In the time Eragon has been absent from Alagaësia, the riders have fallen to vices. Few have been able to raise to fulfill the roles the riders had originally been given, and a dark sect-reminiscent of the Foresworn-has risen to power. The cities...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Erys turned her back to the brutalised man. The Rider stared at her, judging her reactions. Erys remained fixed in place, refusing any show of weakness. She kept her face blank, clear of anything the Rider might use against her.
"May I leave now?" she managed in a weak monotone.
"No." The Rider backed toward the door. "Wait here'n see what'll become of you should ya stray. Ah'll retrieve ya at dusk."
With that, she slammed the door shut. The moment it shut, Erys was thrown into darkness. The only light came from a small lantern hung in the corner of the cell. It cast an eerie glow over the cell's inhabitant.
She sat before the bars, peering past at the poor state of the man, anger pulsing through her heart. As she watched him she felt the intense desire to end his miserable life, part in vengeance, and part—though she hated to admit it—in mercy. She would kill him if she knew she could escape undetected. But she knew her thinking was folly. They would know. And besides, there was no way past the locked gate. Nor was she truly sure, even in her rage, that she could take a life. Her need for vengeance might be sated at the hands of someone else.
"They'll torture you too." The words were garbled and disjointed and full of pain, as if every syllable were in itself, its own torture.
The impediment came from an inflicted disfigurement on his face. Two large slits had been cut into his mouth all the way through his cheeks, giving him a forced bloody smile. She had to wonder, if it caused him such pain why he bothered speaking with her; Erys had to assume they'd hurt him to prevent him from doing so. Yet, they hadn't removed his tongue. Maybe they'd only wanted to hear his screams; maybe it was less practical than it was sadistic.
Hurriedly she dropped her eyes to the floor before her feet. Her breathing became laboured at the thought of what awaited her. Her heart skipped a beat whenhis foul voice reverberated through the air.
"There's no safe place for you, unless you join them." He grimaced with each syllable.
"They killed my father."
"Had they known who you were—"
"Doesn't matter who I am!" she snarled. "What matters is who they killed, and what they've done!"
He groaned and dropped his head. "They're not the enemy," he muttered.
"Then who is my enemy? Them?" She jerked her head toward the door. "I don't doubt that."
"Then, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."
"But I doubt your people aren't either."
"You're on the wrong side."
"Who says I'm on anyone's side?"
"It's always been the wrong side!"
His eyes were wide, manic. She had to wonder if, in his mind, his argument made any sense. She certainly saw no merit in it.
