Not a hundred feet down the tunnel, the giant spider attacked him from behind.

Murtagh heard the iron-nail tapping seconds before the creature struck. He spun around just in time to block a spear-tipped leg plunging toward his heart. Zar’roc’s blade rang as it glanced off the spider’s carapace, same as if he’d caught another sword against the edge.

The spider struck again. It was faster than any human. Faster than any elf. His wards blocked the attacks, but then the spider swept a limb across the ground and tangled his legs.

Murtagh fell. By instinct, he covered himself with his shield, and as he landed, he again cast the killing spell: “Kverst!”

The magic had no effect.

He was so surprised that, for a moment, he failed to act. Then he used his shield to heave the spider off him. It was incredibly heavy, as if it had metal in its shell. Still, he threw it back, and as it scrambled on bony legs to again attack him, he swung Zar’roc far harder than he would have against any human foe.

He struck the spider across the flat of its head. The carapace cracked beneath Zar’roc’s crimson blade, and black blood oozed out, thick as warm tar. The spider clicked in distress, and the cutting surfaces in its mouth stabbed and gnashed.

Murtagh swung again, and this time, Zar’roc split the creature’s head in two. Its legs gave way, and it collapsed against the ground.

He stared at the monster as he regained his breath. Why hadn’t the spell killed it? A ward? On an animal so deep in the ground? It wasn’t impossible, of course, but the only explanation that made sense was that Bachel herself had enchanted the spider. The question was, why? So the creature might hurt or delay him, same as with the cultists? Were the creatures likewise her thralls?

Chittering echoed in the distance.

He straightened, grim. Whatever foul minions Bachel had amid the caves, they weren’t about to stop him; of that, he was sure.

Determined, he resumed his course.

As he made his way through the underground chambers, the fingerrats and shadow spiders continued to attack. One here. Two there. A rat dropped on him from a crevice hidden high upon a slime-infested wall. A spider leaped out at him from within a dark chasm. And more. Many more.

He beat back every assault, meeting savage fury with equal force. Zar’roc’s blade was constantly awash with blood, and his boots grew wet with gore, and his eyes stung from dripping sweat. Fatigue slowed his steps, and he began to worry what would happen if he could no longer keep up his wards.

It was hard to track time or distance. Thorn’s consciousness had faded from his mind, and when Murtagh reached for him, he realized he could no longer feel the dragon’s thoughts. Too much stone separated them.

Alarmed, he searched instead for Bachel. If he could not locate her, then he was truly lost…. But no, he again felt the witch’s life force. Only she was not just below him, she was also behind him by what felt like a good quarter of a mile. Despair touched Murtagh. He must have gotten turned around during the fighting.

The path seemed endless. And always the chitters and the tapping and the swish-swash-scissor-slicing haunted him. He dared not lower his guard for even a second, and the constant state of watchfulness was of itself exhausting.

Even with his magic and his sword, Murtagh felt as if he were a child alone in the dark, afraid of unseen monsters waiting to pounce. But this time, the monsters were real, and no less terrifying for it.

Visions and phantasms continued to bedevil him. He managed to ignore most of them—even when they occurred at inopportune moments, such as in the middle of a fight—but at last:

Dark ceiling, dark walls, floor of patterned wood…a fire roaring in the stone hearth along one side of the great hall. Dishes scattered across the banquet table, which all the guests had long since fled…. At the head of the table, the dark shape of his father, still wrapped in his travel cloak, hunched, brooding, the ever-present goblet of wine grasped firmly in his hand. Hovering behind him, the slim figure of his mother, speaking in low, tense tones.

Murtagh sat on the edge of the hearth. The sounds of his parents talking distracted him at times—his father’s voice was loud, brusque—but then his attention returned to the wooden horse he was playing with. It was painted brown and white, with crisp black hooves, and it had a mane and tail of real horsehair. He ran it back and forth across the hearth, making little sounds as he did. He jumped the horse over imagined rocks and hedges, and then, by accident, he brought the horse too close to the fire, and a spark landed on the tail.

A flame kindled in the hair. Frightened, he shook the horse, and the flame went out, but the smell of burnt hair stung his nose, and the tail was ruined.

He started to cry. That much he remembered. The horse was so handsome, and now it was ruined, and he had no others like it.

His father’s voice rose in an angry shout. “—don’t stop that brat and his mewling, then I will!” And there was the scrape of a chair being shoved back and a cry of terror from his mother, and a heavy weight struck Murtagh in the back and knocked him flat against the hearth.

Zar’roc fell beside him with a clatter, the blade’s edge so sharp it was invisible.

Murtagh knew he screamed, but he felt no pain, only a sense of cold and weakness as blood spread in a pool around him. His mother’s face appeared over him, her expression pinched with fear, and that disturbed him more than anything. He didn’t want her to worry, didn’t want her to be afraid.

Then the hall grew hazy, and the last thing he was aware of was his mother murmuring in an unfamiliar language as the dreadful chill settled in his bones.

Murtagh stopped by a mound of mushrooms and gasped as if he’d taken a blow to the stomach. He clenched his jaw and stared at the rocky ceiling for a time as tears spilled from his unblinking eyes. “That’s not for you,” he muttered to whatever force inhabited the caves. Why had he been compelled to relive that particular moment? He went to great lengths to not think about it, although the knotted scar on his back had been reminder enough: a memento of both his father’s cruelty and his mother’s love. The latter part was why he’d kept the mark. Removing the scar would be easy enough with a spell, but to do so felt like repudiating his past to such a degree, he might as well have declared himself nameless and kinless. Perhaps he should have. Morzan’s legacy had brought him nothing but pain. But his mother’s…was more complicated. From her he had life and love, and just because his life had been difficult, that did not negate her love.

Quick tip-taps circled him in the shadowed distance. He heard, but he

did not care.

Murtagh looked at Zar’roc. He scowled with barely contained disgust, and his hand shook. Scar or not, he hated the sword, hated what it represented. Zar’roc. Misery. His father’s choice of name, and a fitting one, given Morzan’s history. That wasn’t what Murtagh wanted for his life, and yet he had taken the blade from Eragon, to claim it as his own, as if somehow it would protect him.

Instead of it protecting, he felt as if it were defining him. Zar’roc. Misery. Names were important, even for the smallest thing. By naming, one might gain understanding. Even more, one might recast the very nature of a thing. Had he not experienced that himself in the citadel of Urû’baen when his true name had changed?

An idea occurred to him. A bright, promising idea that brought with it fierce determination. He knew the Name of Names, the very key to the ancient language and its arcane power. By it he could use or define or even change the words of the language.

Which meant…he could rename Zar’roc. If he so wanted.

Murtagh did not have to stop to consider. He wanted.

But rename to what? If not Misery, then Happiness? Hardly the right meaning for his or any sword. Besides, Murtagh had never tended toward happiness—he wasn’t sure he knew what it really was—and he would have felt ridiculous carrying a blade called Happiness.

Even though time was short, he stood still in the dark and let his mind range wide as he sorted through dozens of possible names. At its core, the question was simple: What did he want Zar’roc to represent? That was, what value did he want to give pride of place in the center of his being?

All around, he continued to hear the tip-taps of the marauding shadow spiders. But they held their distance, and he paid them little attention, for the problem he was wrestling with was all-encompassing and, he felt, crucial to his survival.

In the end, the answer came from within, as it must—from his memory of Morzan hurting him, and from his own true name, which he saw with new clarity: what it had been, and what it now was. For he was a changed person. The pain he had clung to so assiduously no longer held sway over him; he had new cares and new values, and he was determined to pursue them.

Fired by inspiration, Murtagh opened the pouch on his belt, took out the compendium, and, one-handed, flipped through the parchment pages until he found that which he sought.

He studied the short line of runes. Was he sure? Yes. More than ever before.

The spell required energy he did not have to spare, but nonetheless, he drew upon his body and, soft as a falling feather, spoke the Word and, with it, renamed the sword:

“Ithring”…Freedom.

As he spoke, the barbed glyph stamped upon blade and sheath shimmered and shifted into a new shape, a new understanding. And he recognized the glyph as that which the elves used for the sword’s new name.

The hate and anger that had been boiling inside of him cooled into calm determination. He nodded. Freedom. His father had chosen to spread misery

through life and land. Perhaps Murtagh could do better.

A crooked smile crossed his lips. He had no delusions. He knew he had responsibilities that bound him. To Thorn, if nobody else. But they were responsibilities he had accepted for himself, not ones imposed from the outside. Freedom had always been what he aspired to, and what he would always cherish. His blade could stand as a symbol for that. And when he fought, as he knew he would soon need to, then it would fall to him to grant his foes their final release. And besides, he might use Ithring to help those, like Alín, who could not help themselves. To cut their bonds and set them loose, even as he and Thorn had freed themselves of Galbatorix’s oaths.

His mother, he thought, would have been proud of him for it. “Ithring.”

The word felt strange upon his tongue, yet fitting also. The sword itself seemed different: an ineffable change that left the blade brighter and cleaner.

Murtagh felt different as well. He stowed the compendium and resumed his journey with a new sense of lightness, as if renaming the sword had somehow helped drive back the oppressive presence of the caves. And when the dark denizens of the undercroft again attacked him—the shadow spiders and their gnashing blades, and the fingerrats reaching for his throat—he dispatched them with a calm efficiency that had previously escaped him. For he knew who he was and why he was there, and he no longer sought to fight with misery, but in pursuit of freedom.