Prologue (Voiceover by Brom)

The problem, of course, was that the king was insane. He hadn't always been insane; as a boy he'd been quite popular. Handsome to look at and lauded as being one of the most progressive and open-minded riders of his generation. But no land birthed something as magical and wonderful as dragons without some dark force cropping up to balance the scales, and in Alagaesia, it was the demons. While the dragons inspired the courageous with their grandeur and might, the demons were insidious, preying on the weak and planting seeds of jealousy and dissent.

To some, the demons promised power -- magic, like the dragon riders, without having to go through that pesky process of having to get a dragon to actually want them, first. These became the shades, wielders of the dark magics. Through the shades, the demons attracted many others. The youngest son who would inherit nothing, the farmer whose fields had been torched by an over-exuberant dragon in training, the child who had never been anything except an outcast: all these and more heard the promises of strength, of respect, and of revenge upon the people who were so busy scanning the sky for dragons that they missed what was in front of their own eyes.

For centuries, it continued, cycle after cycle, an endless stream of dragons and riders facing an equally endless stream of demon-powered shades and the terrifying man-beast Urgals, who never suspected that in return for gaining superhuman strength and speed, they would be sacrificing that which made them human in the first place.

Until, that is, Galbatorix came of age. Quickly chosen by a dragon, he breezed through training and rose to the top of his class. The bond between rider and dragon was of a strength rarely seen. Great things were predicted. Celebrations were held in his honor. And then Galbatorix fell in love. "This fighting thing is for the birds," he said. "What I want to do is get married and have babies."

"But the Urgals!" everyone told him. "The shades!"

"Has anyone ever tried talking to these shades?" Galbatorix said. No one had. "Well, then, let's give it a try." He was in love, and wanted the whole world to be in love too.

It was a novel concept, and its failure tilted the balance of power in the land towards darkness. Galbatorix returned from his attempt a changed man, with the shade Durza at his side. In less than a year, the dragonriders splintered, and Galbatorix crowned himself king of a country in chaos. People fled in droves, and word spread about the crazy king who was allied with shades and killing dragons. Opponents gathered; he slaughtered them, until none stood to oppose him. Even then he continued on, draining the land to support an ever-growing army and selecting new targets with a single-minded intensity that could frighten even Durza.

Carvahall, Present Day (The Village Where Eragon Lives)

The soldiers in Carvahall were lax, and they knew it. The town was on the outskirts of what Galbatorix considered his, and so small that the fighting had passed it by entirely. Most of the townspeople had never even seen a dragon; all they knew of Galbatorix was that he kept raising the tithe, and had banned hunting in the Spine. The townspeople were simple folk, and it had been a bad year for farming.

So the soldiers ignored the curfew, and most of the poaching. After all, they had to eat too. Most times they even ignored the talk. It was just talk. And it was hard not to think sometimes, when the parents lamented the fate of their conscripted children, of the towns they themselves had come from, and wonder if their parents ever thought of them.

Brom, though -- he was trouble. The soldiers knew, even if the townspeople didn't, that the man was a dragonless rider. He was a problem. He made their town different, and different attracted attention. Attention meant Durza, and no one wanted that.

So they watched him. They threatened him. They treated him with contempt, tinged with fear. And then, of course, none of them were looking when the trouble arrived, from a completely different direction.

River Town of Daret (The River Town)

They weren't subtle, that was for sure. No, it wasn't easy to hide a dragon, but these two weren't even trying. He'd figured out where they were headed days ago. Murtagh rolled his eyes. Not like there was anything else in this direction, and Daret was well known as a place where you could buy anything. Information wasn't cheap, but then, what was?

He'd been waiting for their arrival, but the sizzle of shock when he realized he actually recognized one of the figures in the mist had taken him by surprise. Brom looked older, perhaps, but still very much as he remembered. It seemed their paths were destined to cross more than once, then. It was hard to know how to feel about that. On the one hand, he wanted to give the man a prize -- Morzan was a traitor; he deserved to die, and Murtagh certainly hadn't mourned his passing. And yet, he had never forgotten the manic look on Brom's face as he killed a man he had once called friend, and it made him wary.

The rider, the one who must be the rider, was blessedly unfamiliar. Stuck out like a sore thumb in Daret, though, and spooked like a little rabbit as soon as he made eye contact. Murtagh resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. At least it had gotten him out of sight, and Angela was decent enough. What was Brom thinking, sending the boy off on his own like that? If they hadn't been sold out to the king's men yet, they would be any second -- there was a reason places like Daret were allowed to continue. Its people were loyal to no one, and answered to whoever offered the best incentive.

The walkways suddenly became suspiciously empty, and Murtagh sighed. It would be Urgals, then. He hated Urgals. The Razacs, at least, you didn't have to feel bad about killing.

Once the fight began, there was only so much he could do without gaining too much attention, and he debated a more obvious show of support. It was risky; far too many people on both sides might recognize him, even with the cloak. It became a moot point anyway after the rider's blatant display of magic. No one was going to be counting arrows or thinking about trajectories when they had that to talk about. After that, he could even afford a few extra hours to find out what Angela had managed to pick up about the newest dragonrider.

Outside Gil'ead (Where Arya Is Being Held Prisoner)

Sapphira knew Brom was right. It was madness to attempt a rescue with so little information and so few resources. But she could feel Eragon's urgency, his unshakeable conviction that he recognized this woman, and she was important. And it was true what he said -- for a dragon and rider to truly work as one, each had to be as confident in their own skills as they were in the skills of their partner. She knew that like she knew her own name, like she knew a dragon would not survive her rider's death -- like Eragon knew he had to try to save Arya, she realized. It wasn't a choice, so much as a fact. She shifted closer to him, and laid her head on his lap. Her breath rustled the the grass as Eragon placed a gentle hand on her nose. It would be a long wait for nightfall.

Inside Gil'ead (Where Arya Is Still Being Held Prisoner)

This was getting ridiculous. He'd almost walked right into Brom, sneaking in the back way. How had the man gotten there so quickly? Murtagh forced himself to walk slowly as he entered the fortress through the other back way. After all, this was the easy part -- getting into the trap always was. Eragon had probably just walked right in through the front door.

Even with fires burning at every corner, Gil'ead was cold. Murtagh shivered in his heavy cloak and clenched his fists against the chill. Despair hung in the air like smoke, and every dark hallway held an echo of tears. He had spent far too long in places like this. Even now, he couldn't block out the whispers. Back again, they hissed. Back where you belong.

He could hear the words creeping through his mind, and he glared at the wall in front of him as if he could silence the voices through sheer determination. He doesn't even know you're here; he doesn't need you, the whispers said. The worst part was that he knew Durza wasn't even making an effort; this was merely the residual darkness that collected wherever the shade lingered, seeking out weakness like water running down a hill. And you have plenty of weaknesses, don't you? You'll never be like him, you know, never have what he has. You could, though. All you'd have to do is take it from him. Just take it. Take it!

The whispers grew to a snarling crescendo and Murtagh's head snapped up, battle-ready without conscious thought. There was an arrow on his bowstring and he drew on the first target he saw, barely recognizing that the fight had started without him.

And suddenly he was staring into a pair of startled blue eyes. Eragon stood motionless, looking oddly fearless for someone with an arrow pointed at his chest. Murtagh wrenched his gaze away and released the arrow into an approaching guard. When he looked back, Eragon was still watching him. The room was filling up with guards, and even a dragon couldn't hold them back indefinitely. "I suggest you leave quickly," he called down, throwing back his hood. The buffeting winds of the dragon's wingbeats covered his own escape, and he silently wished them luck as he made his way back into the night.

Traveling to the Varden (After Brom's Death and Murtagh's Arrival)

The problem with sharing headspace with a dragon, Eragon thought, was that he could only "listen" in one direction at a time. He could either pay attention to what was happening outside his head, or he could listen to Sapphira. Even when she wasn't "talking," he could feel her presence -- a sort of continous current of sensation and emotion swirling in the background of his thoughts. All night it had been comfort-worry-courage-love-sad-sleep-warm-watch-sky-stars-hope-fear. It was amazing, and he already couldn't imagine ever being without it.

But it also tended to be distracting, often at the worst possible moment. For instance, when someone was introducing themselves. Especially when that someone wasn't particularly chatty. After his initial rush to convince them to take him along back in the forest, their new companion traveled mostly in silence. And Sapphira was proving stubbornly persistent in her refusal to help out.

*Sapphira, I can't just ask him -- it would be rude! He already told us his name, and I know you were listening. Why won't you tell me?*

*Why do you need to know his name? He doesn't use yours.*

Huh. That was true, actually. He always called Eragon "Dragonrider," in a tone that made it sound like a title. It was disconcerting, really, after Brom -- who had never managed to call him anything without a hint of disbelief in his voice, like he couldn’t quite fathom how the first dragon in a generation had wound up choosing Eragon.

Bright amusement came from Sapphira. *I chose well, Eragon. Brom knew this.* Something like a sigh floated through his mind. *As does this one, I suspect. The name Dragonrider is yours by right; he shows knowledge of the old ways by using it.*

Eragon could feel her respect, grudging though it was, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Who was this person?

At the Waterfall

Murtagh hadn't actually planned to end up face to face with the Varden again. In his plan, he tagged along from a distance, making sure Eragon got himself and his dragon to safety -- the Varden could take over from there, and he could fade back into the forest.

When said dragon had scooped him up and dropped him practically at her rider's feet, however, it was clear that the plan was going to change. Murtagh guessed that with Brom gone, and Arya out of commission, she wanted protection a little closer at hand. She would do whatever it took to keep her rider safe, and Murtagh could respect that, even if it had the side effect of making him a lot less safe.

It had been a mad dash to the sanctuary of the mountains, and Murtagh had let himself forget about what was waiting at the end of the journey. "Tell me your vision looked something like this," he yelled over the noise of the waterfall. If not, they were dead; the only entrance he knew was clear on the other side of the mountain, and there was no way they'd make it in time.

"Come on!" Eragon shouted, leaping into the water seemingly without a second thought. Murtagh looked back. No way out -- it was through the waterfall or face a painful and terrifying death by Urgal. Of course, he might be facing a painful and terrifying death by Varden on the other side of the waterfall, but at least it was still a question mark. Besides, Eragon had managed to come out on top in every improbable situation he'd found himself in so far -- maybe some of that luck would rub off.

Meeting the Varden

Or not. You'd think that people about to be fighting for their lives against vast numbers of powerful enemies wouldn't be so quick to lock up a potential ally, but that was the Varden for you. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. He thought it as hard as he could at the dragon -- he had been both surprised and touched when she and Eragon had leapt to his defense, but it was important that they stayed on the Varden's good side. They were a touchy people, and unshakeable in their adherence to their particular code of honor. Right now "being a Dragonrider" was trumping "leading the enemy to our doorstep;" he really didn't want "defending the traitor's son" to be the thing that tipped the scales against them.

As he was led away, Murtagh kept up his mental litany. If he said it enough, maybe he'd start to believe it.

The Night Before the Battle of Farthen Dur (The City Where the Varden Lived)

Eragon was starting to think that Brom had gotten it backwards. He'd said the Varden were waiting for Eragon and his dragon, that they were the Varden's last hope. Well, it looked like the Varden had plenty of hope to him. They lived in a stone city, completely hidden from the king (at least until recently), and were clearly thriving. It seemed more like the Varden were his last hope, since the king had targeted him for death.

Sapphira's voice was soft, and her *Sorry* was tinged with sadness.

*I'm not,* Eragon thought back at her, as fiercely as he could. *You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.*

They would trade off through the night, each reassuring the other whenever doubts surfaced. Neither slept, and they spent the night staring up at the stars, wondering what the day would bring.

The Battle of Farthen Dur

It was over quickly, once Durza died. Urgals were brutal and ruthless, but their numbers were limited. The masses of fighters meant to overwhelm the Varden by sheer numbers were all conscripts. They fought because of fear, because the alternative was worse than any death they might face on a battlefield. With Durza gone, it didn't take them long to recognize that things had changed: they were a long, long way from the king's influence, and there was no shade to keep them in line.

Most surrendered; some fought side by side with the Varden to destroy the remaining Urgals. The overwhelming odds were suddenly not quite so overwhelming, and Murtagh found himself assigned to clean-up duty by a powerfully-voiced woman who cared less about his parents than his ability to lift and carry. It was refreshing, actually, but he snuck away anyway -- he had a dragonrider to find.

Farthen Dur, After the Battle (While Eragon is Still Unconscious)

"So, this passing out in battle thing is starting to become kind of a habit for him, don't you think?" Murtagh was sitting in the outside "door" of Eragon and Sapphira's room, legs dangling over the rock ledge. The same Varden code of honor that had gotten him locked up in the first place had now earned him his freedom, since he had saved the life of one of their leaders, but it didn't mean they liked him. He'd pretty much holed up since the battle, waiting for Eragon to wake up and talking with Sapphira to pass the time.

The dragon snorted out a puff of warm air in agreement. She could easily understand human speech, and Murtagh was getting better at interpreting her expressions. Still, he moved out easy reach before adding, "Kind of like you, with your … landings." Sapphira swiveled her head to look at him and narrowed her eyes. Murtagh held up his hands. "Hey, I'm just saying -- it's not exactly your most elegant skill." Her tail twitched. "Maybe more practice?" he offered weakly. She growled. Uh-oh. This was not good.

And then her whole body posture relaxed, and Sapphira sat back, fluffing her wings in his direction. Was she laughing at him? Murtagh breathed a sigh of relief. "That's not very nice, you know," he said, tossing a pebble in her direction. She fluffed again. "I'm serious -- teasing the guy who can't even get a second shirt? That's low."

Sapphira pointedly looked at the rather large pile of clothes Eragon had ended up with since joining the Varden. They'd had this conversation before. Murtagh sighed again. "I know, but it just seems wrong -- they belong to him, you know?" They both turned to look at the pile of furs where Eragon lay motionless. "I wish he would wake up." Sapphira put her head down, and inched her tail closer to where Murtagh was sitting. He reached a hand out, and they waited together.

Farthen Dur (After Eragon Gets Back From Saying Goodbye to Arya)

Ow. Eragon couldn't decide which hurt more, his head or his hand -- thinking about it made both hurt worse. It might not have been the smartest idea to go flying after Arya like that right after waking up. No matter how smooth a flyer Sapphira could be, he still had to hold on, and why couldn't it have been a cloudy day?

He finally just closed his eyes against the sunlight. Sapphira knew where they were going better than he did anyway. Her backwinged landing made his stomach lurch, and he laid his head against her neck. Cool, dark cave, he thought. Cool, dark cave. Sleep. Yeah, that sounded good.

"Thanks Sapphira," he mumbled into her neck. Wordless comfort soothed his headache. Now all he had to do was find the bed.

It was right where he'd left it, but it looked different. Someone was in it. Eragon stared until his legs started to shake, then sat down abruptly. "Hey," he said. No response. "Hey," he said again.

*I don't think he's slept since you healed me,* said Sapphira, in her softest mental "voice." *He's been watching you.*

Eragon was too tired to really process that. "How long?" he said.

"Three days." The voice was muffled, but came unmistakeably from the figure on his bed. "Welcome back, rider."

Eragon really didn't want to say 'hey' again. "Thanks," he said instead. "I'm Eragon," he added, suddenly determined to get this whole name issue out of the way.

"I'm Murtagh." The response was even more muffled than before, like Murtagh had fallen back asleep while Eragon had been thinking.

"You're on my bed," Eragon said. Murtagh inched over. Okay. That worked. He lay down. "Oh, hey," he said, as his eyes drifted shut. "-- what happened to your shirt?" If there was an answer, he was asleep before he heard it.