The sandy beach was nestled in a sheltered cove surrounded on three sides by high, rocky cliffs.

Perched above, imposing and defiant, was an ancient castle whose walls were stained and darkened by years of sea spray and marked by the wicked storms that were blown in to slam against the coastline. It stood alone against the full brunt of nature's violence.

The castle had stood there for centuries. No one was quite sure who had originally built it. The origins of the place were shrouded in secrecy and it was commonly known that enchantment lay heavy there. How such old magic, which imbued the structure with a kind of determine permanence, had come to be there no one was sure. At some point, perhaps not long after it was constructed, the place had become home to a family whose origins were as mysterious as the castle's own. They were a family of enchanters, warriors and mariners who had long governed the coastline and the vast ocean that pounded against it.

A descendent of this long family line was walking the beach below the bluffs, casually strolling as if he didn't have a care in the world. His dark hair was blown back in wavy curls by a gentle breeze that blew in the from open sea. It was a brilliant day. The sun sparkled on the crystalline blue water. The white foam from the crashing waves gleamed a brilliant white.

A beautiful day indeed, thought Taren as he collapsed in an jumbled, most un-lord like heap on the soft sand. It was not often the warrior had the opportunity to escape the stuffy chambers and sugared words of his life above the bluff in the castle. This was, however, his favourite place to come when the chance did present itself. The beach could only be accessed from above by a cleverly hidden path down that only family and close friends knew about.

He sat there, still and quiet on the sand. His shirt, open at the collar and made of a thin linen, only partially hid a brutal scar that traced a path across his sternum in a diagonal line to the left. It wasn't the only mark of a life lived mostly on the edge as a warrior through a a brutal civil war followed by a war to end all wars but Taren preferred not to think about it especially here on this untouched, untroubled beach.

I might not be the sailer Gen is, thought Taren as he dug his hands into the warm sand, but the ocean will always be a part of me.

"Taren!" he heard the excited cry distantly from the top of the cliffs. He cast his gaze upwards and saw the bright blue of his younger cousin's dress and the gleaming gold of her hair. He wondered what had her so excited, she had been so serious and withdrawn of late. Perhaps, for once, some good news had come to lift the grief and regret from her - from them all. In response, knowing his voice would never carry over the crashing of the surf, he raised a hand and waved before dropping his gaze to the white capped waves.

A sudden chill, whispering wind swept over the sand and made Taren tense. The young man rose, suddenly alert and wary although he could not guess what or why had caused the sudden change in the air. It was not danger he sensed but merely the presence of someone or something. He knew that presence but he could not quite name it or recall where he had last encountered it. It swept around him, whispering secrets in an unintelligible language, at one moment it was warm and the next it was cold.

He turned, searching for the source and froze before suddenly leaping forward, a joyful cry already spring to his lips. For, to his utter joy and amazement, there she was.

Zoe.

Taren woke slowly.

He felt as if he had been tumbled around in the ocean, battered by the ever tumbling waves and swept around in circles by underwater currents before being thrown violently up on a rocky beach. His head hurt terribly and his thoughts were horribly muddled. What had happened? His last clear thought had been of sitting in his favourite sitting room in Caer Calldren with his brother and new sister in law. Then had come a sudden, inexplicable pain and lurching motion which had blinded him with the force of its impact, all images disappearing from around him.

A voice, a familiar one, reached him distantly. In its quiet tones Taren's mind conjured up images and memories of childhood games of tag or hide and seek, dances in high ceilinged ballrooms, dinners held at long, elegant dining room tables and midnight swims in hidden, moonlit coves. Those were the lighter memories the voice conjured up within his confused, aching mind. There were darker ones: blood on a gleaming sword, arguments held over the bodies of dead men and pain, always pain.

He didn't want to remember those things. He wanted to remember her as she had been, in the days when they had not known just how easily the world could shatter.

It came again. What was it saying?

With great effort Taren pushed his way through the fog and darkness that seemed to have descended around his consciousness. Slowly he found himself reconnecting with his body and, with a final monumental effort, he opened his eyes.

He felt as if he had been transported back in time.

She was looking down at him. Her face, pale and haggard in the dim light, bore flecks of grime and blood. There were worry lines around her eyes and mouth which was set in a grim, thin line. Her heavy dark hair curled around her thin features and made her look even paler and wearier. But it was her eyes that stopped him and chilled his heart a little. Those eyes - grey-blue and usually so far seeing - were worried and frightened in a way Taren, who had known her for his entire life, had never seen them. She looked utterly spent.

"Taren," she breathed out in relief. "You're awake."

He was not totally focused on her. At that moment part of his mind was thinking how strange it was to see her again especially after the experience on the sandy beach which had, for him at least, occurred not long before. At that time she had seemed to have been there - living and breathing - only to vanish a second later like a mirage. But he was also thinking about how hard the mattress he was lying on was and that the air was not salty but musty. He was in a tent far from the ocean, part of him realized with a deep pang of sadness, and still another, more urgent part of him, was screaming out questions about how he had gotten here.

"Zoe?" he queried.

"Yes," she said with a small, forced smile. "Its me. I've missed you cousin."

"But how…"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I have no idea. But you are here, with me, in a land called Alagaesia…a land at war."

"Why are you…" he was having a hard time finishing questions but that didn't matter. Zoe knew him well enough to know exactly what he was trying to convey even if he didn't know.

"Its a long story," she said calmly. "There aren't any easy answers but I will do my best to explain."

Taren listened. He listened intently to a story of dragons, mad Kings and suspiciously noble sounding 'Riders.' The more his cousin spoke of this world the quieter Taren grew. Taren had always been good at listening, the youngest and quietest of his family he had had plenty of practice. It was taking him some time to process the idea of dragons and elvish Queens or even, most extraordinary, his cousin's mad-capped, backwards journey to this place.

"You see?" said Zoe at long last and there was a bitter note to her voice. Taren had heard that bitterness before, it had been there for a long time and, not for the last time, he wished he could erase it from her. He knew what had put the bitterness there and he regretted it, would regret it for all of time. "I have been a fool, cousin."

They both looked away. One lost in thoughts of past actions and words that seemed so reckless now in light of recent events and the other completely mystified as to what they were to supposed say. Sympathy seemed a poor remedy and even worse was pity for pity only opened the door to anger and hate, two emotions that were already too close to the surface.

"I haven't seen you this grey for a while," said Taren choosing a light, joking tone in the hope that he could jolly her along a little. "Come - it can't be that bad? You seem to have told me of all the storms and not a single mention of the blue sky days."

She did not turn. "My blue sky days have come few and far between, Taren. But here I am, indulging." With a shake of her head she stood and held out a hand, "I can't tell you how much I've missed you…how much I've missed everyone."

Stretching out his own hand, Taren gripped Zoe's hand tightly.

"Show me," he said. "Show me this world."


Eragon stared moodily at the crackling fire.

He was distantly aware of Saphira and Arya conversing together in the grey, early dawn light but he lacked the energy or desire to focus on what they were saying. In one hand he loosely fingered the hilt of a hunting knife that he had brought all the way from Carvahall. The blade seemed crude to him now but the hilt was worn smooth and he knew the grip of it well. It had seemed a shame - and downright disrespectful - to abandon the object for a newer, shinier one.

Feinster lay a little ways behind them; its keep and surrounding walls looked jagged and burnt in the grey dawn that slowly spread across the eastern sky. The light made everything seem faded, even Saphira's scales seemed to have lost some of their lustre. The Rider was glad that he was here, a few miles removed from the site of the Varden's latest conquest in a little hollow hidden from the bulk of the main army. Better, he thought, to leave Nasuada with the not so pleasant task of staking claim to the city and its surrounding lands while he considered all that had occurred. His elven guards were about somewhere and Brom had promised to join them when he had seen to Roran and the other young man who had accompanied Eragon's cousin on his mad rescue turned keep storming mission.

Lost in thoughts of Shades that nearly rose from pentagons, hearts of long dead dragons that contained unimaginable power and a cousin who seemed to have no concept of what was reasonable danger and what wasn't, Eragon felt a headache coming on. His brooding thoughts were, however, interrupted a moment later by Saphira.

Look, she said. Here they come.

Looking up, Eragon realized who 'they' were. Emerging from one of three hastily pitched tents came Zoe and, a moment later, by the dark haired stranger who had, not long before, been unconscious in the shattered Feinster throne room. His name was, if memory served Eragon correctly: 'Taren.' There had been mention of him in a few of Zoe's stories although, at that precise moment, Eragon's mind was too hazy from travel and battle to recall the details.

Taren was taller then Zoe and his skin was darker as if he spent a great deal of time out in the sun. He was still quite pale beneath his tan and he had a slightly dazed look to him. His right hand was clamped firmly over the hilt of his sword which was sheathed in a simple black sheath. But, despite the clear marks of exhaustion, he was striking and Eragon could not say he had seen someone like him before. There was a definite air of foreignness to him. His eyes, darting from left to right, were the same blue-grey as Zoe's. Idly, too tired to really think straight, the Rider wondered if Zoe had told her cousin of Murtagh or if she would. Perhaps, thought the Rider, it was better not to wonder such things.

Better not to, said Saphira.

"Zoe," said Arya from her perch on one of Saphira's talons. "Have you come to join us?"

Zoe had never, to Eragon at least, looked quite as worn as she did right then. Her usually bright eyes were dimmed and her quiet laugh was positively lacklustre. "I suppose, Arya," she said quietly. With a wave of her hand she beckoned Taren forward and said, "May I introduce my cousin, Lord Taren of the House of Llyr."

The very mention of 'Llyr' sent a shiver down Eragon's spine. Even here there was a kind of power, of mystery, to the word.

Arya greeted Taren politely and Eragon added his own words of welcome. Taren accepted them graciously, his easy way, however, was most definitely thrown a ringer when Saphira swung her head about to gaze at him.

Well met nest mate of Zoe, said Saphira.

Taren didn't jump at the sound of Saphira's mental voice but there was a definite wariness and mistrustful air about him as he took a hesitant step backwards. "Well met o'dragon," he said with a low bow and exaggerated curtesy. "May I say how magnificent you are? And how…"

Zoe managed a fairly amused smile as she interrupted her cousin, "Saphira isn't like the fire drakes of the far east, Taren."

The young man sent his cousin an annoyed look, "I nearly ended up…"

"Yes, yes," said Zoe with a wave of her hand and, for all the world, sounding exactly like a bored sibling who had heard the daring story of their brother or sister one too many times. The sight was, to the Rider, oddly amusing despite all that was occurring around him. "You nearly ended up burnt to a crisp multiple times and skewered on the end of more than one talon. But you were…"

Taren opened his mouth to reply, an indignant look crossing his face briefly but Saphira's curiosity had been roused.

You never mentioned dragons in any of your stories, Zoe.

"There never seemed time," said Zoe and a strange, reflective look crossed her face briefly. "Besides, the dragons of my home land are very different from you, Saphira. They have no wisdom nor any sense of the balance of the world and how their willful destruction only, in the end, hurts them."

Arya stood suddenly and looked out towards Feinster, "I think the Varden are pulling back."

They all turned at her words and looked back to the city. Slowly but surely there were men leaving the city in long lines and returning to the camp stationed. In a few days the Varden would gather itself together, organize a garrison of men to remain in Feinster and move on to the next strategic target. The Rider felt a sense of restlessness overtake him.

"Where will we go next?" he wondered out loud. "What will happen now?" He forgot, right then, just who was standing just to his left and the danger of asking such questions.

His thoughts flew far beyond their next battle, however. They considered the movement of the elven army to the east and even further afield: to the very heart of Du Weldenarden. How was his half brother and dragon-ling, Torn, doing? Even more pressing: what about the eldunari? The heart's of dragons were Galbatorix's source of power and, despite his best attempts, the Rider could think of no answer to the challenge posed by it.

"To Belatona," said Zoe quietly. "Nasuada will take the Varden there next. It will be an ugly siege but necessary in the conquest of Dras'Leona."

"And from there?' asked Arya. "What then Zoe?"

The air seemed to crackle suddenly with an unnameable energy and the Rider felt wary, unsure if the power he sensed was friendly or not. It was an unreadable force that, as quickly as it came, died down although the Rider thought he could still sense it. It lingered on the air, not quite there but almost.

"Nothing," said Zoe. "Strangely enough, Arya, it will all turn out well in the end. I can't be sure. But it should, I think." Turning, Zoe looked straight at her cousin with a kind of significant, knowing look. "Isn't that right, Taren?"

A faint smile crossed Taren's face as he returned the look with a knowing one of his own. "The natural condition of our existence is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster."

"But…" began Arya. She looked a little horrified at these last words for the elven princess did not like the sounds of such passiveness in the face of 'insurmountable' and 'disaster.' "How can it…"

Zoe laughed and the shadow seemed to rise from her for a brief minute. For a moment she looked completely confident and unafraid. "I don't know, Arya. It's a mystery. A glorious, unsolvable mystery."


Welcome to the start of a new part in Zoe's story. This chapter is short - I know - but it didn't feel right leaping straight into a battle scene what with a new character and all so think of this as a taste test of what is to come.

I cannot make promises to update every Tuesday or something like that but I can promise to do my absolute best to be prompt in my posts. The last few months have been hectic for me and, to be honest, I felt a bit lost on how to begin a new story after writing 'Zoe' for so long.

I had all these great ideas about how to express my gratitude to all the readers who have stopped by and read Zoe but I couldn't put the words down in anyway that made the least bit of sense. But really it all comes down to: thank you so much (!) and I hope you enjoy the continuation of this story.