seemed almost human in the way it projected an atmosphere of curiosity. Eragon, very, _very_, carefully, did absolutely nothing. He knew that in that moment his life was like a candle in the breeze; it was in danger of being snuffed out. After what seemed like hours the creature's head suddenly snapped back upright, it got back onto feet and started padding closer. Still Eragon did nothing. He did not even attempt to surreptitiously arm himself with one of the numerous blades secreted about his person. The only thing he concentrated on was keeping the beat of his heart steady, his gaze calm and unyielding, and most of all he tried not to look in the least bit edible. For the creature was a Vanar, a creature so steeped in myth some had come to think it did not exist and had been merely a unusually large wildcat – maybe a even a merecat – that had been spotted in the Spine and therefore the tale had been exaggerated to merit the mysterious nature of the Spine.

But no, it wasn't myth, as Eragon could see with his own eyes. While there were numerous and varying descriptions of vanar, he chose to go with the one in the Chronicles of the Heretic, a series of scrolls written by Tōsk , a warrior monk from one of the seven villages of Palancar Valley who had been banished in disgrace after being found guilty of unspeakable crimes. In one of the scrolls Tōsk had spoken of certain black magic rituals that could be conducted using magical creatures – werecats and spirits being prevalent – and the vanar had been mentioned right at the end, mostly as an afterthought. Tōsk had been in the process of hunting it down and had not had a chance to study one. By and large, every description of a vanar attributed magical powers to it, particularly its pale white eyes that seemed not to possess any pupils. Whether there was any truth to this, Eragon didn't know, but from what he had read about these creatures he knew they didn't need magical powers to be dangerous. Vanar were natural hunters, predators on par with dragons, some even claimed, and could bring down almost any prey they hunted. They possessed frightening speed and strength, especially for creatures their size, and were cunning beyond what a normal animal should be. Unlike most other animals, their culture resembled human culture – and some theorised that it had to do with the fact that it was humans who brought them to Alagaësia – in that their packs, their communities, were made of separate blood related families. Vanar rarely formed large groups though and preferred a solitary existence, travelling the world. They were renowned for their avid curiosity. There were still sagas sang by the bards about men and women who had conquered the will of a vanar and kept them as companions.

Eragon blinked languidly, his body free of tension and his breathing calm. His mind, however, was a-swirl with thought. What was he to do? How could he extricate himself from the situation without getting killed? How could he extract the elf for that matter? She was of paramount importance. So long as she got away safely, it would all be alright. The question was then of how to draw attention away from himself and lead the vanar away? Before his mind could throw out any ideas the vanar suddenly changed course and headed for the elf woman, Arya. Eragon cursed inwardly but did not otherwise react. He could not afford to spook the creature and have it kill the elf out of reflex. He stayed still, for all appearances a man enjoying the brisk late afternoon air. The vanar sniffed the elf once, sneezed, and then continued to sniff her for another few seconds. It licked her nose experimentally before shaking its head and turning to Eragon. Eragon watched it from the corner of his eye but did not turn to face it. It was only when it was a foot away that he turned, ever so slowly, to face it. It stopped dead in its tracks for a second before continuing until their noses were mere millimetres apart. Eragon stopped blinking then and held the creature's gaze. The vanar had a particularly strong smell, not unpleasant, just strong. Before Eragon could marshal his self control he sneezed. Even as his eyes were reflexively closing he detected a blur that in the following fraction of a second he realised was the vanar's claws as he felt them wrap around his neck. He kept still as he opened his eyes to see the vanar regarding him with unnerving intensity. Eragon hadn't had a chance to fully inspect the creature's talons closely but from the feel of them they were extremely sharp. The vanar's grip only seemed loose because if it added any more pressure it would pierce the skin.

For a very long time vanar and human gazed at each other, neither blinking, and just when Eragon thought he was going to blink the vanar abruptly blinked and let him go. It took a few paces back and sat on its haunches. Eragon blinked in surprise as he realised it wasn't double jointed like cats and other animals were but only possessed one set of knees, making its structure more simian in nature. It sat down with his legs folded in front of him. Eragon slowly mimicked the vanar and laid his palms on his knees.

"Hello, fellow hunter," Eragon said in the ancient language. The vanar sneezed as if it had smelt some pepper and shook its head slightly. Eragon paused before continuing. "Are these your lands?"

The vanar sneezed again, this time more violently and shook its head a bit more aggressively. Eragon paused and frowned. Could it..? He had never heard or read of any creature that was allergic – or at the very least had an aversion – to the ancient language before. As he looked at the creature he suddenly got inspired. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"_Modo_," he said. Hello. It was Illini, the language of the first human settlers on Alagaësia, and the language now used only by the sōhei of Palancar Valley and a handful of other scholars.

The vanar blinked once and then its whole body suddenly tensed. "_Jikei, __rerako __jushingo __no __kuri?_" Brother, are these your lands? The vanar paused, its whole body still, before it let out a sound that could only be described as a purr. Eragon was shocked at how deep its voice was. No creature that small should have a voice that deep. The vanar's body started undulating slowly, softly, and almost seductively, its shoulder's shifting from side to side until its whole body was lying flat on the ground, its head resting on its paws. Eragon let out a slow breath. Now what in the hell was all that about? Just as he was about to start speaking again the vanar suddenly tensed and looked right, its ears perked and tail curled upwards. Eragon palmed a dagger unconsciously, his instincts kicking in. Animals only reacted like that when they had sensed a predator nearby. But by all accounts the vanar was one of the most dangerous predators in Alagaësia. What would raise its hackles so? Without warning the vanar bolted. Eragon could not believe how fast it moved. The trees were still sparsely spaced this close to the edge of the tree line, and there was still some light to see the vanar clearly by, so Eragon had a clear view as the vanar covered a hundred feet within seconds before it disappeared. Eragon didn't dwell on it though as he hurriedly picked up the elf and without preamble started making his way deeper into the Spine. He was one of the few people who weren't afraid of the Spine, although he did have a healthy respect for the creatures that dwelt within it. Even in the days of the Riders very few people ventured too deep into it for fear of getting lost, or worse. The Spine was the one place left in Alagaësia where the line between reality and myth blurred. It held many a secret still. Eragon's body was aching beyond measure. He did not have the energy left to keep running. It was as simple as that. He had not slept properly for nearly a week, had been in numerous fights, exhausted himself mentally though telepathic manipulations and to top it all off he had been running carrying an elf that weight nearly as much as he did. Eragon stopped and leaned against a tree, his chest heaving and his brow dotted with sweat. Nótt's ring was not an option. He was not far enough into the Spine to be safe from Nótt being able to invade his mind via the ring. This wasn't to mention whatever magic the ring had been endowed with.

With slight trepidation Eragon reached into the hidden pocket in his shirt, next to his heart. He removed a small crystal vial filled with a thick, viscous green liquid that seemed to glow. He gazed at it impassively. If he drank the elixir he could die. The elixir, for a short period of time, would grant the drinker an enormous amount of energy. The drinker would not only have an increase in speed and strength but would not feel the pain of his exertions. The human body was not designed to handle such high outputs of energy, though. Of the few who knew how to make the elixir, only a handful had used the elixir and not died. None of them had consumed three times the recommended dosage. But Eragon was at the end of his tether. He needed keep moving. With a sigh of regret he un-stoppered the vial and drank all of its contents. He carefully replaced the lid and then put the vial back into its pocket. It took a few seconds but all of a sudden Eragon felt warmth spreading from his navel, through his trunk and into his arms and legs and all the way to his outer extremities. The last place the warmth reached was his head, and when it did he felt a sudden light-headedness as if he had spent an hour smoking _jaga_ moss. He took three deep breaths, focusing on the mission at hand, for if one wasn't focused the moss could take away your reason and leave you daydreaming for up to days at a time. After a final, forceful exhalation, Eragon readjusted the elf's position across his shoulders and started running. And it felt good. The exhilarating feeling had no equal. His limbs felt as light as a feather and before he knew it he had made it into the Spine proper. The transition was as sudden as it was shocking. Young, sparse trees gave way to ancient boughs that looked to be thousands of years old, and indeed they were. The Spine's forests were the oldest in Alagaësia. Eragon paused for a moment, took a look at the distant sky, in which the stars had slowly started popping up one by one. He orientated himself before he started running again, this time making his way through a mostly dark underbrush where visibility was poor due to the branches overhead that filtered most of the light. Twice he nearly tripped but managed to keep his balance.

When he had been running for an hour he finally deigned to stop. He put the elf down behind the concealing roots of a giant oak before he retraced his steps, keeping hidden at all times. He backtracked for ten minutes and laid in wait for another ten. When he sensed nothing he quickly and quietly made his way back to where the elf was. He gave her a quick check up to make sure she was okay. Her heart rate had slowed down by one beat per minute but otherwise she seemed fine. Eragon picked her up and laid her across his shoulders gently, making sure she was in as comfortable a position as possible. As he turned round however a fist hit him squarely in the chest, sending him flying. He had just enough strength left to manoeuvre the elf so that when he landed she would be on top of him. Eragon could not breathe. His chest felt like there was a horse sat on it. Gingerly he shifted the elf to the side and slowly got to his feet, all the while massaging his chest. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and it took him a whole minute before he could breathe and see again. What he saw took his breath away again.

"You," Eragon wheezed.

"Indeed," Durza said silkily. "You have caused me much trouble, Wraith."

Eragon did not waste time on repartee. He attacked the Shade's mind with everything he had. He had never felt a Shade's mind before, and neither had he learnt of an account of one either. It was a strange thing, full of a multitude of whispering voices, all of them separate and yet together. This was all a side observation made by a small part of his mind though, as Eragon did not hesitate and used every tricked he possessed to overcome the Shade. Their minds were on similar in terms of raw strength, of that Eragon was certain. That meant the winner would be decided by the finesse and speed of his mental techniques. Eragon had been learning since he was ten years old. He had learnt some of the best techniques there were. The Shade, however, had been around for much longer than Eragon. If the feel of his mind was anything to go by then Durza had been alive for over a century. Even a paltry talent could grow to be dangerous in the span of a hundred years. But Eragon had also mastered a skill he had seen very few people able to accomplish; engaging in a mental battle whilst engaging in a physical battle as well. As soon as he had Durza's undivided mental attention Eragon launched himself full tilt at the Shade. From beneath the soldier uniform he was wearing he withdrew two poniards that had been strapped to his back. The Shade realised just a second in time and parried a knife thrust with his own sword. Even in his state Durza was capable of a quick draw and if Eragon had not been ready his knife would have been knocked out of his hand. As it was he used the momentum of the parry to increase the speed of his other knife, which was aimed straight at the Shade's heart. This second poniard had been hidden behind Eragon's back and he only brought it to the fore at the last second. Durza's eyes widened and he started pivoting on his front foot, fear clearly etched into his eyes. Eragon's clenched teeth became a snarl of frustration as his blade missed the Shade's heart and only succeeded in scoring a large gash underneath the Shade's left armpit. Eragon noticed that the Shade did not bleed, although the flesh was red enough. Durza hissed in pain and his right arm descended, sword whistling through the air. Eragon increased the fluidity of his mental attack, taking the stray thoughts of the whispers in the Shade's mind and tying them together. Durza staggered and his arm slackened momentarily as he fought to overcome his momentary lack of coordination. That was all the time Eragon needed to get out of the way, pivot on his left foot, reverse his grip on his right knife and stab upwards. This time there was a grunt from Durza and Eragon knew he had succeeded in puncturing the Shade's right lung. He took too long to implement his next move, though and the next thing he knew he was flying through the air again. This time he knew something broke, although he couldn't tell what it was.

"Very … good … Wraith," Durza panted, pain evident in his voice. He muttered some words Eragon couldn't catch and there was a short pause before he resumed speaking. "Usually humans are so weak that I felt I could take it easy with you. Apparently this does not apply to you. My master wants you alive but I think I will toy with you instead."

Durza smiled then, his sharp teeth gleaming in the dark forest. Eragon couldn't help but lose hope.

_So __this __is __how __it __ends,_ he thought. _Eleven __years __of __struggle __and __this __is __where __I __die. __It __wasn__'__t __a __long __life __but __… __it __was __very __productive. __I __have __done __what __I __can. __The __rest __is __up __to __you, __Brom__…_

"Oh no, don't tell me you're giving up already," Durza purred. "We have still to begin the true fun."

Eragon eyed the Shade flatly. Their minds had disconnected when the Shade had sent him flying, and now due to his injuries he could no longer afford to risk opening his mind or else the Shade would take it over. There was only one thing he could do, and that to take his own life. The secrets within his mind would expose many of the Varden's secrets, secrets the Varden would never survive getting revealed. He was glad to see the prospect did not fill him with fear. He would hate to go to the Halls reeking of fear. Eragon carefully loosed all expression and emotion from his face. He only had one shot at it. One knife aimed at the elf five feet away from him, straight through the ear and into the brain. He would stab himself in the ear too. It was the best way to make sure the Shade did not heal them. That way no information would get compromised.

"Why are you doing this?" Eragon asked, stalling for time. He needed the Shade to think he was still willing to fight. "You are human, albeit one inhabited by spirits. Surely you cannot support Galbatorix's tyranny."

"In that, I have no choice, Wraith," Durza said with a scowl. "The master has now become the servant. Galbatorix is too powerful for me; he has bonded me to his service." Durza's eyes gained a gleam. "Still, I have access to all the resources I desire to carry on my experiments into magic. I might not be free but I am content."

Eragon was now in position. "I expected better from you," Eragon said with all the haughtiness he could muster. He intended to die with maximum effect. Durza's face gained an angry sneer.

"What would you know-" Eragon had been getting ready to use his poniards but something caught his attention. His mouth hung open in shock as he watched the vanar launch itself from a tree branch, silent as shadow, and attack the Shade. Durza turned around a second too late and got a face full of razor sharp talons and teeth. He howled in pain, staggered around trying to pull the vanar off him before he fell on to one knee. Eragon did not waste any time. He lined up his shot. He only had seconds at best. He took a calming breath before throwing his knife. It flew end over end and just as it was about to puncture through the back and into Durza's heart, Durza leaned back as he finally managed to pull the vanar off him. His howl of triumph turned into a howl of fury as the poniard pierced the top of his head and came out just under his chin. Eragon did not have the energy to curse. So close and yet so far. Durza's howl was cut short as he Dissipated into a cloud of black shadow that rose into the night sky and disappeared from view.

"Well, that was clo-"

Eragon fell to the ground as pain so great wracked his body that he couldn't even breathe. The elixir of energy. It was finally taking its toll. His vision went white and he distantly heard his body hit the soft forest floor.

His final thought before darkness took him was, _so __close __and __yet __so __far__…_


End file.
