Brisingr Part 1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Kvetha Fricaya. Greetings, Friends.

Brisingrwas a fun, intense, and sometimes difficult book to write. When I started, I felt as if the story
were a vast, three-dimensional puzzle that I had to solve without hints or instructions. I found the
experience to be immensely satisfying, despite the challenges it occasionally posed.

Because of its complexity,Brisingr ended up much larger than I anticipated—so much larger, in fact, that
I had to expand the series from three books to four. Thus, the Inheritance trilogy became the Inheritance
cycle. I’m pleased with the change too. Having another volume in the series has allowed me to explore
and develop the characters’ personalities and relationships at a more natural pace.

As withEragon andEldest, I never would have been able to complete this book without the support of a
whole host of talented people, to whom I am ever grateful. They are:

At home: Mom, for her food, tea, advice, sympathy, endless patience, and optimism; Dad, for his unique
perspective, razor-sharp observations on story and prose, helping me to name the book, and for coming
up with the idea of having Eragon’s sword burst into flame every time he says its name (very cool); and
my one and only sister, Angela, for once again consenting to reprise her character and for numerous
pieces of information on names, plants, and all things wool.

At Writers House: Simon Lipskar, my agent, for his friendship, his hard work, and for giving me a
much-needed kick in the pants early on inBrisingr (without which I might have taken another two years
to finish the book); and his assistant Josh Getzler for all he does on behalf of Simon and the Inheritance
cycle.

At Knopf: my editor, Michelle Frey, who did an awesome job of helping me to clean up and tighten the
manuscript (the first draft wasmuch longer); associate editor Michele Burke, who also labored over the
editing and who helped pull together the synopsis ofEragon andEldest; head of communications and
marketing Judith Haut, who from the beginning spread word of the series throughout the land; publicity
director Christine Labov; art director Isabel Warren-Lynch and her team for again putting together such
a classy-looking book; John Jude Palencar for a majestic cover painting (I don’t know how he can top it
with the fourth book!); executive copy editor Artie Bennett for checking every word, real or invented, in
Brisingr with such consummate care; Chip Gibson, head of the children’s division at Random House;
Knopf publishing director Nancy Hinkel for her unwavering support; Joan DeMayo, director of sales and
her team (huzzah and many thanks!); head of marketing John Adamo, whose team designed such
impressive materials; Linda Leonard, new media, for all her efforts with online marketing; Linda
Palladino, Milton Wackerow, and Carol Naughton, production; Pam White, Jocelyn Lange, and the rest
of the subsidiary rights team, who have done a truly extraordinary job of selling the Inheritance cycle in
countries and languages throughout the world; Janet Renard, copyediting; and everyone else at Knopf
who has supported me.

At Listening Library: Gerard Doyle, who brings the world of Ala gaësia to life with his voice; Taro


Meyer for getting the pronunciation of my languages just right; Orli Moscowitz for pulling all the threads
together; and Amanda D’Acierno, publisher of Listening Library.

Thank you all.

The Craft of the Japanese Swordby Leon and Hiroko Kapp and Yoshindo Yoshihara provided me
with much of the information I needed to accurately describe the smelting and forging process in the
chapter “Mind over Metal.” I highly recommend the book to anyone who is interested in learning more
about (specifically Japanese) swordmaking. Did you know that Japanese smiths used to start their fires
by hammering on the end of a bar of iron until it was red-hot, then touching it to a cedar shingle that was
coated with sulfur?

Also, for those who understood the reference to a “lonely god” when Eragon and Arya are sitting
around the campfire, my only excuse is that the Doctor can travel everywhere, even alternate realities.

Hey, I’m a fan too!

Finally, and most importantly, thank you. Thank you for readingBrisingr. And thank you for sticking
with the Inheritance cycle through all these years. Without your support, I never would have been able to
write this series, and I can’t imagine anything else I would rather be doing.

Once again Eragon and Saphira’s adventures are over, and once again we have arrived at the end of this
wandering path . . . but only for the time being. Many more miles still lie before us. Book Four will be
published just as soon as I can finish it, and I can promise you, it’s going to be the most exciting
installment in the series. I can’t wait for you to read it!

Sé onr sverdar sitja hvass!

Christopher Paolini

September 20, 2008

THEGATES OFDEATH

Eragon stared at the dark tower of stone wherein hid the monsters who had murdered his uncle,
Garrow.

He was lying on his belly behind the edge of a sandy hill dotted with sparse blades of grass, thornbushes,
and small, rosebudlike cactuses. The brittle stems of last year’s foliage pricked his palms as he inched
forward to gain a better view of Helgrind, which loomed over the surrounding land like a black dagger
thrust out from the bowels of the earth.


The evening sun streaked the low hills with shadows long and narrow and—far in the west—illuminated
the surface of Leona Lake so that the horizon became a rippling bar of gold.

To his left, Eragon heard the steady breathing of his cousin, Roran, who was stretched out beside him.
The normally inaudible flow of air seemed preternaturally loud to Eragon with his heightened sense of
hearing, one of many such changes wrought by his experience during the Agaetí Blödhren, the elves’
Blood-oath Celebration.

He paid little attention to that now as he watched a column of people inch toward the base of Helgrind,
apparently having walked from the city of Dras-Leona, some miles away. A contingent of twenty-four
men and women, garbed in thick leather robes, occupied the head of the column. This group moved with
many strange and varied gaits—they limped and shuffled and humped and wriggled; they swung on
crutches or used arms to propel themselves forward on curiously short legs—contortions that were
necessary because, as Eragon realized, every one of the twenty-four lacked an arm or a leg or some
combination thereof. Their leader sat upright upon a litter borne by six oiled slaves, a pose Eragon
regarded as a rather amazing accomplishment, considering that the man or woman—he could not tell
which—consisted of nothing more than a torso and head, upon whose brow balanced an ornate leather
crest three feet high.

“The priests of Helgrind,” he murmured to Roran.

“Can they use magic?”

“Possibly. I dare not explore Helgrind with my mind until they leave, for if anyare magicians, they will
sense my touch, however light, and our presence will be revealed.”

Behind the priests trudged a double line of young men swathed in gold cloth. Each carried a rectangular
metal frame subdivided by twelve horizontal crossbars from which hung iron bells the size of winter
rutabagas. Half of the young men gave their frames a vigorous shake when they stepped forward with
their right foot, producing a dolorous cacophony of notes, while the other half shook their frames when
they advanced upon the left foot, causing iron tongues to crash against iron throats and emit a mournful
clamor that echoed over the hills. The acolytes accompanied the throbbing of the bells with their own
cries, groaning and shouting in an ecstasy of passion.

At the rear of the grotesque procession trudged a comet’s tail of inhabitants from Dras-Leona: nobles,
merchants, tradesmen, several high-ranking military commanders, and a motley collection of those less
fortunate, such as laborers, beggars, and common foot soldiers.

Eragon wondered if Dras-Leona’s governor, Marcus Tábor, was somewhere in their midst.

Drawing to a stop at the edge of the precipitous mound of scree that ringed Helgrind, the priests
gathered on either side of a rustcolored boulder with a polished top. When the entire column stood
motionless before the crude altar, the creature upon the litter stirred and began to chant in a voice as
discordant as the moaning of the bells. The shaman’s declamations were repeatedly truncated by gusts of
wind, but Eragon caught snatches of the ancient language—strangely twisted and
mispronounced—interspersed with dwarf and Urgal words, all of which were united by an archaic dialect
of Eragon’s own tongue. What he understood caused him to shudder, for the sermon spoke of things
best left unknown, of a malevolent hate that had festered for centuries in the dark caverns of people’s
hearts before being allowed to flourish in the Riders’ absence, of blood and madness, and of foul rituals
performed underneath a black moon.


At the end of that depraved oration, two of the lesser priests rushed forward and lifted their master—or
mistress, as the case might be—off the litter and onto the face of the altar. Then the High Priest issued a
brief order. Twin blades of steel winked like stars as they rose and fell. A rivulet of blood sprang from
each of the High Priest’s shoulders, flowed down the leather-encased torso, and then pooled across the
boulder until it overflowed onto the gravel below.

Two more priests jumped forward to catch the crimson flow in goblets that, when filled to the rim, were
distributed among the members of the congregation, who eagerly drank.

“Gar!” said Roran in an undertone. “You failed to mention that those errant flesh-mongers, those
gore-bellied, boggle-minded idiotworshipers werecannibals .”

“Not quite. They do not partake of the meat.”

When all the attendees had wet their throats, the servile novitiates returned the High Priest to the litter
and bound the creature’s shoulders with strips of white linen. Wet blotches quickly sullied the virgin cloth.

The wounds seemed to have no effect upon the High Priest, for the limbless figure rotated back toward
the devotees with their lips of cranberry red and pronounced, “Now are you truly my Brothers and
Sisters, having tasted the sap of my veins here in the shadow of almighty Helgrind. Blood calls to blood,
and if ever your Family should need help, do then what you can for the Church and for others who
acknowledge the power of our Dread Lord. . . . To affirm and reaffirm our fealty to the Triumvirate,
recite with me the Nine Oaths. . . . By Gorm, Ilda, and Fell Angvara, we vow to perform homage at least
thrice a month, in the hour before dusk, and then to make an offering of ourselves to appease the eternal
hunger of our Great and Terrible Lord. . . . We vow to observe the strictures as they are presented in the
book of Tosk. . . . We vow to always carry our Bregnir on our bodies and to forever abstain from the
twelve of twelves and the touch of a many-knotted rope, lest it corrupt . . .”

A sudden rise in the wind obscured the rest of the High Priest’s list. Then Eragon saw those who listened
take out a small, curved knife and, one by one, cut themselves in the crook of their elbows and anoint the
altar with a stream of their blood.

Some minutes later, the angry breeze subsided and Eragon again heard the priest: “. . . and such things
as you long and lust for will be granted to you as a reward for your obedience. . . . Our worship is
complete. However, if any now stand among you who are brave enough to demonstrate the true depth of
their faith, let them show themselves!”

The audience stiffened and leaned forward, their faces rapt; this, apparently, was what they had been
waiting for.

For a long, silent pause, it seemed as if they would be disappointed, but then one of the acolytes broke
ranks and shouted, “I will!” With a roar of delight, his brethren began to brandish their bells in a quick
and savage beat, whipping the congregation into such a frenzy, they jumped and yelled as if they had
taken leave of their senses. The rough music kindled a spark of excitement in Eragon’s heart—despite his
revulsion at the proceedings—waking some primal and brutish part of him.

Shedding his gold robes so that he wore nothing but a leather breechcloth, the dark-haired youth sprang
on top of the altar. Gouts of ruby spray erupted on either side of his feet. He faced Helgrind and began to
shiver and quake as if stricken with palsy, keeping time with the tolling of the cruel iron bells. His head
rolled loosely upon his neck, foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, his arms thrashed like snakes.


Sweat oiled his muscles until he gleamed like a bronze statue in the dying light.

The bells soon reached a manic tempo where one note clashed against another, at which point the young
man thrust a hand out behind himself. Into it, a priest deposited the hilt of a bizarre implement: a
single-edged weapon, two and a half feet long, with a full tang, scale grips, a vestigial crossguard, and a
broad, flat blade that widened and was scalloped near the end, a shape reminiscent of a dragon wing. It
was a tool designed for but one purpose: to hack through armor and bones and sinew as easily as
through a bulging waterskin.

The young man lifted the weapon so that it slanted toward the highest peak of Helgrind. Then he
dropped to one knee and, with an incoherent cry, brought the blade down across his right wrist.

Blood sprayed the rocks behind the altar.

Eragon winced and averted his eyes, although he could not escape the youth’s piercing screams. It was
nothing Eragon had not seen in battle, but it seemed wrong to deliberately mutilate yourself when it was
so easy to become disfigured in everyday life.

Blades of grass rasped against one another as Roran shifted his weight. He muttered some curse, which
was lost in his beard, and then fell silent again.

While a priest tended to the young man’s wound—stanching the bleeding with a spell—an acolyte let
loose two slaves from the High Priest’s litter, only to chain them by the ankles to an iron loop embedded
in the altar. Then the acolytes divested themselves of numerous packages from underneath their robes
and piled them on the ground, out of reach of the slaves.

Their ceremonies at an end, the priests and their retinue departed Helgrind for Dras-Leona, wailing and
ringing the entire way. The now one-handed zealot stumbled along just behind the High Priest.

A beatific smile graced his face.

“Well,” said Eragon, and released his pent-up breath as the column vanished behind a distant hill.

“Well what?”

“I’ve traveled among both dwarves and elves, and nothing they did was ever as strange as what those
people, thosehumans, do.”

“They’re as monstrous as the Ra’zac.” Roran jerked his chin toward Helgrind. “Can you find out now if
Katrina is in there?”

“I’ll try. But be ready to run.”

Closing his eyes, Eragon slowly extended his consciousness outward, moving from the mind of one living
thing to another, like tendrils of water seeping through sand. He touched teeming cities of insects
frantically scurrying about their business, lizards and snakes hidden among warm rocks, diverse species
of songbirds, and numerous small mammals. Insects and animals alike bustled with activity as they
prepared for the fast-approaching night, whether by retreating to their various dens or, in the case of
those of a nocturnal bent, by yawning, stretching, and otherwise readying themselves to hunt and forage.


Just as with his other senses, Eragon’s ability to touch another being’s thoughts diminished with distance.
By the time his psychic probe arrived at the base of Helgrind, he could perceive only the largest of
animals, and even those but faintly.

He proceeded with caution, ready to withdraw at a second’s notice if he happened to brush against the
minds of their prey: the Ra’zac and the Ra’zac’s parents and steeds, the gigantic Lethrblaka. Eragon was
willing to expose himself in this manner only because none of the Ra’zac’s breed could use magic, and he
did not believe that they were mindbreakers—nonmagicians trained to fight with telepathy. The Ra’zac
and Lethrblaka had no need for such tricks when their breath alone could induce a stupor in the largest of
men.

And though Eragon risked discovery by his ghostly investigation, he, Roran, and Saphirahad to know if
the Ra’zac had imprisoned Katrina—Roran’s betrothed—in Helgrind, for the answer would determine
whether their mission was one of rescue or one of capture and interrogation.

Eragon searched long and hard. When he returned to himself, Roran was watching him with the
expression of a starving wolf. His gray eyes burned with a mixture of anger, hope, and despair that was
so great, it seemed as if his emotions might burst forth and incinerate everything in sight in a blaze of
unimaginable intensity, melting the very rocks themselves.

This Eragon understood.

Katrina’s father, the butcher Sloan, had betrayed Roran to the Ra’zac. When they failed to capture him,
the Ra’zac had instead seized Katrina from Roran’s bedroom and spirited her away from Palancar
Valley, leaving the inhabitants of Carvahall to be killed and enslaved by King Galbatorix’s soldiers.
Unable to pursue Katrina, Roran had—just in time—convinced the villagers to abandon their homes and
to follow him across the Spine and then south along the coast of Alagaësia, where they joined forces with
the rebel Varden. The hardships they endured as a result had been many and terrible. But circuitous as it
was, that course had reunited Roran with Eragon, who knew the location of the Ra’zac’s den and had
promised to help save Katrina.

Roran had only succeeded, as he later explained, because the strength of his passion drove him to
extremes that others feared and avoided, and thus allowed him to confound his enemies.

A similar fervor now gripped Eragon.

He would leap into harm’s way without the slightest regard for his own safety if someone he cared for
was in danger. He loved Roran as a brother, and since Roran was to marry Katrina, Eragon had
extended his definition of family to include her as well. This concept seemed even more important
because Eragon and Roran were the last heirs of their line. Eragon had renounced all affiliation with his
birth brother, Murtagh, and the only relatives he and Roran had left were each other, and now Katrina.

Noble sentiments of kinship were not the only force that drove the pair. Another goal obsessed them as
well:revenge! Even as they plotted to snatch Katrina from the grasp of the Ra’zac, so the two
warriors—mortal man and Dragon Rider alike—sought to slay King Galbatorix’s unnatural servants for
torturing and murdering Garrow, who was Roran’s father and had been as a father to Eragon.

The intelligence, then, that Eragon had gleaned was as important to him as to Roran.

“I think I felt her,” he said. “It’s hard to be certain, because we’re so far from Helgrind and I’ve never
touched her mind before, but Ithink she’s in that forsaken peak, concealed somewhere near the very


top.”

“Is she sick? Is she injured? Blast it, Eragon, don’t hide it from me: have they hurt her?”

“She’s in no pain at the moment. More than that, I cannot say, for it required all my strength just to make
out the glow of her consciousness; I could not communicate with her.” Eragon refrained from mentioning,
however, that he had detected a second person as well, one whose identity he suspected and the
presence of whom, if confirmed, troubled him greatly. “What Ididn’t find were the Ra’zac or the
Lethrblaka. Even if I somehow overlooked the Ra’zac, their parents are so large, their life force should
blaze like a thousand lanterns, even as Saphira’s does. Aside from Katrina and a few other dim specks
of light, Helgrind is black, black, black.”

Roran scowled, clenched his left fist, and glared at the mountain of rock, which was fading into the dusk
as purple shadows enveloped it. In a low, flat voice, as if talking with himself, he said, “It doesn’t matter
whether you are right or wrong.”

“How so?”

“We dare not attack tonight; night is when the Ra’zac are strongest, and if theyare nearby, it would be
stupid to fight them when we’re at a disadvantage. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“So, we wait for the dawn.” Roran gestured toward the slaves chained to the gory altar. “If those poor
wretches are gone by then, we know the Ra’zac are here, and we proceed as planned. If not, we curse
our bad luck that they escaped us, free the slaves, rescue Katrina, and fly back to the Varden with her
before Murtagh hunts us down. Either way, I doubt the Ra’zac will leave Katrina unattended for long, not
if Galbatorix wants her to survive so he can use her as a tool against me.”

Eragon nodded. He wanted to release the slaves now, but doing so could warn their foes that something
was amiss. Nor, if the Ra’zac came to collect their dinner, could he and Saphira intercede before the
slaves were ferried away. A battle in the open between a dragon and creatures such as the Lethrblaka
would attract the attention of every man, woman, and child for leagues around. And Eragon did not think
he, Saphira, or Roran could survive if Galbatorix learned they were alone in his empire.

He looked away from the shackled men.For their sake, I hope the Ra’zac are on the other side of
Alagaësia or, at least, that the Ra’zac aren’t hungry tonight .

By unspoken consent, Eragon and Roran crawled backward down from the crest of the low hill they
were hiding behind. At the bottom, they rose into a half crouch, then turned and, still doubled over, ran
between two rows of hills. The shallow depression gradually deepened into a narrow, flood-carved gully
lined with crumbling slabs of shale.

Dodging the gnarled juniper trees that dotted the gully, Eragon glanced up and, through clumps of
needles, saw the first constellations to adorn the velvet sky. They seemed cold and sharp, like bright
shards of ice. Then he concentrated on maintaining his footing as he and Roran trotted south toward their
camp.


AROUND THECAMPFIRE

The low mound of coals throbbed like the heart of some giant beast. Occasionally, a patch of gold
sparks flared into existence and raced across the surface of the wood before vanishing into a white-hot
crevice.

The dying remnants of the fire Eragon and Roran had built cast a dim red light over the surrounding area,
revealing a patch of rocky soil, a few pewter-gray bushes, the indistinct mass of a juniper tree farther off,
then nothing.

Eragon sat with his bare feet extended toward the nest of ruby embers—enjoying the warmth—and with
his back propped against the knobby scales of Saphira’s thick right foreleg. Opposite him, Roran was
perched on the iron-hard, sun-bleached, wind-worn shell of an ancient tree trunk. Every time he moved,
the trunk produced a bitter shriek that made Eragon want to claw at his ears.

For the moment, quiet reigned within the hollow. Even the coals smoldered in silence; Roran had
collected only long-dead branches devoid of moisture to eliminate any smoke that unfriendly eyes might
spot.

Eragon had just finished recounting the day’s activities to Saphira. Normally, he never had to tell her
what he had been doing, as thoughts, feelings, and other sensations flowed between them as easily as
water from one side of a lake to another. But in this instance it was necessary because Eragon had kept
his mind carefully shielded during the scouting expedition, aside from his disembodied foray into the
Ra’zac’s lair.

After a considerable gap in the conversation, Saphira yawned, exposing her rows of many fearsome
teeth.Cruel and evil they may be, but I am impressed that the Ra’zac can bewitch their prey into
wantingto be eaten. They are great hunters to do that. . . . Perhaps I shall attempt it someday .

But not,Eragon felt compelled to add,with people. Try it with sheep instead .

People, sheep: what difference is there to a dragon?Then she laughed deep in her long throat—a
rolling rumble that reminded him of thunder.

Leaning forward to take his weight off Saphira’s sharp-edged scales, Eragon picked up the hawthorn
staff that lay by his side. He rolled it between his palms, admiring the play of light over the polished tangle
of roots at the top and the much-scratched metal ferrule and spike at the base.

Roran had thrust the staff into his arms before they left the Varden on the Burning Plains, saying, “Here.
Fisk made this for me after the Ra’zac bit my shoulder. I know you lost your sword, and I thought you
might have need of it. . . . If you want to get another blade, that’s fine too, but I’ve found there are very
few fights you can’t win with a few whacks from a good, strong stick.” Remembering the staff Brom had
always carried, Eragon had decided to forgo a new sword in favor of the length of knotted hawthorn.
After losing Zar’roc, he felt no desire to take up another, lesser sword. That night, he had fortified both
the knotted hawthorn and the handle to Roran’s hammer with several spells that would prevent either
piece from breaking, except under the most extreme stress.

Unbidden, a series of memories overwhelmed Eragon:A sullen orange and crimson sky swirled
around him as Saphira dove in pursuit of the red dragon and his Rider. Wind howled past his ears.


. . . His fingers went numb from the jolt of sword striking sword as he dueled that same Rider on
the ground. . . . Tearing off his foe’s helm in the midst of combat to reveal his once friend and
traveling companion, Murtagh, whom he had thought dead. . . . The sneer upon Murtagh’s face as
he took Zar’roc from Eragon, claiming the red sword by right of inheritance as Eragon’s elder
brother. . . .

Eragon blinked, disoriented as the noise and fury of battle faded and the pleasant aroma of juniper wood
replaced the stench of blood. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, trying to eradicate the taste of bile
that filled his mouth.

Murtagh.

The name alone generated a welter of confused emotions in Eragon. On one hand, heliked Murtagh.
Murtagh had saved Eragon and Saphira from the Ra’zac after their first, ill-fated visit to Dras-Leona;
risked his life to help extricate Eragon from Gil’ead; acquitted himself honorably in the Battle of Farthen
Dûr; and, despite the torments he no doubt endured as a result, had chosen to interpret his orders from
Galbatorix in a way that allowed him to release Eragon and Saphira after the Battle of the Burning Plains
instead of taking them captive. It was not Murtagh’s fault that the Twins had abducted him; that the red
dragon, Thorn, had hatched for him; or that Galbatorix had discovered their true names, with which he
extracted oaths of fealty in the ancient language from both Murtagh and Thorn.

None of that could be blamed on Murtagh. He was a victim of fate, and had been since the day he was
born.

And yet . . . Murtagh might serve Galbatorix against his will, and he might abhor the atrocities the king
forced him to commit, but some part of him seemed to revel in wielding his newfound power. During the
recent engagement between the Varden and the Empire on the Burning Plains, Murtagh had singled out
the dwarf king, Hrothgar, and slain him, although Galbatorix had not ordered Murtagh to do so. He had
let Eragon and Saphira go, yes, but only after defeating them in a brutal contest of strength and then
listening to Eragon plead for their freedom.

And Murtagh had derived entirely too much pleasure from the anguish he inflicted upon Eragon by
revealing they were both sons of Morzan—first and last of the thirteen Dragon Riders, the Forsworn,
who had betrayed their compatriots to Galbatorix.

Now, four days after the battle, another explanation presented itself to Eragon:Perhaps what Murtagh
enjoyed was watching another person shoulder the same terrible burden he had carried his whole
life .

Whether or not that was true, Eragon suspected Murtagh had embraced his new role for the same
reason that a dog who has been whipped without cause will someday turn and attack his master.
Murtagh had been whipped and whipped, and now he had his chance to strike back at a world that had
shown him little enough kindness.

Yet no matter what good might still flicker in Murtagh’s breast, he and Eragon were doomed to be
mortal enemies, for Murtagh’s promises in the ancient language bound him to Galbatorix with
unbreakable fetters and would forevermore.

If only he hadn’t gone with Ajihad to hunt Urgals underneath Farthen Dûr. Or if I had just been
a little faster, the Twins—Eragon,said Saphira.


He caught himself and nodded, grateful for her intervention. Eragon did his best to avoid brooding upon
Murtagh or their shared parents, but such thoughts often waylaid him when he least expected it.

Drawing and releasing a slow breath to clear his head, Eragon tried to force his mind back to the present
but could not.

The morning after the massive battle on the Burning Plains—when the Varden were busy regrouping and
preparing to march after the Empire’s army, which had retreated several leagues up the Jiet
River—Eragon had gone to Nasuada and Arya, explained Roran’s predicament, and sought their
permission to help his cousin. He did not succeed. Both women vehemently opposed what Nasuada
described as “a harebrained scheme that will have catastrophic consequences for everyone in Alagaësia if
it goes awry!”

The debate raged on for so long, at last Saphira had interrupted with a roar that shook the walls of the
command tent. Then she said,I am sore and tired, and Eragon is doing a poor job of explaining
himself. We have better things to do than stand around yammering like jackdaws, no? . . . Good,
now listen to me .

It was, reflected Eragon, difficult to argue with a dragon.

The details of Saphira’s remarks were complex, but the underlying structure of her presentation was
straightforward. Saphira supported Eragon because she understood how much the proposed mission
meant to him, while Eragon supported Roran because of love and family, and because he knew Roran
would pursue Katrina with or without him, and his cousin would never be able to defeat the Ra’zac by
himself. Also, so long as the Empire held Katrina captive, Roran—and through him, Eragon—was
vulnerable to manipulation by Galbatorix. If the usurper threatened to kill Katrina, Roran would have no
choice but to submit to his demands.

It would be best, then, to patch this breach in their defenses before their enemies took advantage of it.

As for the timing, it was perfect. Neither Galbatorix nor the Ra’zac would expect a raid in the center of
the Empire when the Varden were busy fighting Galbatorix’s troops near the border of Surda. Murtagh
and Thorn had been seen flying toward Urû’baen—no doubt to be chastised in person—and Nasuada
and Arya agreed with Eragon that those two would probably then continue northward to confront Queen
Islanzadí and the army under her command once the elves made their first strike and revealed their
presence. And if possible, it would be good to eliminate the Ra’zac before they started to terrorize and
demoralize the Varden’s warriors.

Saphira had then pointed out, in the most diplomatic of terms, that if Nasuada asserted her authority as
Eragon’s liegelord and forbade him from participating in the sortie, it would poison their relationship with
the sort of rancor and dissent that could undermine the Varden’s cause.But, said Saphira,the choice is
yours. Keep Eragon here if you want. However, his commitments are not mine, and I, for one,
have decided to accompany Roran. It seems like a fine adventure .

A faint smile touched Eragon’s lips as he recalled the scene.

The combined weight of Saphira’s declaration and her impregnable logic had convinced Nasuada and
Arya to grant their approval, albeit grudgingly.

Afterward, Nasuada had said, “We are trusting your judgment in this, Eragon, Saphira. For your sake
and ours, I hope this expedition goes well.” Her tone left Eragon uncertain whether her words


represented a heartfelt wish or a subtle threat.

Eragon had spent the rest of that day gathering supplies, studying maps of the Empire with Saphira, and
casting what spells he felt were necessary, such as one to thwart attempts by Galbatorix or his minions to
scry Roran.

The following morning, Eragon and Roran had climbed onto Saphira’s back, and she had taken flight,
rising above the orange clouds that stifled the Burning Plains and angling northeast. She flew nonstop until
the sun had traversed the dome of the sky and extinguished itself behind the horizon and then burst forth
again with a glorious conflagration of reds and yellows.

The first leg of their journey carried them toward the edge of the Empire, which few people inhabited.
There they turned west toward Dras-Leona and Helgrind. From then on, they traveled at night to avoid
notice by anyone in the many small villages scattered across the grasslands that lay between them and
their destination.

Eragon and Roran had to swathe themselves in cloaks and furs and wool mittens and felted hats, for
Saphira chose to fly higher than the icebound peaks of most mountains—where the air was thin and dry
and stabbed at their lungs—so that if a farmer tending a sick calf in the field or a sharp-eyed watchman
making his rounds should happen to look up as she passed overhead, Saphira would appear no larger
than an eagle.

Everywhere they went, Eragon saw evidence of the war that was now afoot: camps of soldiers, wagons
full of supplies gathered into a bunch for the night, and lines of men with iron collars being led from their
homes to fight on Galbatorix’s behalf. The amount of resources deployed against them was daunting
indeed.

Near the end of the second night, Helgrind had appeared in the distance: a mass of splintered columns,
vague and ominous in the ashen light that precedes dawn. Saphira had landed in the hollow where they
were now, and they had slept through most of the past day before beginning their reconnaissance.

A fountain of amber motes billowed and swirled as Roran tossed a branch onto the disintegrating coals.
He caught Eragon’s look and shrugged. “Cold,” he said.

Before Eragon could respond, he heard a slithering scraping sound akin to someone drawing a sword.

He did not think; he flung himself in the opposite direction, rolled once, and came up into a crouch, lifting
the hawthorn staff to deflect an oncoming blow. Roran was nearly as fast. He grabbed his shield from the
ground, scrambled back from the log he had been sitting on, and drew his hammer from his belt, all in the
span of a few seconds.

They froze, waiting for the attack.

Eragon’s heart pounded and his muscles trembled as he searched the darkness for the slightest hint of
motion.

I smell nothing,said Saphira.

When several minutes elapsed without incident, Eragon pushed his mind out over the surrounding
landscape. “No one,” he said. Reaching deep within himself to the place where he could touch the flow
of magic, he uttered the words “Brisingr raudhr!” A pale red werelight popped into existence several feet


in front of him and remained there, floating at eye level and painting the hollow with a watery radiance.
He moved slightly, and the werelight mimicked his motion, as if connected to him by an invisible pole.

Together, he and Roran advanced toward where they’d heard the sound, down the gulch that wound
eastward. They held their weapons high and paused between each step, ready to defend themselves at
any moment. About ten yards from their camp, Roran held up a hand, stopping Eragon, then pointed at a
plate of shale that lay on top of the grass. It appeared conspicuously out of place. Kneeling, Roran
rubbed a smaller fragment of shale across the plate and created the same steely scrape they had heard
before.

“It must have fallen,” said Eragon, examining the sides of the gulch. He allowed the werelight to fade into
oblivion.

Roran nodded and stood, brushing dirt from his pants.

As he walked back to Saphira, Eragon considered the speed with which they had reacted. His heart still
contracted into a hard, painful knot with each beat, his hands shook, and he felt like dashing into the
wilderness and running several miles without stopping.We wouldn’t have jumped like that before, he
thought. The reason for their vigilance was no mystery: every one of their fights had chipped away at their
complacency, leaving behind nothing but raw nerves that twitched at the slightest touch.

Roran must have been entertaining similar thoughts, for he said, “Do you see them?”

“Who?”

“The men you’ve killed. Do you see them in your dreams?”

“Sometimes.”

The pulsing glow from the coals lit Roran’s face from below, forming thick shadows above his mouth
and across his forehead and giving his heavy, half-lidded eyes a baleful aspect. He spoke slowly, as if he
found the words difficult. “I never wanted to be a warrior. I dreamed of blood and glory when I was
younger, as every boy does, but the land was what was important to me. That and our family. . . . And
now I have killed. . . . I have killed and killed, and you have killed even more.” His gaze focused on
some distant place only he could see. “There were these two men in Narda. . . . Did I tell you this
before?”

He had, but Eragon shook his head and remained silent.

“They were guards at the main gate. . . . Two of them, you know, and the man on the right, he had pure
white hair. I remember because he couldn’t have been more than twenty-four, twenty-five. They wore
Galbatorix’s sigil but spoke as if they were from Narda. They weren’t professional soldiers. They were
probably just men who had decided to help protect their homes from Urgals, pirates, brigands. . . . We
weren’t going to lift a finger against them. I swear to you, Eragon, that was never part of our plan. I had
no choice, though. They recognized me. I stabbed the white-haired man underneath his chin. . . . It was
like when Father cut the throat of a pig. And then the other, I smashed open his skull. I can still feel his
bones giving way. . . . I remember every blow I’ve landed, from the soldiers in Carvahall to the ones on
the Burning Plains. . . . You know, when I close my eyes, sometimes I can’t sleep because the light from
the fire we set in the docks of Teirm is so bright in my mind. I think I’m going mad then.”

Eragon found his hands gripping the staff with such force, his knuckles were white and tendons ridged


the insides of his wrists. “Aye,” he said. “At first it was just Urgals, then it was men and Urgals, and now
this last battle. . . . I know what we do is right, butright doesn’t meaneasy . Because of who we are, the
Varden expect Saphira and me to stand at the front of their army and to slaughter entire battalions of
soldiers. We do. We have.” His voice caught, and he fell silent.

Turmoil accompanies every great change,said Saphira to both of them.And we have experienced
more than our share, for we are agents of that very change. I am a dragon, and I do not regret
the deaths of those who endanger us. Killing the guards in Narda may not be a deed worthy of
celebration, but neither is it one to feel guilty about. You had to do it. When you must fight, Roran,
does not the fierce joy of combat lend wings to your feet? Do you not know the pleasure of pitting
yourself against a worthy opponent and the satisfaction of seeing the bodies of your enemies piled
before you? Eragon, you have experienced this. Help me explain it to your cousin .

Eragon stared at the coals. She had stated a truth that he was reluctant to acknowledge, lest by agreeing
that one could enjoy violence, he would become a man he would despise. So he was mute. Across from
him, Roran appeared similarly affected.

In a softer voice, Saphira said,Do not be angry. I did not intend to upset you. . . . I forget sometimes
that you are still unaccustomed to these emotions, while I have fought tooth and nail for survival
since the day I hatched .

Rising to his feet, Eragon walked to their saddlebags and retrieved the small earthenware jar Orik had
given him before they parted, then poured two large mouthfuls of raspberry mead down his gullet.
Warmth bloomed in his stomach. Grimacing, Eragon passed the jar to Roran, who also partook of the
concoction.

Several drinks later, when the mead had succeeded in tempering his black mood, Eragon said, “We may
have a problem tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

Eragon directed his words toward Saphira as well. “Remember how I said that we—Saphira and
I—could easily handle the Ra’zac?”

“Aye.”

And so we can,said Saphira.

“Well, I was thinking about it while we spied on Helgrind, and I’m not so sure anymore. There are
almost an infinite number of ways to do something with magic. For example, if I want to light a fire, I
could light it with heat gathered from the air or the ground; I could create a flame out of pure energy; I
could summon a bolt of lightning; I could concentrate a raft of sunbeams into a single point; I could use
friction; and so forth.”

“So?”

“The problem is, even though I can devise numerous spells to perform this one action,blocking those
spells might require but a single counterspell. If you prevent the action itself from taking place, then you
don’t have to tailor your counterspell to address the unique properties of each individual spell.”

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with tomorrow.”


I do,said Saphira to both of them. She had immediately grasped the implications.It means that, over
the past century, Galbatorix —

“—may have placed wards around the Ra’zac—”

—that will protect them against—

“—a whole range of spells. I probably won’t—”

—be able to kill them with any—

“—of the words of death I was taught, nor any—”

—attacks that we can invent now or then. We may—

“—have to rely—”

“Stop!” exclaimed Roran. He gave a pained smile. “Stop, please. My head hurts when you do that.”

Eragon paused with his mouth open; until that moment, he had been unaware that he and Saphira were
speaking in turn. The knowledge pleased him: it signified that they had achieved new heights of
cooperation and were acting together as a single entity—which made them far more powerful than either
would be on their own. It also troubled him when he contemplated how such a partnership must, by its
very nature, reduce the individuality of those involved.

He closed his mouth and chuckled. “Sorry. What I’m worried about is this: if Galbatorix has had the
foresight to take certain precautions, then force of arms may be the only means by which we can slay the
Ra’zac. If that’s true—”

“I’ll just be in your way tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. You may be slower than the Ra’zac, but I have no doubt you’ll give them cause to fear your
weapon, Roran Stronghammer.” The compliment seemed to please Roran. “The greatest danger for you
is that the Ra’zac or the Lethrblaka will manage to separate you from Saphira and me. The closer we
stay together, the safer we’ll all be. Saphira and I will try to keep the Ra’zac and Lethrblaka occupied,
but some of them may slip past us. Four against two are only good odds if you’re among the four.”

To Saphira, Eragon said,If I had a sword, I’m sure I could slay the Ra’zac by myself, but I don’t
know if I can beat two creatures who are quick as elves, using nothing but this staff.

You were the one who insisted on carrying that dry twig instead of a proper weapon,she said.
Remember, I told you it might not suffice against enemies as dangerous as the Ra’zac.

Eragon reluctantly conceded the point.If my spells fail us, we will be far more vulnerable than I
expected. . . . Tomorrow could end very badly indeed .

Continuing the strand of conversation he had been privy to, Roran said, “This magic is a tricky business.”
The log he sat on gave a drawn-out groan as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“It is,” Eragon agreed. “The hardest part is trying to anticipate every possible spell; I spend most of my


time asking how can I protect myself if I’m attacked likethis and would another magician expect me to
dothat .”

“Could you make me as strong and fast as you are?”

Eragon considered the suggestion for several minutes before saying, “I don’t see how. The energy
needed to do that would have to come from somewhere. Saphira and I could give it to you, but then we
would lose as much speed or strength as you gained.” What he did not mention was that one could also
extract energy from nearby plants and animals, albeit at a terrible price: namely, the deaths of the smaller
beings whose life force you drew upon. The technique was a great secret, and Eragon felt that he should
not reveal it lightly, if at all. Moreover, it would be of no use to Roran, as too little grew or lived on
Helgrind to fuel a man’s body.

“Then can you teach me to use magic?” When Eragon hesitated, Roran added, “Not now, of course.
We don’t have the time, and I don’t expect one can become a magician overnight anyway. But in
general, why not? You and I are cousins. We share much the same blood. And it would be a valuable
skill to have.”

“I don’t know how someone who’s not a Rider learns to use magic,” confessed Eragon. “It’s not
something I studied.” Glancing around, he plucked a flat, round stone from the ground and tossed it to
Roran, who caught it backhand. “Here, try this: concentrate on lifting the rock a foot or so into the air
and say, ‘Stenr rïsa.’ ”

“Stenr rïsa?”

“Exactly.”

Roran frowned at the stone resting on his palm in a pose so reminiscent of Eragon’s own training that
Eragon could not help feeling a flash of nostalgia for the days he spent being drilled by Brom.

Roran’s eyebrows met, his lips tightened into a snarl, and he growled, “Stenr rïsa!” with enough intensity,
Eragon half expected the stone to fly out of sight.

Nothing happened.

Scowling even harder, Roran repeated his command: “Stenr rïsa!”

The stone exhibited a profound lack of movement.

“Well,” said Eragon, “keep trying. That’s the only advice I can give you. But”—and here he raised a
finger—“if youshould happen to succeed, make sure you immediately come to me or, if I’m not around,
another magician. You could kill yourself and others if you start experimenting with magic without
understanding the rules. If nothing else, remember this: if you cast a spell that requires too much energy,
youwill die. Don’t take on projects that are beyond your abilities, don’t try to bring back the dead, and
don’t try to unmake anything.”

Roran nodded, still looking at the stone.

“Magic aside, I just realized there’s something far more important that you need to learn.”

“Oh?”


“Yes, you need to be able to hide your thoughts from the Black Hand, Du Vrangr Gata, and others like
them. You know a lot of things now that could harm the Varden. It’s crucial, then, that you master this
skill as soon as we return. Until you can defend yourself from spies, neither Nasuada nor I nor anyone
else can trust you with information that might help our enemies.”

“I understand. But why did you include Du Vrangr Gata in that list? They serve you and Nasuada.”

“They do, but even among our allies there are more than a few people who would give their right
arm”—he grimaced at the appropriateness of the phrase—“to ferret out our plans and secrets. And
yours too, no less. You have become asomebody, Roran. Partly because of your deeds, and partly
because we are related.”

“I know. It is strange to be recognized by those you have not met.”

“That it is.” Several other, related observations leaped to the tip of Eragon’s tongue, but he resisted the
urge to pursue the topic; it was a subject to explore another time. “Now that you know what it feels like
when one mind touches another, you might be able to learn to reach out and touch other minds in turn.”

“I’m not sure that is an ability I want to have.”

“No matter; you also mightnot be able to do it. Either way, before you spend time finding out, you
should first devote yourself to the art of defense.”

His cousin cocked an eyebrow. “How?”

“Choose something—a sound, an image, an emotion, anything—and let it swell within your mind until it
blots out any other thoughts.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s not as easy as you think. Go on; take a stab at it. When you’re ready, let me know, and I’ll see
how well you’ve done.”

Several moments passed. Then, at a flick of Roran’s fingers, Eragon launched his consciousness toward
his cousin, eager to discover what he had accomplished.

The full strength of Eragon’s mental ray rammed into a wall composed of Roran’s memories of Katrina
and was stopped. He could take no ground, find no entrance or purchase, nor undermine the
impenetrable barrier that stood before him. At that instant, Roran’s entire identity was based upon his
feelings for Katrina; his defenses exceeded any Eragon had previously encountered, for Roran’s mind
was devoid of anything else Eragon could grasp hold of and use to gain control over his cousin.

Then Roran shifted his left leg and the wood underneath released a harsh squeal.

With that, the wall Eragon had hurled himself against fractured into dozens of pieces as a host of
competing thoughts distracted Roran:What was . . . Blast! Don’t pay attention to it; he’ll break
through. Katrina, remember Katrina. Ignore Eragon. The night she agreed to marry me, the smell
of the grass and her hair . . . Is that him? No! Focus! Don’t—

Taking advantage of Roran’s confusion, Eragon rushed forward and, by the force of his will, immobilized


Roran before he could shield himself again.

You understand the basic concept,said Eragon, then withdrew from Roran’s mind and said out loud,
“but you have to learn to maintain your concentration even when you’re in the middle of a battle. You
must learn to think without thinking . . . to empty yourself of all hopes and worries, save that one idea that
is your armor. Something the elves taught me, which I have found helpful, is to recite a riddle or a piece
of a poem or song. Having an action that you can repeat over and over again makes it much easier to
keep your mind from straying.”

“I’ll work on it,” promised Roran.

In a quiet voice, Eragon said, “You really love her, don’t you?” It was more a statement of truth and
wonder than a question—the answer being self-evident—and one he felt uncertain making. Romance
was not a topic Eragon had broached with his cousin before, notwithstanding the many hours they had
devoted in years past to debating the relative merits of the young women in and around Carvahall. “How
did it happen?”

“I liked her. She liked me. What importance are the details?”

“Come now,” said Eragon. “I was too angry to ask before you left for Therinsford, and we have not
seen each other again until just four days ago. I’m curious.”

The skin around Roran’s eyes pulled and wrinkled as he rubbed his temples. “There’s not much to tell.
I’ve always been partial to her. It meant little before I was a man, but after my rites of passage, I began
to wonder whom I would marry and whom I wanted to become the mother of my children. During one of
our visits to Carvahall, I saw Katrina stop by the side of Loring’s house to pick a moss rose growing in
the shade of the eaves. She smiled as she looked at the flower. . . . It was such a tender smile, and so
happy, I decided right then that I wanted to make her smile like that again and again and that I wanted to
look at that smile until the day I died.” Tears gleamed in Roran’s eyes, but they did not fall, and a second
later, he blinked and they vanished. “I fear I have failed in that regard.”

After a respectful pause, Eragon said, “You courted her, then?

Aside from using me to ferry compliments to Katrina, how else did you proceed?”

“You ask like one who seeks instruction.”

“I did not. You’re imagining—”

“Come now, yourself,” said Roran. “I know when you’re lying. You get that big foolish grin, and your
ears turn red. The elves may have given you a new face, but that part of you hasn’t changed. What is it
that exists between you and Arya?”

The strength of Roran’s perception disturbed Eragon. “Nothing! The moon has addled your brain.”

“Be honest. You dote upon her words as if each one were a diamond, and your gaze lingers upon her as
if you were starving and she a grand feast arrayed an inch beyond your reach.”

A plume of dark gray smoke erupted from Saphira’s nostrils as she made a choking-like noise.

Eragon ignored her suppressed merriment and said, “Arya is an elf.”


“And very beautiful. Pointed ears and slanted eyes are small flaws when compared with her charms.
You look like a cat yourself now.”

“Arya is over a hundred years old.”

That particular piece of information caught Roran by surprise; his eyebrows went up, and he said, “I find
that hard to believe! She’s in the prime of her youth.”

“It’s true.”

“Well, be that as it may, these are reasons you give me, Eragon, and the heart rarely listens to reason.
Do you fancy her or not?”

If he fancied her any more,Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran,I’d be trying to kiss Arya myself .

Saphira!Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.

Roran was prudent enough not to rib Eragon further. “Then answer my original question and tell me how
things stand between you and Arya. Have you spoken to her or her family about this? I have found it’s
unwise to let such matters fester.”

“Aye,” said Eragon, and stared at the length of polished hawthorn. “I spoke with her.”

“To what end?” When Eragon did not immediately reply, Roran uttered a frustrated exclamation.
“Getting answers out of you is harder than dragging Birka through the mud.” Eragon chuckled at the
mention of Birka, one of their draft horses. “Saphira, will you solve this puzzle for me? Otherwise, I fear
I’ll never get a full explanation.”

“To no end. No end at all. She’ll not have me.” Eragon spoke dispassionately, as if commenting on a
stranger’s misfortune, but within him raged a torrent of hurt so deep and wild, he felt Saphira withdraw
somewhat from him.

“I’m sorry,” said Roran.

Eragon forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, past the bruise that was his heart, and down to the
knotted skein of his stomach. “It happens.”

“I know it may seem unlikely at the moment,” said Roran, “but I’m sure you will meet another woman
who will make you forget this Arya. There are countless maids—and more than a few married women,
I’d wager—who would be delighted to catch the eye of a Rider. You’ll have no trouble finding a wife
among all the lovelies in Alagaësia.”

“And what would you have done if Katrina rejected your suit?”

The question struck Roran dumb; it was obvious he could not imagine how he might have reacted.

Eragon continued. “Contrary to what you, Arya, and everyone else seem to believe, Iam aware that
other eligible women exist in Alagaësia and that people have been known to fall in love more than once.
No doubt, if I spent my days in the company of ladies from King Orrin’s court, I might indeed decide
that I fancy one. However, my path is not so easy as that. Regardless of whether I can shift my affections


to another—and the heart, as you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast—the question remains: should
I?”

“Your tongue has grown as twisted as the roots of a fir tree,” said Roran. “Speak not in riddles.”
“Very well: what human woman can begin to understand who and what I am, or the extent of my
powers? Who could share in my life? Few enough, and all of them magicians. And of that select group,
or even of women in general, how many are immortal?”

Roran laughed, a rough, hearty bellow that rang loud in the gulch. “You might as well ask for the sun in
your pocket or—” He stopped and tensed as if he were about to spring forward and then became
unnaturally still. “You cannot be.”

“I am.”
Roran struggled to find words. “Is it a result of your change in Ellesméra, or is it part of being a Rider?”
“Part of being a Rider.”
“That explains why Galbatorix hasn’t died.”
“Aye.”
The branch Roran had added to the fire burst asunder with a mutedpop as the coals underneath heated


the gnarled length of wood to the point where a small cache of water or sap that had somehow evaded


the rays of the sun for untold decades exploded into steam.
“The idea is so . . .vast, it’s almost inconceivable,” said Roran. “Death is part of who we are. It guides
us. It shapes us. It drives us to madness. Can you still be human if you have no mortal end?”


“I’m not invincible,” Eragon pointed out. “I can still be killed with a sword or an arrow. And I can still
catch some incurable disease.”
“But if you avoid those dangers, you will live forever.”
“If I do, then yes. Saphira and I willendure.”


“It seems both a blessing and a curse.”
“Aye. I cannot in good conscience marry a woman who will age and die while I remain untouched by
time; such an experience would be equally cruel for both of us. On top of that, I find the thought of taking
one wife after another throughout the long centuries rather depressing.”


“Can you make someone immortal with magic?” asked Roran.
“You can darken white hair, you can smooth wrinkles and remove cataracts, and if you are willing to go
to extraordinary lengths, you can give a sixty-year-old man the body he had at nineteen. However, the
elves have never discovered a way to restore a person’s mind without destroying his or her memories.
And who wants to erase their identity every so many decades in exchange for immortality? It would be a
stranger, then, who lived on. An old brain in a young body isn’t the answer either, for even with the best
of health, that which we humans are made of can only last for a century, perhaps a bit more. Nor can you


just stop someone from aging. That causes a whole host of other problems. . . . Oh, elves and men have
tried a thousand and one different ways to foil death, but none have proved successful.”

“In other words,” said Roran, “it’s safer for you to love Arya than to leave your heart free for the taking
by a human woman.”

“Who elsecan I marry but an elf? Especially considering how I look now.” Eragon quelled the desire to
reach up and finger the curved tips of his ears, a habit he had fallen into. “When I lived in Ellesméra, it
was easy for me to accept how the dragons had changed my appearance. After all, they gave me many
gifts besides. Also, the elves were friendlier toward me after the Agaetí Blödhren. It was only when I
rejoined the Varden that I realized howdifferent I’ve become. . . . It bothers me too. I’m no longer just
human, and I’m not quite an elf. I’m something else in between: a mix, a halfbreed.”

“Cheer up!” said Roran. “You may not have to worry about living forever. Galbatorix, Murtagh, the
Ra’zac, or even one of the Empire’s soldiers could put steel through us at any moment. A wise man
would ignore the future and drink and carouse while he still has an opportunity to enjoy this world.”

“I know what Father would say to that.”

“And he’d give us a good hiding to boot.”

They shared a laugh, and then the silence that so often intruded on their discussion asserted itself once
again, a gap born of equal parts weariness, familiarity, and—conversely—the many differences that fate
had created between those who had once gone about lives that were but variations on a single melody.

You should sleep,said Saphira to Eragon and Roran.It’s late, and we must rise early tomorrow .

Eragon looked at the black vault of the sky, judging the hour by how far the stars had rotated. The night
was older than he expected. “Sound advice,” he said. “I just wish we had a few more days to rest before
we storm Helgrind. The battle on the Burning Plains drained all of Saphira’s strength and my own, and
we have not fully recovered, what with flying here and the energy I transferred into the belt of Beloth the
Wise these past two evenings. My limbs still ache, and I have more bruises than I can count. Look. . . .”
Loosening the ties on the cuff of his left shirtsleeve, he pushed back the soft lámarae—a fabric the elves
made by cross-weaving wool and nettle threads—revealing a rancid yellow streak where his shield had
mashed against his forearm.

“Ha!” said Roran. “You call that tiny little mark a bruise? I hurt myself worse when I bumped my toe this
morning. Here, I’ll show you a bruise a man can be proud of.” He unlaced his left boot, pulled it off, and
rolled up the leg of his trousers to expose a black stripe as wide as Eragon’s thumb that slanted across
his quadriceps. “I caught the haft of a spear as a soldier was turning about.”

“Impressive, but I have even better.” Ducking out of his tunic, Eragon yanked his shirt free of his
trousers and twisted to the side so that Roran could see the large blotch on his ribs and the similar
discoloration on his belly. “Arrows,” he explained. Then he uncovered his right forearm, revealing a
bruise that matched the one on his other arm, given when he had deflected a sword with his bracer.

Now Roran bared a collection of irregular blue-green spots, each the size of a gold coin, that marched
from his left armpit down to the base of his spine, the result of having fallen upon a jumble of rocks and
embossed armor.

Eragon inspected the lesions, then chuckled and said, “Pshaw, those are pinpricks! Did you get lost and


run into a rosebush? I have one that puts those to shame.” He removed both his boots, then stood and
dropped his trousers, so that his only garb was his shirt and woolen underpants. “Top that if you can,” he
said, and pointed to the inside of his thighs. A riotous combination of colors mottled his skin, as if Eragon
were an exotic fruit that was ripening in uneven patches from crabapple green to putrefied purple.

“Ouch,” said Roran. “What happened?”

“I jumped off Saphira when we were fighting Murtagh and Thorn in the air. That’s how I wounded
Thorn. Saphira managed to dive under me and catch me before I hit the ground, but I landed on her back
a bit harder than I wanted to.”

Roran winced and shivered at the same time. “Does it go all the way . . .” He trailed off, and made a
vague gesture upward.

“Unfortunately.”

“I have to admit, that’s a remarkable bruise. You should be proud; it’s quite a feat to get injured in the
manner you did and in that . . .particular . . . place.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it.”

“Well,” said Roran, “you may have the biggest bruise, but the Ra’zac dealt me a wound the likes of
which you cannot match, since the dragons, as I understand, removed the scar from your back.” While
he spoke, he divested himself of his shirt and moved farther into the pulsing light of the coals.

Eragon’s eyes widened before he caught himself and concealed his shock behind a more neutral
expression. He berated himself for overreacting, thinking,It can’t be that bad, but the longer he studied
Roran, the more dismayed he became.

A long, puckered scar, red and glossy, wrapped around Roran’s right shoulder, starting at his collarbone
and ending just past the middle of his arm. It was obvious that the Ra’zac had severed part of the muscle
and that the two ends had failed to heal back together, for an unsightly bulge deformed the skin below the
scar, where the underlying fibers had recoiled upon themselves. Farther up, the skin had sunk inward,
forming a depression half an inch deep.

“Roran! You should have shown this to me days ago. I had no idea the Ra’zac hurt you so badly. . . .
Do you have any difficulty moving your arm?”

“Not to the side or back,” said Roran. He demonstrated. “But in the front, I can only lift my hand about
as high as . . . midchest.” Grimacing, he lowered his arm. “Even that’s a struggle; I have to keep my
thumb level, or else my arm goes dead. The best way I’ve found is to swing my arm around from behind
and let it land on whatever I’m trying to grasp. I skinned my knuckles a few times before I mastered the
trick.”

Eragon twisted the staff between his hands.Should I? he asked Saphira.

I think you must.

We may regret it tomorrow.

You will have more cause for regret if Roran dies because he could not wield his hammer when


the occasion demanded. If you draw upon the resources around us, you can avoid tiring yourself
further.

You know I hate doing that. Even talking about it sickens me.

Our lives are more important than an ant’s,Saphira countered.

Not to an ant.

And are you an ant? Don’t be glib, Eragon; it ill becomes you.

With a sigh, Eragon put down the staff and beckoned to Roran.

“Here, I’ll heal that for you.”

“You can do that?”

“Obviously.”

A momentary surge of excitement brightened Roran’s face, but then he hesitated and looked troubled.
“Now? Is that wise?”

“As Saphira said, better I tend to you while I have the chance, lest your injury cost you your life or
endanger the rest of us.” Roran drew near, and Eragon placed his right hand over the red scar while, at
the same time, expanding his consciousness to encompass the trees and the plants and the animals that
populated the gulch, save those he feared were too weak to survive his spell.

Then Eragon began to chant in the ancient language. The incantation he recited was long and complex.
Repairing such a wound went far beyond growing new skin and was a difficult matter at best. In this,
Eragon relied upon the curative formulas that he had studied in Ellesméra and had devoted so many
weeks to memorizing.

The silvery mark on Eragon’s palm, the gedwëy ignasia, glowed white-hot as he released the magic. A
second later, he uttered an involuntary groan as he died three times, once each with two small birds
roosting in a nearby juniper and also with a snake hidden among the rocks. Across from him, Roran
threw back his head and bared his teeth in a soundless howl as his shoulder muscle jumped and writhed
beneath the surface of his shifting skin.

Then it was over.

Eragon inhaled a shuddering breath and rested his head in his hands, taking advantage of the
concealment they provided to wipe away his tears before he examined the results of his labor. He saw
Roran shrug several times and then stretch and windmill his arms. Roran’s shoulder was large and round,
the result of years spent digging holes for fence posts, hauling rocks, and pitching hay. Despite himself, a
needle of envy pricked Eragon. He might be stronger, but he had never been as muscular as his cousin.

Roran grinned. “It’s as good as ever! Better, maybe. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It was the strangest thing. I actually felt as if I was going to crawl out of my hide. And it itched


something terrible; I could barely keep from ripping—”

“Get me some bread from your saddlebag, would you? I’m hungry.”

“We just had dinner.”

“I need a bite to eat after using magic like that.” Eragon sniffed and then pulled out his kerchief and
wiped his nose. He sniffed again. What he had said was not quite true. It was the toll his spell had
exacted on the wildlife that disturbed him, not the magic itself, and he feared he might throw up unless he
had something to settle his stomach.

“You’re not ill, are you?” asked Roran.

“No.” With the memory of the deaths he had caused still heavy in his mind, Eragon reached for the jar of
mead by his side, hoping to fend off a tide of morbid thoughts.

Something very large, heavy, and sharp struck his hand and pinned it against the ground. He winced and
looked over to see the tip of one of Saphira’s ivory claws digging into his flesh. Her thick eyelid went
snick as it flashed across the great big glittering iris she fixed upon him. After a long moment, she lifted
the claw, as a person would a finger, and Eragon withdrew his hand. He gulped and gripped the
hawthorn staff once more, striving to ignore the mead and to concentrate upon what was immediate and
tangible, instead of wallowing in dismal introspection.

Roran removed a ragged half of sourdough bread from his bags, then paused and, with a hint of a smile,
said, “Wouldn’t you rather have some venison? I didn’t finish all of mine.” He held out the makeshift spit
of seared juniper wood, on which were impaled three clumps of golden brown meat. To Eragon’s
sensitive nose, the odor that wafted toward him was thick and pungent and reminded him of nights he had
spent in the Spine and of long winter dinners where he, Roran, and Garrow had gathered around their
stove and enjoyed each other’s company while a blizzard howled outside. His mouth watered. “It’s still
warm,” said Roran, and waved the venison in front of Eragon.

With an effort of will, Eragon shook his head. “Just give me the bread.”

“Are you sure? It’s perfect: not too tough, not too tender, and cooked with the perfect amount of
seasoning. It’s so juicy, when you take a bite, it’s as if you swallowed a mouthful of Elain’s best stew.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You know you’ll like it.”

“Roran, stop teasing me and hand over that bread!”

“Ah, now see, you look better already. Maybe what you need isn’t bread but someone to get your
hackles up, eh?”

Eragon glowered at him, then, faster than the eye could see, snatched the bread away from Roran.

That seemed to amuse Roran even more. As Eragon tore at the loaf, he said, “I don’t know how you
can survive on nothing but fruit, bread, and vegetables. A man has to eat meat if he wants to keep his
strength up. Don’t you miss it?”


“More than you can imagine.”

“Then why do you insist on torturing yourself like this? Every creature in this world has to eat other living
beings—even if they are only plants—in order to survive. That is how we are made. Why attempt to defy
the natural order of things?”

I said much the same in Ellesméra,observed Saphira,but he did not listen to me .

Eragon shrugged. “We already had this discussion. You do what you want. I won’t tell you or anyone
else how to live. However, I cannot in good conscience eat a beast whose thoughts and feelings I’ve
shared.”

The tip of Saphira’s tail twitched, and her scales clinked against a worn dome of rock that protruded
from the ground.Oh, he’s hopeless . Lifting and extending her neck, Saphira nipped the venison, spit and
all, from Roran’s other hand. The wood cracked between her serrated teeth as she bit down, and then it
and the meat vanished into the fiery depths of her belly.Mmm. You did not exaggerate, she said to
Roran.What a sweet and succulent morsel: so soft, so salty, so deliciously delectable, it makes me
want to wiggle with delight. You should cook for me more often, Roran Stronghammer. Only next
time, I think you should prepare several deer at once. Otherwise, I won’t get a proper meal .

Roran hesitated, as if unable to decide whether her request was serious and, if so, how he could politely
extricate himself from such an unlooked-for and rather onerous obligation. He cast a pleading glance at
Eragon, who burst out laughing, both at Roran’s expression and at his predicament.

The rise and fall of Saphira’s sonorous laugh joined with Eragon’s and reverberated throughout the
hollow. Her teeth gleamed madder red in the light from the embers.

An hour after the three of them had retired, Eragon was lying on his back alongside Saphira, muffled in
layers of blankets against the night cold. All was still and quiet. It seemed as if a magician had placed an
enchantment upon the earth and that everything in the world was bound in an eternal sleep and would
remain frozen and unchanging forevermore underneath the watchful gaze of the twinkling stars.

Without moving, Eragon whispered in his mind:Saphira?

Yes, little one?

What if I’m right and he’s in Helgrind? I don’t know what I should do then. . . . Tell me what I
should do.

I cannot, little one. This is a decision you have to make by yourself. The ways of men are not the
ways of dragons. I would tear off his head and feast on his body, but that would be wrong for you,
I think.

Will you stand by me, whatever I decide?

Always, little one. Now rest. All will be well.

Comforted, Eragon gazed into the void between the stars and slowed his breathing as he drifted into the
trance that had replaced sleep for him. He remained conscious of his surroundings, but against the
backdrop of the white constellations, the figures of his waking dreams strode forth and performed


confused and shadowy plays, as was their wont.

ASSAULT ONHELGRIND

Daybreak was fifteen minutes away when Eragon rolled upright. He snapped his fingers twice to wake
Roran and then scooped up his blankets and knotted them into a tight bundle.

Pushing himself off the ground, Roran did likewise with his own bedding.

They looked at each other and shivered with excitement.

“If I die,” said Roran, “you will see to Katrina?”

“I shall.”

“Tell her then that I went into battle with joy in my heart and her name upon my lips.”

“I shall.”

Eragon muttered a quick line in the ancient language. The drop in his strength that followed was almost
imperceptible. “There. That will filter the air in front of us and protect us from the paralyzing effects of the
Ra’zac’s breath.”

From his bags, Eragon removed his shirt of mail and unwrapped the length of sackcloth he had stored it
in. Blood from the fight on the Burning Plains still encrusted the once-shining corselet, and the
combination of dried gore, sweat, and neglect had allowed blotches of rust to creep across the rings. The
mail was, however, free of tears, as Eragon had repaired them before they had departed for the Empire.

Eragon donned the leather-backed shirt, wrinkling his nose at the stench of death and desperation that
clung to it, then attached chased bracers to his forearms and greaves to his shins. Upon his head he
placed a padded arming cap, a mail coif, and a plain steel helm. He had lost his own helm—the one he
had worn in Farthen Dûr and that the dwarves had engraved with the crest of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum—along
with his shield during the aerial duel between Saphira and Thorn. On his hands went mailed gauntlets.

Roran outfitted himself in a similar manner, although he augmented his armor with a wooden shield. A
band of soft iron wrapped around the lip of the shield, the better to catch and hold an enemy’s sword.
No shield encumbered Eragon’s left arm; the hawthorn staff required two hands to wield properly.

Across his back, Eragon slung the quiver given to him by Queen Islanzadí. In addition to twenty heavy
oak arrows fletched with gray goose feathers, the quiver contained the bow with silver fittings that the
queen had sung out of a yew tree for him. The bow was already strung and ready for use.

Saphira kneaded the soil beneath her feet.Let us be off!

Leaving their bags and supplies hanging from the branch of a juniper tree, Eragon and Roran clambered
onto Saphira’s back. They wasted no time saddling her; she had worn her tack through the night. The


molded leather was warm, almost hot, underneath Eragon. He clutched the neck spike in front of
him—to steady himself during sudden changes in direction—while Roran hooked one thick arm around
Eragon’s waist and brandished his hammer with the other.

A piece of shale cracked under Saphira’s weight as she settled into a low crouch and, in a single giddy
bound, leaped up to the rim of the gulch, where she balanced for a moment before unfolding her massive
wings. The thin membranes thrummed as Saphira raised them toward the sky. Vertical, they looked like
two translucent blue sails.

“Not so tight,” grunted Eragon.

“Sorry,” said Roran. He loosened his embrace.

Further speech became impossible as Saphira jumped again.

When she reached the pinnacle, she brought her wings down with a mightywhoosh, driving the three of
them even higher. With each subsequent flap, they climbed closer to the flat, narrow clouds.

As Saphira angled toward Helgrind, Eragon glanced to his left and discovered that he could see a broad
swath of Leona Lake some miles distant. A thick layer of mist, gray and ghostly in the predawn glow,
emanated from the water, as if witchfire burned upon the surface of the liquid. Eragon tried, but even with
his hawklike vision, he could not make out the far shore, nor the southern reaches of the Spine beyond,
which he regretted. It had been too long since he had laid eyes upon the mountain range of his childhood.

To the north stood Dras-Leona, a huge, rambling mass that appeared as a blocky silhouette against the
wall of mist that edged its western flank. The one building Eragon could identify was the cathedral where
the Ra’zac had attacked him; its flanged spire loomed above the rest of the city, like a barbed spearhead.

And somewhere in the landscape that rushed past below, Eragon knew, were the remnants of the
campsite where the Ra’zac had mortally wounded Brom. He allowed all of his anger and grief over the
events of that day—as well as Garrow’s murder and the destruction of their farm—to surge forth and
give him the courage, nay, thedesire, to face the Ra’zac in combat.

Eragon,said Saphira.Today we need not guard our minds and keep our thoughts secret from one
another, do we?

Not unless another magician should appear.

A fan of golden light flared into existence as the top of the sun crested the horizon. In an instant, the full
spectrum of colors enlivened the previously drab world: the mist glowed white, the water became a rich
blue, the daubed-mud wall that encircled the center of Dras-Leona revealed its dingy yellow sides, the
trees cloaked themselves in every shade of green, and the soil blushed red and orange. Helgrind,
however, remained as it always was—black.

The mountain of stone rapidly grew larger as they approached. Even from the air, it was intimidating.

Diving toward the base of Helgrind, Saphira tilted so far to her left, Eragon and Roran would have fallen
if they had not already strapped their legs to the saddle. Then she whipped around the apron of scree and
over the altar where the priests of Helgrind observed their ceremonies. The lip of Eragon’s helm caught
the wind from her passage and produced a howl that almost deafened him.


“Well?” shouted Roran. He could not see in front of them.

“The slaves are gone!”

A great weight seemed to press Eragon into his seat as Saphira pulled out of her dive and spiraled up
around Helgrind, searching for an entrance to the Ra’zac’s hideout.

Not even a hole big enough for a woodrat,she declared. She slowed and hung in place before a ridge
that connected the third lowest of the four peaks to the prominence above. The jagged buttress magnified
the boom produced by each stroke of her wings until it was as loud as a thunderclap. Eragon’s eyes
watered as the air pulsed against his skin.

A web of white veins adorned the backside of the crags and pillars, where hoarfrost had collected in the
cracks that furrowed the rock. Nothing else disturbed the gloom of Helgrind’s inky, windswept ramparts.
No trees grew among the slanting stones, nor shrubs, grass, or lichen, nor did eagles dare nest upon the
tower’s broken ledges. True to its name, Helgrind was a place of death, and stood cloaked in the
razor-sharp, sawtooth folds of its scarps and clefts like a bony specter risen to haunt the earth.

Casting his mind outward, Eragon confirmed the presence of the two people whom he had discovered
imprisoned within Helgrind the previous day, but he felt nothing of the slaves, and to his concern, he still
could not locate the Ra’zac or the Lethrblaka.If they aren’t here, then where? he wondered. Searching
again, he noticed something that had eluded him before: a single flower, a gentian, blooming not fifty feet
in front of them, where, by all rights, there ought to be solid rock.How does it get enough light to live?

Saphira answered his question by perching on a crumbling spur several feet to the right. As she did, she
lost her balance for a moment and flared her wings to steady herself. Instead of brushing against the bulk
of Helgrind, the tip of her right wing dipped into the rock and then back out again.

Saphira, did you see that!

I did.

Leaning forward, Saphira pushed the tip of her snout toward the sheer rock, paused an inch or two
away—as if waiting for a trap to spring—then continued her advance. Scale by scale, Saphira’s head slid
into Helgrind, until all that was visible of her to Eragon was a neck, torso, and wings.

It’s an illusion!exclaimed Saphira.

With a surge of her mighty thews, she abandoned the spur and flung the rest of her body after her head.
It required every bit of Eragon’s self-control not to cover his face in a desperate bid to protect himself as
the crag rushed toward him.

An instant later, he found himself looking at a broad, vaulted cave suffused with the warm glow of
morning. Saphira’s scales refracted the light, casting thousands of shifting blue flecks across the rock.
Twisting around, Eragon saw no wall behind them, only the mouth of the cave and a sweeping view of
the landscape beyond.

Eragon grimaced. It had never occurred to him that Galbatorix might have hidden the Ra’zac’s lair with
magic.Idiot! I have to do better, he thought. Underestimating the king was a sure way to get them all
killed.


Roran swore and said, “Warn me before you do something like that again.”

Hunching forward, Eragon began to unbuckle his legs from the saddle as he studied their surroundings,
alert for danger.

The opening to the cave was an irregular oval, perhaps fifty feet high and sixty feet wide. From there the
chamber expanded to twice that size before ending a good bowshot away in a pile of thick stone slabs
that leaned against each other in a confusion of uncertain angles. A mat of scratches defaced the floor,
evidence of the many times the Lethrblaka had taken off from, landed on, and walked about its surface.
Like mysterious keyholes, five low tunnels pierced the sides of the cave, as did a lancet passageway large
enough to accommodate Saphira. Eragon examined the tunnels carefully, but they were pitch-black and
appeared vacant, a fact he confirmed with quick thrusts of his mind. Strange, disjointed murmurs echoed
from within Helgrind’s innards, suggesting unknownthings scurrying about in the dark, and endlessly
dripping water. Adding to the chorus of whispers was the steady rise and fall of Saphira’s breathing,
which was overloud in the confines of the bare chamber.

The most distinctive feature of the cavern, however, was the mixture of odors that pervaded it. The smell
of cold stone dominated, but underneath Eragon discerned whiffs of damp and mold and something far
worse: the sickly sweet fetor of rotting meat.

Undoing the last few straps, Eragon swung his right leg over Saphira’s spine, so he was sitting
sidesaddle, and prepared to jump off her back. Roran did the same on the opposite side.

Before he released his hold, Eragon heard, amid the many rustlings that teased his ear, a score of
simultaneous clicks, as if someone had struck the rock with a collection of hammers. The sound repeated
itself a half second later.

He looked in the direction of the noise, as did Saphira.

A huge, twisted shape hurtled out of the lancet passageway. Eyes black, bulging, rimless. A beak seven
feet long. Batlike wings. The torso naked, hairless, rippling with muscle. Claws like iron spikes.

Saphira lurched as she tried to evade the Lethrblaka, but to no avail. The creature crashed into her right
side with what felt to Eragon like the strength and fury of an avalanche.

What exactly happened next, he knew not, for the impact sent him tumbling through space without so
much as a half-formed thought in his jumbled brain. His blind flight ended as abruptly as it began when
something hard and flat rammed against the back of him, and he dropped to the floor, banging his head a
second time.

That last collision drove the remaining air clean out of Eragon’s lungs. Stunned, he lay curled on his side,
gasping and struggling to regain a semblance of control over his unresponsive limbs.

Eragon!cried Saphira.

The concern in her voice fueled Eragon’s efforts as nothing else could. As life returned to his arms and
legs, he reached out and grasped his staff from where it had fallen beside him. He planted the spike
mounted on the staff’s lower end into a nearby crack and pulled himself up the hawthorn rod and onto his
feet. He swayed. A swarm of crimson sparks danced before him.

The situation was so confusing, he hardly knew where to look first.


Saphira and the Lethrblaka rolled across the cave, kicking and clawing and snapping at each other with
enough force to gouge the rock beneath them. The clamor of their fight must have been unimaginably
loud, but to Eragon they grappled in silence; his ears did not work. Still, he felt the vibrations through the
soles of his feet as the colossal beasts thrashed from side to side, threatening to crush anyone who came
near them.

A torrent of blue fire erupted from between Saphira’s jaws and bathed the left side of the Lethrblaka’s
head in a ravening inferno hot enough to melt steel. The flames curved around the Lethrblaka without
harming it. Undeterred, the monster pecked at Saphira’s neck, forcing her to stop and defend herself.

Fast as an arrow loosed from a bow, the second Lethrblaka darted out of the lancet passageway,
pounced upon Saphira’s flank, and, opening its narrow beak, uttered a horrible, withering shriek that
made Eragon’s scalp prickle and a cold lump of dread form in his gut. He snarled in discomfort;that he
could hear.

The smell now, with both Lethrblaka present, resembled the sort of overpowering stench one would get
from tossing a half-dozen pounds of rancid meat into a barrel of sewage and allowing the mixture to
ferment for a week in summer.

Eragon clamped his mouth shut as his gorge rose and turned his attention elsewhere to keep from
retching.

A few paces away, Roran lay crumpled against the side of the cave, where he too had landed. Even as
Eragon watched, his cousin lifted an arm and pushed himself onto all fours and then to his feet. His eyes
were glazed, and he tottered as if drunk.

Behind Roran, the two Ra’zac emerged from a nearby tunnel. They wielded long, pale blades of an
ancient design in their malformed hands. Unlike their parents, the Ra’zac were roughly the same size and
shape as humans. An ebony exoskeleton encased them from top to bottom, although little of it showed,
for even in Helgrind, the Ra’zac wore dark robes and cloaks.

They advanced with startling swiftness, their movements sharp and jerky like those of an insect.

And yet, Eragon still could not sense them or the Lethrblaka.Are they an illusion too? he wondered.
But no, that was nonsense; the flesh Saphira tore at with her talons was real enough. Another explanation
occurred to him: perhaps it wasimpossible to detect their presence. Perhaps the Ra’zac could conceal
themselves from the minds of humans, their prey, just as spiders conceal themselves from flies. If so, then
Eragon finally understood why the Ra’zac had been so successful hunting magicians and Riders for
Galbatorix when they themselves could not use magic.

Blast!Eragon would have indulged in more colorful oaths, but it was time for action, not cursing their bad
luck. Brom had claimed the Ra’zac were no match for him in broad daylight, and while that might have
been true—given that Brom had had decades to invent spells to use against the Ra’zac—Eragon knew
that, without the advantage of surprise, he, Saphira, and Roran would be hard-pressed to escape with
their lives, much less rescue Katrina.

Raising his right hand above his head, Eragon cried,“Brisingr!” and threw a roaring fireball toward the
Ra’zac. They dodged, and the fireball splashed against the rock floor, guttered for a moment, and then
winked out of existence. The spell was silly and childish and could cause no conceivable damage if
Galbatorix had protected the Ra’zac like the Lethrblaka. Still, Eragon found the attack immensely


satisfying. It also distracted the Ra’zac long enough for Eragon to dash over to Roran and press his back
against his cousin’s.

“Hold them off for a minute,” he shouted, hoping Roran would hear. Whether he did or not, Roran
grasped Eragon’s meaning, for he covered himself with his shield and lifted his hammer in preparation to
fight.

The amount of force contained within each of the Lethrblaka’s terrible blows had already depleted the
wards against physical danger that Eragon had placed around Saphira. Without them, the Lethrblaka had
inflicted several rows of scratches—long but shallow—along her thighs and had managed to stab her
three times with their beaks; those wounds were short but deep and caused her a great deal of pain.

In return, Saphira had laid open the ribs of one Lethrblaka and had bitten off the last three feet of the
other’s tail. The Lethrblaka’s blood, to Eragon’s astonishment, was a metallic blue-green, not unlike the
verdigris that forms on aged copper.

At the moment, the Lethrblaka had withdrawn from Saphira and were circling her, lunging now and then
in order to keep her at bay while they waited for her to tire or until they could kill her with a stab from
one of their beaks.

Saphira was better suited than the Lethrblaka to open combat by virtue of her scales—which were
harder and tougher than the Lethrblaka’s gray hide—and her teeth—which were far more lethal in close
quarters than the Lethrblaka’s beaks—but despite all that, she had difficulty fending off both creatures at
once, especially since the ceiling prevented her from leaping and flying about and otherwise
outmaneuvering her foes. Eragon feared that even if she prevailed, the Lethrblaka would maim her before
she slew them.

Taking a quick breath, Eragon cast a single spell that contained every one of the twelve techniques of
killing that Oromis had taught him. He was careful to phrase the incantation as a series of processes, so
that if Galbatorix’s wards foiled him, he could sever the flow of magic. Otherwise, the spell might
consume his strength until he died.

It was well he took the precaution. Upon release of the spell, Eragon quickly became aware that the
magic was having no effect upon the Lethrblaka, and he abandoned the assault. He had not expected to
succeed with the traditional death-words, but he had to try, on the slight chance Galbatorix might have
been careless or ignorant when he had placed wards upon the Lethrblaka and their spawn.

Behind him, Roran shouted, “Yah!” An instant later, a sword thudded against his shield, followed by the
tinkle of rippling mail and the bell-like peal of a second sword bouncing off Roran’s helm.

Eragon realized that his hearing must be improving.

The Ra’zac struck again and again, but each time their weapons glanced off Roran’s armor or missed his
face and limbs by a hairsbreadth, no matter how fast they swung their blades. Roran was too slow to
retaliate, but neither could the Ra’zac harm him. They hissed with frustration and spewed a continuous
stream of invectives, which seemed all the more foul because of how the creatures’ hard, clacking jaws
mangled the language.

Eragon smiled. The cocoon of charms he had spun around Roran had done its job. He hoped the
invisible net of energy would hold until he could find a way to halt the Lethrblaka.


Everything shivered and went gray around Eragon as the two Lethrblaka shrieked in unison. For a
moment, his resolve deserted him, leaving him unable to move, then he rallied and shook himself as a dog
might, casting off their fell influence. The sound reminded him of nothing so much as a pair of children
screaming in pain.

Then Eragon began to chant as fast as he could without mispronouncing the ancient language. Each
sentence he uttered, and they were legion, contained the potential to deliver instant death, and each death
was unique among its fellows. As he recited his improvised soliloquy, Saphira received another cut upon
her left flank. In return, she broke the wing of her assailant, slashing the thin flight membrane into ribbons
with her claws. A number of heavy impacts transmitted themselves from Roran’s back to Eragon’s as the
Ra’zac hacked and stabbed in a lightning-quick frenzy. The largest of the two Ra’zac began to edge
around Roran, in order to attack Eragon directly.

And then, amid the din of steel against steel, and steel against wood, and claws against stone, there came
the scrape of a sword sliding through mail, followed by a wet crunch. Roran yelled, and Eragon felt blood
splash across the calf of his right leg.

Out of the corner of one eye, Eragon watched as a humpbacked figure leaped toward him, extending its
leaf-bladed sword so as to impale him. The world seemed to contract around the thin, narrow point; the
tip glittered like a shard of crystal, each scratch a thread of quicksilver in the bright light of dawn.

He only had time for one more spell before he would have to devote himself to stopping the Ra’zac from
inserting the sword between his liver and kidneys. In desperation, he gave up trying to directly harm the
Lethrblaka and instead cried, “Garjzla, letta!”

It was a crude spell, constructed in haste and poorly worded, yet it worked. The bulbous eyes of the
Lethrblaka with the broken wing became a matched set of mirrors, each a perfect hemisphere, as
Eragon’s magic reflected the light that otherwise would have entered the Lethrblaka’s pupils. Blind, the
creature stumbled and flailed at the air in a vain attempt to hit Saphira.

Eragon spun the hawthorn staff in his hands and knocked aside the Ra’zac’s sword when it was less
than an inch from his ribs. The Ra’zac landed in front of him and jutted out its neck. Eragon recoiled as a
short, thick beak appeared from within the depths of its hood. The chitinous appendage snapped shut
just short of his right eye. In a rather detached way, Eragon noticed that the Ra’zac’s tongue was barbed
and purple and writhed like a headless snake.

Bringing his hands together at the center of the staff, Eragon drove his arms forward, striking the Ra’zac
across its hollow chest and throwing the monster back several yards. It fell upon its hands and knees.
Eragon pivoted around Roran, whose left side was slick with blood, and parried the sword of the other
Ra’zac. He feinted, beat the Ra’zac’s blade, and, when the Ra’zac stabbed at his throat, whirled the
other half of the staff across his body and deflected the thrust. Without pausing, Eragon lunged forward
and planted the wooden end of the staff in the Ra’zac’s abdomen.

If Eragon had been wielding Zar’roc, he would have killed the Ra’zac then and there. As it was,
something cracked inside the Ra’zac, and the creature went rolling across the cave for a dozen or more
paces. It immediately popped up again, leaving a smear of blue gore on the uneven rock.

I need a sword,thought Eragon.

He widened his stance as the two Ra’zac converged upon him; he had no choice but to hold his ground
and face their combined onslaught, for he was all that stood between those hook-clawed carrion crows


and Roran. He began to mouth the same spell that had proved itself against the Lethrblaka, but the
Ra’zac executed high and low slashes before he could utter a syllable.

The swords rebounded off the hawthorn with a dullbonk . They did not dent or otherwise mar the
enchanted wood.

Left, right, up, down. Eragon did not think; he acted and reacted as he exchanged a flurry of blows with
the Ra’zac. The staff was ideal for fighting multiple opponents, as he could strike and block with both
ends, and often simultaneously. That ability served him well now. He panted, each breath short and
quick. Sweat dripped from his brow and gathered at the corners of his eyes, and a layer greased his
back and the undersides of his arms. The red haze of battle dimmed his vision and throbbed in response
to the convulsions of his heart.

He never felt so alive, or afraid, as he did when fighting.

Eragon’s own wards were scant. Since he had lavished the bulk of his attention on Saphira and Roran,
Eragon’s magical defenses soon failed, and the smaller Ra’zac wounded him on the outside of his left
knee. The injury was not life-threatening, but it was still serious, for his left leg would no longer support
his full weight.

Gripping the spike at the bottom, Eragon swung the staff like a club and bashed one Ra’zac upside the
head. The Ra’zac collapsed, but whether it was dead or only unconscious, Eragon could not tell.
Advancing upon the remaining Ra’zac, he battered the creature’s arms and shoulders and, with a sudden
twist, knocked the sword out of its hand.

Before Eragon could finish off the Ra’zac, the blinded, brokenwinged Lethrblaka flew the width of the
cave and slammed against the far wall, knocking loose a shower of stone flakes from the ceiling. The
sight and sound were so colossal, they caused Eragon, Roran, and the Ra’zac to flinch and turn, simply
out of instinct.

Jumping after the crippled Lethrblaka, which she had just kicked, Saphira sank her teeth into the back of
the creature’s sinewy neck. The Lethrblaka thrashed in one final effort to free itself, and then Saphira
whipped her head from side to side and broke its spine. Rising from her bloody kill, Saphira filled the
cave with a savage roar of victory.

The remaining Lethrblaka did not hesitate. Tackling Saphira, it dug its claws underneath the edges of her
scales and pulled her into an uncontrolled tumble. Together they rolled to the lip of the cave, teetered for
a half second, and then dropped out of sight, battling the whole way. It was a clever tactic, for it carried
the Lethrblaka out of the range of Eragon’s senses, and that which he could not sense, he had difficulty
casting a spell against.

Saphira!cried Eragon.

Tend to yourself. This one won’t escape me.

With a start, Eragon whirled around just in time to see the two Ra’zac vanish into the depths of the
nearest tunnel, the smaller supporting the larger. Closing his eyes, Eragon located the minds of the
prisoners in Helgrind, muttered a burst of the ancient language, then said to Roran, “I sealed off Katrina’s
cell so the Ra’zac can’t use her as a hostage. Only you and I can open the door now.”

“Good,” said Roran through clenched teeth. “Can you do something about this?” He jerked his chin


toward the spot he had clamped his right hand over. Blood welled between his fingers. Eragon probed
the wound. As soon as he touched it, Roran flinched and recoiled.

“You’re lucky,” said Eragon. “The sword hit a rib.” Placing one hand on the injury and the other on the
twelve diamonds concealed inside the belt of Beloth the Wise strapped around his waist, Eragon drew
upon the power he had stored within the gems. “Waíse heill!” A ripple traversed Roran’s side as the
magic knit his skin and muscle back together again.

Then Eragon healed his own wound: the gash on his left knee.

Finished, he straightened and glanced in the direction that Saphira had gone. His connection with her
was fading as she chased the Lethrblaka toward Leona Lake. He yearned to help her but knew that, for
the time being, she would have to fend for herself.

“Hurry,” said Roran. “They’re getting away!”

“Right.”

Hefting his staff, Eragon approached the unlit tunnel and flicked his gaze from one stone protrusion to
another, expecting the Ra’zac to spring out from behind one of them. He moved slowly in order that his
footsteps would not echo in the winding shaft. When he happened to touch a rock to steady himself, he
found it coated in slime.

After a score of yards, several folds and twists in the passageway hid the main cavern and plunged them
into a gloom so profound, even Eragon found it impossible to see.

“Maybe you’re different, but I can’t fight in the dark,” whispered Roran.

“If I make a light, the Ra’zac won’t come near us, not when I now know a spell that works on them.
They’ll just hide until we leave. We have to kill them while we have the chance.”

“What am I supposed to do? I’m more likely to run into a wall and break my nose than I am to find
those two beetles. . . . They could sneak around behind us and stab us in the back.”

“Shh. . . . Hold on to my belt, follow me, and be ready to duck.”

Eragon could not see, but he could still hear, smell, touch, and taste, and those faculties were sensitive
enough that he had a fair idea of what lay nearby. The greatest danger was that the Ra’zac would attack
from a distance, perhaps with a bow, but he trusted that his reflexes were sharp enough to save Roran
and himself from an oncoming missile.

A current of air tickled Eragon’s skin, then paused and reversed itself as pressure from the outside
waxed and waned. The cycle repeated itself at inconsistent intervals, creating invisible eddies that
brushed against him like fountains of roiling water.

His breathing, and Roran’s, was loud and ragged compared with the odd assortment of sounds that
propagated through the tunnel. Above the gusts of their respiration, Eragon caught thetink, clink, clatter
of a stone falling somewhere in the tangle of branching tubes and the steadydoink . . . doink . . . doink of
condensed droplets striking the drumlike surface of a subterranean pool. He also heard the grind of
pea-sized gravel crushed underneath the soles of his boots. A long, eerie moan wavered somewhere far
ahead of them.


Of smells, none were new: sweat, blood, damp, and mold.

Step by step, Eragon led the way as they burrowed farther into the bowels of Helgrind. The tunnel
slanted downward and often split or turned, so that Eragon would have soon been lost if he had not been
able to use Katrina’s mind as a reference point. The various knobby holes were low and cramped. Once,
when Eragon bumped his head against the ceiling, a sudden flare of claustro -phobia unnerved him.

I’m back,Saphira announced just as Eragon put his foot on a rugged step hewn out of the rock below
him. He paused. She had escaped additional injury, which relieved him.

And the Lethrblaka?

Floating belly-up in Leona Lake. I’m afraid that some fishermen saw our battle. They were
rowing toward Dras-Leona when I last saw them.

Well, it can’t be helped. See what you can find in the tunnel the Lethrblaka came out of. And keep
an eye out for the Ra’zac. They may try to slip past us and escape Helgrind through the entrance
we used.

They probably have a bolt-hole at ground level.

Probably, but I don’t think they’ll run quite yet.

After what seemed like an hour trapped in the darkness—though Eragon knew it could not have been
more than ten or fifteen minutes—and after descending more than a hundred feet through Helgrind,
Eragon stopped on a level patch of stone. Transmitting his thoughts to Roran, he said,Katrina’s cell is
about fifty feet in front of us, on the right .

We can’t risk letting her out until the Ra’zac are dead or gone.

What if they won’t reveal themselves until we do let her out? For some reason, I can’t sense
them. They could hide from me until doomsday in here. So do we wait for who knows how long, or
do we free Katrina while we still have the chance? I can place some wards around her that should
protect her from most attacks.

Roran was quiet for a second.Let’s free her, then .

They began to move forward again, feeling their way along the squat corridor with its rough, unfinished
floor. Eragon had to devote most of his attention to his footing in order to maintain his balance.

As a result, he almost missed the swish of cloth sliding over cloth and then the fainttwang that emanated
from off to his right.

He recoiled against the wall, shoving Roran back. At the same time, something augered past his face,
carving a groove of flesh from his right cheek. The thin trench burned as if cauterized.

“Kveykva!” shouted Eragon.

Red light, bright as the midday sun, flared into existence. It had no source, and thus it illuminated every
surface evenly and without shadows, giving things a curious flat appearance. The sudden blaze dazzled


Eragon, but it did more than that to the lone Ra’zac in front of him; the creature dropped its bow,
covered its hooded face, and screamed high and shrill. A similar screech told Eragon that the second
Ra’zac was behind them.

Roran!

Eragon pivoted just in time to see Roran charge the other Ra’zac, hammer held high. The disoriented
monster stumbled backward but was too slow. The hammer fell. “For my father!” shouted Roran. He
struck again. “For our home!” The Ra’zac was already dead, but Roran lifted the hammer once more.
“For Carvahall!” His final blow shattered the Ra’zac’s carapace like the rind of a dry gourd. In the
merciless ruby glare, the spreading pool of blood appeared purple.

Spinning his staff in a circle to knock aside the arrow or sword that he was convinced was driving
toward him, Eragon turned to confront the remaining Ra’zac. The tunnel before them was empty. He
swore.

Eragon strode over to the twisted figure on the floor. He swung the staff over his head and brought it
down across the chest of the dead Ra’zac with a resounding thud.

“I’ve waited a long time to do that,” said Eragon.

“As have I.”

He and Roran looked at each other.

“Ahh!” cried Eragon, and clutched his cheek as the pain intensified. “It’s bubbling!” exclaimed Roran.
“Do something!”

The Ra’zac must have coated the arrowhead with Seithr oil,thought Eragon. Remembering his
training, he cleansed the wound and surrounding tissue with an incantation and then repaired the damage
to his face. He opened and closed his mouth several times to make sure the muscles were working
properly. With a grim smile, he said, “Imagine the state we’d be in without magic.”

“Without magic, we wouldn’t have Galbatorix to worry about.”

Talk later,said Saphira.As soon as those fishermen reach Dras-Leona, the king may hear of our
doings from one of his pet spellcasters in the city, and we do not want Galbatorix scrying
Helgrind while we are still here .

Yes, yes,said Eragon. Extinguishing the omnipresent red glow, he said, “Brisingr raudhr,” and created a
red werelight like that from the previous night, except that this one remained anchored six inches from the
ceiling instead of accompanying Eragon wherever he went.

Now that he had an opportunity to examine the tunnel in some detail, Eragon saw that the stone hallway
was dotted with twenty or so ironbound doors, some on either side. He pointed and said, “Ninth down,
on the right. You go get her. I’ll check the other cells. The Ra’zac might have left something interesting in
them.”

Roran nodded. Crouching, he searched the corpse at their feet but found no keys. He shrugged. “I’ll do
it the hard way, then.” He sprinted to the proper door, abandoned his shield, and set to work on the
hinges with his hammer. Each blow created a frightful crash.


Eragon did not offer to help. His cousin would not want or appreciate assistance now, and besides,
there was something else Eragon had to do. He went to the first cell, whispered three words, then, after
the lock snapped open, pushed aside the door. All that the small room contained was a black chain and a
pile of rotting bones. Those sad remains were no more than he had expected; he already knew where the
object of his search lay, but he maintained the charade of ignorance to avoid kindling Roran’s suspicion.

Two more doors opened and closed beneath the touch of Eragon’s fingers. Then, at the fourth cell, the
door swung back to admit the shifting radiance of the werelight and reveal the very man Eragon had
hoped he would not find: Sloan.

DIVERGENCE

The butcher sat slumped against the left-hand wall, both arms chained to an iron ring above his head.

His ragged clothes barely covered his pale, emaciated body; the corners of his bones stood out in sharp
relief underneath his translucent skin. His blue veins were also prominent. Sores had formed on his wrists
where the manacles chafed. The ulcers oozed a mixture of clear fluid and blood. What remained of his
hair had turned gray or white and hung in lank, greasy ropes over his pockmarked face.

Roused by the clang of Roran’s hammer, Sloan lifted his chin toward the light and, in a quavering voice,
asked, “Who is it? Who’s there?” His hair parted and slid back, exposing his eye sockets, which had
sunk deep into his skull. Where his eyelids should have been, there were now only a few scraps of
tattered skin draped over the raw cavities underneath. The area around them was bruised and scabbed.

With a shock, Eragon realized that the Ra’zac had pecked out Sloan’s eyes.

What he then should do, Eragon could not decide. The butcher had told the Ra’zac that Eragon had
found Saphira’s egg. Further -more, Sloan had murdered the watchman, Byrd, and had betrayed
Carvahall to the Empire. If he were brought before his fellow villagers, they would undoubtedly find
Sloan guilty and condemn him to death by hanging.

It seemed only right, to Eragon, that the butcher should die for his crimes. That was not the source of his
uncertainty. Rather, it arose from the fact that Roran loved Katrina, and Katrina, whatever Sloan had
done, must still harbor a certain degree of affection for her father. Watching an arbitrator publicly
denounce Sloan’s offenses and then hang him would be no easy thing for her or, by extension, Roran.
Such hardship might even create enough ill will between them to end their engagement. Either way,
Eragon was convinced that taking Sloan back with them would sow discord between him, Roran,
Katrina, and the other villagers, and might engender enough anger to distract them from their struggle
against the Empire.

The easiest solution,thought Eragon,would be to kill him and say that I found him dead in the cell .
. . . His lips trembled, one of the death-words heavy upon his tongue.

“What do you want?” asked Sloan. He turned his head from side to side in an attempt to hear better. “I
already told you everything I know!”


Eragon cursed himself for hesitating. Sloan’s guilt was not in dispute; he was a murderer and a traitor.
Any lawgiver would sentence him to execution.

Notwithstanding the merit of those arguments, it was Sloan who was curled in front of him, a man
Eragon had known his entire life. The butcher might be a despicable person, but the wealth of memories
and experiences Eragon shared with him bred a sense of intimacy that troubled Eragon’s conscience. To
strike down Sloan would be like raising his hand against Horst or Loring or any of the elders of
Carvahall.

Again Eragon prepared to utter the fatal word.

An image appeared in his mind’s eye:Torkenbrand, the slaver he and Murtagh had encountered
during their flight to the Varden, kneeling on the dusty ground and Murtagh striding up to him
and beheading him . Eragon remembered how he had objected to Murtagh’s deed and how it had
troubled him for days afterward.

Have I changed so much,he asked himself,that I can do the same thing now? As Roran said, I have
killed, but only in the heat of battle . . . never like this .

He glanced over his shoulder as Roran broke the last hinge to Katrina’s cell door. Dropping his hammer,
Roran prepared to charge the door and knock it inward but then appeared to think better of it and tried
to lift it free of its frame. The door rose a fraction of an inch, then halted and wobbled in his grip. “Give
me a hand here!” he shouted. “I don’t want it to fall on her.”

Eragon looked back at the wretched butcher. He had no more time for mindless wanderings. He had to
choose. One way or another, he had to choose. . . .

“Eragon!”

I don’t know what’s right,realized Eragon. His own uncertainty told him that it would be wrong to kill
Sloan or return him to the Varden. He had no idea what he should do instead, except to find a third path,
one that was less obvious and less violent.

Lifting his hand, as if in benediction, Eragon whispered, “Slytha.” Sloan’s manacles rattled as he went
limp, falling into a profound sleep. As soon as he was sure the spell had taken hold, Eragon closed and
locked the cell door again and replaced his wards around it.

What are you up to, Eragon?asked Saphira.

Wait until we’re together again. I’ll explain then.

Explain what? You don’t have a plan.

Give me a minute and I will.

“What was in there?” asked Roran as Eragon took his place opposite him.

“Sloan.” Eragon adjusted his grip on the door between them. “He’s dead.”

Roran’s eyes widened. “How?”


“Looks like they broke his neck.”

For an instant, Eragon feared that Roran might not believe him. Then his cousin grunted and said, “It’s
better that way, I suppose. Ready? One, two, three—”

Together, they heaved the massive door out of its casing and threw it across the hallway. The stone
passageway returned the resulting boom to them again and again. Without pause, Roran rushed into the
cell, which was lit by a single wax taper. Eragon followed a step behind.

Katrina cowered at the far end of an iron cot. “Let me alone, you toothless bastards! I—” She stopped,
struck dumb as Roran stepped forward. Her face was white from lack of sun and streaked with filth, yet
at that moment, a look of such wonder and tender love blossomed upon her features, Eragon thought he
had rarely seen anyone so beautiful.

Never taking her eyes off Roran, Katrina stood and, with a shaking hand, touched his cheek.

“You came.”

“I came.”

A laughing sob broke out of Roran, and he folded her in his arms, pulling her against his chest. They
remained lost in their embrace for a long moment.

Drawing back, Roran kissed her three times on the lips. Katrina wrinkled her nose and exclaimed, “You
grew a beard!” Of all the things she could have said, that was so unexpected—and she sounded so
shocked and surprised—that Eragon chuckled in response. For the first time, Katrina seemed to notice
him. She glanced him over, then settled on his face, which she studied with evident puzzlement. “Eragon?
Is that you?”

“Aye.”

“He’s a Dragon Rider now,” said Roran.

“A Rider? You mean . . .” She faltered; the revelation seemed to overwhelm her. Glancing at Roran, as
if for protection, she held him even closer and sidled around him, away from Eragon. To Roran, she said,
“How . . . how did you find us? Who else is with you?”

“All that later. We have to get out of Helgrind before the rest of the Empire comes running after us.”

“Wait! What about my father? Did you find him?”

Roran looked at Eragon, then returned his gaze to Katrina and gently said, “We were too late.”

A shiver ran through Katrina. She closed her eyes, and a solitary tear leaked down the side of her face.
“So be it.”

While they spoke, Eragon frantically tried to figure out how to dispose of Sloan, although he concealed
his deliberations from Saphira; he knew that she would disapprove of the direction his thoughts were
taking. A scheme began to form in his mind. It was an outlandish concept, fraught with danger and
uncertainty, but it was the only viable path, given the circumstances.


Abandoning further reflection, Eragon sprang into action. He had much to do in little time. “Jierda!” he
cried, pointing. With a burst of blue sparks and flying fragments, the metal bands riveted around
Katrina’s ankles broke apart. Katrina jumped in surprise.

“Magic . . . ,” she whispered.

“A simple spell.” She shrank from his touch as he reached toward her. “Katrina, I have to make sure
that Galbatorix or one of his magicians hasn’t enchanted you with any traps or forced you to swear things
in the ancient language.”

“The ancient—”

Roran interrupted her: “Eragon! Do this when we make camp. We can’t stay here.”

“No.” Eragon slashed his arm through the air. “We do it now.”

Scowling, Roran moved aside and allowed Eragon to put his hands on Katrina’s shoulders. “Just look
into my eyes,” he told her. She nodded and obeyed.

That was the first time Eragon had a reason to use the spells Oromis had taught him for detecting the
work of another spellcaster, and he had difficulty remembering every word from the scrolls in Ellesméra.
The gaps in his memory were so serious that on three different instances he had to rely upon a synonym
to complete an incantation.

For a long while, Eragon stared into Katrina’s glistening eyes and mouthed phrases in the ancient
language, occasionally—and with her permission—examining one of her memories for evidence that
someone had tampered with it. He was as gentle as possible, unlike the Twins, who had ravaged his own
mind in a similar procedure the day he arrived at Farthen Dûr.

Roran stood guard, pacing back and forth in front of the open doorway. Every second that went by
increased his agitation; he twirled his hammer and tapped the head of it against his upper thigh, as if
keeping time with a piece of music.

At last Eragon released Katrina. “I’m done.”

“What did you find?” she whispered. She hugged herself, her forehead creased with worry lines as she
waited for his verdict. Silence filled the cell as Roran came to a standstill.

“Nothing but your own thoughts. You are free of any spells.”

“Of course she is,” growled Roran, and again wrapped her in his arms.

Together, the three of them exited the cell. “Brisingr, iet tauthr,” said Eragon, gesturing at the werelight
that still floated near the ceiling of the hallway. At his command, the glowing orb darted to a spot directly
over his head and remained there, bobbing like a piece of driftwood in the surf.

Eragon took the lead as they hurried back through the jumble of tunnels toward the cavern where they
had landed. As he trotted across the slick rock, he watched for the remaining Ra’zac while, at the same
time, erecting wards to safeguard Katrina. Behind him, he heard her and Roran exchange a series of brief
phrases and lone words: “I love you . . . Horst and others safe . . . Always . . . For you . . . Yes . . . Yes


. . . Yes . . . Yes.” The trust and affection they shared were so obvious, it roused a dull ache of longing
inside Eragon.

When they were about ten yards from the main cavern and could just begin to see by the faint glow
ahead of them, Eragon extinguished the werelight. A few feet later, Katrina slowed, then pressed herself
against the side of the tunnel and covered her face. “I can’t. It’s too bright; my eyes hurt.”

Roran quickly moved in front of her, casting her in his shadow. “When was the last time you were
outside?”

“I don’t know. . . .” A hint of panic crept into her voice. “I don’t know! Not since they brought me here.
Roran, am I going blind?” She sniffed and began to cry.

Her tears surprised Eragon. He remembered her as someone of great strength and fortitude. But then,
she had spent many weeks locked in the dark, fearing for her life.I might not be myself either, if I were
in her place .

“No, you’re fine. You just need to get used to the sun again.” Roran stroked her hair. “Come on, don’t
let this upset you. Everything is going to be all right. . . . You’re safe now.Safe, Katrina. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Although he hated to ruin one of the tunics the elves had given him, Eragon tore off a strip of cloth from
the bottom edge of his garment. He handed it to Katrina and said, “Tie this over your eyes. You should
be able to see through it well enough to keep from falling or running into anything.”

She thanked him and then blindfolded herself.

Once again advancing, the trio emerged into the sunny, bloodsplattered main cavern—which stank
worse than before, owing to the noxious fumes that drifted from the body of the Lethrblaka—even as
Saphira appeared from within the depths of the lancet opening opposite them. Seeing her, Katrina
gasped and clung to Roran, digging her fingers into his arms.

Eragon said, “Katrina, allow me to introduce you to Saphira. I am her Rider. She can understand if you
speak to her.”

“It is an honor, O dragon,” Katrina managed to say. She dipped her knees in a weak imitation of a
curtsy.

Saphira inclined her head in return. Then she faced Eragon.I searched the Lethrblaka’s nest, but all I
found was bones, bones, and more bones, including several that smelled of fresh meat. The Ra’zac
must have eaten the slaves last night .

I wish we could have rescued them.

I know, but we cannot protect everyone in this war.

Gesturing at Saphira, Eragon said, “Go on; climb onto her. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Katrina hesitated, then glanced at Roran, who nodded and murmured, “It’s all right. Saphira brought us
here.” Together, the couple skirted the corpse of the Lethrblaka as they went over to Saphira, who


crouched flat upon her belly so that they could mount her. Cupping his hands to form a step, Roran lifted
Katrina high enough to pull herself over the upper part of Saphira’s left foreleg. From there Katrina
clambered the looped leg straps of the saddle, as if a ladder, until she sat perched upon the crest of
Saphira’s shoulders. Like a mountain goat leaping from one ledge to another, Roran duplicated her
ascent.

Crossing the cave after them, Eragon examined Saphira, assessing the severity of her various scrapes,
gashes, tears, bruises, and stab wounds. To do so, he relied upon what she herself felt, in addition to
what he could see.

For goodness’ sake,said Saphira,save your attentions until we are well out of danger. I’m not
going to bleed to death .

That’s not quite true, and you know it. You’re bleeding inside. Unless I stop it now, you may
suffer complications I can’t heal, and then we’ll never get back to the Varden. Don’t argue; you
can’t change my mind, and I won’t take a minute.

As it turned out, Eragon required several minutes to restore Saphira to her former health. Her injuries
were severe enough that in order to complete his spells, he had to empty the belt of Beloth the Wise of
energy and, after that, draw upon Saphira’s own vast reserves of strength. Whenever he shifted from a
larger wound to a smaller one, she protested that he was being foolish and would he please leave off, but
he ignored her complaints, much to her growing displeasure.

Afterward, Eragon slumped, tired from the magic and the fighting. Flicking a finger toward the places
where the Lethrblaka had skewered her with their beaks, he said,You should have Arya or another elf
inspect my handiwork on those. I did my best, but I may have missed something .

I appreciate your concern for my welfare,she replied,but this is hardly the place for softhearted
demonstrations. Once and for all, let us be gone!

Aye.Time to leave . Stepping back, Eragon edged away from Saphira, in the direction of the tunnel
behind him.

“Come on!” called Roran. “Hurry up!”

Eragon!exclaimed Saphira.

Eragon shook his head. “No. I’m staying here.”

“You—” Roran started to say, but a ferocious growl from Saphira interrupted him. She lashed her tail
against the side of the cave and raked the floor with her talons, so that bone and stone squealed in what
sounded like mortal agony.

“Listen!” shouted Eragon. “One of the Ra’zac is still on the loose. And think what else might be in
Helgrind: scrolls, potions, information about the Empire’s activities—things that can help us! The Ra’zac
may even have eggs of theirs stored here. If they do, I have to destroy them before Galbatorix can claim
them for his own.”

To Saphira, Eragon also said,I can’t kill Sloan, I can’t let Roran or Katrina see him, and I can’t
allow him to starve to death in his cell or Galbatorix’s men to recapture him. I’m sorry, but I have
to deal with Sloan on my own .


“How will you get out of the Empire?” demanded Roran.

“I’ll run. I’m as fast as an elf now, you know.”

The tip of Saphira’s tail twitched. That was the only warning Eragon had before she leaped toward him,
extending one of her glittering paws. He fled, dashing into the tunnel a fraction of a second before
Saphira’s foot passed through the space where he had been.

Saphira skidded to a stop in front of the tunnel and roared with frustration that she was unable to follow
him into the narrow enclosure. Her bulk blocked most of the light. The stone shook around Eragon as
she tore at the entrance with her claws and teeth, breaking off thick chunks. Her feral snarls and the sight
of her lunging muzzle, filled with teeth as long as his forearm, sent a jolt of fear through Eragon. He
understood then how a rabbit must feel when it cowers in its den while a wolf digs after it.

“Gánga!” he shouted.

No!Saphira placed her head on the ground and uttered a mournful keen, her eyes large and pitiful.

“Gánga! I love you, Saphira, but you have to go.”

She retreated several yards from the tunnel and snuffled at him, mewling like a cat.Little one . . .

Eragon hated to make her unhappy, and he hated to send her away; it felt as if he were tearing himself
apart. Saphira’s misery flowed across their mental link and, coupled with his own anguish, almost
paralyzed him. Somehow he mustered the nerve to say, “Gánga! And don’t come back for me or send
anyone else for me. I’ll be fine. Gánga! Gánga!”

Saphira howled with frustration and then reluctantly walked to the mouth of the cave. From his place on
her saddle, Roran said, “Eragon, come on! Don’t be daft. You’re too important to risk—”

A combination of noise and motion obscured the rest of his sentence as Saphira launched herself out of
the cave. In the clear sky beyond, her scales sparkled like a multitude of brilliant blue diamonds. She
was, Eragon thought, magnificent: proud, noble, and more beautiful than any other living creature. No
stag or lion could compete with the majesty of a dragon in flight. She said,A week: that is how long I
shall wait. Then I shall return for you, Eragon, even if I must fight my way past Thorn, Shruikan,
and a thousand magicians .

Eragon stood there until she dwindled from sight and he could no longer touch her mind. Then, his heart
heavy as lead, he squared his shoulders and turned away from the sun and all things bright and living and
once more descended into the tunnels of shadow.

RIDER ANDRA’ZAC

Eragon sat bathed in the heatless radiance from his crimson werelight in the hall lined with cells near the
center of Helgrind. His staff lay across his lap.


The rock reflected his voice as he repeated a phrase in the ancient language over and over again. It was
not magic, but rather a message to the remaining Ra’zac. What he said meant this: “Come, O thou eater
of men’s flesh, let us end this fight of ours. You are hurt, and I am weary. Your companions are dead,
and I am alone. We are a fit match. I promise that I shall not use gramarye against you, nor hurt or trap
you with spells I have already cast. Come, O thou eater of men’s flesh, let us end this fight of ours. . . .”

The time during which he spoke seemed endless: a neverwhen in a ghastly tinted chamber that remained
unchanged through an eternity of cycling words whose order and significance ceased to matter to him.
After a time, his clamoring thoughts fell silent, and a strange calm crept over him.

He paused with his mouth open, then closed it, watchful.
Thirty feet in front of him stood the Ra’zac. Blood dripped from the hem of the creature’s ragged robes.


“My massster does not want me to kill you,” it hissed.


“But that does not matter to you now.”


“No. If I fall to your staff, let Galbatorix deal with you as he will. He has more heartsss than you do.”


Eragon laughed. “Hearts? I am the champion of the people, not him.”


“Foolish boy.” The Ra’zac cocked its head slightly, looking past him at the corpse of the other Ra’zac


farther up the tunnel. “She was my hatchmate. You have become ssstrong since we firssst met,
Shadeslayer.”


“It was that or die.”


“Will you make a pact with me, Shadeslayer?”


“What kind of a pact?”


“I am the lassst of my race, Shadeslayer. We are ancient, and I would not have us forgotten. Would
you, in your songsss and in your hissstories, remind your fellow humans of the terror we inssspired in
your kind? . . . Remember us asfear !”

“Why should I do that for you?”

Tucking its beak against its narrow chest, the Ra’zac clucked and chittered to itself for several moments.
“Because,” it said, “I will tell you sssomething secret, yesss I will.”

“Then tell me.”

“Give me your word firssst, lest you trick me.”

“No. Tell me, and then I will decide whether or not to agree.”

Over a minute passed, and neither of them moved, although Eragon kept his muscles taut and ready in
expectation of a surprise attack. After another squall of sharp clicks, the Ra’zac said, “He has almossst
found thename. ”


“Who has?”

“Galbatorix.”

“The name of what?”

The Ra’zac hissed with frustration. “I cannot tell you! Thename ! The truename !”

“You have to give me more information than that.”

“I cannot!”

“Then we have no pact.”

“Curssse you, Rider! I curssse you! May you find no roossst nor den nor peace of mind in thisss land of
yours. May you leave Alagaësia and never return!”

The nape of Eragon’s neck prickled with the cold touch of dread. In his mind, he again heard the words
of Angela the herbalist when she had cast her dragon bones for him and told his fortune and predicted
that selfsame fate.

A mare’s tail of blood separated Eragon from his enemy as the Ra’zac swept back its sodden cloak,
revealing a bow that it held with an arrow already fit to the string. Lifting and drawing the weapon, the
Ra’zac loosed the bolt in the direction of Eragon’s chest.

Eragon batted the shaft aside with his staff.

As if this attempt were nothing more than a preliminary gesture that custom dictated they observe before
proceeding with their actual confrontation, the Ra’zac stooped, placed the bow on the floor, then
straightened its cowl and slowly and deliberately pulled its leaf-bladed sword from underneath its robes.
While it did, Eragon rose to his feet and took a shoulder-wide stance, his hands tight on the staff.

They lunged toward each other. The Ra’zac attempted to cleave Eragon from collarbone to hip, but
Eragon twisted and stepped past the blow. Jamming the end of the staff upward, he drove its metal spike
underneath the Ra’zac’s beak and through the plates that protected the creature’s throat.

The Ra’zac shuddered once and then collapsed.

Eragon stared at his most hated foe, stared at its lidless black eyes, and suddenly he went weak at the
knees and retched against the wall of the corridor. Wiping his mouth, he yanked the staff free and
whispered, “For our father. For our home. For Carvahall. For Brom. . . . I have had my fill of vengeance.
May you rot here forever, Ra’zac.”

Going to the appropriate cell, Eragon retrieved Sloan—who was still deep in his enchanted sleep—slung
the butcher over his shoulder, and then began to retrace his steps back to the main cave of Helgrind.
Along the way, he often lowered Sloan to the floor and left him to explore a chamber or byway that he
had not visited before. In them he discovered many evil instruments, including four metal flasks of Seithr
oil, which he promptly destroyed so that no one else could use the flesh-eating acid to further their
malicious plans.

Hot sunlight stung Eragon’s cheeks when he stumbled out of the network of tunnels. Holding his breath,


he hurried past the dead Lethrblaka and went to the edge of the vast cave, where he gazed down the
precipitous side of Helgrind at the hills far below. To the west, he saw a pillar of orange dust billowing
above the lane that connected Helgrind to Dras-Leona, marking the approach of a group of horsemen.

His right side was burning from supporting Sloan’s weight, so Eragon shifted the butcher onto his other
shoulder. He blinked away the beads of sweat that clung to his eyelashes as he struggled to solve the
problem of how he was supposed to transport Sloan and himself five thousand–some feet to the ground.

“It’s almost a mile down,” he murmured. “If there were a path, I could easily walk that distance, even
with Sloan. So I must have the strength to lower us with magic. . . . Yes, but what you can do over a
length of time may be too taxing to accomplish all at once without killing yourself. As Oromis said, the
body cannot convert its stockpile of fuel into energy fast enough to sustain most spells for more than a
few seconds. I only have a certain amount of power available at any given moment, and once it’s gone, I
have to wait until I recover. . . . And talking to myself isn’t getting me anywhere.”

Securing his hold on Sloan, Eragon fixed his eyes on a narrow ledge about a hundred feet below.This is
going to hurt, he thought, preparing himself for the attempt. Then he barked, “Audr!”

Eragon felt himself rise several inches above the floor of the cave. “Fram,” he said, and the spell
propelled him away from Helgrind and into open space, where he hung unsupported, like a cloud drifting
in the sky. Accustomed as he was to flying with Saphira, the sight of nothing but thin air underneath his
feet still caused him unease.

By manipulating the flow of magic, Eragon quickly descended from the Ra’zac’s lair—which the
insubstantial wall of stone once again hid—to the ledge. His boot slipped on a loose piece of rock as he
alighted. For a handful of breathless seconds, he flailed, searching for solid footing but unable to look
down, as tilting his head could send him toppling forward. He yelped as his left leg went off the ledge and
he began to fall. Before he could resort to magic to save himself, he came to an abrupt halt as his left foot
wedged itself in a crevice. The edges of the rift dug into his calf behind his greave, but he did not mind,
for it held him in place.

Eragon leaned his back against Helgrind, using it to help him prop up Sloan’s limp body. “That wasn’t
too bad,” he observed. The effort had cost him, but not so much that he was unable to continue. “I can
do this,” he said. He gulped fresh air into his lungs, waiting for his racing heart to slow; he felt as if he had
sprinted a score of yards while carrying Sloan. “I can do this. . . .”

The approaching riders caught his eye again. They were noticeably closer than before and galloping
across the dry land at a pace that worried him.It’s a race between them and me, he realized.I have to
escape before they reach Helgrind. There are sure to be magicians among them, and I’m in no fit
condition to duel Galbatorix’s spellcasters . Glancing over at Sloan’s face, he said, “Perhaps you can
help me a bit, eh? It’s the least you can do, considering I’m risking death and worse for you.” The
sleeping butcher rolled his head, lost in the world of dreams.

With a grunt, Eragon pushed himself off Helgrind. Again he said, “Audr,” and again he became airborne.
This time he relied upon Sloan’s strength—meager as it was—as well as his own. Together they sank like
two strange birds along Helgrind’s rugged flank toward another ledge whose width promised safe haven.

In such a manner Eragon orchestrated their downward climb. He did not proceed in a straight line, but
rather angled off to his right, so that they curved around Helgrind and the mass of blocky stone hid him
and Sloan from the horsemen.


The closer they got to the ground, the slower they went. A crushing fatigue overcame Eragon, reducing
the distance he was able to traverse in a single stretch and making it increasingly difficult for him to
recuperate during the pauses between his bursts of exertion. Even lifting a finger became a task that he
found irritating in the extreme, as well as one that was almost unbearably laborious. Drowsiness muffled
him in its warm folds and dulled his thoughts and feelings until the hardest of rocks seemed as soft as
pillows to his aching muscles.

When he finally dropped onto the sun-baked soil—too weak to keep Sloan and himself from ramming
into the dirt—Eragon lay with his arms folded at odd angles underneath his chest and stared with
half-lidded eyes into the yellow flecks of citrine embedded within the small rock an inch or two from his
nose. Sloan weighed on his back like a pile of iron ingots. Air seeped from Eragon’s lungs, but none
seemed to return. His vision darkened as if a cloud had covered the sun. A deadly lull separated each
beat of his heart, and the throb, when it came, was no more than a faint flutter.

Eragon was no longer capable of coherent thought, but somewhere in the back of his brain he was
aware that he was about to die. It did not frighten him; to the contrary, the prospect comforted him, for
he was tired beyond belief, and death would free him from the battered shell of his flesh and allow him to
rest for all of eternity.

From above and behind his head, there came a bumblebee as big as his thumb. It circled his ear, then
hovered by the rock, probing the nodes of citrine, which were the same bright yellow as the fieldstars that
bloomed among the hills. The bumblebee’s mane glowed in the morning light—each hair sharp and
distinct to Eragon—and its blurred wings generated a gentle bombilation, like a tattoo played on a drum.
Pollen powdered the bristles on its legs.

The bumblebee was so vibrant, so alive, and so beautiful, its presence renewed Eragon’s will to survive.
A world that contained a creature as amazing as that bumblebee was a world he wanted to live in.

By sheer force of will, he pushed his left hand free of his chest and grasped the woody stem of a nearby
shrub. Like a leech or a tick or some other parasite, he extracted the life from the plant, leaving it limp
and brown. The subsequent rush of energy that coursed through Eragon sharpened his wits. Now he was
scared; having regained his desire to continue existing, he found nothing but terror in the blackness
beyond.

Dragging himself forward, he seized another shrub and transferred its vitality into his body, then a third
shrub and a fourth shrub, and so on until he once again possessed the full measure of his strength. He
stood and looked back at the trail of brown plants that stretched out behind him; a bitter taste filled his
mouth as he saw what he had wrought.

Eragon knew that he had been careless with the magic and that his reckless behavior would have
doomed the Varden to certain defeat if he had died. In hindsight, his stupidity made him wince.Brom
would box my ears for getting into this mess, he thought.

Returning to Sloan, Eragon hoisted the gaunt butcher off the ground. Then he turned east and loped
away from Helgrind and into the concealment of a draw. Ten minutes later, when he paused to check for
pursuers, he saw a cloud of dirt swirling at the base of Helgrind, which he took to mean that the
horsemen had arrived at the dark tower of stone.

He smiled. Galbatorix’s minions were too far away for any lesser magicians among their ranks to detect
his or Sloan’s minds.By the time they discover the Ra’zac’s bodies, he thought,I shall have run a
league or more. I doubt they will be able to find me then. Besides, they will be searching for a


dragon and her Rider, not a man traveling on foot .

Satisfied that he did not have to worry about an imminent attack, Eragon resumed his previous pace: a
steady, effortless stride that he could maintain for the entire day.

Above him, the sun gleamed gold and white. Before him, trackless wilderness extended for many
leagues before lapping against the outbuildings of some village. And in his heart, a new joy and hope
flared.

At last the Ra’zac were dead!

At last his quest for vengeance was complete. At last he had fulfilled his duty to Garrow and to Brom.
And at last he had cast off the pall of fear and anger that he had labored beneath ever since the Ra’zac
first appeared in Carvahall. Killing them had taken far longer than he expected, but now the deed was
done, and a mighty deed it was. He allowed himself to revel in satisfaction over having accomplished
such a difficult feat, albeit with assistance from Roran and Saphira.

Yet, to his surprise, his triumph was bittersweet, tainted by an unexpected sense of loss. His hunt for the
Ra’zac had been one of his last ties to his life in Palancar Valley, and he was loath to relinquish that bond,
gruesome as it was. Moreover, the task had given him a purpose in life when he had none; it was the
reason why he had originally left his home. Without it, a hole gaped inside of him where he had nurtured
his hate for the Ra’zac.

That he could mourn the end of such a terrible mission appalled Eragon, and he vowed to avoid making
the same mistake twice.I refuse to become so attached to my struggle against the Empire and
Murtagh and Galbatorix that I won’t want to move on to something else when, and if, the time
comes—or, worse, that I’ll try to prolong the conflict rather than adapt to whatever happens next.
He chose then to push away his misbegotten regret and to concentrate instead on his relief: relief that he
was free of the grim demands of his self-imposed quest and that his only remaining obligations were those
born of his current position.

Elation lightened his steps. With the Ra’zac gone, Eragon felt as if he could finally make a life for himself
based not on who he had been but on who he had become: a Dragon Rider.

He smiled at the uneven horizon and laughed as he ran, indifferent as to whether anyone might hear him.
His voice rolled up and down the draw, and around him, everything seemed new and beautiful and full of
promise.

TOWALK THELANDALONE
Eragon’s stomach gurgled.
He was lying on his back, legs folded under at the knees—stretching his thighs after running farther and

with more weight than he ever had before—when the loud, liquid rumble erupted from his innards.
The sound was so unexpected, Eragon bolted upright, groping for his staff.


Wind whistled across the empty land. The sun had set, and in its absence, everything was blue and
purple. Nothing moved, save for the blades of grass that fluttered and Sloan, whose fingers slowly
opened and closed in response to some vision in his enchanted slumber. A bone-biting cold heralded the
arrival of true night.

Eragon relaxed and allowed himself a small smile.

His amusement soon vanished as he considered the source of his discomfort. Battling the Ra’zac, casting
numerous spells, and bearing Sloan upon his shoulders for most of the day had left Eragon so ravenous,
he imagined that if he could travel back in time, he could eat the entire feast the dwarves had cooked in
his honor during his visit to Tarnag. The memory of how the roast Nagra, the giant boar, had
smelled—hot, pungent, seasoned with honey and spices, and dripping with lard—was enough to make
his mouth water.

The problem was, he had no supplies. Water was easy enough to come by; he could draw moisture
from the soil whenever he wanted. Finding food in that desolate place, however, was not only far more
difficult, it presented him with a moral dilemma that he had hoped to avoid.

Oromis had devoted many of his lessons to the various climates and geographic regions that existed
throughout Alagaësia. Thus, when Eragon left their camp to investigate the surrounding area, he was able
to identify most of the plants he encountered. Few were edible, and of those, none were large or
bountiful enough for him to gather a meal for two grown men in a reasonable amount of time. The local
animals were sure to have hidden away caches of seeds and fruit, but he had no idea where to begin
searching for them. Nor did he think it was likely that a desert mouse would have amassed more than a
few mouthfuls of food.

That left him with two options, neither of which appealed to him. He could—as he had before—drain
the energy from the plants and insects around their camp. The price of doing so would be to leave a
death-spot upon the earth, a blight where nothing, not even the tiny organisms in the soil, still lived. And
while it might keep him and Sloan on their feet, transfusions of energy were far from satisfying, as they did
nothing to fill one’s stomach.

Or he could hunt.

Eragon scowled and twisted the butt of his staff into the ground. After sharing the thoughts and desires of
numerous animals, it revolted him to consider eating one. Nevertheless, he was not about to weaken
himself and perhaps allow the Empire to capture him just because he went without supper in order to
spare the life of a rabbit. As both Saphira and Roran had pointed out, every living thing survived by
eating something else.Ours is a cruel world, he thought,and I cannot change how it is made. . . . The
elves may be right to avoid flesh, but at the moment, my need is great. I refuse to feel guilty if
circumstances drive me to this. It is not a crime to enjoy some bacon or a trout or what have you .

He continued to reassure himself with various arguments, yet disgust at the concept still squirmed within
his gut. For almost half an hour, he remained rooted to the spot, unable to do what logic told him was
necessary. Then he became aware of how late it was and swore at himself for wasting time; he needed
every minute of rest he could get.

Steeling himself, Eragon sent out tendrils from his mind and probed the land until he located two large
lizards and, curled in a sandy den, a colony of rodents that reminded him of a cross between a rat, a
rabbit, and a squirrel. “Deyja,” said Eragon, and killed the lizards and one of the rodents. They died


instantly and without pain, but he still gritted his teeth as he extinguished the bright flames of their minds.

The lizards he retrieved by hand, flipping over the rocks they had been hiding underneath. The rodent,
however, he extracted from the den with magic. He was careful to not wake the other animals as he
maneuvered the body up to the surface; it seemed cruel to terrify them with the knowledge that an
invisible predator could kill them in their most secret havens.

He gutted, skinned, and otherwise cleaned the lizards and rodent, burying the offal deep enough to hide
it from scavengers. Gathering thin, flat stones, he built a small oven, lit a fire within, and started the meat
cooking. Without salt, he could not properly season any sort of food, but some of the native plants
released a pleasant smell when he crushed them between his fingers, and those he rubbed over and
packed into the carcasses.

The rodent was ready first, being smaller than the lizards. Lifting it off the top of the makeshift oven,
Eragon held the meat in front of his mouth. He grimaced and would have remained locked in the grip of
his revulsion, except that he had to continue tending the fire and the lizards. Those two activities
distracted him enough that, without thinking, he obeyed the strident command of his hunger and ate.

The initial bite was the worst; it stuck in his throat, and the taste of hot grease threatened to make him
sick. Then he shivered and dry-swallowed twice, and the urge passed. After that, it was easier. He was
actually grateful the meat was rather bland, for the lack of flavor helped him to forget what he was
chewing.

He consumed the entire rodent and then part of a lizard. Tearing the last bit of flesh off a thin leg bone,
he heaved a sigh of contentment and then hesitated, chagrined to realize that, in spite of himself, he had
enjoyed the meal. He was so hungry, the meager supper had seemed delicious once he overcame his
inhibitions.Perhaps, he mused,perhaps when I return . . . if I am at Nasuada’s table, or King
Orrin’s, and meat is served . . . perhaps, if I feel like it and it would be rude to refuse, I might have
a few bites. . . . I won’t eat the way I used to, but neither shall I be as strict as the elves.
Moderation is a wiser policy than zealotry, I think .

By the light from the coals in the oven, Eragon studied Sloan’s hands; the butcher lay a yard or two
away, where Eragon had placed him. Dozens of thin white scars crisscrossed his long, bony fingers, with
their oversized knuckles and long fingernails that, while they had been meticulous in Carvahall, were now
ragged, torn, and blackened with accumulated filth. The scars testified to the relatively few mistakes
Sloan had made during the decades he had spent wielding knives. His skin was wrinkled and weathered
and bulged with wormlike veins, yet the muscles underneath were hard and lean.

Eragon sat on his haunches and crossed his arms over his knees. “I can’t just let him go,” he murmured.
If he did, Sloan might track down Roran and Katrina, a prospect that Eragon considered unacceptable.
Besides, even though he was not going to kill Sloan, he believed the butcher should be punished for his
crimes.

Eragon had not been close friends with Byrd, but he had known him to be a good man, honest and
steadfast, and he remembered Byrd’s wife, Felda, and their children with some fondness, for Garrow,
Roran, and Eragon had eaten and slept in their house on several occasions. Byrd’s death, then, struck
Eragon as being particularly cruel, and he felt the watchman’s family deserved justice, even if they never
learned about it.

What, however, would constitute proper punishment?I refused to become an executioner, thought
Eragon,only to make myself an arbiter.What do I know about the law?


Rising to his feet, he walked over to Sloan and bent toward his ear and said, “Vakna.”

With a jolt, Sloan woke, scrabbling at the ground with his sinewy hands. The remnants of his eyelids
quivered as, by instinct, the butcher tried to lift them and look at his surroundings. Instead, he remained
trapped in his own personal night.

Eragon said, “Here, eat this.” He thrust the remaining half of his lizard toward Sloan, who, although he
could not see it, surely must have smelled the food.

“Where am I?” asked Sloan. With trembling hands, he began to explore the rocks and plants in front of
him. He touched his torn wrists and ankles and appeared confused to discover that his fetters were gone.

“The elves—and also the Riders in days gone by—called this place Mírnathor. The dwarves refer to it
as Werghadn, and humans as the Gray Heath. If that does not answer your question, then perhaps it will
if I say we are a number of leagues southeast of Helgrind, where you were imprisoned.”

Sloan mouthed the wordHelgrind . “You rescued me?”

“I did.”

“What about—”

“Leave your questions. Eat this first.”

His harsh tone acted like a whip on the butcher; Sloan cringed and reached with fumbling fingers for the
lizard. Releasing it, Eragon retreated to his place next to the rock oven and scooped handfuls of dirt onto
the coals, blotting out the glow so that it would not betray their presence in the unlikely event that anyone
else was in the vicinity.

After an initial, tentative lick to determine what it was Eragon had given him, Sloan dug his teeth into the
lizard and ripped a thick gobbet from the carcass. With each bite, he crammed as much flesh into his
mouth as he could and only chewed once or twice before swallowing and repeating the process. He
stripped each bone clean with the efficiency of a man who possessed an intimate understanding of how
animals were constructed and what was the quickest way to disassemble them. The bones he dropped
into a neat pile on his left. As the final morsel of meat from the lizard’s tail vanished down Sloan’s gullet,
Eragon handed him the other reptile, which was yet whole. Sloan grunted in thanks and continued to
gorge himself, making no attempt to wipe the fat from his mouth and chin.

The second lizard proved to be too large for Sloan to finish. He stopped two ribs above the bottom of
the chest cavity and placed what was left of the carcass on the cairn of bones. Then he straightened his
back, drew his hand across his lips, tucked his long hair behind his ears, and said, “Thank you, strange
sir, for your hospitality. It has been so long since I had a proper meal, I think I prize your food even
above my own freedom. . . . If I may ask, do you know of my daughter, Katrina, and what has
happened to her? She was imprisoned with me in Helgrind.” His voice contained a complex mixture of
emotions: respect, fear, and submission in the presence of an unknown authority; hope and trepidation as
to his daughter’s fate; and determination as unyielding as the mountains of the Spine. The one element
Eragon expected to hear but did not was the sneering disdain Sloan had used with him during their
encounters in Carvahall.

“She is with Roran.”


Sloan gaped. “Roran! How did he get here? Did the Ra’zac capture him as well? Or did—”

“The Ra’zac and their steeds are dead.”

“Youkilled them? How? . . . Who—” For an instant, Sloan froze, as if he were stuttering with his entire
body, and then his cheeks and mouth went slack and his shoulders caved in and he clutched at a bush to
steady himself. He shook his head. “No, no, no. . . .No . . . . It can’t be. The Ra’zac spoke of this; they
demanded answers I didn’t have, but Ithought . . . That is, who would believe . . . ?” His sides heaved
with such violence, Eragon wondered if he would hurt himself. In a gasping whisper, as if he were forced
to speak after being punched in the middle, Sloan said, “You can’t beEragon. ”

“A sense of doom and destiny descended upon Eragon. He felt as if he were the instrument of those two
merciless overlords, and he replied in accordance, slowing his speech so each word struck like a hammer
blow and carried all the weight of his dignity, station, and anger. “I am Eragon and far more. I am
Argetlam and Shadeslayer and Firesword. My dragon is Saphira, she who is also known as Bjartskular
and Flametongue. We were taught by Brom, who was a Rider before us, and by the dwarves and by the
elves. We have fought the Urgals and a Shade and Murtagh, who is Morzan’s son. We serve the Varden
and the peoples of Alagaësia. And I have brought you here, Sloan Aldensson, to pass judgment upon
you for murdering Byrd and for betraying Carvahall to the Empire.”

“You lie! You cannot be—”

“Lie?” roared Eragon. “I do not lie!” Thrusting out with his mind, he engulfed Sloan’s consciousness in
his own and forced the butcher to accept memories that confirmed the truth of his statements. He also
wanted Sloan to feel the power that was now his and to realize that he was no longer entirely human.
And while Eragon was reluctant to admit it, he enjoyed having control over a man who had often made
trouble for him and also tormented him with gibes, insulting both him and his family. He withdrew a half
minute later.

Sloan continued to quiver, but he did not collapse and grovel as Eragon thought he might. Instead, the
butcher’s demeanor became cold and flinty. “Blast you,” he said. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,
Eragon Son of None. Understand this, though: I did what I did for Katrina’s sake and nothing else.”

“I know. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

“Do what you want with me, then. I don’t care, so long as she’s safe. . . . Well, go on! What’s it to be?
A beating? A branding? They already had my eyes, so one of my hands? Or will you leave me to starve
or to be recaptured by the Empire?”

“I have not decided yet.”

Sloan nodded with a sharp motion and pulled his tattered clothes tight around his limbs to ward off the
night cold. He sat with military precision, gazing with blank, empty eye sockets into the shadows that
ringed their camp. He did not beg. He did not ask for mercy. He did not deny his acts or attempt to
placate Eragon. He but sat and waited, armored by his perfect stoic fortitude.

His bravery impressed Eragon.

The dark landscape around them seemed immense beyond reckoning to Eragon, and he felt as if the
entire hidden expanse was converging upon him, a notion that heightened his anxiety over the choice that


confronted him.My verdict will shape the rest of his life, he thought.

Abandoning for the moment the question of punishment, Eragon considered what he knew about Sloan:
the butcher’s overriding love for Katrina—obsessive, selfish, and generally unhealthy as it was, although it
had once been something wholesome—his hate and fear of the Spine, which were the offspring of his
grief for his late wife, Ismira, who had fallen to her death among those cloud-rending peaks; his
estrangement from the remaining branches of his family; his pride in his work; the stories Eragon had
heard about Sloan’s childhood; and Eragon’s own knowledge of what it was like to live in Carvahall.

Eragon took that collection of scattered, fragmented insights and turned them over in his mind, pondering
their significance. Like the pieces of a puzzle, he tried to fit them together. He rarely succeeded, but he
persisted, and gradually he traced a myriad of connections between the events and emotions of Sloan’s
life, and thereby he wove a tangled web, the patterns of which represented who Sloan was. Throwing the
last line of his web, Eragon felt as if he finally comprehended the reasons for Sloan’s behavior. Because
of that, he empathized with Sloan.

More than empathy, he felt he understood Sloan, that he had isolated the core elements of Sloan’s
personality, those things one could not remove without irrevocably changing the man. There occurred to
him, then, three words in the ancient language that seemed to embody Sloan, and without thinking about
it, Eragon whispered the words under his breath.

The sound could not have reached Sloan, yet he stirred—his hands gripping his thighs—and his
expression became one of unease.

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s left side, and goosebumps appeared on his arms and legs as he
watched the butcher. He considered a number of different explanations for Sloan’s reaction, each more
elaborate than the last, but only one seemed plausible, and even it struck him as being unlikely. He
whispered the trio of words again. As before, Sloan shifted in place, and Eragon heard him mutter, “. . .
someone walking on my grave.”

Eragon released a shaky breath. It was difficult for him to believe, but his experiment left no room for
doubt: he had, quite by accident, chanced upon Sloan’s true name. The discovery left him rather
bewildered. Knowing someone’s true name was a weighty responsibility, for it granted you absolute
power over that person. Because of the inherent risks, the elves rarely revealed their true names, and
when they did, it was only to those whom they trusted without reservation.

Eragon had never learned anyone’s true name before. He had always expected that if he did, it would be
as a gift from someone he cared about a great deal. Gaining Sloan’s true name without his consent was a
turn of events Eragon was unprepared for and uncertain how to deal with. It dawned upon Eragon that in
order to guess Sloan’s true name, he must understand the butcher better than he did himself, for he had
not the slightest inkling what his own might be.

The realization was an uncomfortable one. He suspected that—given the nature of his enemies—not
knowing everything he could about himself might well prove fatal. He vowed, then, to devote more time
to introspection and to uncovering his true name.Perhaps Oromis and Glaedr could tell me what it is,
he thought.

Whatever the doubts and confusion Sloan’s true name roused within him, it gave Eragon the beginning of
an idea for how to deal with the butcher. Even once he had the basic concept, it still took him another ten
minutes to thrash out the rest of his plan and make sure that it would work in the manner he intended.


Sloan tilted his head in Eragon’s direction as Eragon rose and walked out of their camp into the starlit
land beyond. “Where are you going?” asked Sloan.

Eragon remained silent.

He wandered through the wilderness until he found a low, broad rock covered with scabs of lichen and
with a bowl-like hollow in the middle. “Adurna rïsa,” said he. Around the rock, countless minuscule
droplets of water filtered up through the soil and coalesced into flawless silver tubes that arched over the
edge of the rock and down into the hollow. When the water started to overflow and return to the earth,
only to be again ensnared by his spell, Eragon released the flow of magic.

He waited until the surface of the water became perfectly still—so that it acted like a mirror and he
stood before what looked like a basin of stars—and then he said, “Draumr kópa,” and many other
words besides, reciting a spell that would allow him to not only see but speak with others at a distance.
Oromis had taught him the variation on scrying two days before he and Saphira had left Ellesméra for
Surda.

The water went completely black, as if someone had extinguished the stars like candles. A moment or
two later, an oval shape brightened in the middle of the water and Eragon beheld the interior of a large
white tent, illuminated by the flameless light from a red Erisdar, one of the elves’ magical lanterns.

Normally, Eragon would be unable to scry a person or place he had not seen before, but the elves’
seeing glass was enchanted to transmit an image of its surroundings to anyone who contacted the glass.
Likewise, Eragon’s spell would project an image of himself and his surroundings onto the surface of the
glass. The arrangement allowed strangers to contact each other from any location in the world, which
was an invaluable ability in times of war.

A tall elf with silver hair and battle-worn armor entered Eragon’s field of vision, and he recognized Lord
Däthedr, who advised Queen Islanzadí and was a friend of Arya’s. If Däthedr was surprised to see
Eragon, he did not show it; he inclined his head, touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips,
and said in his lilting voice, “Atra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon Shur’tugal.”

Mentally making the shift to conversing in the ancient language, Eragon duplicated the gesture with his
fingers and replied, “Atra du evarínya ono varda, Däthedr-vodhr.”

Continuing in his native tongue, Däthedr said, “I am glad to know you are well, Shadeslayer. Arya
Dröttningu informed us of your mission some days ago, and we have been much concerned on your
behalf and Saphira’s. I trust nothing has gone amiss?”

“No, but I encountered an unforeseen problem, and if I may, I would consult with Queen Islanzadí and
seek her wisdom in this matter.”

Däthedr’s catlike eyes drifted nearly shut, becoming two angled slashes that gave him a fierce and
unreadable expression. “I know you would not ask this unless it is important, Eragon-vodhr, but beware:
a drawn bow may just as easily snap and injure the archer as it may send the arrow flying. . . . If it so
please you, wait, and I shall inquire after the queen.”

“I shall wait. Your assistance is most welcome, Däthedr-vodhr.” As the elf turned away from the seeing
glass, Eragon grimaced. He disliked the elves’ formality, but most of all, he hated trying to interpret their
enigmatic statements.Was he warning me that scheming and plotting around the queen is a
dangerous pastime or that Islanzadí is a drawn bow about to snap? Or did he mean something


else entirely?

At least I’m able to contact the elves,thought Eragon. The elves’ wards prevented anything from
entering Du Weldenvarden by magical means, including the far-sight of scrying. So long as elves
remained in their cities, one could communicate with them only by sending messengers into their forest.
But now that the elves were on the move and had left the shade of their black-needled pine trees, their
great spells no longer protected them and it was possible to use devices such as the seeing glass.

Eragon became increasingly anxious as first one minute and then another trickled past. “Come on,” he
murmured. He quickly glanced around to make sure that no person or beast was creeping up on him
while he gazed into the pool of water.

With a sound akin to ripping cloth, the entrance flap to the tent flew open as Queen Islanzadí thrust it
aside and stormed toward the seeing glass. She wore a bright corselet of golden scale armor, augmented
with mail and greaves and a beautifully decorated helm—set with opals and other precious
gemstones—that held back her flowing black tresses. A red cape trimmed with white billowed from her
shoulders; it reminded Eragon of a looming storm front. In her left hand, Islanzadí wielded a naked
sword. Her right hand was empty, but it appeared gloved in crimson, and after a moment, Eragon
realized that dripping blood coated her fingers and wrist.

Islanzadí’s slanting eyebrows narrowed as she looked upon Eragon. With that expression, she bore a
striking resemblance to Arya, although her stature and bearing were even more impressive than her
daughter’s. She was beautiful and terrible, like a frightful goddess of war.

Eragon touched his lips with his fingers, then twisted his right hand over his chest in the elves’ gesture of
loyalty and respect and recited the opening line of their traditional greeting, speaking first, as was proper
when addressing one of higher rank. Islanzadí made the expected response, and in an attempt to please
her and demonstrate his knowledge of their customs, Eragon concluded with the optional third line of the
salutation: “And may peace live in your heart.”

The ferocity of Islanzadí’s pose diminished somewhat, and a faint smile touched her lips, as if to
acknowledge his maneuver. “And yours as well, Shadeslayer.” Her low, rich voice contained hints of
rustling pine needles and gurgling brooks and music played on reed pipes. Sheathing her sword, she
moved across the tent to the folding table and stood at an angle to Eragon as she washed the blood off
her skin with water from a pitcher. “Peace is difficult to come by these days, I fear.”

“The fighting is heavy, Your Majesty?”

“It will be soon. My people are massing along the western edge of Du Weldenvarden, where we may
prepare to kill and be killed while we are close to the trees we love so much. We are a scattered race
and do not march in rank and file like others do—on account of the damage it inflicts upon the land—and
so it takes time for us to assemble from the distant reaches of the forest.”

“I understand. Only . . .” He searched for a way to ask his question without being rude. “If the fighting
has not started yet, I cannot help but wonder why your hand is dyed with gore.”

Shaking water droplets off her fingers, Islanzadí lifted her perfect gold-brown forearm for Eragon’s
inspection, and he realized that she had been the model for the sculpture of two intertwined arms that
stood in the entryway to his tree house in Ellesméra. “Dyed no more. The only stain blood leaves on a
person is on her soul, not her body. I said the fighting would escalate in the near future,not that we had
yet to start.” She pulled the sleeve of her corselet and the tunic underneath back down to her wrist. From


the jeweled belt wrapped around her slim waist, she removed a gauntlet stitched with silver thread and
worked her hand into it. “We have been observing the city of Ceunon, for we intend to attack there first.
Two days ago, our rangers spotted teams of men and mules traveling from Ceunon into Du
Weldenvarden. We thought they wished to collect timber from the edge of the forest, as is often done.
’Tis a practice we tolerate, for the humans must have wood, and the trees within the fringe are young and
nearly beyond our influence, and we have not wanted to expose ourselves before. The teams did not
stop at the fringe, however. They burrowed far into Du Weldenvarden, following game trails they were
obviously familiar with. They were searching for the tallest, thickest trees—trees as old as Alagaësia
itself, trees that were already ancient and fully grown when the dwarves discovered Farthen Dûr. When
they found them, they began to saw them down.” Her voice rippled with rage. “From their remarks, we
learned why they were here. Galbatorix wanted the largest trees he could acquire to replace the siege
engines and battering rams he lost during the battle on the Burning Plains. If their motive had been pure
and honest, we might have forgiven the loss of one monarch of our forest. Maybe even two. But not
eight-and-twenty.”

A chill crept through Eragon. “What did you do?” he asked, although he already suspected the answer.

Islanzadí lifted her chin, and her face grew hard. “I was present with two of our rangers. Together, we
corrected the humans’ mistake. In the past, the people of Ceunon knew better than to intrude upon our
lands. Today we reminded them why that was so.” Without seeming to notice, she rubbed her right hand,
as if it pained her, and she gazed past the seeing glass, looking at some vision of her own. “You have
learned what it is like, Eragon-finiarel, to touch the life force of the plants and animals around you.
Imagine how you would cherish them if you had possessed that ability for centuries. We give of ourselves
to sustain Du Weldenvarden, and the forest is an extension of our bodies and minds. Any hurt it suffers is
our hurt as well. . . . We are a slow people to rouse, but once roused we are like the dragons: we go
mad with anger. It has been over a hundred years since I, or most any elf, shed blood in battle. The
world has forgotten what we are capable of. Our strength may have declined since the Riders’ fall, but
we shall still give a full reckoning of ourselves; to our enemies, it will seem as if even the elements have
turned against them. We are an Elder Race, and our skill and knowledge far exceed that of mortal men.
Let Galbatorix and his allies beware, for we elves are about to forsake our forest, and we shall return in
triumph, or never again.”

Eragon shivered. Even during his confrontations with Durza, he had never encountered such implacable
determination and ruthlessness.It’s not human, he thought, then laughed mockingly to himself.Of course
not. And I would do well to remember that. However much we may look alike—and in my case,
nigh on identical—we are not the same . “If you take Ceunon,” he said, “how will you control the
people there? They may hate the Empire more than death itself, but I doubt they will trust you, if only
because they are humans and you are elves.”

Islanzadí waved a hand. “That is unimportant. Once we are within the city walls, we have ways to ensure
that no one will oppose us. This is not the first time we have fought your kind.” She removed her helm
then, and her hair fell forward and framed her face between raven locks. “I was not pleased to hear of
your raid on Helgrind, but I take it the assault is already over and was successful?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then my objections are for naught. I warn you, however, Eragon Shur’tugal, do not imperil yourself on
such needlessly dangerous ventures. It is a cruel thing I must say, but true nevertheless, and it is this: your
life is more important than your cousin’s happiness.”

“I swore an oath to Roran that I would help him.”


“Then you swore recklessly, without considering the consequences.”

“Would you have me abandon those I care about? If I did that, I would become a man to despise and
distrust: an ill-formed vehicle for the hopes of the people who believe I will,somehow, bring low
Galbatorix. And also, while Katrina was Galbatorix’s hostage, Roran was vulnerable to his
manipulation.”

The queen lifted one dagger-sharp eyebrow. “A vulnerability that you could have prevented Galbatorix
from exploiting by tutoring Roran in certain oaths in this, the language of magic. . . . I do not counsel you
to cast away your friends or family. That would be folly indeed. But keep you firmly in mind what is at
stake: the entirety of Alagaësia. If we fail now, then Galbatorix’s tyranny will extend over all the races,
and his reign shall have no conceivable end. You are the tip of the spear that is our effort, and if the tip
should break and be lost, then our spear shall bounce off the armor of our foe, and we too shall be lost.”

Folds of lichen cracked underneath Eragon’s fingers as he gripped the edge of the rock basin and
suppressed the urge to make an impertinent remark about how any well-equipped warrior ought to have
a sword or another weapon to rely upon besides a spear. He was frustrated by the direction the
conversation had taken and eager to change the topic as quickly as he could; he had not contacted the
queen so she could berate him as if he were a mere child. Nevertheless, allowing his impatience to dictate
his actions would do nothing to further his cause, so he remained calm and replied, “Please believe me,
Your Majesty, I take your concerns very, very seriously. I can only say that if I hadn’t helped Roran, I
would have been as miserable as he, and more so if he attempted to rescue Katrina by himself and died
as a result. In either case, I would have been too upset to be of any use to you or anyone. Cannot we at
least agree to differ on the subject? Neither of us shall convince the other.”

“Very well,” said Islanzadí. “We shall lay the matter to rest . . . for the present. But do not think you
have escaped a proper investigation of your decision, Eragon Dragon Rider. It seems to me you display a
frivolous attitude toward your larger responsibilities, and that is a serious matter. I shall discuss it with
Oromis; he will decide what is to be done about you. Now tell me, why did you seek this audience?”

Eragon clenched his teeth several times before he could bring himself to, in a civil tone, explain the day’s
events, the reasons for his actions in regard to Sloan, and the punishment he envisioned for the butcher.

When he finished, Islanzadí whirled around and paced the circumference of the tent—her movements as
lithe as a cat’s—then stopped and said, “You chose to stay behind, in the middle of the Empire, to save
the life of a murderer and a traitor. You are alone with this man, on foot, without supplies or weapons,
save for magic, and your enemies are close behind. I see my earlier admonishments were more than
justified. You—”

“Your Majesty, if you must be angry with me, be angry with me later. I want to resolve this quickly so I
can get some rest before dawn; I have many miles to cover tomorrow.”

The queen nodded. “Your survival is all that matters. I shall be furious after we are done speaking. . . .
As for your request, such a thing is unprecedented in our history. If I had been in your place, I would
have killed Sloan and rid myself of the problem then and there.”

“I know you would have. I once watched Arya slay a gyrfalcon who was injured, for she said its death
was inevitable, and by killing it, she saved the bird hours of suffering. Perhaps I should have done the
same with Sloan, but I couldn’t. I think it would have been a choice I would have regretted for the rest of
my life, or worse, one that would have made it easier for me to kill in the future.”


Islanzadí sighed, and suddenly she appeared tired. Eragon reminded himself that she too had been
fighting that day. “Oromis may have been your proper teacher, but you have proved yourself Brom’s
heir, not Oromis’s. Brom is the only other person who managed to entangle himself in as many
predicaments as you. Like him, you seem compelled to find the deepest patch of quicksand and then dive
into it.”

Eragon hid a smile, pleased by the comparison. “What of Sloan?” he asked. “His fate rests with you
now.”

Slowly, Islanzadí sat upon a stool next to the folding table, placed her hands in her lap, and gazed to one
side of the seeing glass. Her countenance became one of enigmatic observation: a beautiful mask that
concealed her thoughts and feelings, and one that Eragon could not penetrate, no matter how hard he
strove. When she spoke, she said, “As you have seen fit to save this man’s life, at no little trouble and
effort on your own part, I cannot refuse your request and thereby render your sacrifice meaningless. If
Sloan survives the ordeal you have set before him, then Gilderien the Wise shall allow him to pass, and
Sloan shall have a room and a bed and food to eat. More I cannot promise, for what happens afterward
will depend on Sloan himself, but if the conditions you named are met, then yes, we shall light his
darkness.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most generous.”

“No, not generous. This war does not allow me to be generous, only practical. Go and do what you
must, and be you careful, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

“Your Majesty.” He bowed. “If I may ask one last favor: would you please refrain from telling Arya,
Nasuada, or any of the Varden of my current situation? I don’t want them to worry about me any longer
than they have to, and they’ll learn of it soon enough from Saphira.”

“I shall consider your request.”

Eragon waited, but when she remained silent and it became clear she had no intention of announcing her
decision, he bowed a second time and again said, “Thank you.”

The glowing image on the surface of the water flickered and then vanished into darkness as Eragon
ended the spell he had used to create it. He leaned back on his heels and gazed up at the multitude of
stars, allowing his eyes to readjust to the faint, glimmering light they provided. Then he left the crumbling
rock with the pool of water and retraced his path across the grass and scrub to the camp, where Sloan
still sat upright, rigid as cast iron.

Eragon struck a pebble with his foot, and the resulting noise revealed his presence to Sloan, who
snapped his head around, quick as a bird. “Have you made up your mind?” demanded Sloan.

“I have,” said Eragon. He stopped and squatted in front of the butcher, steadying himself with one hand
on the ground. “Hear me well, for I don’t intend to repeat myself. You did what you did because of your
love for Katrina, or so you say. Whether you admit it or not, I believe you also had other, baser motives
in wanting to separate her from Roran: anger . . . hate . . . vindictiveness . . . and your own hurt.”

Sloan’s lips hardened into thin white lines. “You wrong me.”

“No, I don’t think so. Since my conscience prevents me from killing you, your punishment is to be the


most terrible I could invent short of death. I’m convinced that what you said before is true, that Katrina is
more important to you than anything else. Therefore, your punishment is this: you shall not see, touch, or
talk with your daughter again, even unto your dying day, and you shall live with the knowledge that she is
with Roran and they are happy together, without you.”

Sloan inhaled through his clenched teeth. “Thatis your punishment? Ha! You cannot enforce it; you have
no prison to put me in.”

“I’m not finished. I will enforce it by having you swear oaths in the elves’ tongue—in the language of
truth and magic—to abide by the terms of your sentence.”

“You can’t force me to give my word,” Sloan growled. “Not even if you torture me.”

“I can, and I won’t torture you. Furthermore, I will lay upon you a compulsion to travel northward until
you reach the elf city of Ellesméra, which stands deep in the heart of Du Weldenvarden. You can try to
resist the urge if you want, but no matter how long you fight it, the spell will irritate you like an
unscratched itch until you obey its demands and travel to the elves’ realm.”

“Don’t you have the guts to kill me yourself?” asked Sloan. “You’re too much of a coward to put a
blade to my neck, so you’ll make me wander the wilderness, blind and lost, until the weather or the
beasts do me in?” He spat to the left of Eragon. “You’re nothing but the yellow-bellied offspring of a
canker-ridden bunter. You’re a bastard, you are, and an unlicked cub; a dung-splattered, tallowfaced
rock-gnasher; a puking villain and a noxious toad; the runty, mewling spawn of a greasy sow. I wouldn’t
give you my last crust if you were starving, or a drop of water if you were burning, or a beggar’s grave if
you were dead. You have pus for marrow and fungus for brains, and you’re a scug-backed
cheek-biter!”

There was, Eragon thought, something rather obscenely impressive about Sloan’s swearing, although his
admiration did not prevent him from wanting to strangle the butcher, or to at least respond in kind. What
stayed his desire for retaliation, however, was his suspicion that Sloan was deliberately trying to infuriate
him enough to strike down the older man and thus give him a quick and undeserved end.

Eragon said, “Bastard I may be, but not a murderer.” Sloan drew a sharp breath. Before he could
resume his torrent of abuse, Eragon added: “Wherever you go, you shall not want for food, nor will wild
animals attack you. I will place certain enchantments around you that will keep men and beasts from
troubling you and will cause animals to bring you sustenance when you need it.”

“You can’t do this,” whispered Sloan. Even in the starlight, Eragon could see the last remnants of color
drain from his skin, leaving him bone white. “You don’t have the means. You don’t have the right.”

“I am a Dragon Rider. I have as much right as any king or queen.”

Then Eragon, who had no interest in continuing to chastise Sloan, uttered the butcher’s true name loud
enough for him to hear. An expression of horror and revelation crawled across Sloan’s face, and he
threw his arms up before him and howled as if he had been stabbed. His cry was raw and jagged and
desolate: the scream of a man condemned by his own nature to a fate he could not escape. He fell
forward onto the palms of his hands and remained in that position and began to sob, his face obscured by
shocks of hair.

Eragon watched, transfixed by Sloan’s reaction.Does learning your true name affect everyone like
this? Would this happen to me as well?


Hardening his heart to Sloan’s misery, Eragon set about doing what he said he would. He repeated
Sloan’s true name and, word by word, schooled the butcher in the ancient language oaths that would
ensure Sloan never met or contacted Katrina again. Sloan resisted with much weeping and wailing and
grinding of his teeth, but no matter how vigorously he struggled, he had no choice but to obey whenever
Eragon invoked his true name. And when they finished with the oaths, Eragon cast the five spells that
would drive Sloan toward Ellesméra, would protect him from unprovoked violence, and would entice the
birds and the beasts and the fish that dwelled in the rivers and lakes to feed him. Eragon fashioned the
spells so they would derive their energy from Sloan and not himself.

Midnight was a fading memory by the time Eragon completed the final incantation. Drunk with
weariness, he leaned against the hawthorn staff. Sloan lay curled at his feet.

“Finished,” said Eragon.

A garbled moan drifted up from the figure below. It sounded as if Sloan were attempting to say
something. Frowning, Eragon knelt beside him. Sloan’s cheeks were red and bloody where he had
scraped them with his fingers. His nose ran, and tears dripped from the corner of his left eye socket,
which was the less mutilated of the two. Pity and guilt welled up inside of Eragon; it gave him no pleasure
to see Sloan reduced to such a low state. He was a broken man, stripped of everything he valued in life,
including his self-delusions, and Eragon was the one who had broken him. The accomplishment left
Eragon feeling soiled, as if he had done something shameful.It was necessary, he thought,but no one
should have to do what I did.

Another moan emanated from Sloan, and then he said, “. . . only a piece of rope. I didn’t mean to . . .
Ismira . . . No, no, please no . . .” The butcher’s ramblings subsided, and in the intervening silence,
Eragon placed his hand on Sloan’s upper arm. Sloan stiffened at the contact. “Eragon . . . ,” he
whispered. “Eragon . . . I am blind, and you send me to walk the land . . . to walk the land alone. I am
forsaken and forsworn. I know who I am and I cannot bear it. Help me; kill me! Free me of this agony.”

On an impulse, Eragon pressed the hawthorn rod into Sloan’s right hand and said, “Take my staff. Let it
guide you on your journey.”

“Kill me!”

“No.”

A cracked shout burst from Sloan’s throat, and he thrashed from side to side and pounded the earth
with his fists. “Cruel, cruel you are!” His meager strength depleted, he curled into an even tighter ball,
panting and whimpering.

Bending over him, Eragon placed his mouth close to Sloan’s ear and whispered, “I am not without
mercy, so I give you this hope: If you reach Ellesméra, you will find a home waiting for you. The elves will
care for you and allow you to do whatever you want for the rest of your life, with one exception: once
you enter Du Weldenvarden, you cannot leave. . . . Sloan, listen to me. When I was among the elves, I
learned that a person’s true name often changes as they age. Do you understand what that means? Who
you are is not fixed for all of eternity. A man could forge himself anew if he so wanted.”

Sloan made no reply.

Eragon left the staff next to Sloan and crossed to the other side of the camp and stretched out his full


length on the ground. His eyes already closed, he mumbled a spell that would rouse him before dawn and
then allowed himself to drift into the soothing embrace of his waking rest.

The Gray Heath was cold, dark, and inhospitable when a low buzz sounded inside Eragon’s head.
“Letta,” he said, and the buzzing ceased. Groaning as he stretched sore muscles, he got to his feet and
lifted his arms over his head, shaking them to get the blood flowing. His back felt so bruised, he hoped it
would be a long while before he had to swing a weapon again. He lowered his arms and then looked for
Sloan.

The butcher was gone.

Eragon smiled as he saw a set of tracks, accompanied by the round imprint of the staff, leading away
from the camp. The trail was confused and meandering, and yet its general direction was northward,
toward the great forest of the elves.

I want him to succeed,Eragon thought with mild surprise.I want him to succeed, because it will mean
we may all have a chance to redeem ourselves from our mistakes. And if Sloan can mend the
flaws in his character and come to terms with the evil he wrought, he will find his plight is not so
bleak as he believes. For Eragon had not told Sloan that if the butcher demonstrated that he truly
regretted his crimes, reformed his ways, and lived as a better person, Queen Islanzadí would have her
spellweavers restore his vision. However, it was a reward Sloan had to earn without knowing about its
existence, else he might seek to trick the elves into bestowing it prematurely.

Eragon stared at the footprints for a long while, then lifted his gaze to the horizon and said, “Good luck.”

Tired, but also content, he turned his back on Sloan’s trail and began to run across the Gray Heath. To
the southwest, he knew there stood the ancient sandstone formations where Brom lay encased in his
diamond tomb. He longed to divert his path and to go pay his respects but dared not, for if Galbatorix
had discovered the site, he would send his agents there to look for Eragon.

“I’ll return,” he said. “I promise you, Brom: someday I’ll return.”

He sped onward.

THETRIAL OF THELONGKNIVES

“But we are your people!”

Fadawar, a tall, high-nosed, black-skinned man, spoke with the same heavy emphasis and altered
vowels Nasuada remembered hearing during her childhood in Farthen Dûr, when emissaries from her
father’s tribe would arrive and she would sit on Ajihad’s lap and doze while they talked and smoked
cardus weed.


Nasuada gazed up at Fadawar and wished she were six inches taller so that she could look the warlord
and his four retainers straight in the eyes. Still, she was accustomed to men looming over her. She found it
rather more disconcerting to be among a group of people who were as dark as she was. It was a novel
experience not to be the object of people’s curious stares and whispered comments.

She was standing in front of the carved chair where she held her audiences—one of the only solid chairs
the Varden had brought with them on their campaign—inside her red command pavilion. The sun was
close to setting, and its rays filtered through the right side of the pavilion as through stained glass and gave
the contents a ruddy glow. A long, low table covered with scattered reports and maps occupied one-half
of the pavilion.

Just outside the entrance to the large tent, she knew the six members of her personal guard—two
humans, two dwarves, and two Urgals—were waiting with drawn weapons, ready to attack if they
received the slightest indication she was in peril. Jörmundur, her oldest and most trusted commander, had
saddled her with guards since the day Ajihad died, but never so many for so long. However, the day
after the battle on the Burning Plains, Jörmundur expressed his deep and abiding concern for her safety, a
concern, he said, that often kept him up nights with a burning stomach. As an assassin had tried to kill her
in Aberon, and Murtagh had actually accomplished the deed in regard to King Hrothgar less than a week
past, it was Jörmundur’s opinion that Nasuada ought to create a force dedicated to her own defense.
She had objected that such a measure would be an overreaction but had been unable to convince
Jörmundur; he had threatened to abdicate his post if she refused to adopt what he considered to be
proper precautions. Eventually, she acceded, only to spend the next hour haggling over how many guards
she was to have. He had wanted twelve or more at all times. She wanted four or fewer. They settled on
six, which still struck Nasuada as too many; she worried about appearing afraid or, worse, as if she were
attempting to intimidate those she met. Again her protestations had failed to sway Jörmundur. When she
accused him of being a stubborn old worrywart, he laughed and said, “Better a stubborn old worrywart
than a foolhardy youngling dead before his time.”

As the members of her guard changed every six hours, the total number of warriors assigned to protect
Nasuada was four-and-thirty, including the ten additional warriors who remained in readiness to replace
their comrades in case of sickness, injury, or death.

It was Nasuada who had insisted upon recruiting the force from each of the three mortal races arrayed
against Galbatorix. By doing so, she hoped to foster greater solidarity among them, as well as to convey
that she represented the interests of all the races under her command, not just the humans. She would
have included the elves as well, but at the moment, Arya was the only elf who fought alongside the
Varden and their allies, and the twelve spellcasters Islanzadí had sent to protect Eragon had yet to arrive.
To Nasuada’s disappointment, her human and dwarf guards had been hostile to the Urgals they served
with, a reaction she anticipated but had been unable to avert or mitigate. It would, she knew, take more
than one shared battle to ease the tensions between races that had fought and hated each other for more
generations than she cared to count. Still, she viewed it as encouraging that the warriors chose to name
their corps the Nighthawks, for the title was a play upon both her coloring and the fact that the Urgals
invariably referred to her as Lady Nightstalker.

Although she would never admit it to Jörmundur, Nasuada had quickly come to appreciate the increased
sense of security her guards provided. In addition to being masters of their chosen weapons—whether
they were the humans’ swords, the dwarves’ axes, or the Urgals’ eccentric collection of
instruments—many of the warriors were skilled spellweavers. And they had all sworn their undying
loyalty to her in the ancient language. Since the day the Nighthawks first assumed their duties, they had
not left Nasuada alone with another person, save for Farica, her handmaid.


That was, until now.

Nasuada had sent them out of the pavilion because she knew her meeting with Fadawar might lead to
the type of bloodshed the Nighthawks’ sense of duty would require them to prevent. Even so, she was
not entirely defenseless. She had a dagger hidden in the folds of her dress, and an even smaller knife in
the bodice of her undergarments, and the prescient witch-child, Elva, was standing just behind the curtain
that backed Nasuada’s chair, ready to intercede if need be.

Fadawar tapped his four-foot-long scepter against the ground. The chased rod was made of solid gold,
as was his fantastic array of jewelry: gold bangles covered his forearms; a breastplate of hammered gold
armored his chest; long, thick chains of gold hung around his neck; embossed disks of white gold
stretched the lobes of his ears; and upon the top of his head rested a resplendent gold crown of such
huge proportions, Nasuada wondered how Fadawar’s neck could support the weight without buckling
and how such a monumental piece of architecture remained fixed in place. It seemed one would have to
bolt the edifice, which was at least two and a half feet tall, to its bony bedrock in order to keep it from
toppling over.

Fadawar’s men were garbed in the same fashion, although less opulently. The gold they wore served to
proclaim not only their wealth but also the status and deeds of each individual and the skill of their tribe’s
far-famed craftsmen. As either nomads or city dwellers, the dark-skinned peoples of Alagaësia had long
been renowned for the quality of their jewelry, which at its best rivaled that of the dwarves.

Nasuada owned several pieces of her own, but she had chosen not to wear them. Her poor raiment
could not compete with Fadawar’s splendor. Also, she believed it would not be wise to affiliate herself
with any one group, no matter how rich or influential, when she had to deal with and speak for all the
differing factions of the Varden. If she displayed partiality toward one or another, her ability to control the
whole lot of them would diminish.

Which was the basis of her argument with Fadawar.

Fadawar again jabbed his scepter into the ground. “Blood is the most important thing! First come your
responsibilities to your family, then to your tribe, then to your warlord, then to the gods above and below,
and only then to your king and to your nation, if you have them. That is how Unulukuna intended men to
live, and that is how we should live if we want to be happy. Are you brave enough to spit on the shoes of
the Old One? If a man does not help his family, whom can he depend upon to help him? Friends are
fickle, but family is forever.”

“You ask me,” said Nasuada, “to give positions of power to your fellow kinsmen because you are my
mother’s cousin and because my father was born among you. This I would be happy to do if your
kinsmen could fulfill those positions better than anyone else in the Varden, but nothing you have said thus
far has convinced me that is so. And before you squander more of your gilt-tongued eloquence, you
should know that appeals based upon our shared blood are meaningless to me. I would give your request
greater consideration if ever you had done more to support my father than send trinkets and empty
promises to Farthen Dûr. Only now that victory and influence are mine have you made yourself known to
me. Well, my parents are dead, and I say I have no family but myself. You are my people, yes, but
nothing more.”

Fadawar narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin and said, “A woman’s pride is always without sense. You
shall fail without our support.”

He had switched to his native language, which forced Nasuada to respond in kind. She hated him for it.


Her halting speech and uncertain tones exposed her unfamiliarity with her birth tongue, emphasizing that
she had not grown up in their tribe but was an outsider. The ploy undermined her authority. “I always
welcome new allies,” she said. “However, I cannot indulge in favoritism, nor should you have need of it.
Your tribes are strong and well gifted. They should be able to rise quickly through the ranks of the
Varden without having to rely upon the charity of others. Are you starving dogs to sit whining at my table,
or are you men who can feed themselves? If you can, then I look forward to working with you to better
the Varden’s lot and to defeat Galbatorix.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Fadawar. “Your offer is as false as you are. We shall not do servants’ work; we are
the chosen ones. You insult us, you do. You stand there and you smile, but your heart is full of scorpion’s
poison.”

Stifling her anger, Nasuada attempted to calm the warlord. “It was not my intent to cause offense. I was
only trying to explain my position. I have no enmity for the wandering tribes, nor have I any special love
for them. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It is worse than bad, it is bald-faced treachery! Your father made certain requests of us based upon our
relation, and now you ignore our service and turn us away like empty-handed beggars!”

A sense of resignation overwhelmed Nasuada.So Elva was right—it is inevitable, she thought. A thrill
of fear and excitement coursed through her.If it must be, then I have no reason to maintain this
charade . Allowing her voice to ring forth, she said, “Requests that you did not honor half the time.”

“We did!”

“You did not. And even if you were telling the truth, the Varden’s position is too precarious for me to
give you something for nothing. You ask for favors, yet tell me, what do you offer in return? Will you help
fund the Varden with your gold and jewels?”

“Not directly, but—”

“Will you give me the use of your craftsmen, free of charge?”

“We could not—”

“How, then, do you intend to earn these boons? You cannot pay with warriors; your men already fight
for me, whether in the Varden or in King Orrin’s army. Be content with what you have, Warlord, and do
not seek more than is rightfully yours.”

“You twist the truth to suit your own selfish goals. I seek what is rightfully ours! That is why I am here.
You talk and you talk, yet your words are meaningless, for by your actions, you have betrayed us.” The
bangles on his arms clattered together as he gestured, as if before an audience of thousands. “You admit
we are your people. Then do you still follow our customs and worship our gods?”

Here is the turning point,thought Nasuada. She could lie and claim she had abandoned the old ways,
but if she did, the Varden would lose Fadawar’s tribes, and other nomads besides, once they heard of
her statement.We need them. We need everyone we can get if we’re to have the slightest chance of
toppling Galbatorix .

“I do,” she said.


“Then I say you are unfit to lead the Varden, and as is my right, I challenge you to the Trial of the Long
Knives. If you are triumphant, we shall bow to you and never again question your authority. But if you
lose, then you shall step aside, and I shall take your place as head of the Varden.”

Nasuada noted the spark of glee that lit Fadawar’s eyes.This is what he wanted all along, she
realized.He would have invoked the trialeven if I had complied with his demands . She said,
“Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought it was tradition that whoever won assumed command of his rival’s
tribes, as well as his own. Is that not so?” She almost laughed at the expression of dismay that flashed
across Fadawar’s face.You didn’t expect me to know that, did you?

“It is.”

“I accept your challenge, then, with the understanding that should I win, your crown and scepter will be
mine. Are we agreed?”

Fadawar scowled and nodded. “We are.” He stabbed his scepter deep enough into the ground that it
stood upright by itself, then grasped the first bangle on his left arm and began to work it down over his
hand.

“Wait,” said Nasuada. Going to the table that filled the other side of the pavilion, she picked up a small
brass bell and rang it twice, paused, and then rang it four times.

Only a moment or two passed before Farica entered the tent. She cast a frank gaze at Nasuada’s
guests, then curtsied to the lot of them and said, “Yes, Mistress?”

Nasuada gave Fadawar a nod. “We may proceed.” Then she addressed her handmaid: “Help me out of
my dress; I don’t want to ruin it.”

The older woman looked shocked by the request. “Here, Ma’am? In front of these . . . men?”

“Yes, here. And be quick about it too! I shouldn’t have to argue with my own servant.” Nasuada was
harsher than she meant to be, but her heart was racing and her skin was incredibly, terribly sensitive; the
soft linen of her undergarments seemed as abrasive as canvas. Patience and courtesy were beyond her
now. All she could concentrate on was her upcoming ordeal.

Nasuada stood motionless as Farica picked and pulled at the laces to her dress, which extended from
her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. When the cords were loose enough, Farica lifted Nasuada’s
arms out of the sleeves, and the shell of bunched fabric dropped in a pile around Nasuada’s feet, leaving
her standing almost naked in her white chemise. She fought back a shiver as the four warriors examined
her, feeling vulnerable beneath their covetous looks. Ignoring them, she stepped forward, out of the
dress, and Farica snatched the garment out of the dirt.

Across from Nasuada, Fadawar had been busy removing the bangles from his forearms, revealing the
embroidered sleeves of his robes underneath. Finished, he lifted off his massive crown and handed it to
one of his retainers.

The sound of voices outside the pavilion delayed further progress.

Marching through the entrance, a message boy—Jarsha was his name, Nasuada remembered—planted
himself a foot or two inside and proclaimed: “King Orrin of Surda, Jörmundur of the Varden, Trianna of
Du Vrangr Gata, and Naako and Ramusewa of the Inapashunna tribe.” Jarsha very pointedly kept his


eyes fixed on the ceiling while he spoke.

Snapping about, Jarsha departed and the congregation he had announced entered, with Orrin at the
vanguard. The king saw Fadawar first and greeted him, saying, “Ah, Warlord, thisis unexpected. I trust
you and—” Astonishment suffused his youthful face as he beheld Nasuada. “Why, Nasuada, what is the
meaning of this?”

“I should like to know that as well,” rumbled Jörmundur. He gripped the hilt of his sword and glowered
at anyone who dared stare at her too openly.

“I have summoned you here,” she said, “to witness the Trial of the Long Knives between Fadawar and
myself and to afterward speak the truth of the outcome to everyone who asks.”

The two gray-haired tribesmen, Naako and Ramusewa, appeared alarmed by her revelation; they
leaned close together and began to whisper. Trianna crossed her arms—baring the snake bracelet coiled
around one slim wrist—but otherwise betrayed no reaction.

Jörmundur swore and said, “Have you taken leave of your senses, my Lady? This is madness. You
cannot—”

“I can, and I will.”

“My Lady, if you do, I—”

“Your concern is noted, but my decision is final. And I forbid anyone from interfering.” She could tell he
longed to disobey her order, but as much as he wanted to shield her from harm, loyalty had ever been
Jörmundur’s predominant trait.

“But, Nasuada,” said King Orrin. “This trial, is not it where—”

“It is.”

“Blast it, then; why don’t you give up this mad venture? You would have to be addled to carry it out.”

“I have already given my word to Fadawar.”

The mood in the pavilion became even more somber. That she had given her word meant she could not
rescind her promise without revealing herself to be an honorless oath-breaker that fairminded men would
have no choice but to curse and shun. Orrin faltered for a moment, but he persisted with his questions:
“To what end? That is, if you should lose—”

“If I should lose, the Varden shall no longer answer to me, but to Fadawar.”

Nasuada had expected a storm of protest. Instead, there came a silence, wherein the hot anger that
animated King Orrin’s visage cooled and sharpened and acquired a brittle temper. “I do not appreciate
your choice to endanger our entire cause.” To Fadawar, he said, “Will you not be reasonable and release
Nasuada from her obligation? I will reward you richly if you agree to abandon this illconceived ambition
of yours.”

“I am rich already,” said Fadawar. “I have no need for your tintainted gold. No, nothing but the Trial of
the Long Knives can compensate me for the slander Nasuada has aimed at my people and me.”


“Bear witness now,” said Nasuada.

Orrin clenched tight the folds of his robes, but he bowed and said, “Aye, I will bear witness.”

From within their voluminous sleeves, Fadawar’s four warriors produced small, hairy goat-hide drums.
Squatting, they placed the drums between their knees and struck up a furious beat, pounding so fast, their
hands were sooty smudges in the air. The rough music obliterated all other sound, as well as the host of
frantic thoughts that had been bedeviling Nasuada. Her heart felt as if it were keeping pace with the
manic tempo that assaulted her ears.

Without missing a single note, the oldest of Fadawar’s men reached inside his vest and, from there, drew
two long, curved knives that he tossed toward the peak of the tent. Nasuada watched the knives tumble
haft over blade, fascinated by the beauty of their motion.

When it was close enough, she lifted her arm and caught her knife. The opal-studded hilt stung her palm.

Fadawar successfully intercepted his weapon as well.

He then grasped the left cuff of his garment and pushed the sleeve past his elbow. Nasuada kept her
eyes fixed upon Fadawar’s forearm as he did. His limb was thick and muscled, but she deemed that of
no importance; athletic gifts would not help him win their contest. What she looked for instead were the
telltale ridges that, if they existed, would lie across the belly of his forearm.

She observed five of them.

Five!she thought.So many . Her confidence wavered as she contemplated the evidence of Fadawar’s
fortitude. The only thing that kept her from losing her nerve altogether was Elva’s prediction: the girl had
said that, in this, Nasuada would prevail. Nasuada clung to the memory as if it were her only child.She
said I can do this, so I must be able to outlast Fadawar. . . . I must be able to!

As he was the one who had issued the challenge, Fadawar went first. He held his left arm straight out
from his shoulder, palmupward; placed the blade of his knife against his forearm, just below the crease of
his elbow; and drew the mirror-polished edge across his flesh. His skin split like an overripe berry, blood
welling from within the crimson crevice.

He locked gazes with Nasuada.

She smiled and set her own knife against her arm. The metal was as cold as ice. Theirs was a test of
wills to discover who could withstand the most cuts. The belief was that whoever aspired to become the
chief of a tribe, or even a warlord, should be willing to endure more pain than anyone else for the sake of
his or her people. Otherwise, how could the tribes trust their leaders to place the concerns of the
community before their own selfish desires? It was Nasuada’s opinion that the practice encouraged
extremism, but she also understood the ability of the gesture to earn people’s trust. Although the Trial of
the Long Knives was specific to the dark-skinned tribes, besting Fadawar would solidify her standing
among the Varden and, she hoped, King Orrin’s followers.

She offered a quick plea for strength to Gokukara, the praying mantis goddess, and then pulled on the
knife. The sharpened steel slid through her skin so easily, she struggled to avoid cutting too deeply. She
shuddered at the sensation. She wanted to fling the knife away and clutch her wound and scream.


She did none of those things. She kept her muscles slack; if she tensed, the process would hurt all the
more. And she kept smiling as, slowly, the blade mutilated her body. The cut ended after only three
seconds, but in those seconds, her outraged flesh delivered a thousand shrieking complaints, and each
one nearly made her stop. As she lowered the knife, she noticed that while the tribesmen still beat upon
their drums, she heard naught but the pounding of her pulse.

Then Fadawar slashed himself a second time. The cords in his neck stood in high relief, and his jugular
vein bulged as if it would burst while the knife carved its bloody path.

Nasuada saw it was her turn again. Knowing what to expect only increased her fear. Her instinct for
self-preservation—an instinct that had served her well on all other occasions—warred against the
commands she sent to her arm and hand. Desperate, she concentrated upon her desire to preserve the
Varden and overthrow Galbatorix: the two causes to which she had devoted her entire being. In her
mind, she saw her father and Jörmundur and Eragon and

the people of the Varden, and she thought,For them! I do this for them. I was born to serve, and this
is my service .

She made the incision.

A moment later, Fadawar opened up a third gash on his forearm, as did Nasuada on her own.

The fourth cut followed soon thereafter.

And the fifth . . .

A strange lethargy overtook Nasuada. She was so very tired, and cold as well. It occurred to her then
that tolerance of pain might not decide the trial, but rather who would faint first from loss of blood.

Shifting streams of it ran across her wrist and down her fingers, splashing into the thick pool by her feet.
A similar, if larger, puddle gathered around Fadawar’s boots.

The row of gaping red slits on the warlord’s arm reminded Nasuada of the gills of a fish, a thought that
for some reason seemed incredibly funny to her; she had to bite her tongue to keep from giggling.

With a howl, Fadawar succeeded in completing his sixth cut. “Best that, you feckless witch!” he shouted
over the noise of the drums, and dropped to one knee.

She did.

Fadawar trembled as he transferred his knife from his right hand to his left; tradition dictated a maximum
of six cuts per arm, else you risked severing the veins and tendons close to the wrist. As Nasuada
imitated his movement, King Orrin sprang between them and said, “Stop! I won’t allow this to continue.
You’re going to kill yourselves.”

He reached toward Nasuada, then jumped back as she stabbed at him. “Don’t meddle,” she growled
between her teeth.

Now Fadawar started on his right forearm, releasing a spray of blood from his rigid muscles.He’s
clenching, she realized. She hoped the mistake would be enough to break him.


Nasuada could not help herself; she uttered a wordless cry when the knife parted her skin. The razor
edge burned like a white-hot wire. Halfway through the cut, her traumatized left arm twitched. The knife
swerved as a result, leaving her with a long, jagged laceration twice as deep as the others. Her breath
stopped while she weathered the agony.I can’t go on, she thought.I can’t . . . I can’t!

It’s too much to bear. I’d rather die. . . . Oh please, let it end!It gave her some relief to indulge in
those and other desperate complaints, but in the depths of her heart, she knew she would never give up.

For the eighth time, Fadawar positioned his blade above one of his forearms, and there he held it, the
pale metal suspended a quarter of an inch away from his sable skin. He remained thus as sweat dripped
over his eyes and his wounds shed ruby tears. It appeared as though his courage might have failed him,
but then he snarled and, with a quick yank, sliced his arm.

His hesitation bolstered Nasuada’s flagging strength. A fierce exhilaration overtook her, transmuting her
pain into an almost pleasurable sensation. She matched Fadawar’s effort and then, spurred onward by
her sudden, heedless disregard for her own well-being, brought the knife down again.

“Bestthat, ” she whispered.

The prospect of having to make two cuts in a row—one to equal the number of Nasuada’s and one to
advance the contest—seemed to intimidate Fadawar. He blinked, licked his lips, and adjusted his grip on
his knife three times before he raised the weapon over his arm.

His tongue darted out and moistened his lips again.

A spasm distorted his left hand, and the knife dropped from his contorted fingers, burying itself upright in
the ground.

He picked it up. Underneath his robe, his chest rose and fell with frantic speed. Lifting the knife, he
touched it to his arm; it promptly drew a small trickle of blood. Fadawar’s jaw knotted and writhed, and
then a shudder ran the length of his spine and he doubled over, pressing his injured arms against his belly.
“I submit,” he said.

The drums stopped.

The ensuing silence lasted for only an instant before King Orrin, Jörmundur, and everyone else filled the
pavilion with their overlapping exclamations.

Nasuada paid no attention to their remarks. Groping behind herself, she found her chair and sank into it,
eager to take the weight off her legs before they gave way beneath her. She strove to remain conscious
as her vision dimmed and flickered; the last thing she wanted to do was pass out in front of the tribesmen.
A gentle pressure on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that Farica was standing next to her, holding a
pile of bandages.

“My Lady, may I tend to you?” asked Farica, her expression both concerned and hesitant, as if she
were uncertain how Nasuada would react.

Nasuada nodded her approval.

As Farica began to wind strips of linen around her arms, Naako and Ramusewa approached. They
bowed, and Ramusewa said, “Never before has anyone endured so many cuts in the Trial of the Long


Knives. Both you and Fadawar proved your mettle, but you are undoubtedly the victor. We shall tell our
people of your achievement, and they shall give you their fealty.”

“Thank you,” said Nasuada. She closed her eyes as the throbbing in her arms increased.

“My Lady.”

Around her, Nasuada heard a confused medley of sounds, which she made no effort to decipher,
preferring instead to retreat deep inside herself, where her pain was no longer so immediate and
menacing. She floated in the womb of a boundless black space, illuminated by formless blobs of
ever-changing color.

Her respite was interrupted by the voice of Trianna as the sorceress said, “Leave off what you’re doing,
handmaid, and remove those bandages so I can heal your mistress.”

Nasuada opened her eyes to see Jörmundur, King Orrin, and Trianna standing over her. Fadawar and
his men had departed the pavilion. “No,” said Nasuada.

The group looked at her with surprise, and then Jörmundur said, “Nasuada, your thoughts are clouded.
The trial is over. You don’t have to live with these cuts any longer. In any event, we have to stanch your
bleeding.”

“Farica is doing that well enough as is. I shall have a healer stitch my wounds and make a poultice to
reduce the swelling, and that is all.”

“But why!”

“The Trial of the Long Knives requires participants to allow their wounds to heal at their natural pace.
Otherwise, we won’t have experienced the full measure of pain the trial entails. If I violate the rule,
Fadawar will be declared the victor.”

“Will you at least allow me to alleviate your suffering?” asked Trianna. “I know several spells that can
eliminate any amount of pain. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have arranged it so that you
could lop off an entire limb without the slightest discomfort.”

Nasuada laughed and allowed her head to loll to the side, feeling rather giddy. “My answer would have
been the same then as it is now: trickery is dishonorable. I had to win the trial without deceit so no one
can question my leadership in the future.”

In a deadly soft tone, King Orrin said, “But what if you had lost?”

“I could not lose. Even if it meant my death, I never would have allowed Fadawar to gain control of the
Varden.”

Grave, Orrin studied her for a long while. “I believe you. Only, is the tribes’ loyalty worth such a great
sacrifice? You are not so common that we can easily replace you.”

“The tribes’ loyalty? No. But this will have an effect far beyond the tribes, as you must know. It should
help unify our forces. And that is a prize valuable enough for me to willingly brave a host of unpleasant
deaths.”


“Pray tell, what would the Varden have gained if youhad died today? No benefit would exist then. Your
legacy would be discouragement, chaos, and likely ruin.”

Whenever Nasuada drank wine, mead, and especially strong spirits, she became most cautious with her
speech and motions, for even if she did not notice it at once, she knew the alcohol degraded her
judgment and coordination, and she had no desire to behave inappropriately or to give others an
advantage in their dealings with her.

Pain-drunk as she was, she later realized she should have been as vigilant in her discussion with Orrin as
if she had imbibed three tankards of the dwarves’ blackberry-honey mead. If she had, her
well-developed sense of courtesy would have prevented her from replying so: “You worry like an old
man, Orrin. I had to do this, and it is done. ’Tis bootless to fret about it now. . . . I took a risk, yes. But
we cannot defeat Galbatorix unless we dance along the very cliff edge of disaster. You are a king. You
ought to understand that danger is the mantle a person assumes when he—or she—has the arrogance to
decide the fates of other men.”

“I understand well enough,” growled Orrin. “My family and I have defended Surda against the Empire’s
encroachment every day of our lives for generations, while the Varden merely hid in Farthen Dûr and
leeched off Hrothgar’s generosity.” His robes swirled about him as he turned and stalked out of the
pavilion.

“That was badly handled, my Lady,” observed Jörmundur.

Nasuada winced as Farica tugged on her bandages. “I know,” she gasped. “I’ll mend his broken pride
tomorrow.”

WINGEDTIDINGS

Agap appeared then in Nasuada’s memories: an absence of sensory information so complete, she only
became aware of the missing time when it dawned upon her that Jörmundur was shaking her shoulder
and saying something loudly. It took her several moments to decipher the sounds coming out of his
mouth, and then she heard: “. . . keep looking at me, blast it! That’s the thing! Don’t go to sleep again.
You won’t wake up again if you do.”

“You can let go of me, Jörmundur,” she said, and mustered a weak smile. “I’m all right now.”

“And my uncle Undset was an elf.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Bah! You are the same as your father: always ignoring caution when it comes to your own safety. The
tribes can rot in their bloody old customs, for all I care. Let a healer at you. You’re in no condition to
make decisions.”

“That’s why I waited until it was evening. See, the sun is almost down. I can rest tonight, and tomorrow
I will be able to deal with the affairs that require my attention.”


Farica appeared from the side and hovered over Nasuada. “Oh, Ma’am, you gave us quite a fright
there.”

“Still are, as a matter of fact,” muttered Jörmundur.

“Well, I’m better now.” Nasuada pushed herself upright in the chair, ignoring the heat from her forearms.
“You can both go; I shall be fine. Jörmundur, send word to Fadawar that he may remain chief of his own
tribe, so long as he swears loyalty to me as his warlord. He is too skilled a leader to waste. And, Farica,
on your way back to your tent, please inform Angela the herbalist that I require her services. She agreed
to mix some tonics and poultices for me.”

“I won’t leave you alone in this condition,” declared Jörmundur.

Farica nodded. “Begging your pardon, my Lady, but I agree with him. It’s not safe.”

Nasuada glanced toward the entrance to the pavilion, to ensure none of the Nighthawks were close
enough to overhear, and then dropped her voice into a low whisper. “I shall notbe alone.” Jörmundur’s
eyebrows shot up, and an alarmed expression crossed Farica’s face. “I amnever alone. Do you
understand?”

“You have taken certain . . . precautions, my Lady?” asked Jörmundur.

“I have.”

Both her caretakers appeared uneasy with her assurance, and Jörmundur said, “Nasuada, your safety is
my responsibility; I need to know what additional protection you may have and who exactly has access
to your person.”

“No,” she said gently. Seeing the hurt and indignation that appeared in Jörmundur’s eyes, she continued.
“It’s not that I doubt your loyalty—far from it. Only, this I must have for myself. For the sake of my own
peace of mind, I need to have a dagger no one else can see: a hidden weapon tucked up my sleeve, if
you will. Consider it a flaw in my character, but do not torment yourself by imagining my choice is in any
way a criticism of how you perform your duties.”

“My Lady.” Jörmundur bowed, a formality he almost never used with her.

Nasuada lifted her hand, indicating her permission for them to leave, and Jörmundur and Farica hurried
from the red pavilion.

For a long minute, perhaps two, the only sound Nasuada heard was the harsh cry of gore-crows circling
above the Varden’s encampment. Then, from behind her, there came a slight rustling, like that of a mouse
nosing about for food. Turning her head, she saw Elva slip out of her hiding place, emerging between two
panels of fabric into the main chamber of the pavilion.

Nasuada studied her.

The girl’s unnatural growth had continued. When Nasuada first met her but a short while ago, Elva had
appeared between three and four years old. Now she looked closer to six. Her plain dress was black,
with a few folds of purple around the neck and shoulders. Her long, straight hair was even darker: a
liquid void that flowed down to the small of her back. Her sharp-angled face was bone white, for she


rarely ventured outside. The dragon mark on her brow was silver. And her eyes, her violet eyes,
contained a jaded, cynical air—the result of Eragon’s blessing that was a curse, for it forced her to both
endure other people’s pain and also try to prevent it. The recent battle had almost killed her, what with
the combined agony of thousands beating upon her mind, even though one of Du Vrangr Gata had placed
her in an artificial slumber for the duration of the fighting, in an attempt to protect her. Only recently had
the girl begun to speak and take interest in her surroundings again.

She wiped her rosebud mouth with the back of her hand, and Nasuada asked, “Were you ill?”

Elva shrugged. “The pain I’m used to, but it never gets any easier to resist Eragon’s spell. . . . I am hard
to impress, Nasuada, but you are a strong woman to withstand so many cuts.”

Even though Nasuada had heard it many times, Elva’s voice still inspired a thrill of alarm in her, for it was
the bitter, mocking voice of a world-weary adult, not that of a child. She struggled to ignore it as she
responded: “You are stronger. I did not have to suffer through Fadawar’s pain as well. Thank you for
staying with me. I know what it must have cost you, and I’m grateful.”

“Grateful? Ha! There’s an empty word for me,Lady Nightstalker. ” Elva’s small lips twisted in a
misshapen smile. “Have you anything to eat? I’m famished.”

“Farica left some bread and wine behind those scrolls,” said Nasuada, pointing across the pavilion. She
watched the girl make her way to the food and begin wolfing down the bread, cramming large chunks
into her mouth. “At least you won’t have to live like this for much longer. As soon as Eragon returns, he’ll
remove the spell.”

“Perhaps.” After she had devoured half a loaf, Elva paused. “I lied about the Trial of the Long Knives.”

“What do you mean?”

“I foresaw that you would lose, not win.”

“What!”

“If I had allowed events to take their course, your nerve would have broken on the seventh cut and
Fadawar would be sitting where you are now. So I told you what you needed to hear in order to
prevail.”

A chill crept over Nasuada. If what Elva said was true, then she was in the witch-child’s debt more than
ever. Still, she disliked being manipulated, even if it was for her own benefit. “I see. It seems I must thank
you once again.”

Elva laughed then, a brittle sound. “And you hate every moment of it, don’t you? No matter. You need
not worry about offending me, Nasuada. We are useful to each other, no more.”

Nasuada was relieved when one of the dwarves guarding the pavilion, the captain of that particular
watch, banged his hammer against his shield and proclaimed, “The herbalist Angela requests an audience
with you, Lady Nightstalker.”

“Granted,” said Nasuada, raising her voice.

Angela bustled into the pavilion, carrying several bags and baskets looped over her arms. As always, her


curly hair formed a stormy cloud around her face, which was pinched with concern. At her heels padded
the werecat Solembum, in his animal form. He immediately angled toward Elva and began to rub against
her legs, arching his back as he did.

Depositing her luggage on the ground, Angela rolled her shoulders and said, “Really! Between you and
Eragon, I seem to spend most of my time among the Varden healing people too silly to realize they need
toavoid getting chopped into tiny little pieces.” While she spoke, the short herbalist marched over to
Nasuada and began unwinding the bandages around her right forearm. She clucked with disapproval.
“Normally, this is when the healer asks her patient how she is, and the patient lies through her teeth and
says, ‘Oh, not too bad,’ and the healer says, ‘Good, good. Be cheery and you’ll make a fine recovery.’ I
think it’s obvious, however, you’renot about to start running around and leading charges against the
Empire. Far from it.”

“I will recover, won’t I?” asked Nasuada.

“You would if I could use magic to seal up these wounds. Since I can’t, it’s a bit harder to tell. You’ll
have to muddle along like most people do and hope none of these cuts get infected.” She paused in her
work and gazed directly at Nasuada. “You do realize these will scar?”

“It will be what it will be.”

“True enough.”

Nasuada stifled a groan and gazed upward as Angela stitched each of her wounds and then covered
them with a thick, wet mat of pulped plants. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solembum jump onto
the table and sit next to Elva. Extending a large, shaggy paw, the werecat hooked a piece of bread off
Elva’s plate and nibbled on the morsel, his white fangs flashing. The black tassels on his oversized ears
quivered as he swiveled his ears from side to side, listening to metal-clad warriors walking past the red
pavilion.

“Barzûl,” muttered Angela. “Only men would think of cutting themselves to determine who the pack
leader is. Idiots!”

It hurt to laugh, but Nasuada could not help herself. “Indeed,” she said after her fit subsided.

Just as Angela finished retying the last strip of cloth around Nasuada’s arms, the dwarf captain outside
the pavilion shouted, “Halt!” and there came a chorus of shimmering, bell-like notes as the human guards
crossed their swords, barring the way to whoever sought entrance.

Without pausing to think, Nasuada drew the four-inch knife from the sheath sewn within the bodice of
her chemise. It was difficult for her to grasp the hilt, as her fingers felt thick and clumsy and the muscles in
her arm were slow to respond. It was as if the limb had fallen asleep, save for the sharp, burning lines
scribed into her flesh.

Angela also pulled a dagger from somewhere in her clothes, and she placed herself before Nasuada and
muttered a line of the ancient language. Leaping to the ground, Solembum crouched next to Angela. His
fur stood on end, making him appear larger than most dogs. He growled low in his throat.

Elva continued eating, seemingly unperturbed by the commotion. She examined the morsel of bread she
was holding between her thumb and index finger, as one might inspect a strange species of insect, and
then dipped it into a goblet of wine and popped the bread into her mouth.


“My Lady!” shouted a man. “Eragon and Saphira fast approach from the northeast!”

Nasuada sheathed her knife. Pushing herself out of her chair, she said to Angela, “Help me dress.”

Angela held the garment open in front of Nasuada, who stepped into it. Then Angela gently guided
Nasuada’s arms into the sleeves and, when they were in place, set about lacing up the back of the dress.
Elva joined her. Together, they soon had Nasuada properly attired.

Nasuada surveyed her arms and saw no trace of her bandages. “Should I hide or reveal my injuries?”
she asked.

“That depends,” said Angela. “Do you think showing them will increase your standing or encourage your
enemies, because they assume you are weak and vulnerable? The question is actually a rather
philosophical one, predicated on whether when looking at a man who has lost a big toe, you say, ‘Oh,
he’s a cripple’ or ‘Oh, he was smart or strong or lucky enough to escape worse injury.’”

“You make the strangest comparisons.”

“Thank you.”

“The Trial of the Long Knives is a contest of strength,” said Elva. “That is well known among the Varden
and Surdans. Are you proud of your strength, Nasuada?”

“Cut off the sleeves,” said Nasuada. When they hesitated, she said, “Go on! At the elbows. Don’t mind
the dress; I shall have it repaired later.”

With a few deft movements, Angela removed the sections Nasuada had identified and dropped the
excess fabric on the table.

Nasuada lifted her chin. “Elva, if you sense I’m about to faint, please tell Angela and have her catch me.
Shall we, then?” The three of them gathered into a tight formation, with Nasuada at the lead. Solembum
walked alone.

As they exited the red pavilion, the dwarf captain barked, “Stations!” and the six present members of the
Nighthawks ranged themselves around Nasuada’s group: the humans and dwarves fore and aft, and the
hulking Kull—Urgals who stood eight feet and taller—on either side.

Dusk spread its gold and purple wings over the Varden’s encampment, lending a sense of mystery to the
rows of canvas tents that extended beyond the limits of Nasuada’s sight. Deepening shadows presaged
the advent of night, and countless torches and watchfires already glowed pure and bright in the warm
twilight. The sky was clear to the east. South, a long, low cloud of black smoke hid the horizon and the
Burning Plains, which were a league and a half away. West, a line of beeches and aspens marked the
path of the Jiet River, upon which floated theDragon Wing , the ship Jeod and Roran and the other
villagers from Carvahall had pirated. But Nasuada had eyes only for the north, and the glittering shape of
Saphira descending thence. Light from the fading sun still illuminated her, cloaking her in a blue halo. She
appeared like a cluster of stars falling from the heavens.

The sight was so majestic, Nasuada stood transfixed for a moment, thankful she was fortunate enough to
witness it.They’re safe! she thought, and breathed a sigh of relief.


The warrior who had brought word of Saphira’s arrival—a thin man with a large, untrimmed
beard—bowed and then pointed. “My Lady, as you can see, I spoke the truth.”

“Yes. You did well. You must have exceedingly sharp eyes to have spotted Saphira earlier. What is
your name?”

“Fletcher, son of Harden, my Lady.”

“You have my thanks, Fletcher. You may return to your post now.”

With another bow, the man trotted off toward the edge of the camp.

Keeping her gaze fixed upon Saphira, Nasuada picked her way between the rows of tents toward the
large clearing set aside as a place for Saphira to land and take off. Her guards and companions
accompanied her, but she paid them little heed, eager as she was to rendezvous with Eragon and
Saphira. She had spent much of the previous days worrying about them, both as the leader of the Varden
and, somewhat to her surprise, as a friend.

Saphira flew as fast as any hawk or falcon Nasuada had seen, but she was still a number of miles away
from the camp, and it took her almost ten minutes to traverse the remaining distance. In that time, a
massive crowd of warriors gathered around the clearing: humans, dwarves, and even a contingent of
gray-skinned Urgals, led by Nar Garzhvog, who spit at the men closest to them. Also in the congregation
were King Orrin and his courtiers, who positioned themselves opposite Nasuada; Narheim, the dwarf
ambassador who had assumed Orik’s duties since Orik left for Farthen Dûr; Jörmundur; the other
members of the Council of Elders; and Arya.

The tall elf woman wove her way through the crowd toward Nasuada. Even with Saphira nigh upon
them, men and women alike tore their gaze from the sky to watch Arya’s progress, she presented such a
striking image. Dressed all in black, she wore leggings like a man, a sword on her hip, and a bow and
quiver on her back. Her skin was the color of light honey. Her face was as angular as a cat’s. And she
moved with a slinking, muscular grace that bespoke her skill with a blade, and also her supernatural
strength.

Her eccentric ensemble had always struck Nasuada as slightly indecent; it revealed so much of her form.
But Nasuada had to admit that even if Arya donned a gown of rags, she would still appear more regal
and dignified than any mortal-born noble.

Halting before Nasuada, Arya gestured with one elegant finger at Nasuada’s wounds. “As the poet
Earnë said, to place yourself in harm’s way for the sake of the people and the country you love is the
finest thing one can do. I have known every leader of the Varden, and they were all mighty men and
women, and none so much as Ajihad. In this, though, I believe you have surpassed even him.”

“You honor me, Arya, but I fear that if I burn so brightly, too few shall remember my father as he
deserves.”

“The deeds of the children are a testament of the upbringing they received from their parents. Burn like
the sun, Nasuada, for the brighter you burn, the more people there shall be who will respect Ajihad for
teaching you how to bear the responsibilities of command at such a tender age.”

Nasuada dipped her head, taking to heart Arya’s advice. Then she smiled and said, “A tender age? I’m
a grown woman, by our reckoning.”


Amusement gleamed in Arya’s green eyes. “True. But if we judge by years, and not wisdom, no human
would be considered an adult among my kind. Except for Galbatorix, that is.”

“And me,” Angela chimed in.

“Come now,” said Nasuada, “you can’t be much older than I am.”

“Ha! You’re confusing appearances with age. You ought to have more sense than that after being
around Arya so long.”

Before Nasuada could ask just how old Angela really was, she felt a hard tug on the back of her dress.
Looking around, she saw that it was Elva who had taken such a liberty and that the girl was beckoning.
Bending, Nasuada placed an ear close to Elva, who muttered, “Eragon’s not on Saphira.”

Nasuada’s chest tightened, restricting her breathing. She peered upward: Saphira circled directly over
the camp, some thousands of feet high. Her huge, batlike wings were black against the sky. Nasuada
could see Saphira’s underside, and her talons white against the lapped scales of her belly, but nothing of
whoever might be riding her.

“How do you know?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“I cannot feel his discomfort, nor his fears. Roran is there, and a woman I guess is Katrina. No one
else.”

Straightening, Nasuada clapped her hands and said, “Jörmundur!” allowing her voice to ring forth.

Jörmundur, who was almost a dozen yards away, came running, shoving aside those who got in his way;
he was experienced enough to know when an emergency was at hand. “My Lady.”

“Clear the field! Get everyone away from here before Saphira lands.”

“Including Orrin and Narheim and Garzhvog?”

She grimaced. “No, but allow no one else to remain. Hurry!”

As Jörmundur began shouting orders, Arya and Angela converged upon Nasuada. They appeared as
alarmed as she felt. Arya said, “Saphira would not be so calm if Eragon was hurt or dead.”

“Where is he, then?” demanded Nasuada. “What trouble has he gotten himself into now?”

A raucous commotion filled the clearing as Jörmundur and his men directed the onlookers back to their
tents, laying about them with swagger sticks whenever the reluctant warriors lingered or protested.
Several scuffles broke out, but the captains under Jörmundur quickly overwhelmed the culprits, so as to
prevent the violence from taking root and spreading. Fortunately, the Urgals, at the word of their war
chief, Garzhvog, left without incident, although Garzhvog himself advanced toward Nasuada, as did King
Orrin and the dwarf Narheim.

Nasuada felt the ground tremble under her feet as the eight-and-a-half-foot-tall Urgal approached her.
He lifted his bony chin, baring his throat as was the custom of his race, and said, “What means this, Lady
Nightstalker?” The shape of his jaws and teeth, coupled with his accent, made it difficult for Nasuada to


understand him.

“Yes, I’d bloody well like an explanation myself,” said Orrin. His face was red.

“And I,” said Narheim.

It occurred to Nasuada, as she regarded them, that this was probably the first time in thousands of years
that members of so many of the races of Alagaësia had gathered together in peace. The only ones missing
were the Ra’zac and their mounts, and Nasuada knew no sane being would ever invite those foul
creatures into their secret councils. She pointed at Saphira and said, “She shall provide the answers you
desire.”

Just as the last stragglers quit the clearing, a torrent of air rushed across Nasuada as Saphira swooped to
the ground, raking her wings to slow herself before alighting upon her rear legs. She dropped to all fours,
and a dull boom resounded across the camp. Un -buckling themselves from her saddle, Roran and
Katrina quickly dismounted.

Striding forward, Nasuada examined Katrina. She was curious to see what kind of woman could inspire
a man to undertake such extraordinary feats in order to rescue her. The young woman before her was
strong-boned, with the pallid complexion of an invalid, a mane of copper hair, and a dress so torn and
filthy, it was impossible to determine what it might have looked like originally. In spite of the toll her
captivity had taken, it was apparent to Nasuada that Katrina was attractive enough, but not what the
bards would call a great beauty. However, she possessed a certain force of gaze and bearing that made
Nasuada think that if Roran had been the one captured, Katrina would have been just as capable of
rousing the villagers of Carvahall, getting them south to Surda, fighting in the Battle of the Burning Plains,
and then continuing on to Helgrind, all for the sake of her beloved. Even when she noticed Garzhvog,
Katrina did not flinch or quail but remained standing where she was, next to Roran.

Roran bowed to Nasuada and, swiveling, also to King Orrin. “My Lady,” he said, his face grave. “Your
Majesty. If I may, this is my betrothed, Katrina.” She curtsied to them both.

“Welcome to the Varden, Katrina,” said Nasuada. “We have all heard your name here, on account of
Roran’s uncommon devotion. Songs of his love for you already spread across the land.”

“You are most welcome,” added Orrin. “Most welcome indeed.”

Nasuada noticed that the king had eyes only for Katrina, as did every man present, including the
dwarves, and Nasuada was certain they would be recounting tales of Katrina’s charms to their
comrades-in-arms before the night was out. What Roran had done on her behalf elevated her far above
ordinary women; it made her an object of mystery, fascination, and allure to the warriors. That anyone
should sacrifice so much for another person meant, by reason of the price paid, that person must be
unusually precious.

Katrina blushed and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. Along with her embarrassment at such attentions, a
hint of pride colored her expression, as if she knew how remarkable Roran was and delighted in having
captured his heart, of all the women in Alagaësia. He was hers, and that was all the status or treasure she
desired.

A pang of loneliness shot through Nasuada.I wish I had what they have, she thought. Her
responsibilities prevented her from entertaining girlish dreams of romance and marriage—and certainly
children—unless she were to arrange a marriage of convenience for the good of the Varden. She had


often considered doing that with Orrin, but her nerve always failed her. Still, she was content with her lot
and did not begrudge Katrina and Roran their happiness. Her cause was what she cared about; defeating
Galbatorix was far more important than something as trifling as marriage. Most everyone got married, but
how many had the opportunity to oversee the birth of a new age?

I’m not myself this evening,realized Nasuada.My wounds have set my thoughts ahumming like a
nest of bees . Shaking herself, she looked past Roran and Katrina to Saphira. Nasuada opened up the
barriers she usually maintained around her mind so she might hear what Saphira had to say and then
asked: “Where is he?”

With the dry rustle of scales sliding over scales, Saphira crept forward and lowered her neck so her
head was directly in front of Nasuada, Arya, and Angela. The dragon’s left eye sparkled with blue fire.
She sniffed twice, and her crimson tongue darted out of her mouth. Hot, moist breath ruffled the lace
collar on Nasuada’s dress.

Nasuada swallowed as Saphira’s consciousness brushed against her own. Saphira felt unlike any other
being Nasuada had encountered: ancient, alien, and both ferocious and gentle. That, along with Saphira’s
imposing physical presence, always reminded Nasuada that if Saphira wanted to eat them, she could. It
was impossible, Nasuada believed, to be complacent around a dragon.

I smell blood,said Saphira.Who has hurt you, Nasuada? Name them, and I shall tear them from
neck to groin and bring you their heads for trophies .

“There’s no need for you to tear anyone apart. Not yet, at least. I wielded the knife myself. However,
this is the wrong time to delve into the matter. Right now, all I care about is Eragon’s whereabouts.”

Eragon,said Saphira,decided to remain in the Empire .

For a few seconds, Nasuada was unable to move or think. Then a mounting sense of doom replaced her
stunned denial of Saphira’s revelation. The others reacted in various ways as well, from which Nasuada
deduced Saphira had spoken to them all at once.

“How . . . how could you allow him to stay?” she asked.

Small tongues of fire rippled in Saphira’s nostrils as she snorted.Eragon made his own choice. I could
not stop him. He insists upon doing what he thinks is right, no matter the consequences for him or
the rest of Alagaësia. . . . I could shake him like a hatchling, but I’m proud of him. Fear not; he
can take care of himself. So far, no misfortune has befallen him. I would know if he was hurt.

Arya spoke: “And why did he make this choice, Saphira?”

It would be faster for me to show you rather than explain with words. May I?

They all indicated their consent.

A river of Saphira’s memories poured into Nasuada. She saw black Helgrind from above a layer of
clouds; heard Eragon, Roran, and Saphira discussing how best to attack; watched them discover the
Ra’zac’s lair; and experienced Saphira’s epic battle with the Lethrblaka. The procession of images
fascinated Nasuada. She had been born in the Empire but could remember nothing of it; this was the first
time as an adult that she had looked upon anything besides the wild fringes of Galbatorix’s holdings.


Lastly came Eragon and his confrontation with Saphira. Saphira attempted to hide it, but the anguish she
felt over leaving Eragon was still so raw and piercing, Nasuada had to dry her cheeks with the bandages
on her forearms. However, the reasons Eragon gave for staying—killing the last Ra’zac and exploring the
remainder of Helgrind—were reasons Nasuada deemed inadequate.

She frowned.Eragon may be rash, but he’s certainly not foolish enough to endanger everything
we seek to accomplish merely so he could visit a few caves and drain the last bitter dregs of his
revenge. There must be another explanation . She wondered whether she should press Saphira for
the truth, but she knew Saphira would not withhold such information on a whim.Perhaps she wants to
discuss it in private, she thought.

“Blast it!” exclaimed King Orrin. “Eragon could not have picked a worse time to set off on his own.
What matters a single Ra’zac when Galbatorix’s entire army resides but a few miles from us? . . . We
have to get him back.”

Angela laughed. She was knitting a sock using five bone needles, which clicked and clacked and
scraped against each other with a steady, if peculiar, rhythm. “How? He’ll be traveling during the day,
and Saphira daren’t fly around searching for him when the sun’s up and anyone might spot her and alert
Galbatorix.”

“Yes, but he’s our Rider! We cannot sit by idly while he remains in the midst of our enemies.”

“I agree,” said Narheim. “However it is done, we must ensure his safe return. Grimstnzborith Hrothgar
adopted Eragon into his family and clan—that is mine own clan, as you know—and we owe him the
loyalty of our law and our blood.”

Arya knelt and, to Nasuada’s surprise, began to unlace and retie the upright sections of her boots.
Holding one of the cords between her teeth, Arya said, “Saphira, where exactly was Eragon when you
last touched his mind?”

In the entrance to Helgrind.

“And have you any idea what path he intended to follow?”

He did not yet know himself.

Springing to her feet, Arya said, “Then I shall have to look everywhere I can.”

Like a deer, she bounded forward and ran across the clearing, vanishing among the tents beyond as she
sped northward as fast and light as the wind itself.

“Arya, no!” shouted Nasuada, but the elf was already gone. Hopelessness threatened to engulf Nasuada
as she stared after her.The center is crumbling, she thought.

Grasping the edges of the mismatched pieces of armor that covered his torso as if to tear them off,
Garzhvog said to Nasuada, “Do you want me to follow, Lady Nightstalker? I cannot run as fast as little
elves, but I can run as long.”

“No . . . no, stay. Arya can pass for human at a distance, but soldiers would hunt you down the moment
some farmer caught sight of you.”


“I am used to being hunted.”

“But not in the middle of the Empire, with hundreds of Galbatorix’s men wandering the countryside. No,
Arya will have to fend for herself. I pray that she can find Eragon and keep him safe, for without him, we
are doomed.”

ESCAPE ANDEVASION

Eragon’s feet drummed against the ground.

The pounding beat of his stride originated in his heels and ran up his legs, through his hips, and along his
spine until it terminated at the base of his skull, where the recurring impact jarred his teeth and
exacerbated the headache that seemed to worsen with every passing mile. The monotonous music of his
running had annoyed him at first, but before long, it lulled him into a trancelike state where he did not
think, but moved.

As Eragon’s boots descended, he heard brittle stalks of grass snap like twigs and glimpsed puffs of dirt
rising from the cracked soil. He guessed it had been at least a month since it last rained in this part of
Alagaësia. The dry air leached the moisture from his breath, leaving his throat raw. No matter how much
he drank, he could not compensate for the amount of water the sun and the wind stole from him.

Thus his headache.

Helgrind was far behind him. However, he had made slower progress than he had hoped. Hundreds of
Galbatorix’s patrols—containing both soldiers and magicians—swarmed across the land, and he often
had to hide in order to avoid them. That they were searching for him, he had no doubt. The previous
evening, he had even spotted Thorn riding low on the western horizon. He had immediately shielded his
mind, thrown himself into a ditch, and stayed there for half an hour, until Thorn dipped back down below
the edge of the world.

Eragon had decided to travel on established roads and trails wherever possible. The events of the past
week had pushed him to the limits of his physical and emotional endurance. He preferred to allow his
body to rest and recover, rather than strain himself forging through brambles, over hills, and across
muddy rivers. The time for desperate, violent exertion would come again, but now was not it.

So long as he held to the roads, he dared not run as fast as he was capable; indeed, it would be wiser to
avoid running altogether. A fair number of villages and outbuildings were scattered throughout the area. If
any of the inhabitants observed a lone man sprinting across the countryside as if a pack of wolves were
chasing him, the spectacle would be sure to arouse curiosity and suspicion and might even inspire a
frightened crofter to report the incident to the Empire. That could prove fatal for Eragon, whose greatest
defense was the cloak of anonymity.

He only ran now because he had encountered no living creatures, except a long snake sunning itself, for
over a league.


Returning to the Varden was Eragon’s primary concern, and it rankled him to plod along like a common
vagabond. Still, he appreciated the opportunity to be by himself. He had not been alone, truly alone,
since he found Saphira’s egg in the Spine. Always her thoughts had rubbed against his, or Brom or
Murtagh or someone else had been at his side. In addition to the burden of constant companionship,
Eragon had spent all the months since he had left Palancar Valley engaged in arduous training, breaking
only for travel or to take part in the tumult of battle. Never before had he concentrated so intensely for so
long or dealt with such huge amounts of worry and fear.

He welcomed his solitude, then, and the peace it brought. The absence of voices, including his own, was
a sweet lullaby that, for a short while, washed away his fear of the future. He had no desire to scry
Saphira—although they were too far apart to touch each other’s minds, his bond with her would tell him
if she was hurt—or to contact Arya or Nasuada and hear their angry words. Far better, he thought, to
listen to the songs of the flitting birds and the sighing of the breeze through the grass and leafy branches.

The sound of jingling harnesses, clomping hooves, and men’s voices jarred Eragon out of his reverie.
Alarmed, he stopped and glanced around, trying to determine from what direction the men were
approaching. A pair of cackling jackdaws spiraled upward from a nearby ravine.

The only cover close to Eragon was a small thicket of juniper trees. He sprinted toward it and dove
under the drooping branches just as six soldiers emerged from the ravine and rode cantering out onto the
thin dirt road not ten feet away. Normally, Eragon would have sensed their presence long before they got
so close, but since Thorn’s distant appearance, he had kept his mind walled off from his surroundings.

The soldiers reined in their horses and milled around in the middle of the road, arguing among
themselves. “I’m telling you, I saw something!” one of them shouted. He was of medium height, with
ruddy cheeks and a yellow beard.

His heart hammering, Eragon struggled to keep his breathing slow and quiet. He touched his brow to
ensure the cloth strip he had tied around his head still covered his upswept eyebrows and pointed ears.I
wish I were still wearing my armor, he thought. In order to avoid attracting unwanted attention, he had
made himself a pack—using dead branches and a square of canvas he had bartered from a tinker—and
placed his armor within it. Now he dared not remove and don his armor, for fear the soldiers would hear.

The soldier with the yellow beard climbed down from his bay charger and walked along the edge of the
road, studying the ground and the juniper trees beyond. Like every member of Galbatorix’s army, the
soldier wore a red tunic embroidered with gold thread in the outline of a jagged tongue of fire. The thread
sparkled as he moved. His armor was simple—a helmet, a tapered shield, and a leather
brigandine—indicating he was little more than a mounted footman. As for arms, he bore a spear in his
right hand and a longsword on his left hip.

As the soldier approached his location, spurs clinking, Eragon began to whisper a complex spell in the
ancient language. The words poured off his tongue in an unbroken stream, until, to his alarm, he
mispronounced a particularly difficult cluster of vowels and had to start the incantation anew.

The soldier took another step toward him.

And another.

Just as the soldier paused in front of him, Eragon completed the spell and felt his strength ebb as the


magic took effect. He was an instant too late, however, to completely escape detection, for the soldier
exclaimed, “Aha!” and brushed aside the branches, exposing Eragon.

Eragon did not move.

The soldier peered directly at him and frowned. “What the . . . ,” he muttered. He jabbed his spear into
the thicket, missing Eragon’s face by less than an inch. Eragon dug his nails into his palms as a tremor
racked his clenched muscles. “Ah, blast it,” said the soldier, and released the branches, which sprang
back to their original positions, hiding Eragon once more.

“What was it?” called another of the men.

“Nothing,” said the soldier, returning to his companions. He removed his helmet and wiped his brow.
“My eyes are playing tricks on me.”

“What does that bastard Braethan expect of us? We’ve hardly gotten a wink of sleep these past two
days.”

“Aye. The king must be desperate to drive us so hard. . . . To be honest, I’d rather not find whoever it is
we’re searching for. It’s not that I’m faint hearted, but anyone who gives Galbatorix pause is best
avoided by the likes of us. Let Murtagh and his monster of a dragon catch our mysterious fugitive, eh?”

“Unless we be searching for Murtagh,” suggested a third man. “You heard what Morzan’s spawn said
well as I did.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the soldiers. Then the one who was on the ground vaulted back
onto his charger, wrapped the reins around his left hand, and said, “Keep your yap shut, Derwood. You
talk too much.”

With that, the group of six spurred their steeds forward and continued north on the road.

As the sound of the horses faded, Eragon ended the spell, then rubbed his eyes with his fists and rested
his hands on his knees. A long, low laugh escaped him, and he shook his head, amused by how
outlandish his predicament was compared with his upbringing in Palancar Valley.I certainly never
imagined this happening to me, he thought.

The spell he had used contained two parts: the first bent rays of light around his body so he appeared
invisible, and the second hopefully prevented other spellweavers from detecting his use of magic. The
spell’s main drawbacks were that it could not conceal footprints—therefore one had to remain stone-still
while using it—and it often failed to completely eliminate a person’s shadow.

Picking his way out of the thicket, Eragon stretched his arms high over his head and then faced the ravine
from whence the soldiers had emerged. A single question occupied him as he resumed his journey:

What had Murtagh said?

“Ahh!”

The gauzelike illusion of Eragon’s waking dreams vanished as he tore at the air with his hands. He
twisted nearly in half as he rolled away from where he had been lying. Scrabbling backward, he pushed


himself to his feet and raised his arms in front of himself to deflect oncoming blows.

The dark of night surrounded him. Above, the impartial stars continued to gyrate in their endless celestial
dance. Below, not a creature stirred, nor could he hear anything but the gentle wind caressing the grass.

Eragon stabbed outward with his mind, convinced that someone was about to attack him. He extended
himself over a thousand feet in every direction but found no one else in the vicinity.

At last he lowered his hands. His chest heaved, and his skin burned, and he stank of sweat. In his mind,
a tempest roared: a whirlwind of flashing blades and severed limbs. For a moment, he thought he was in
Farthen Dûr, fighting the Urgals, and then on the Burning Plains, crossing swords with men like himself.
Each location was so real, he would have sworn some strange magic had transported him backward
through space and time. He saw standing before him the men and the Urgals whom he had slain; they
appeared so real, he wondered if they would speak. And while he no longer bore the scars of his
wounds, his body remembered the many injuries he had suffered, and he shuddered as he again felt
swords and arrows piercing his flesh.

With a shapeless howl, Eragon fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around his stomach, hugging
himself as he rocked back and forth.It’s all right. . . . It’s all right . He pressed his forehead against the
ground, curling into a hard, tight ball. His breath was hot against his belly.

“What’s wrong with me?”

None of the epics Brom had recited in Carvahall mentioned that such visions had bedeviled the heroes
of old. None of the warriors Eragon had met in the Varden seemed troubled by the blood they shed.
And even though Roran admitted he disliked killing, he did not wake up screaming in the middle of the
night.

I’m weak,thought Eragon.A man should not feel like this. A Ridershould not feel like this. Garrow
or Brom would have been fine, I know. They did what needed to be done, and that was that. No
crying about it, no endless worrying or gnashing of teeth. . . . I’m weak .

Jumping up, he paced around his nest in the grass, trying to calm himself. After half an hour, when
apprehension still clenched his chest in an iron grip and his skin itched as if a thousand ants crawled
underneath it and he started at the slightest noise, Eragon grabbed his pack and set off at a dead run. He
cared not what lay before him in the unknown darkness, nor who might notice his headlong flight.

He only sought to escape his nightmares. His mind had turned against him, and he could not rely upon
rational thought to dispel his panic. His one recourse, then, was to trust in the ancient animal wisdom of
his flesh, which told him tomove . If he ran fast and hard enough, perhaps he could anchor himself in the
moment. Perhaps the thrashing of his arms, the thudding of his feet on dirt, the slick chill of sweat under
his arms, and a myriad of other sensations would, by their sheer weight and number, force him to forget.

Perhaps.

A flock of starlings darted across the afternoon sky, like fish through the ocean.

Eragon squinted at them. In Palancar Valley, when the starlings returned after winter, they often formed
groups so large, they transformed day into night. This flock was not that large, yet it reminded him of
evenings spent drinking mint tea with Garrow and Roran on the porch of their house, watching a rustling


black cloud turn and twist overhead.

Lost in memory, he stopped and sat on a rock so he could retie the laces on his boots.

The weather had changed; it was cool now, and a gray smudge to the west hinted at the possibility of a
storm. The vegetation was lusher, with moss and reeds and thick clumps of green grass. Several miles
away, five hills dotted the otherwise smooth land. A stand of thick oak trees adorned the central hill.
Above the hazy mounds of foliage, Eragon glimpsed the crumbling walls of a long-abandoned building,
constructed by some race in ages past.

Curiosity aroused, he decided to break his fast among the ruins. They were sure to contain plentiful
game, and foraging would provide him with an excuse to do a bit of exploring before continuing on his
way.

Eragon arrived at the base of the first hill an hour later, where he found the remnants of an ancient road
paved with squares of stone. He followed it toward the ruins, wondering at its strange construction, for it
was unlike any human, elf, or dwarf work he was familiar with.

The shadows under the oak trees chilled Eragon as he climbed the central hill. Near the summit, the
ground leveled off underneath his feet and the thicket opened up, and he entered a large glade. A broken
tower stood there. The lower part of the tower was wide and ribbed, like the trunk of a tree. Then the
structure narrowed and rose toward the sky for over thirty feet, ending in a sharp, jagged line. The upper
half of the tower lay on the ground, shattered into innumerable fragments.

Excitement stirred within Eragon. He suspected that he had found an elven outpost, erected long before
the destruction of the Riders. No other race had the skill or inclination to build such a structure.

Then he spotted the vegetable garden at the opposite side of the glade.

A single man sat hunched among the rows of plants, weeding a patch of snap peas. Shadows covered
his downturned face. His gray beard was so long, it lay piled in his lap like a mound of uncombed wool.

Without looking up, the man said, “Well, are you going to help me finish these peas or not? There’s a
meal in it for you if you do.”

Eragon hesitated, unsure what to do. Then he thought,Why should I be afraid of an old hermit? and
walked over to the garden. “I’m Bergan. . . . Bergan, son of Garrow.”

The man grunted. “Tenga, son of Ingvar.”

The armor in Eragon’s pack rattled as he dropped it to the ground. For the next hour, he labored in
silence along with Tenga. He knew he should not stay for so long, but he enjoyed the task; it kept him
from brooding. As he weeded, he allowed his mind to expand and touch the multitude of living things
within the glade. He welcomed the sense of unity he shared with them.

When they had removed every last bit of grass, purslane, and dandelions from around the peas, Eragon
followed Tenga to a narrow door set into the front of the tower, through which was a spacious kitchen
and dining room. In the middle of the room, a circular staircase coiled up to the second story. Books,
scrolls, and sheaves of loose-bound vellum covered every available surface, including a goodly portion of
the floor.


Tenga pointed at the small pile of branches in the fireplace. With a pop and a crackle, the wood burst
into flame. Eragon tensed, ready to grapple physically and mentally with Tenga.

The other man did not seem to notice his reaction but continued to bustle about the kitchen, procuring
mugs, dishes, knives, and various leftovers for their lunch. He muttered to himself in an undertone while
he did.

Every sense alert, Eragon sank onto the bare corner of a nearby chair.He didn’t utter the ancient
language, he thought.Even if he said the spell in his head, he still risked death or worse to start a
mere cookfire! For as Oromis had taught Eragon, words were the means by which one controlled the
release of magic. To cast a spell without the structure of language binding that motive power was to risk
having a stray thought or emotion distort the result.

Eragon gazed around the chamber, searching for clues about his host. He spotted an open scroll that
displayed columns of words from the ancient language and recognized it as a compendium of true names
similar to those he had studied in Ellesméra. Magicians coveted such scrolls and books and would
sacrifice almost anything to obtain them, for with them one could learn new words for a spell and also
record therein words one had discovered. Few, however, were able to acquire a compendium, for they
were exceedingly rare and those who already owned them almost never parted with them willingly.

It was unusual, then, for Tenga to possess one such compendium, but to Eragon’s amazement, he saw
six others throughout the room, in addition to writings on subjects ranging from history to mathematics to
astronomy to botany.

A mug of ale and a plate with bread, cheese, and a slice of cold meat pie appeared in front of him as
Tenga shoved the dishes under his nose.

“Thank you,” said Eragon, accepting them.

Tenga ignored him and sat cross-legged next to the fireplace. He continued to grumble and mutter into
his beard as he devoured his lunch.

After Eragon had scraped his plate clean and drained the last drops of the fine harvest ale, and Tenga
had also nearly completed his repast, Eragon could not help but ask, “Did the elves build this tower?”

Tenga fixed him with a pointed gaze, as if the question made him doubt Eragon’s intelligence. “Aye. The
tricky elves built Edur Ithindra.”

“What is it you do here? Are you all alone, or—”

“I search for the answer!” exclaimed Tenga. “A key to an unopened door, the secret of the trees and the
plants. Fire, heat, lightning, light . . . Most do not know the question and wander in ignorance. Others
know the question but fear what the answer will mean. Bah! For thousands of years we have lived like
savages. Savages! I shall end that. I shall usher in the age of light, and all shall praise my deed.”

“Pray tell, what exactly do you search for?”

A frown twisted Tenga’s face. “You don’t know the question? I thought you might. But no, I was
mistaken. Still, I see you understand my search. You search for a different answer, but you search
nevertheless. The same brand burns in your heart as burns in mine. Who else but a fellow pilgrim can
appreciate what we must sacrifice to find the answer?”


“The answer to what?”

“To the question we choose.”

He’s mad,thought Eragon. Casting about for something with which he could distract Tenga, his gaze lit
upon a row of small wood animal statues arranged on the sill below a teardrop-shaped window. “Those
are beautiful,” he said, indicating the statues. “Who made them?”

“Shedid . . . before she left. She was always making things.” Tenga bounded upright and placed the tip
of his left index finger on the first of the statues. “Here the squirrel with his waving tail, he so bright and
swift and full of laughing gibes.” His finger drifted to the next statue in line. “Here the savage boar, so
deadly with his slashing tusks. . . . Here the raven with . . .”

Tenga paid no attention as Eragon backed away, nor when he lifted the latch to the door and slipped out
of Edur Ithindra. Shouldering his pack, Eragon trotted down through the crown of oak trees and away
from the cluster of five hills and the demented spellcaster who resided among them.

Throughout the rest of that day and the next, the number of people on the road increased until it seemed
to Eragon as if a new group was always appearing over a hill. Most were refugees, although soldiers and
other men of business were also present. Eragon avoided those he could and trudged along with his chin
tucked against his collar the rest of the time.

That practice, however, forced him to spend the night in the village of Eastcroft, twenty miles north of
Melian. He had intended to abandon the road long before he arrived at Eastcroft and find a sheltered
hollow or cave where he might rest until morn, but because of his relative unfamiliarity with the land, he
misjudged the distance and came upon the village while in the company of three men-at-arms. Leaving
then, less than an hour from the safety of Eastcroft’s walls and gates and the comfort of a warm bed,
would have inspired even the slowest dullard to ask why he was trying to avoid the village. So Eragon set
his teeth and silently rehearsed the stories he had concocted to explain his trip.

The bloated sun was two fingers above the horizon when Eragon first beheld Eastcroft, a medium-sized
village enclosed by a tall palisade. It was almost dark by the time he finally arrived at the village and
entered through the gate. Behind him, he heard a sentry ask the men-at-arms if anyone else had been
close behind them on the road.

“Not that I could tell.”

“That’s good enough for me,” replied the sentry. “If there are laggards, they’ll have to wait until
tomorrow to get in.” To another man on the opposite side of the gate, he shouted, “Close it up!”
Together they pushed the fifteen-foot-tall ironbound doors shut and barred them with four oak beams as
thick as Eragon’s chest.

They must expect a siege,thought Eragon, and then smiled at his own blindness.Well, who doesn’t
expect trouble in these times? A few months ago, he would have worried about being trapped in
Eastcroft, but now he was confident he could scale the fortifications barehanded and, if he concealed
himself with magic, escape unnoticed in the gloom of night. He chose to stay, however, for he was tired
and casting a spell might attract the attention of nearby magicians, if there were any.

Before he took more than a few steps down the muddy lane that led to the town square, a watchman


accosted him, thrusting a lantern toward his face. “Hold there! You’ve not been to Eastcroft before, have
you?”

“This is my first visit,” said Eragon.

The stubby watchman bobbed his head. “And have you family or friends here to welcome you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What brings you to Eastcroft, then?”

“Nothing. I’m traveling south to fetch my sister’s family and bring them back to Dras-Leona.” Eragon’s
story seemed to have no effect on the watchman.Perhaps he doesn’t believe me, Eragon speculated.Or
perhaps he’s heard so many accounts like mine, they’ve ceased to matter to him .

“Then you want the wayfarers’ house, by the main well. Go there and you will find food and lodging.
And while you stay here in Eastcroft, let me warn you, we don’t tolerate murder, thievery, or lechery in
these parts. We have sturdy stocks and gallows, and they have had their share of tenants. My meaning is
clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go, and be you of good fortune. But wait! What is your name, stranger?”

“Bergan.”

With that, the watchman strode away, returning to his evening rounds. Eragon waited until the combined
mass of several houses concealed the lantern the watchman carried before wandering over to the
message board mounted to the left of the gates.

There, nailed over a half-dozen posters of various criminals, were two sheets of parchment almost three
feet long. One depicted Eragon, one depicted Roran, and both labeled them traitors to the Crown.
Eragon examined the posters with interest and marveled at the reward offered: an earldom apiece to
whoever captured them. The drawing of Roran was a good likeness and even included the beard he had
grown since fleeing Carvahall, but Eragon’s portrait showed him as he had been before the Blood-oath
Celebration, when he still appeared fully human.

How things have changed,thought Eragon.

Moving on, he slipped through the village until he located the wayfarers’ house. The common room had
a low ceiling with tarstained timbers. Yellow tallow candles provided a soft, flickering light and thickened
the air with intersecting layers of smoke. Sand and rushes covered the floor, and the mixture crunched
underneath Eragon’s boots. To his left were tables and chairs and a large fireplace, where an urchin
turned a pig on a spit. Opposite this was a long bar, a fortress with raised drawbridges that protected
casks of lager, ale, and stout from the horde of thirsty men who assailed it from all sides.

A good sixty people filled the room, crowding it to an uncomfortable level. The roar of conversation
would have been startling enough to Eragon after his time on the road, but with his sensitive hearing, he
felt as if he stood in the middle of a pounding waterfall. It was hard for him to concentrate upon any one
voice. As soon as he caught hold of a word or a phrase, it was swept away by another utterance. Off in
one corner, a trio of minstrels was singing and playing a comic version of “Sweet Aethrid o’ Dauth,”


which did nothing to improve the clamor.

Wincing at the barrage of noise, Eragon wormed his way through the crowd until he reached the bar. He
wanted to talk with the serving woman, but she was so busy, five minutes passed before she looked at
him and asked, “Your pleasure?” Strands of hair hung over her sweaty face.

“Have you a room to let, or a corner where I could spend the night?”

“I wouldn’t know. The mistress of the house is the one you should speak to about that. She’ll be down
directly,” said the serving woman, and flicked a hand at a rank of gloomy stairs.

While he waited, Eragon rested against the bar and studied the people in the room. They were a motley
assortment. About half he guessed were villagers from Eastcroft come to enjoy a night of drinking. Of the
rest, the majority were men and women—families oftentimes—who were migrating to safer parts. It was
easy for him to identify them by their frayed shirts and dirty pants and by how they huddled in their chairs
and peered at anyone who came near. However, they studiously avoided looking at the last and smallest
group of patrons in the wayfarers’ house: Galbatorix’s soldiers. The men in red tunics were louder than
anyone else. They laughed and shouted and banged on tabletops with their armored fists while they
quaffed beer and groped any maid foolish enough to walk by them.

Do they behave like that because they know no one dares oppose them and they enjoy
demonstrating their power?wondered Eragon.Or because they were forced to join Galbatorix’s
army and seek to dull their sense of shame and fear with their revels?

Now the minstrels were singing:

So with her hair aflying, sweet Aethrid o’ Dauth

Ran to Lord Edel and cried, “Free my lover,

Else a witch shall turn you into a woolly goat!”

Lord Edel, he laughed and said, “No witch shall turn me into a woolly goat!”

The crowd shifted and granted Eragon a view of a table pushed against one wall. At it sat a lone woman,
her face hidden by the drawn hood of her dark traveling cloak. Four men surrounded her, big, beefy
farmers with leathery necks and cheeks flushed with the fever of alcohol. Two of them were leaning
against the wall on either side of the woman, looming over her, while one sat grinning in a chair turned
around backward and the fourth stood with his left foot on the edge of the table and was bent forward
over his knee. The men spoke and gestured, their movements careless. Although Eragon could not hear
or see what the woman said, it was obvious to him that her response angered the farmers, for they
scowled and swelled their chests, puffing themselves up like roosters. One of them shook a finger at her.

To Eragon, they appeared decent, hardworking men who had lost their manners in the depths of their
tankards, a mistake he had witnessed often enough on feast days in Carvahall. Garrow had had little
respect for men who knew they could not hold their beer and yet insisted on embarrassing themselves in
public. “It’s unseemly,” he had said. “What’s more, if you drink to forget your lot in life and not for
pleasure, you ought to do it where you won’t disturb anyone.”


The man to the left of the woman suddenly reached down and hooked a finger underneath the edge of
her hood, as if to toss it back. So quickly that Eragon barely saw, the woman lifted her right hand and
grasped the man’s wrist, but then released it and returned to her previous position. Eragon doubted that
anyone else in the common room, including the man she touched, had noticed her actions.

The hood collapsed around her neck, and Eragon stiffened, astounded. The woman was human, but she
resembled Arya. The only differences between them were her eyes—which were round and level, not
slanted like a cat’s—and her ears, which lacked the pointed tips of an elf’s. She was just as beautiful as
the Arya Eragon knew, but in a less exotic, more familiar way.

Without hesitation, Eragon probed toward the woman with his mind. He had to know who she really
was.

As soon as he touched her consciousness, a mental blow struck back at Eragon, destroying his
concentration, and then in the confines of his skull, he heard a deafening voice exclaim,Eragon!

Arya?

Their eyes met for a moment before the crowd thickened again and hid her.

Eragon hurried across the room to her table, prying apart the bodies packed close together to clear
himself a path. The farmers looked askance at him when he emerged from the press, and one said,
“You’re awful rude, barging in on us uninvited-like. Best make yourself scarce, eh?”

In as diplomatic a voice as he could muster, Eragon said, “It seems to me, gentlemen, that the lady
would rather be left alone. Now, you wouldn’t ignore the wishes of an honest woman, would you?”

“An honest woman?” laughed the nearest man. “No honest woman travels alone.”

“Then let me set your concern to rest, for I am her brother, and we are going to live with our uncle in
Dras-Leona.”

The four men exchanged uneasy glances. Three of them began to edge away from Arya, but the largest
planted himself a few inches in front of Eragon and, breathing upon his face, said, “I’m not sure I believe
you,friend. You’re just trying to drive us away so you can be with her yourself.”

He’s not far off,thought Eragon.

Speaking quietly enough that only that man could hear, Eragon said, “I assure you, sheis my sister.
Please, sir, I have no quarrel with you. Won’t you go?”

“Not when I think you’re a lying milksop.”

“Sir, be reasonable. There’s no need for this unpleasantness. The night is young, and there’s drink and
music aplenty. Let’s not quarrel about such a petty misunderstanding. It’s beneath us.”

To Eragon’s relief, the other man relaxed after a few seconds and uttered a scornful grunt. “I wouldn’t
want to fight a youngling like you anyway,” he said. Turning around, he lumbered toward the bar with his
friends.

Keeping his gaze fixed upon the crowd, Eragon slipped behind the table and sat next to Arya. “What are


you doing here?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

“Searching for you.”

Surprised, he glanced at her, and she raised a curved eyebrow. He looked back at the throng of people
and, pretending to smile, asked, “Are you alone?”

“No longer. . . . Did you rent a bed for the night?”

He shook his head.

“Good. I already have a room. We can talk there.”

They rose in unison, and he followed her to the stairs at the back of the common room. The worn treads
creaked under their feet as they climbed to a hallway on the second story. A single candle illuminated the
dingy, wood-paneled corridor. Arya led the way to the last door on the right, and from within the
voluminous sleeve of her cloak, she produced an iron key. Unlocking the door, she entered the room,
waited for Eragon to cross the threshold after her, and then closed and secured the door again.

A faint orange glow penetrated the lead-lined window across from Eragon. The glow came from a
lantern hanging on the other side of Eastcroft’s town square. By it, he was able to make out the shape of
an oil lamp on a low table to his right.

“Brisingr,” whispered Eragon, and lit the wick with a spark from his finger.

Even with the lamp burning, the room was still dark. The chamber contained the same paneling as the
hallway, and the chestnutcolored wood absorbed most of the light that struck it and made the room seem
small and heavy, as if a great weight pressed inward. Aside from the table, the only other piece of
furniture was a narrow bed with a single blanket thrown over the ticking. A small bag of supplies rested
on the mattress.

Eragon and Arya stood facing each other. Then Eragon reached up and removed the cloth strip tied
around his head, and Arya unfastened the brooch that held her cloak around her shoulders and placed
the garment on the bed. She wore a forest-green dress, the first dress Eragon had seen her in.

It was a strange experience for Eragon to have their appearances reversed, so that he was the one who
looked like an elf, and Arya a human. The change did nothing to diminish his regard for her, but it did
make him more comfortable in her presence, for she was less alien to him now.

It was Arya who broke the silence. “Saphira said you stayed behind to kill the last Ra’zac and to
explore the rest of Helgrind. Is that the truth?”

“It’s part of the truth.”

“And what is the whole truth?”

Eragon knew that nothing less would satisfy her. “Promise me that you won’t share what I’m about to
tell you with anyone unless I give you permission.”

“I promise,” she said in the ancient language.


Then he told her about finding Sloan, why he decided not to bring him back to the Varden, the curse he
had laid upon the butcher, and the chance he had given Sloan to redeem himself—at least partially—and
to regain his sight. Eragon finished by saying, “Whatever happens, Roran and Katrina cannever learn that
Sloan is still alive. If they do, there’ll be no end of trouble.”

Arya sat on the edge of the bed and, for a long while, stared at the lamp and its jumping flame. Then:
“You should have killed him.”

“Maybe, but I couldn’t.”

“Just because you find your task distasteful is no reason to shirk it. You were a coward.”

Eragon bridled at her accusation. “Was I? Anyone with a knife could have killed Sloan. What I did was
far harder.”

“Physically, but not morally.”

“I didn’t kill him because I thought it was wrong.” Eragon frowned with concentration as he searched for
the words to explain himself. “I wasn’t afraid . . . not that. Not after going into battle. . . . It was
something else. I will kill in war. But I won’t take it upon myself to decide who lives and who dies. I
don’t have the experience or the wisdom. . . . Every man has a line he won’t cross, Arya, and I found
mine when I looked upon Sloan. Even if I had Galbatorix as my captive, I would not kill him. I would
take him to Nasuada and King Orrin, and if they condemned him to death, then I would happily lop off
his head, but not before. Call it weakness if you will, but that is how I am made, and I won’t apologize
for it.”

“You will be a tool, then, wielded by others?”

“I will serve the people as best I can. I’ve never aspired to lead. Alagaësia does not need another tyrant
king.”

Arya rubbed her temples. “Why does everything have to be so complicated with you, Eragon? No
matter where you go, you seem to get yourself mired in difficult situations. It’s as if you make an effort to
walk through every bramble in the land.”

“Your mother said much the same.”

“I’m not surprised. . . . Very well, let it be. Neither of us is about to change our opinions, and we have
more pressing concerns than arguing about justice and morality. In the future, though, you would do well
to remember who you are and what you mean to the races of Alagaësia.”

“I never forgot.” Eragon paused, waiting for her response, but Arya let his statement pass unchallenged.
Sitting on the edge of the table, he said, “You didn’t have to come looking for me, you know. I was fine.”

“Of course I did.”

“How did you find me?”

“I guessed which route you would take from Helgrind. Luckily for me, my guess placed me forty miles
west of here, and that was close enough for me to locate you by listening to the whispers of the land.”


“I don’t understand.”

“A Rider does not walk unnoticed in this world, Eragon. Those who have the ears to hear and the eyes
to see can interpret the signs easily enough. The birds sing of your coming, the beasts of the earth heed
your scent, and the very trees and grass remember your touch. The bond between Rider and dragon is
so powerful that those who are sensitive to the forces of nature can feel it.”

“You’ll have to teach that trick to me sometime.”

“It is no trick, merely the art of paying attention to what is already around you.”

“Why did you come to Eastcroft, though? It would have been safer to meet me outside the village.”

“Circumstances forced me here, as I assume they did you. You did not come here willingly, no?”

“No. . . .” He rolled his shoulders, weary from the day’s traveling. Pushing back sleep, he waved a hand
at her dress and said, “Have you finally abandoned your shirt and trousers?”

A small smile appeared on Arya’s face. “Only for the duration of this trip. I’ve lived among the Varden
for more years than I care to recall, yet I still forget how humans insist upon separating their women from
their men. I never could bring myself to adopt your customs, even if I did not conduct myself entirely as
an elf. Who was to say yea or nay to me? My mother? She was on the other side of Alagaësia.” Arya
seemed to catch herself then, as if she had said more than she intended. She continued. “In any event, I
had an unfortunate encounter with a pair of ox herders soon after I left the Varden, and I stole this dress
directly afterward.”

“It fits well.”

“One of the advantages of being a spellcaster is that you never have to wait for a tailor.”

Eragon laughed for a moment. Then he asked, “What now?”

“Now we rest. Tomorrow, before the sun rises, we shall slip out of Eastcroft, and no one shall be the
wiser.”

That night, Eragon lay in front of the door, while Arya took the bed. Their arrangement was not the
result of deference or courtesy on Eragon’s part—although he would have insisted on giving Arya the
bed in any event—but rather caution. If anyone were to barge into the room, it would seem odd to find a
woman on the floor.

As the empty hours crept by, Eragon stared at the beams above his head and traced the cracks in the
wood, unable to calm his racing thoughts. He tried every method he knew to relax, but his mind kept
returning to Arya, to his surprise at meeting her, to her comments about his treatment of Sloan, and,
above all else, to the feelings he had for her. What those were exactly, he was unsure. He longed to be
with her, but she had rejected his advances, and that tarnished his affection with hurt and anger, and also
frustration, for while Eragon refused to accept that his suit was hopeless, he could not think of how to
proceed.

An ache formed in his chest as he listened to the gentle rise and fall of Arya’s breathing. It tormented him
to be so close and yet be unable to approach her. He twisted the edge of his tunic between his fingers


and wished there was something he could do instead of resigning himself to an unwelcome fate.

He wrestled with his unruly emotions deep into the night, until finally he succumbed to exhaustion and
drifted into the waiting embrace of his waking dreams. There he wandered for a few fitful hours until the
stars began to fade and it was time for him and Arya to leave Eastcroft.

Together, they opened the window and jumped from the sill to the ground twelve feet below, a small
drop for one with an elf’s abilities. As she fell, Arya grasped the skirt of her dress to keep it from
billowing around her. They landed inches apart and then set off running between the houses toward the
palisade.

“People will wonder where we went,” said Eragon between strides. “Maybe we should have waited and
left like normal travelers.”

“It’s riskier to stay. I paid for my room. That’s all the innkeeper really cares about, not whether we
snuck out early.” The two of them parted for a few seconds as they circumvented a decrepit wagon, and
then Arya added, “The most important thing is to keep moving. If we linger, the king will surely find us.”

When they arrived at the outer wall, Arya ranged along it until she found a post that protruded
somewhat. She wrapped her hands around it and pulled, testing the wood with her weight. The post
swayed and rattled against its neighbors, but otherwise held.

“You first,” said Arya.

“Please, after you.”

With a sigh of impatience, she tapped her bodice. “A dress is somewhat breezier than a pair of leggings,
Eragon.”

Heat flooded his cheeks as he caught her meaning. Reaching above his head, he got a good grip and
then began to climb the palisade, bracing himself with his knees and feet during the ascent. At the top, he
stopped and balanced on the tips of the sharpened posts.

“Go on,” whispered Arya.

“Not until you join me.”

“Don’t be so—”

“Watchman!” said Eragon, and pointed. A lantern floated in the darkness between a pair of nearby
houses. As the light approached, the gilded outline of a man emerged from the gloom. He carried a
naked sword in one hand.

Silent as a specter, Arya grasped the post and, using only the strength of her arms, pulled herself hand
over hand toward Eragon. She seemed to glide upward, as if by magic. When she was close enough,
Eragon seized her right forearm and lifted her above the remainder of the posts, setting her down next to
him. Like two strange birds, they perched on the palisade, motionless and breathless as the watchman
walked underneath them. He swung the lantern in either direction, searching for intruders.

Don’t look at the ground,pleaded Eragon.And don’t look up.


A moment later, the watchman sheathed his sword and continued on his rounds, humming to himself.

Without a word, Eragon and Arya dropped to the other side of the palisade. The armor in Eragon’s
pack rattled as he struck the grass-covered bank below and rolled to dissipate the force of the impact.
Springing to his feet, he bent low and dashed away from Eastcroft over the gray landscape, Arya close
behind. They kept to hollows and dry streambeds as they skirted the farms that surrounded the village. A
half-dozen times, indignant dogs ran out to protest the invasion of their territories. Eragon tried to calm
them with his mind, but the only way he found to stop the dogs from barking was to assure them that their
terrible teeth and claws had scared him and Arya away. Pleased with their success, the dogs pranced
with wagging tails back to the barns, sheds, and porches where they had been standing guard over their
fiefdoms. Their smug confidence amused Eragon.

Five miles from Eastcroft, when it became apparent they were utterly alone and no one was trailing
them, Eragon and Arya drew to a halt by a charred stump. Kneeling, Arya scooped several handfuls of
dirt from the ground in front of her. “Adurna rïsa,” she said. With a faint trickle, water welled out of the
surrounding soil and poured into the hole she had dug. Arya waited until the water filled the cavity and
then said, “Letta,” and the flow ceased.

She intoned a spell of scrying, and Nasuada’s face appeared upon the surface of the still water. Arya
greeted her. “My Lady,” Eragon said, and bowed.

“Eragon,” she replied. She appeared tired, hollow-cheeked, as if she had suffered a long illness. A lock
snapped free of her bun and coiled itself into a tight knot at her hairline. Eragon glimpsed a row of bulky
bandages on her arm as she slid a hand over her head, pressing the rebellious hair flat. “You are safe,
thank Gokukara. We were so worried.”

“I’m sorry I upset you, but I had my reasons.”

“You must explain them to me when you arrive.”

“As you wish,” he said. “How were you hurt? Did someone attack you? Why haven’t any of Du Vrangr
Gata healed you?”

“I ordered them to leave me alone. And thatI will explain when you arrive.” Thoroughly puzzled, Eragon
nodded and swallowed his questions. To Arya, Nasuada said, “I’m impressed; you found him. I wasn’t
sure you could.”

“Fortune smiled upon me.”

“Perhaps, but I tend to believe your skill was as important as Fortune’s generosity. How long until you
rejoin us?”

“Two, three days, unless we encounter unforeseen difficulties.”

“Good. I will expect you then. From now on, I want you to contact me at least once before noon and
once before nightfall. If I fail to hear from you, I’ll assume you’ve been captured, and I’ll send Saphira
with a rescue force.”

“We may not always have the privacy we need to work magic.”

“Find a way to get it. I need to know where you two are and whether you’re safe.”


Arya considered for a moment and then said, “If I can, I will do as you ask, but not if it puts Eragon in
danger.”

“Agreed.”

Taking advantage of the ensuing pause in the conversation, Eragon said, “Nasuada, is Saphira near at
hand? I would like to talk to her. . . . We haven’t spoken since Helgrind.”

“She left an hour ago to scout our perimeter. Can you maintain this spell while I find out if she has
returned?”

“Go,” said Arya.

A single step carried Nasuada out of their field of view, leaving behind a static image of the table and
chairs inside her red pavilion. For a good while, Eragon appraised the contents of the tent, but then
restlessness overtook him and he allowed his eyes to drift from the pool of water to the back of Arya’s
neck. Her thick black hair fell to one side, exposing a strip of smooth skin just above the collar of her
dress. That transfixed him for the better part of a minute, and then he stirred and leaned against the
charred stump.

There came the sound of breaking wood, and then a field of sparkling blue scales covered the pool as
Saphira forced herself into the pavilion. It was hard for Eragon to tell what part of her he saw, it was such
a small part. The scales slid past the pool and he glimpsed the underside of a thigh, a spike on her tail, the
baggy membrane of a folded wing, and then the gleaming tip of a tooth as she turned and twisted, trying
to find a position from which she could comfortably view the mirror Nasuada used for arcane
communications. From the alarming noises that originated behind Saphira, Eragon guessed she was
crushing most of the furniture. At last she settled in place, brought her head close to the mirror—so that
one large sapphire eye occupied the entire pool—and peered out at Eragon.

They looked at each other for a full minute, neither of them moving. It surprised Eragon how relieved he
was to see her. He had not truly felt safe since he and she had separated.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

She blinked once.

“Nasuada, are you still there?”

The muffled answer floated toward him from somewhere to the right of Saphira: “Yes, barely.”

“Would you be so kind as to relay Saphira’s comments to me?”

“I’m more than happy to, but at the moment, I’m caught between a wing and a pole, and there’s no path
free, so far as I can tell. You may have difficulty hearing me. If you’re willing to bear with me, though, I’ll
give it a try.”

“Please do.”

Nasuada was quiet for several heartbeats, and then in a tone so like Saphira’s that Eragon almost
laughed, she said, “You are well?”


“I’m healthy as an ox. And you?”

“To compare myself with a bovine would be both ridiculous and insulting, but I’m as fit as ever, if that is
what you are asking. I’m pleased Arya is with you. It’s good for you to have someone sensible around to
watch your back.”

“I agree. Help is always welcome when you’re in danger.” While Eragon was grateful that he and
Saphira were able to talk, albeit in a roundabout fashion, he found the spoken word a poor substitute for
the free exchange of thoughts and emotions they enjoyed when in close proximity. Furthermore, with
Arya and Nasuada privy to their conversation, Eragon was reluctant to address topics of a more
personal nature, such as whether Saphira had forgiven him for forcing her to leave him in Helgrind.
Saphira must have shared in his reluctance, for she too refrained from broaching the subject. They
chatted about other, inconsequential happenings and then bade each other farewell. Before he stepped
away from the pool, Eragon touched his fingers to his lips and silently mouthed,I’m sorry .

A sliver of space appeared around each of the small scales that rimmed Saphira’s eye as the underlying
flesh softened. She blinked long and slow, and he knew she understood his message and that she bore
him no ill will.

After Eragon and Arya took their leave of Nasuada, Arya terminated her spell and stood. With the back
of her hand, she knocked the dirt from her dress.

While she did, Eragon fidgeted, impatient as he had not been before; right then he wanted nothing else
but to run straight to Saphira and curl up with her in front of a campfire.

“Let us be off,” he said, already moving.

A DELICATEMATTER

The muscles of Roran’s back popped and rippled as he heaved the boulder off the ground.

He rested the large rock on his thighs for an instant and then, grunting, pressed it overhead and locked
his arms straight. For a full minute, he held the crushing weight in the air. When his shoulders were
trembling and about to fail, he threw the boulder onto the ground in front of him. It landed with a dull
thud, leaving an indentation several inches deep in the dirt.

On either side of Roran, twenty of the Varden’s warriors struggled to lift boulders of similar size. Only
two succeeded; the rest returned to the lighter rocks they were accustomed to. It pleased Roran that the
months he had spent in Horst’s forge and the years of farmwork before had given him the strength to
hold his own with men who had drilled with their weapons every day since they turned twelve.

Roran shook the fire from his arms and took several deep breaths, the air cool against his bare chest.
Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder, cupping the round ball of muscle and exploring it with his


fingers, confirming once again that no trace remained of the injury he had suffered when the Ra’zac had
bitten him. He grinned, glad to be whole and sound again, being as it had seemed no likelier to him than a
cow dancing a jig.

A yelp of pain caused him to look over at Albriech and Baldor, who were sparring with Lang, a
swarthy, battle-scarred veteran who taught the arts of war. Even two against one, Lang held his own, and
with his wooden practice sword, he had disarmed Baldor, knocked him across the ribs, and jabbed
Albriech so hard in the leg, he fell sprawling, all in the span of a few seconds. Roran empathized with
them; he had just finished his own session with Lang, and it had left him with several new bruises to go
with his faded ones from Helgrind. For the most part, he preferred his hammer over a sword, but he
thought he should still be able to handle a blade if the occasion called for it. Swords required more
finesse than he felt most fights deserved: bash a swordsman on the wrist and, armored or not, he would
be too preoccupied with his broken bones to defend himself.

After the Battle of the Burning Plains, Nasuada had invited the villagers from Carvahall to join the
Varden. They had all accepted her offer. Those who would have refused had already elected to stay in
Surda when the villagers stopped in Dauth on their way to the Burning Plains. Every able-bodied man
from Carvahall had taken up proper arms—discarding their makeshift spears and shields—and had
worked to become warriors equal to any in Alagaësia. The people of Palancar Valley were accustomed
to a hard life. Swinging a sword was no worse than chopping wood, and it was a far sight easier than
breaking sod or hoeing acres of beets in the heat of summer. Those who knew a useful trade continued
to ply their craft in service to the Varden, but in their spare time they still strove to master the weapons
given to them, for every man was expected to fight when the call to battle sounded.

Roran had devoted himself to the training with unwavering dedication since returning from Helgrind.
Helping the Varden defeat the Empire and, ultimately, Galbatorix was the one thing he could do to
protect the villagers and Katrina. He was not arrogant enough to believe that he alone could tip the
balance of the war, but he was confident in his ability to shape the world and knew that if he applied
himself, he could increase the Varden’s chances of victory. He had to stay alive, though, and that meant
conditioning his body and mastering the tools and techniques of slaughter so as to avoid falling to a more
experienced warrior.

As he crossed the practice field, on his way back to the tent he shared with Baldor, Roran passed a strip
of grass sixty feet long whereon lay a twenty-foot log stripped of its bark and polished smooth by the
thousands of hands that rubbed against it every day. Without breaking his stride, Roran turned, slipped
his fingers under the thick end of the log, lifted it, and, grunting from the strain, walked it upright. He gave
the log a push then, and it toppled over. Grabbing the thin end, he repeated the process twice more.

Unable to muster the energy to flip the log again, Roran left the field and trotted through the surrounding
maze of gray canvas tents, waving to Loring and Fisk and others he recognized, as well as a half-dozen
or so strangers who greeted him. “Hail, Stronghammer!” they cried in warm tones.

“Hail!” he replied.It is a strange thing, he thought,to be known to people whom you have not met
before . A minute later, he arrived at the tent that had become his home and, ducking inside, stored away
the bow, the quiver of arrows, and the short sword the Varden had given him.

He snared his waterskin from beside his bedding, then hurried back into the bright sunlight and,
unstoppering the skin, poured the contents over his back and shoulders. Baths tended to be sporadic and
infrequent events for Roran, but today was an important day, and he wanted to be fresh and clean for
what was to come. With the sharp edge of a polished stick, he scraped the grime off his arms and legs
and out from under his fingernails and then combed his hair and trimmed his beard.


Satisfied that he was presentable, he pulled on his freshly washed tunic, stuck his hammer through his
belt, and was about to head off through the camp when he became aware of Birgit watching him from
behind the corner of the tent. She clenched a sheathed dagger with both hands.

Roran froze, ready to draw his hammer at the slightest provocation. He knew that he was in mortal
danger, and despite his prowess, he was not confident of defeating Birgit if she attacked, for like him, she
pursued her enemies with single-minded determination.

“You once asked me to help you,” said Birgit, “and I agreed because I wanted to find the Ra’zac and
kill them for eating my husband. Have I not upheld my bargain?”

“You have.”

“And do you remember I promised that once the Ra’zac were dead, I would have my compensation
from you for your role in Quimby’s death?”

“I do.”

Birgit twisted the dagger with increasing urgency, the back of her fists ridged with tendons. The dagger
rose out of its sheath a full inch, baring the bright steel, and then slowly sank into darkness again. “Good,”
she said. “I would not want your memory to fail you. Iwill have my compensation, Garrowsson. Never
you doubt that.” With a swift, firm step, she departed, the dagger hidden among the folds of her dress.

Releasing his breath, Roran sat on a nearby stool and rubbed his throat, convinced that he had narrowly
escaped being gutted by Birgit. Her visit had alarmed him but it did not surprise him; he had been aware
of her intentions for months, since before they left Carvahall, and he knew that one day he would have to
settle his debt with her.

A raven soared overhead, and as he tracked it, his mood lightened and he smiled. “Well,” he said to
himself.A man rarely knows the day and hour when he will die. I could be killed at any moment,
and there’s not a blasted thing I can do about it. What will happen will happen, and I won’t waste
the time I have aboveground worrying. Misfortune always comes to those who wait. The trick is
to find happiness in the brief gaps between disasters. Birgit will do what her conscience tells her
to, and I will deal with it when I must .

By his left foot, he noticed a yellowish stone, which he picked up and rolled between his fingers.
Concentrating on it as hard as he could, he said, “Stenr rïsa.” The stone ignored his command and
remained immobile between his thumb and forefinger. With a snort, he tossed it away.

Standing, he strode north between the rows of tents. While he walked, he tried to untangle a knot in the
lacing at his collar, but it resisted his efforts, and he gave up on it when he arrived at Horst’s tent, which
was twice as large as most. “Hello in there,” he said, and knocked on the pole between the two entrance
flaps.

Katrina burst out of the tent, copper hair flying, and wrapped her arms around him. Laughing, he lifted
her by the waist and spun her in a circle, all the world a blur except her face, then gently set her down.
She pecked him on the lips, once, twice, three times. Growing still, he gazed into her eyes, more happy
than he could ever remember being.

“You smell nice,” she said.


“How are you?” The only flaw in his joy was seeing how thin and pale imprisonment had left her. It
made him want to resurrect the Ra’zac so they could endure the same suffering they had inflicted upon
her and his father.

“Every day you ask me, and every day I tell you, ‘Better.’ Be patient; I will recover, but it will take time.
. . . The best remedy for what ails me is being with you here under the sun. It does me more good than I
can tell you.”

“That was not all I was asking.”

Crimson spots appeared on Katrina’s cheeks, and she tilted her head back, her lips curving in a
mischievous smile. “My, you are bold, dear sir. Most bold indeed. I’m not sure I should be alone with
you, for fear you might take liberties with me.”

The spirit of her reply set his concern to rest. “Liberties, eh? Well, since you already consider me a
scoundrel, I might as well enjoy some of theseliberties. ” And he kissed her until she broke the contact,
although she remained in his embrace.

“Oh,” she said, out of breath. “You’re a hard man to argue with, Roran Stronghammer.”

“That I am.” Nodding toward the tent behind her, he lowered his voice and asked, “Does Elain know?”

“She would if she weren’t so preoccupied with her pregnancy. I think the stress of the trip from
Carvahall may cause her to lose the child. She’s sick a good part of the day, and she has pains that . . .
well, of an unfortunate nature. Gertrude has been tending her, but she can’t do much to ease her
discomfort. All the same, the sooner Eragon returns, the better. I’m not sure how long I can keep this
secret.”

“You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” He released her then and tugged on the hem of his tunic to smooth out the
wrinkles. “How do I look?”

Katrina studied him with a critical eye and then wet the tips of her fingers and ran them through his hair,
pushing it back off his forehead. Spotting the knot at his collar, she began to pick at it, saying, “You
ought to pay closer attention to your clothes.”

“Clothes haven’t been trying to kill me.”

“Well, things are different now. You’re the cousin of a Dragon Rider, and you should look the part.
People expect it of you.”

He allowed her to continue fussing with him until she was pleased with his appearance. Kissing her
goodbye, he walked the half mile to the center of the Varden’s massive camp, where Nasuada’s red
command pavilion stood. The pennant mounted on the top bore a black shield and two parallel swords
slanting underneath, and it whipped and snapped in a warm wind from the east.

The six guards outside the pavilion—two humans, two dwarves, and two Urgals—lowered their
weapons as Roran approached, and one of the Urgals, a thickset brute with yellow teeth, challenged him,
saying, “Who goes there?” His accent was nearly unintelligible.

“Roran Stronghammer, son of Garrow. Nasuada sent for me.”


Pounding his breastplate with one fist, which produced a loud crash, the Urgal announced, “Roran
Stronghammer requests an audience with you, Lady Nightstalker.”

“You may admit him,” came the answer from inside.

The warriors lifted their blades, and Roran carefully made his way past. They watched him, and he them,
with the detached air of men who might have to fight each other at a moment’s notice.

Inside the pavilion, Roran was alarmed to see that most of the furniture was broken and overturned. The
only pieces that seemed unharmed were a mirror mounted on a pole and the grand chair in which
Nasuada was sitting. Ignoring their surroundings, he knelt and bowed to her.

Nasuada’s features and bearing were so different from those of the women Roran had grown up with,
he was not sure how to act. She appeared strange and imperious, with her embroidered dress and the
gold chains in her hair and her dusky skin, which at the moment had a reddish cast, due to the color of
the fabric walls. In stark contrast to the rest of her apparel, linen bandages encased her forearms, a
testament to her astounding courage during the Trial of the Long Knives. Her feat had been a topic of
constant discussion among the Varden ever since Roran had returned with Katrina. It was the one aspect
of her he felt as if he understood, for he too would make any sacrifice in order to protect those he cared
about. It just so happened that she cared about a group of thousands, while he was committed to his
family and his village.

“Please, rise,” said Nasuada. He did as he was instructed and rested a hand on the head of his hammer,
then waited while she inspected him. “My position rarely allows me the luxury of clear, direct speech,
Roran, but I will be blunt with you today. You seem to be a man who appreciates candor, and we have
much to discuss in a small amount of time.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I have never enjoyed playing word games.”

“Excellent. To be blunt, then, you have presented me with two difficulties, neither of which I can easily
resolve.”

He frowned. “What sort of difficulties?”

“One of character, and one of politics. Your deeds in Palancar Valley and during your flight thence with
your fellow villagers are nigh on incredible. They tell me that you have a daring mind and that you are
skilled at combat, strategy, and inspiring people to follow you with unquestioning loyalty.”

“They may have followed me, but they certainly never stopped questioning me.”

A smile touched her lips. “Perhaps. But you still got them here, didn’t you? You possess valuable talents,
Roran, and the Varden could use you. I assume you wish to be of service?”

“I do.”

“As you know, Galbatorix has divided his army and sent troops south to reinforce the city of Aroughs,
west toward Feinster, and north toward Belatona. He hopes to drag out this fight, to bleed us dry
through slow attrition. Jörmundur and I cannot be in a dozen locations at once. We need captains whom
we can trust to deal with the myriad conflicts springing up around us. In this, you could prove your worth
to us. But . . .” Her voice faded.


“But you do not yet know if you can rely upon me.”

“Indeed. Protecting one’s friends and family stiffens a person’s spine, but I wonder how you will fare
without them. Will your nerve hold? And while you can lead, can you also obey orders? I cast no
aspersions on your character, Roran, but the fate of Alagaësia is at stake, and I cannot risk putting
someone incompetent in charge of my men. This war does not forgive such errors. Nor would it be fair to
the men already with the Varden to place you over them without just cause. You must earn your
responsibilities with us.”

“I understand. What would you have me do, then?”

“Ah, but it’s not that easy, for you and Eragon are practically brothers, and that complicates things
immeasurably. As I’m sure you are aware, Eragon is the keystone of our hopes. It is important, then, to
shelter him from distractions so he may concentrate upon the task before him. If I send you into battle
and you die as a result, grief and anger might very well unbalance him. I’ve seen it happen before.
Moreover, I must take great care with whom I allow you to serve, for there are those who will seek to
influence you because of your relation to Eragon. So now you have a fair idea of the scope of my
concerns. What have you to say about them?”

“If the land itself is at stake and this war is as hotly contested as you imply, then I say you cannot afford
to let me sit idle. Employing me as a common swordsman would be just as much a waste. But I think you
know that already. As for politics . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t care one whit whom you put me with. No
one shall get to Eragon through me. My only concern is breaking the Empire so that my kith and kin can
return to our home and live in peace.”

“You are determined.”

“Very. Could you not allow me to remain in charge of the men from Carvahall? We are as close as
family, and we work well together. Test me that way. The Varden would not suffer, then, if I failed.”

She shook her head. “No. Perhaps in the future, but not yet. They require proper instruction, and I
cannot judge your performance when you are surrounded by a group of people who are so loyal that at
your urging they abandoned their homes and traversed the width of Alagaësia.”

She considers me a threat,he realized.My ability to influence the villagers makes her wary of me .
In an attempt to disarm her, he said, “They had their own sense to guide them. They knew it was folly to
stay in the valley.”

“You cannot explain away their behavior, Roran.”

“What do you want of me, Lady? Will you let me serve or not? And if so, how?”

“Here is my offer. This morning, my magicians detected a patrol of twenty-three of Galbatorix’s soldiers
due east. I am sending out a contingent under the command of Martland Redbeard, the Earl of Thun, to
destroy them and to do some scouting besides. If you are agreeable, you will serve under Martland. You
will listen to and obey him and hopefully learn from him. He, in turn, will watch you and report to me
whether he believes you are suitable for advancement. Martland is very experienced, and I have every
confidence in his opinion. Does this strike you as fair, Roran Stronghammer?”

“It does. Only, when would I leave, and how long would I be gone?”


“You would leave today and return within a fortnight.”

“Then I must ask, could you wait and send me on a different expedition, in a few days? I would like to
be here when Eragon returns.”

“Your concern for your cousin is admirable, but events move apace, and we cannot delay. As soon as I
know Eragon’s fate, I will have one of Du Vrangr Gata contact you with the tidings, whether they be
good or ill.”

Roran rubbed his thumb along the sharp edges of his hammer as he tried to compose a reply that would
convince Nasuada to change her mind and yet would not betray the secret he held. At last he abandoned
the task as impossible and resigned himself to revealing the truth. “You’re right. I am worried about
Eragon, but of all people he can fend for himself. Seeing him safe and sound isn’t why I want to stay.”

“Why, then?”

“Because Katrina and I wish to be married, and we would like Eragon to perform the ceremony.”

There was a cascade of sharp clicks as Nasuada tapped her fingernails against the arms of her chair. “If
you believe I will allow you to loll about when you could be helping the Varden, just so you and Katrina
can enjoy your wedding night a few days earlier, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“It is a matter of some urgency, Lady Nightstalker.”

Nasuada’s fingers paused in midair, and her eyes narrowed. “How urgent?”

“The sooner we are wed, the better it will be for Katrina’s honor. If you understand me at all, know that
I would never ask favors for myself.”

Light shifted on Nasuada’s skin as she tilted her head. “I see. . . . Why Eragon? Why do you want him
to perform the ceremony? Why not someone else: an elder from your village perhaps?”

“Because he is my cousin and I care for him, and because he is a Rider. Katrina lost nearly everything on
my account—her home, her father, and her dowry. I cannot replace those things, but I at least want to
give her a wedding worth remembering. Without gold or livestock, I cannot pay for a lavish ceremony, so
I must find some other means besides wealth to make our wedding memorable, and it seems to me
nothing could be more grand than having a Dragon Rider marry us.”

Nasuada held her peace for so long, Roran began to wonder if she expected him to leave. Then: “It
would indeed be an honor to have a Dragon Rider marry you, but it would be a sorry day if Katrina had
to accept your hand without a proper dowry. The dwarves furnished me with many presents of gold and
jewelry when I lived in Tronjheim. Some I have already sold to fund the Varden, but what I have left
would still keep a woman clothed in mink and satin for many years to come. They shall be Katrina’s, if
you are amenable.”

Startled, Roran bowed again. “Thank you. Your generosity is overwhelming. I don’t know how I can
ever repay you.”

“Repay me by fighting for the Varden as you fought for Carvahall.”


“I will, I swear it. Galbatorix will curse the day he ever sent the Ra’zac after me.”

“I’m sure he already does. Now go. You may remain in camp until Eragon returns and marries you to
Katrina, but then I expect you to be in the saddle the following morning.”

BLOODWOLF

What a proud man,thought Nasuada as she watched Roran leave the pavilion.It’s interesting; he and
Eragon are alike in so many ways, and yet their personalities are fundamentally different. Eragon
may be one of the most deadly warriors in Alagaësia, but he isn’t a hard or cruel person. Roran,
however, is made of sterner stuff. I hope that he never crosses me; I would have to destroy him in
order to stop him .

She checked her bandages and, satisfied that they were still fresh, rang for Farica and ordered her to
bring a meal. After her handmaid delivered the food and then retired from the tent, Nasuada signaled
Elva, who emerged from her hiding place behind the false panel at the rear of the pavilion. Together, the
two of them shared a midmorning repast.

Nasuada spent the next few hours reviewing the Varden’s latest inventory reports, calculating the
number of wagon trains she would need to move the Varden farther north, and adding and subtracting
rows of figures that represented the finances of her army. She sent messages to the dwarves and Urgals,
ordered the bladesmiths to increase their production of spearheads, threatened the Council of Elders with
dissolution—as she did most every week—and otherwise attended to the Varden’s business. Then, with
Elva at her side, Nasuada rode out on her stallion, Battle-storm, and met with Trianna, who had captured
and was busy interrogating a member of Galbatorix’s spy network, the Black Hand.

As she and Elva left Trianna’s tent, Nasuada became aware of a commotion to the north. She heard
shouts and cheers, then a man appeared from among the tents, sprinting toward her. Without a word, her
guards formed a tight circle around her, save for one of the Urgals, who planted himself in the path of the
runner and hefted his club. The man slowed to a stop before the Urgal and, gasping, shouted, “Lady
Nasuada! The elves are here! The elves have arrived!”

For a wild, improbable moment, Nasuada thought he meant Queen Islanzadí and her army, but then she
remembered Islanzadí was near Ceunon; not even the elves could move a host across the width of
Alagaësia in less than a week.It must be the twelve spellweavers Islanzadí sent to protect Eragon .

“Quick, my horse,” she said, and snapped her fingers. Her forearms burned as she swung herself onto
Battle-storm. She waited only long enough for the nearest Urgal to hand her Elva, then drove her heels
into the stallion. His muscles surged beneath her as he sprang into a gallop. Bending low over his neck,
she steered him down a crude lane between two rows of tents, dodging men and animals and jumping a
rain barrel that barred her way. The men did not seem to take offense; they laughed and scrambled after
her so they could see the elves with their own eyes.

When she arrived at the northern entrance to the camp, she and Elva dismounted and scanned the


horizon for motion.

“There,” said Elva, and pointed.

Nearly two miles away, twelve long, lean figures emerged from behind a stand of juniper trees, their
outlines wavering in the morning heat. The elves ran in unison, so light and fast, their feet raised no dust
and they appeared to fly over the countryside. Nasuada’s scalp prickled. Their speed was both beautiful
and unnatural. They reminded her of a pack of predators chasing their prey. She felt the same sense of
danger as when she had seen a Shrrg, a giant wolf, in the Beor Mountains.

“Awe-inspiring, aren’t they?”

Nasuada started to find Angela next to her. She was annoyed and mystified by how the herbalist had
been able to sneak up on her.

She wished Elva had warned her of Angela’s approach. “How is it you always manage to be present
when something interesting is about to occur?”

“Oh well, I like to know what’s going on, and being there is so much faster than waiting for someone to
tell me about it afterward. Besides, people always leave out important pieces of information, like whether
someone’s ring finger is longer than their index finger, or whether they have magical shields protecting
them, or whether the donkey they are riding happens to have a bald patch in the shape of a rooster’s
head. Don’t you agree?”

Nasuada frowned. “You never reveal your secrets, do you?”

“Now, what good would that do? Everyone would get all excited over some piffle of a spell, and then
I’d have to spend hours trying to explain, and in the end, King Orrin would want to chop off my head
and I would have to fight off half your spellcasters during my escape. It’s just not worth the effort, if you
ask me.”

“Your answer hardly inspires confidence. But—”

“That’s because you are too serious, Lady Nightstalker.”

“But tell me,” Nasuada persisted, “why would you want to know if someone is riding a donkey with a
bald patch shaped like a rooster’s head?”

“Ah, that. Well, the man who owns that particular donkey cheated me at a game of knucklebones out of
three buttons and a rather interesting shard of enchanted crystal.”

“Cheatedyou ?”

Angela pursed her lips, obviously irked. “The knucklebones were loaded. I switched them on him, but
then he replaced them with a set of his own when I was distracted. . . . I’m still not quite sure how he
tricked me.”

“So you were both cheating.”

“It was a valuable crystal! Besides, how can you cheat a cheater?”


Before Nasuada could respond, the six Nighthawks came pounding out of the camp and took up
positions around her. She hid her distaste as the heat and smell of their bodies assailed her. The odor of
the two Urgals was especially pungent. Then, somewhat to her surprise, the captain of the shift, a burly
man with a crooked nose and the name of Garven, accosted her. “My Lady, may I have a word with you
in private?” He spoke through close-set teeth, as if struggling to contain a great emotion.

Angela and Elva looked at Nasuada for confirmation that she wanted them to withdraw. She nodded,
and they began walking west, toward the Jiet River. Once Nasuada was confident they were out of
hearing, she began to speak, but Garven overrode her, exclaiming, “Blast it, Lady Nasuada, you
shouldn’t have left us as you did!”

“Peace, Captain,” she replied. “It was a small enough risk, and I felt it was important to be here in time
to greet the elves.”

Garven’s mail rustled as he struck his leg with a bunched fist. “A small risk? Not an hour ago, you
received proof that Galbatorix still has agents hidden among us. He has been able to infiltrate us again
and again, and yet you see fit to abandon your escort and go racing through a host of potential assassins!
Have you forgotten the attack in Aberon, or how the Twins slew your father?”

“Captain Garven! You go too far.”

“I’ll go even further if it means ensuring your well-being.”

The elves, Nasuada observed, had halved the distance between them and the camp. Angry, and eager
to end the conversation, she said, “I am not without my own protection, Captain.”

Flicking his eyes toward Elva, Garven said, “We have suspected as much, Lady.” A pause followed, as
if he were hoping she would volunteer more information. When she remained silent, he forged onward: “If
you were actually safe, then I was wrong to accuse you of recklessness, and I apologize. Still, safety and
the appearance of safety are two different things. For the Nighthawks to be effective, we have to be the
smartest, toughest, meanest warriors in the land, and people have tobelieve that we’re the smartest, the
toughest, and the meanest. They have to believe that if they try to stab you or shoot you with a crossbow
or use magic against you, that wewill stop them. If they believe they have about as much chance of killing
you as a mouse does a dragon, then they may very well give up the idea as hopeless, and we will have
averted an attack without ever having to lift a finger.

“We cannot fight all your enemies, Lady Nasuada. That would take an army. Even Eragon couldn’t save
you if all who want you dead had the courage to act upon their hatred. You might survive a hundred
attempts on your life or a thousand, but eventually one would succeed. The only way to keep that from
happening is to convince the majority of your enemies that they willnever get past the Nighthawks. Our
reputation can protect you just as surely as our swords and our armor. It does us no good, then, for
people to see you riding off without us. No doubt we looked a right bunch of fools back there, frantically
trying to catch up. After all, if you do not respect us, Lady, why should anyone else?”

Garven moved closer, dropping his voice. “We will gladly die for you if we must. All we ask in return is
that you allow us to perform our duties. It is a small favor, considering. And the day may come when you
are grateful we are here. Your other protection is human, and therefore fallible, whatever her arcane
powers may be. She has not sworn the same oaths in the ancient language that we of the Nighthawks
have. Her sympathies could shift, and you would do well to ponder your fate if she turned against you.
The Nighthawks, however, will never betray you. We are yours, Lady Nasuada, fully and completely. So
please, let the Nighthawks do what they are supposed to do. . . . Let us protect you.”


Initially, Nasuada was indifferent to his arguments, but his eloquence and the clarity of his reasoning
impressed her. He was, she thought, a man she might have use for elsewhere. “I see Jörmundur has
surrounded me with warriors as skilled with their tongues as they are with their swords,” she said with a
smile.

“My Lady.”

“You are right. I should not have left you and your men behind, and I am sorry. It was careless and
inconsiderate. I am still unaccustomed to having guards with me at all hours of the day, and sometimes I
forget I cannot move about with the freedom I once did. You have my word of honor, Captain Garven, it
shall not happen again. I do not wish to cripple the Nighthawks any more than you.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Nasuada turned back toward the elves, but they were hidden from sight below the bank of a dry stream
a quarter of a mile away. “It strikes me, Garven, that you may have invented a motto for the Nighthawks
a moment ago.”

“Did I? If so, I cannot recall.”

“You did. ‘The smartest, the toughest, and the meanest,’ you said. That would be a fine motto, although
perhaps without theand . If the other Nighthawks approve of it, you should have Trianna translate the
phrase into the ancient language, and I will have it inscribed on your shields and embroidered on your
standards.”

“You are most generous, my Lady. When we return to our tents, I shall discuss the matter with
Jörmundur and my fellow captains. Only . . .”

He hesitated then, and guessing at what troubled him, Nasuada said, “But you are worried that such a
motto may be too vulgar for men of your position, and you would prefer something more noble and
high-minded, am I right?”

“Exactly, my Lady,” he said with a relieved expression.

“It’s a valid concern, I suppose. The Nighthawks represent the Varden, and you must interact with
notables of every race and rank in the course of your duty. It would be regrettable if you were to convey
the wrong impression. . . . Very well, I leave it to you and your compatriots to devise an appropriate
motto. I am confident you will do an excellent job.”

At that moment, the twelve elves emerged from the dry streambed, and Garven, after murmuring
additional thanks, moved a discreet distance from Nasuada. Composing herself for a state visit, Nasuada
signaled Angela and Elva to return.

When he was still several hundred feet away, the lead elf appeared soot-black from head to toe. At first
Nasuada assumed he was dark-skinned, like herself, and wearing dark attire, but as he drew closer, she
saw that the elf wore only a loincloth and a braided fabric belt with a small pouch attached. The rest of
him was covered with midnight-blue fur that glistened with a healthy sheen under the glare of the sun. On
average, the fur was a quarter-inch long—a smooth, flexible armor that mirrored the shape and
movement of the underlying muscles—but on his ankles and the undersides of his forearms, it extended a
full two inches, and between his shoulder blades, there was a ruffled mane that stuck out a handsbreadth


from his body and tapered down along his back to the base of his spine. Jagged bangs shadowed his
brow, and catlike tufts sprouted from the tips of his pointed ears, but otherwise the fur on his face was so
short and flat, only its color betrayed its presence. His eyes were bright yellow. Instead of fingernails, a
claw protruded from each of his middle fingers. And as he slowed to a stop before her, Nasuada noticed
that a certain odor surrounded him: a salty musk reminiscent of dry juniper wood, oiled leather, and
smoke. It was such a strong smell, and so obviously masculine, Nasuada felt her skin go hot and cold
and crawl with anticipation, and she blushed and was glad it would not show.

The rest of the elves were more as she had expected, of the same general build and complexion as Arya,
with short tunics of dusky orange and pine-needle green. Six were men, and six were women. They all
had raven hair, save for two of the women whose hair was like starlight. It was impossible to determine
their ages, for their faces were smooth and unlined. They were the first elves besides Arya that Nasuada
had met in person, and she was eager to find out if Arya was representative of her race.

Touching his first two fingers to his lips, the lead elf bowed, as did his companions, and then twisted his
right hand against his chest and said, “Greetings and felicitations, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. Atra
esterní onto thelduin.” His accent was more pronounced than Arya’s: a lilting cadence that gave his
words music.

“Atra du evarínya ono varda,” replied Nasuada, as Arya had taught her.

The elf smiled, revealing teeth that were sharper than normal. “I am Blödhgarm, son of Ildrid the
Beautiful.” He introduced the other elves in turn before continuing. “We bring you glad tidings from
Queen Islanzadí; last night our spellcasters succeeded in destroying the gates of Ceunon. Even as we
speak, our forces advance through the streets toward the tower where Lord Tarrant has barricaded
himself. Some few still resist us, but the city has fallen, and soon we shall have complete control over
Ceunon.”

Nasuada’s guards and the Varden gathered behind her burst into cheers at the news. She too rejoiced at
the victory, but then a sense of foreboding and disquiet tempered her celebratory mood as she pictured
elves—especially ones as strong as Blödhgarm—invading human homes.What unearthly forces have I
unleashed? she wondered.

“These are glad tidings indeed,” she said, “and I am well pleased to hear them. With Ceunon captured,
we are that much closer to Urû’baen, and thus to Galbatorix and the fulfillment of our goals.” In a more
private voice, she said, “I trust that Queen Islanzadí will be gentle with the people of Ceunon, with those
who have no love for Galbatorix but lack the means or the courage to oppose the Empire.”

“Queen Islanzadí is both kind and merciful to her subjects, even if they are her unwilling subjects, but if
anyone dares oppose us, we shall sweep them aside like dead leaves before an autumn storm.”

“I would expect nothing less from a race as old and mighty as yours,” Nasuada replied. After satisfying
the demands of courtesy with several more polite exchanges of increasing triviality, Nasuada deemed it
appropriate to address the reason for the elves’ visit. She ordered the assembled crowd to disperse, then
said, “Your purpose here, as I understand it, is to protect Eragon and Saphira. Am I right?”

“You are, Nasuada Svit-kona. And we are aware that Eragon is still inside the Empire but that he will
return soon.”

“Are you also aware that Arya left in search of him and that they are now traveling together?”


Blödhgarm flicked his ears. “We were informed of that as well. It is unfortunate that they should both be
in such danger, but hopefully no harm will befall them.”

“What do you intend to do, then? Will you seek them out and escort them back to the Varden? Or will
you stay and wait and trust that Eragon and Arya can defend themselves against Galbatorix’s minions?”

“We will remain as your guests, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad. Eragon and Arya are safe enough as long
as they avoid detection. Joining them in the Empire could very well attract unwanted attention. Under the
circumstances, it seems best to bide our time where we can yet do some good. Galbatorix is most likely
to strike here, at the Varden, and if he does, and if Thorn and Murtagh should reappear, Saphira will
need all our help to drive them off.”

Nasuada was surprised. “Eragon said you were among the strongest spellcasters of your race, but do
you really have the wherewithal to thwart that accursed pair? Like Galbatorix, they have powers far
beyond those of ordinary Riders.”

“With Saphira helping us, yes, we believe that we can match or overcome Thorn and Murtagh. We
know what the Forsworn were capable of, and while Galbatorix has probably made Thorn and Murtagh
stronger than any individual member of the Forsworn, he certainly won’t have made them his equals. In
that regard, at least, his fear of treachery is to our benefit. Even three of the Forsworn could not conquer
the twelve of us and a dragon. Therefore, we are confident that we can hold our own against all but
Galbatorix.”

“That is heartening. Since Eragon’s defeat at the hands of Murtagh, I have been wondering if we should
retreat and hide until Eragon’s strength increases. Your assurances convince me that we are not entirely
without hope. We may have no idea how to kill Galbatorix himself, but until we batter down the gates of
his citadel in Urû’baen, or until he chooses to fly out on Shruikan and confront us on the field of battle,
nothing shall stop us.” She paused. “You have given me no reason to distrust you, Blödhgarm, but before
you enter our camp, I must ask that you allow one of my men to touch each of your minds to confirm that
you are actually elves, and not humans Galbatorix has sent here in disguise. It pains me to make such a
request, but we have been plagued by spies and traitors, and we dare not take you, or anyone else, at
their word. It is not my intention to cause offense, but war has taught us these precautions are necessary.
Surely you, who have ringed the entire leafy expanse of Du Weldenvarden with protective spells, can
understand my reasons. So I ask, will you agree to this?”

Blödhgarm’s eyes were feral and his teeth were alarmingly sharp as he said, “For the most part, the trees
of Du Weldenvarden have needles, not leaves. Test us if you must, but I warn you, whomever you assign
the task should take great care he does not delve too deeply into our minds, else he may find himself
stripped of his reason. It is perilous for mortals to wander among our thoughts; they can easily become
lost and be unable to return to their bodies. Nor are our secrets available for general inspection.”

Nasuada understood. The elves would destroy anyone who ventured into forbidden territory. “Captain
Garven,” she said.

Stepping forward with the expression of a man approaching his doom, Garven stood opposite
Blödhgarm, closed his eyes, and frowned intensely as he searched out Blödhgarm’s consciousness.
Nasuada bit the inside of her lip as she watched. When she was a child, a one-legged man by the name
of Hargrove had taught her how to conceal her thoughts from telepaths and how to block and divert the
stabbing lances of a mental attack. At both those skills she excelled, and although she had never
succeeded at initiating contact with the mind of another, she was thoroughly familiar with the principles
involved. She empathized, then, with the difficulty and the delicacy of what Garven was trying to do, a


trial only made harder by the strange nature of the elves.

Leaning toward her, Angela whispered, “You should have had me check the elves. It would have been
safer.”

“Perhaps,” said Nasuada. Despite all the help the herbalist had given her and the Varden, she still felt
uncomfortable relying upon her for official business.

For a few moments longer, Garven continued his efforts, and then his eyes snapped open and he
released his breath in an explosive burst. His neck and face were mottled from the strain, and his pupils
were dilated, as if it were night. In contrast, Blödhgarm appeared undisturbed; his fur was smooth, his
breathing regular, and a faint smile of amusement flickered about the corners of his lips.

“Well?” asked Nasuada.

It seemed to take Garven a longish while to hear her question, and then the burly captain with the
crooked nose said, “He is not human, my Lady. Of that I have no doubt. No doubt whatsoever.”

Pleased and disturbed, for there was something uncomfortably remote about his reply, Nasuada said,
“Very well. Proceed.” Thereafter, Garven required less and less time to examine each elf, spending no
more than a half-dozen seconds on the very last of the group. Nasuada kept a close eye on him
throughout the process, and she saw how his fingers became white and bloodless, and the skin at his
temples sank into his skull like the eardrums of a frog, and he acquired the languid appearance of a
person swimming deep underwater.

Having completed his assignment, Garven returned to his post beside Nasuada. He was, she thought, a
changed man. His original determination and fierceness of spirit had faded into the dreamy air of a
sleepwalker, and while he looked at her when she asked if he was well, and he answered in an even
enough tone, she felt as if his spirit was far away, ambling among dusty, sunlit glades somewhere in the
elves’ mysterious forest. Nasuada hoped he would soon recover. If he did not, she would ask Eragon or
Angela, or perhaps the two of them together, to attend to Garven. Until such time as his condition
improved, she decided that he should no longer serve as an active member of the Nighthawks;
Jörmundur would give him something simple to do, so she would not suffer guilt at causing him any further
injury, and he might at least have the pleasure of enjoying whatever visions his contact with the elves had
left him with.

Bitter at her loss, and furious with herself, with the elves, and with Galbatorix and the Empire for making
such a sacrifice necessary, she had difficulty maintaining a soft tongue and good manners. “When you
spoke of peril, Blödhgarm, you would have done well to mention that even those who return to their
bodies do not escape entirely unscathed.”

“My Lady, I am fine,” said Garven. His protestation was so weak and ineffectual, hardly anyone
noticed, and it only served to strengthen Nasuada’s sense of outrage.

The fur on Blödhgarm’s nape rippled and stiffened. “If I failed to explain myself clearly enough before,
then I apologize. However, do not blame us for what has happened; we cannot help our nature. And do
not blame yourself either, for we live in an age of suspicion. To allow us to pass unchallenged would have
been negligent on your part. It is regrettable that such an unpleasant incident should mar this historic
meeting between us, but at least now you may rest easy, confident that you have established our origins
and that we are what we seem to be: elves of Du Weldenvarden.”


A fresh cloud of his musk drifted over Nasuada, and even though she was hard with anger, her joints
weakened and she was assailed by thoughts of bowers draped in silk, goblets of cherry wine, and the
mournful dwarf songs she had often heard echoing through the empty halls of Tronjheim. Distracted, she
said, “I would Eragon or Arya were here, for they could have looked at your minds without fear of losing
their sanity.”

Again she succumbed to the wanton attraction of Blödhgarm’s odor, imagining what it would feel like to
run her hands through his mane. She only returned to herself when Elva pulled on her left arm, forcing her
to bend over and place her ear close to the witch-child’s mouth. In a low, harsh voice, Elva said,
“Horehound. Concentrate upon the taste of horehound.”

Following her advice, Nasuada summoned a memory from the previous year, when she had eaten
horehound candy during one of King Hrothgar’s feasts. Just thinking about the acrid flavor of the candy
dried out her mouth and counteracted the seductive qualities of Blödhgarm’s musk. She attempted to
conceal her lapse in concentration by saying, “My young companion here is wondering why you look so
different from other elves. I must confess to some curiosity on the subject as well. Your appearance is
not what we have come to expect from your race. Would you be so kind as to share with us the reason
for your moreanimalistic features?”

A shiny ripple flowed through Blödhgarm’s fur as he shrugged. “This shape pleased me,” he said. “Some
write poems about the sun and the moon, others grow flowers or build great structures or compose
music. As much as I appreciate those various art forms, I believe that true beauty only exists in the fang
of a wolf, in the pelt of the forest cat, in the eye of an eagle. So I adopted those attributes for myself. In
another hundred years, I may lose interest in the beasts of the land and instead decide that the beasts of
the sea embody all that is good, and then I will cover myself with scales, transform my hands into fins and
my feet into a tail, and I will vanish beneath the surface of the waves and never again be seen in
Alagaësia.”

If he was jesting, as Nasuada believed, he showed no indication of it. Quite to the contrary, he was so
serious, she wondered if he was mocking her. “Most interesting,” she said. “I hope the urge to become a
fish does not strike you in the near future, for we have need of you on dry ground. Of course, if
Galbatorix should decide to also enslave the sharks and the rockfish, why, then, a spellcaster who can
breathe underwater may be of some use.”

Without warning, the twelve elves filled the air with their clear, bright laughter, and birds for over a mile
in every direction burst into song. The sound of their mirth was like water falling on crystal. Nasuada
smiled without meaning to, and around her she saw similar expressions on the faces of her guards. Even
the two Urgals seemed giddy with joy. And when the elves fell silent and the world became mundane
again, Nasuada felt the sadness of a fading dream. A film of tears obscured her vision for a clutch of
heartbeats, and then that too was gone.

Smiling for the first time, and thereby presenting a visage both handsome and terrifying, Blödhgarm said,
“It will be an honor to serve alongside a woman as intelligent, capable, and witty as yourself, Lady
Nasuada. One of these days, when your duties permit, I would be delighted to teach you our game of
Runes. You would make a formidable opponent, I’m sure.”

The elves’ sudden shift in behavior reminded her of a word she had occasionally heard the dwarves use
to describe them:capricious . It had seemed a harmless enough description when she was a girl—it
reinforced her concept of the elves as creatures who flitted from one delight to another, like fairies in a
garden of flowers—but she now recognized that what the dwarves really meant wasBeware! Beware,
for you never know what an elf will do. She sighed to herself, depressed by the prospect of having to


contend with another group of beings intent on controlling her for their own ends.Is life always this
complicated? she wondered.Or do I bring it upon myself?

From within the camp, she saw King Orrin riding toward them at the head of a massive train of nobles,
courtiers, functionaries major and minor, advisers, assistants, servants, men-at-arms, and a plethora of
other species she did not bother identifying, while from the west, rapidly descending on outstretched
wings, she saw Saphira. Girding herself for the loud tedium about to engulf them, she said, “It may be
some months before I have the opportunity to accept your offer, Blödhgarm, but I appreciate it
nevertheless. I would enjoy the distraction of a game after the work of a long day. For the present,
however, it must remain a deferred pleasure. The entire weight of human society is about to crash down
upon you. I suggest you prepare yourselves for an avalanche of names, questions, and requests. We
humans are a curious lot, and none of us have seen so many elves before.”

“We are prepared for this, Lady Nasuada,” said Blödhgarm.

As King Orrin’s thundering cavalcade drew near and Saphira prepared to land, flattening the grass with
the wind from her wings, Nasuada’s last thought was,Oh dear. I’ll have to put a battalion around
Blödhgarm to keep him from being torn apart by the women in the camp. And even that might not
solve the problem!

MERCY, DRAGONRIDER

It was midafternoon the day after they had left Eastcroft when Eragon sensed the patrol of fifteen
soldiers ahead of them.

He mentioned it to Arya, and she nodded. “I noticed them as well.” Neither he nor she voiced any
concerns, but worry began to gnaw at Eragon’s belly, and he saw how Arya’s eyebrows lowered into a
fierce frown.

The land around them was open and flat, devoid of any cover. They had encountered groups of soldiers
before, but always in the company of other travelers. Now they were alone on the faint trail of a road.

“We could dig a hole with magic, cover the top with brush, and hide in it until they leave,” said Eragon.

Arya shook her head without breaking stride. “What would we do with the excess dirt? They’d think
they had discovered the biggest badger den in existence. Besides, I would rather save our energy for
running.”

Eragon grunted.I’m not sure how many more miles I have left in me . He was not winded, but the
relentless pounding was wearing him down. His knees hurt, his ankles were sore, his left big toe was red
and swollen, and blisters continued to break out on his heels, no matter how tightly he bound them. The
previous night, he had healed several of the aches and pains troubling him, and while that had provided a
measure of relief, the spells only exacerbated his exhaustion.


The patrol was visible as a plume of dust for half an hour before Eragon was able to make out the
shapes of the men and the horses at the base of the yellow cloud. Since he and Arya had keener eyesight
than most humans, it was unlikely the horsemen could see them at that distance, so they continued to run
for another ten minutes. Then they stopped. Arya removed her skirt from her pack and tied it over the
leggings she wore while running, and Eragon stored Brom’s ring in his own pack and smeared dirt over
his right palm to hide his silvery gedwëy ignasia. They resumed their journey with bowed heads, hunched
shoulders, and dragging feet. If all went well, the soldiers would assume they were just another pair of
refugees.

Although Eragon could feel the rumble of approaching hoofbeats and hear the cries of the men driving
their steeds, it still took the better part of an hour for their two groups to meet on the vast plain. When
they did, Eragon and Arya moved off the road and stood looking down between their feet. Eragon
caught a glimpse of horse legs from under the edge of his brow as the first few riders pounded past, but
then the choking dust billowed over him, obscuring the rest of the patrol. The dirt in the air was so thick,
he had to close his eyes. Listening carefully, he counted until he was sure that more than half the patrol
had gone by.They’re not going to bother questioning us! he thought.

His elation was short-lived. A moment later, someone in the swirling blizzard of dust shouted,
“Company, halt!” A chorus ofWhoa s,Steady there s, andHey there, Nell s rang out as the fifteen men
coaxed their mounts to form a circle around Eragon and Arya. Before the soldiers completed their
maneuver and the air cleared, Eragon pawed the ground for a large pebble, then stood back up.

“Be still!” hissed Arya.

While he waited for the soldiers to make their intentions known, Eragon strove to calm his racing heart
by rehearsing the story he and Arya had concocted to explain their presence so close to the border with
Surda. His efforts failed, for notwithstanding his strength, his training, the knowledge of the battles he had
won, and the half-dozen wards protecting him, his flesh remained convinced that imminent injury or death
awaited him. His gut twisted, his throat constricted, and his limbs were light and unsteady.Oh, get on
with it! he thought. He longed to tear something apart with his hands, as if an act of destruction would
relieve the pressure building inside of him, but the urge only heightened his frustration, for he dared not
move. The one thing that steadied him was Arya’s presence. He would sooner cut off a hand than have
her consider him a coward. And although she was a mighty warrior in her own right, he still felt the desire
to defend her.

The voice that had ordered the patrol to halt again issued forth. “Let me see your faces.” Raising his
head, Eragon saw a man sitting before them on a roan charger, his gloved hands folded over the pommel
of his saddle. Upon his upper lip there sprouted an enormous curly mustache that, after descending to the
corners of his mouth, extended a good nine inches in either direction and was in stark contrast to the
straight hair that fell to his shoulders. How such a massive piece of sculpted foliage supported its own
weight puzzled Eragon, especially since it was dull and lusterless and obviously had not been impregnated
with warm beeswax.

The other soldiers held spears pointed at Eragon and Arya. So much dirt covered them, it was
impossible to see the flames stitched on their tunics.

“Now then,” said the man, and his mustache wobbled like an unbalanced set of scales. “Who are you?
Where are you going? And what is your business in the king’s lands?” Then he waved a hand. “No,
don’t bother answering. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters nowadays. The world is coming to an end,
and we waste our days interrogating peasants. Bah! Superstitious vermin who scurry from place to place,
devouring all the food in the land and reproducing at a ghastly rate. At my family’s estate near Urû’baen,


we would have the likes of you flogged if we caught you wandering around without permission, and if we
learned that you had stolen from your master, why, then we’d hang you. Whatever you want to tell me is
lies. It always is. . . .

“What have you got in that pack of yours, eh? Food and blankets, yes, but maybe a pair of gold
candlesticks, eh? Silverware from the locked chest? Secret letters for the Varden? Eh? Cat got your
tongue? Well, we’ll soon sort the matter out. Langward, why don’t you see what treasures you can
excavate from yonder knapsack, there’s a good boy.”

Eragon staggered forward as one of the soldiers struck him across the back with the haft of a spear. He
had wrapped his armor in rags to keep the pieces from rubbing against each other. The rags, however,
were too thin to entirely absorb the force of the blow and muffle the clang of metal.

“Oho!” exclaimed the man with the mustache.

Grabbing Eragon from behind, the soldier unlaced the top of his pack and pulled out his hauberk, saying,
“Look, sir!”

The man with the mustache broke out in a delighted grin. “Armor! And of fine make as well. Very fine, I
should say. Well, youare full of surprises. Going to join the Varden, were you? Intent on treason and
sedition, mmh?” His expression soured. “Or are you one of those who generally give honest soldiers a
bad name? If so, you are a most incompetent mercenary; you don’t even have a weapon. Was it too
much trouble to cut yourself a staff or a club, eh? Well, how about it? Answer me!”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir? Didn’t occur to you, I suppose. It’s a pity we have to accept such slow-minded wretches, but
that’s what this blasted war has reduced us to, scrounging for leftovers.”

“Accept me where, sir?”

“Silence, you insolent rascal! No one gave you permission to speak!” His mustache quivering, the man
gestured. Red lights exploded across Eragon’s field of vision as the soldier behind him bashed him on the
head. “Whether you are a thief, a traitor, a mercenary, or merely a fool, your fate will be the same. Once
you swear the oath of service, you will have no choice but to obey Galbatorix and those who speak for
him. We are the first army in history to be free of dissent. No mindless blathering about what we should
do. Only orders, clear and direct. You too shall join our cause, and you shall have the privilege of helping
to make real the glorious future our great king has foreseen. As for your lovely companion, there are
other ways she can be of use to the Empire, eh? Now tie them up!”

Eragon knew then what he had to do. Glancing over, he found Arya already looking at him, her eyes
hard and bright. He blinked once. She blinked in return. His hand tightened around the pebble.

Most of the soldiers Eragon had fought on the Burning Plains had possessed certain rudimentary wards
intended to shield them from magical attacks, and he suspected these men were likewise equipped. He
was confident he could break or circumvent any spells Galbatorix’s magicians invented, but it would
require more time than he now had. Instead, he cocked his arm and, with a flick of his wrist, threw the
pebble at the man with the mustache.

The pebble punctured the side of his helm.


Before the soldiers could react, Eragon twisted around, yanked the spear from the hands of the man
who had been tormenting him, and used it to knock him off his horse. As the man landed, Eragon
stabbed him through the heart, breaking the blade of the spear on the metal plates of the soldier’s
gambeson. Releasing the spear, Eragon dove backward, his body parallel with the ground as he passed
underneath seven spears that were flying toward where he had been. The lethal shafts seemed to float
above him as he fell.

The instant Eragon had released the pebble, Arya bounded up the side of the horse nearest her, jumping
from stirrup to saddle, and kicked the head of the oblivious soldier who was perched on the mare. He
went hurtling more than thirty feet. Then Arya leaped from the back of horse to horse, killing the soldiers
with her knees, her feet, and her hands in an incredible display of grace and balance.

Jagged rocks tore at Eragon’s stomach as he tumbled to a stop. Grimacing, he sprang upright. Four
soldiers who had dismounted confronted him with drawn swords. They charged. Dodging to the right, he
caught the first soldier’s wrist as the man swung his sword and punched him in the armpit. The man
collapsed and was still. Eragon dispatched his next opponents by twisting their heads until their spines
snapped. The fourth soldier was so close by then, running at him with sword held high, Eragon could not
evade him.

Trapped, he did the one thing he could: he struck the man in the chest with all his might. A fount of blood
and sweat erupted as his fist connected. The blow staved in the man’s ribs and propelled him more than
a dozen feet over the grass, where he fetched up against another corpse.

Eragon gasped and doubled over, cradling his throbbing hand. Four of his knuckles were disjointed, and
white cartilage showed through his mangled skin.Blast, he thought as hot blood poured from the wounds.
His fingers refused to move when he ordered them to; he realized that his hand would be useless until he
could heal it. Fearing another attack, he looked around for Arya and the rest of the soldiers.

The horses had scattered. Only three soldiers remained alive. Arya was grappling with two of them
some distance away while the third and final soldier fled south along the road. Gathering his strength,
Eragon pursued him. As he narrowed the gap between them, the man began to plead for mercy,
promising he would tell no one about the massacre and holding out his hands to show they were empty.
When Eragon was within arm’s reach, the man veered to the side and then a few steps later changed
direction again, darting back and forth across the countryside like a frightened jack -rabbit. All the while,
the man continued to beg, tears streaming down his cheeks, saying that he was too young to die, that he
had yet to marry and father a child, that his parents would miss him, and that he had been pressed into
the army and this was only his fifth mission and why couldn’t Eragon leave him alone? “What have you
against me?” he sobbed. “I only did what I had to. I’m a good person!”

Eragon paused and forced himself to say: “You can’t keep up with us. We can’t leave you; you’ll catch
a horse and betray us.”

“No, I won’t!”

“People will ask what happened here. Your oath to Galbatorix and the Empire won’t let you lie. I’m
sorry, but I don’t know how to release you from your bond, except . . .”

“Why are you doing this? You’re a monster!” screamed the man. With an expression of pure terror, he
made an attempt to dash around Eragon and return to the road. Eragon overtook him in less than ten
feet, and as the man was still crying and asking for clemency, Eragon wrapped his left hand around his
neck and squeezed. When he relaxed his grip, the soldier fell across his feet, dead.


Bile coated Eragon’s tongue as he stared down at the man’s slack face.Whenever we kill, we kill a
part of ourselves, he thought. Shaking with a combination of shock, pain, and self-loathing, he walked
back to where the fight had begun. Arya was kneeling beside a body, washing her hands and arms with
water from a tin flask one of the soldiers had been carrying.

“How is it,” asked Arya, “you could kill that man, but you could not bring yourself to lay a finger on
Sloan?” She stood and faced him, her gaze frank.

Devoid of emotion, he shrugged. “He was a threat. Sloan wasn’t. Isn’t it obvious?”

Arya was quiet for a while. “It ought to be, but it isn’t. . . . I am ashamed to be instructed in morality by
one with so much less experience. Perhaps I have been too certain, too confident of my own choices.”

Eragon heard her speak, but the words meant nothing to him as his gaze drifted over the corpses.Is this
all my life has become? he wondered.A never-ending series of battles? “I feel like a murderer.”

“I understand how difficult this is,” said Arya. “Remember, Eragon, you have experienced only a small
part of what it means to be a Dragon Rider. Eventually, this war will end, and you will see that your
duties encompass more than violence. The Riders were not just warriors, they were teachers, healers,
and scholars.”

His jaw muscles knotted for a moment. “Why are we fighting these men, Arya?”

“Because they stand between us and Galbatorix.”

“Then we should find a way to strike at Galbatorix directly.”

“None exist. We cannot march to Urû’baen until we defeat his forces. And we cannot enter his castle
until we disarm almost a century’s worth of traps, magical and otherwise.”

“There has to be a way,” he muttered. He remained where he was as Arya strode forward and picked
up a spear. But when she placed the tip of the spear under the chin of a slain soldier and thrust it into his
skull, Eragon sprang toward her and pushed her away from the body. “What are you doing?” he
shouted.

Anger flashed across Arya’s face. “I will forgive that only because you are distraught and not of your
right mind. Think, Eragon! It is too late in the day for anyone to be coddling you. Why is this necessary?”

The answer presented itself to him, and he grudgingly said, “If we don’t, the Empire will notice that most
of the men were killed by hand.”

“Exactly! The only ones capable of such a feat are elves, Riders, and Kull. And since even an imbecile
could figure out a Kull was not responsible for this, they’ll soon know we are in the area, and in less than
a day, Thorn and Murtagh will be flying overhead, searching for us.” There was a wet squelch as she
pulled the spear out of the body. She held it out to him until he accepted it. “I find this as repulsive as you
do, so you might as well make yourself useful and help.”

Eragon nodded. Then Arya scavenged a sword, and together they set out to make it appear as if a troop
of ordinary warriors had killed the soldiers. It was grisly work, but it went quickly, for they both knew
exactly what kinds of wounds the soldiers should have to ensure the success of the deception, and neither


of them wished to linger. When they came to the man whose chest Eragon had destroyed, Arya said,
“There’s little we can do to disguise an injury like that. We will have to leave it as is and hope people
assume a horse stepped on him.” They moved on. The last soldier they dealt with was the commander of
the patrol. His mustache was now limp and torn and had lost most of its former splendor.

After enlarging the pebble hole so it more closely resembled the triangular pit left by the spike of a war
hammer, Eragon rested for a moment, contemplating the commander’s sad mustache, then said, “He was
right, you know.”

“About what?”

“I need a weapon, a proper weapon. I need a sword.” Wiping his palms on the edge of his tunic, he
surveyed the plain around them, counting the bodies. “That’s it, then, isn’t it? We’re done.” He went and
collected his scattered armor, rewrapped it in cloth, and returned it to the bottom of his pack. Then he
joined Arya on the low hillock she had climbed.

“We had best avoid the roads from now on,” she said. “We cannot risk another encounter with
Galbatorix’s men.” Indicating his deformed right hand, which stained his tunic with blood, she said, “You
should tend to that before we set forth.” She gave him no time to respond but grasped his paralyzed
fingers and said, “Waíse heill.”

An involuntary groan escaped him as his fingers popped back into their sockets, and as his abraded
tendons and crushed cartilage regained the fullness of their proper shapes, and as the flaps of skin
hanging from his knuckles again covered the raw flesh below. When the spell ended, he opened and
closed his hand to confirm that it was fully cured. “Thank you,” he said. It surprised him that she had
taken the initiative when he was perfectly capable of healing his own wounds.

Arya seemed embarrassed. Looking away, out over the plains, she said, “I am glad you were by my
side today, Eragon.”

“And you by mine.”

She favored him with a quick, uncertain smile. They lingered on the hillock for another minute, neither of
them eager to resume their journey. Then Arya sighed and said, “We should be off. The shadows
lengthen, and someone else is bound to appear and raise a hue and cry when they discover this crows’
feast.”

Abandoning the hillock, they orientated themselves in a southwesterly direction, angling away from the
road, and loped out across the uneven sea of grass. Behind them, the first of the carrion eaters dropped
from the sky.

SHADOWS OF THEPAST

That night, Eragon sat staring at their meager fire, chewing on a dandelion leaf. Their dinner had
consisted of an assortment of roots, seeds, and greens that Arya had gathered from the surrounding
countryside. Eaten uncooked and unseasoned, they were hardly appetizing, but he had refrained from


augmenting the meal with a bird or rabbit, of which there was an abundance in the immediate vicinity, for
he did not wish Arya to regard him with disapproval. Moreover, after their fight with the soldiers, the
thought of taking another life, even an animal’s, sickened him.

It was late, and they would have to get an early start the next morning, but he made no move to retire,
nor did Arya. She was situated at right angles to him, her legs pulled up, with her arms wrapped around
them and her chin resting on her knees. The skirt of her dress spread outward, like the wind-battered
petals of a flower.

His chin sunk low against his chest, Eragon massaged his right hand with his left, trying to dispel a
deep-seated ache.I need a sword, he thought.Short of that, I could use some sort of protection for
my hands so I don’t cripple myself whenever I hit something. The problem is, I’m so strong now, I
would have to wear gloves with several inches of padding, which is ridiculous. They would be too
bulky, too hot, and what’s more, I can’t go around with gloves on for the rest of my life . He
frowned. Pushing the bones of his hand out of their normal positions, he studied how they altered the play
of light over his skin, fascinated by the malleability of his body.And what happens if I get in a fight
while I’m wearing Brom’s ring? It’s of elvish make, so I probably don’t have to worry about
breaking the sapphire. But if I hit anything with the ring on my finger, I won’t just dislocate a few
joints, I’ll splinter every bone in my hand. . . . I might not even be able to repair the damage. . . .
He tightened his hands into fists and slowly turned them from side to side, watching the shadows deepen
and fade between his knuckles.I could invent a spell that would stop any object that was moving at
a dangerous speed from touching my hands. No, wait, that’s no good. What if it was a boulder?
What if it was a mountain? I’d kill myself trying to stop it .

Well, if gloves and magic won’t work, I’d like to have a set of the dwarves’ Ascûdgamln, their
“fists of steel.”With a smile, he remembered how the dwarf Shrrgnien had a steel spike threaded into a
metal base that was embedded in each of his knuckles, excluding those on his thumbs. The spikes
allowed Shrrgnien to hit whatever he wanted with little fear of pain, and they were convenient too, for he
could remove them at will. The concept appealed to Eragon, but he was not about to start drilling holes in
his knuckles.Besides, he thought,my bones are thinner than dwarf bones, too thin, perhaps, to
attach the base and still have the joints function as they should. . . . So Ascûdgamln are a bad
idea, but maybe instead I can . . .

Bending low over his hands, he whispered, “Thaefathan.”

The backs of his hands began to crawl and prickle as if he had fallen into a patch of stinging nettles. The
sensation was so intense and so unpleasant, he longed to jump up and scratch himself as hard as he
could. With an effort of will, he stayed where he was and watched as the skin on his knuckles bulged,
forming a flat, whitish callus half an inch thick over each joint. They reminded him of the hornlike deposits
that appear on the inside of horses’ legs. When he was pleased with the size and density of the knobs, he
released the flow of magic and set about exploring, by touch and sight, the mountainous new terrain that
loomed over his fingers.

His hands were heavier and stiffer than before, but he could still move his fingers through their full range
of motion.It may be ugly , he thought, rubbing the rough protuberances on his right hand against the palm
of his left,and people may laugh and sneer if they notice, but I don’t care, for it will serve its
purpose and may keep me alive .

Brimming with silent excitement, he struck the top of a domed rock that rose out of the ground between
his legs. The impact jarred his arm and produced a muted thud but caused him no more discomfort than it
would have to punch a board covered with several layers of cloth. Emboldened, he retrieved Brom’s ring


from his pack and slipped on the cool gold band, checking that the adjacent callus was higher than the
face of the ring. He tested his observation by again ramming his fist against the rock. The only resulting
sound was that of dry, compacted skin colliding with unyielding stone.

“What are you doing?” asked Arya, peering at him through a veil of her black hair.

“Nothing.” Then he held out his hands. “I thought it would be a good idea, since I’ll probably have to hit
someone again.”

Arya studied his knuckles. “You are going to have difficulty wearing gloves.”

“I can always cut them open to make room.”

She nodded and returned to gazing at the fire.

Eragon leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs, content that he was prepared for whatever
fights might await him in the immediate future. Beyond that, he dared not speculate, for if he did, he
would begin to ask himself how he and Saphira could possibly defeat Murtagh or Galbatorix, and then
panic would sink its icy claws into him.

He fixed his gaze on the flickering depths of the fire. There, in that writhing inferno, he sought to forget
his cares and responsibilities. But the constant motion of the flames soon lulled him into a passive state
where unrelated fragments of thoughts, sounds, images, and emotions drifted through him like snowflakes
falling from a calm winter’s sky. And amid that flurry, there appeared the face of the soldier who had
begged for his life. Again Eragon saw him crying, and again he heard his desperate pleas, and again he
felt how his neck snapped like a wet branch of wood.

Tormented by the memories, Eragon clenched his teeth and breathed hard through flared nostrils. Cold
sweat sprang up over his entire body. He shifted in place and strove to dispel the soldier’s unfriendly
ghost, but to no avail.Go away! he shouted.It wasn’t my fault. Galbatorix is the one you should
blame, not me. I didn’t want to kill you!

Somewhere in the darkness surrounding them, a wolf howled. From various locations across the plains,
a score of other wolves answered, raising their voices in a discordant melody. The eerie singing made
Eragon’s scalp tingle and goosebumps break out on his arms. Then, for a brief moment, the howls
coalesced into a single tone that was similar to the battle-cry of a charging Kull.

Eragon shifted, uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Arya. “Is it the wolves? They shall not bother us, you know. They are teaching
their pups how to hunt, and they won’t allow their younglings near creatures who smell as strangely as we
do.”

“It’s not the wolves out there,” said Eragon, hugging himself. “It’s the wolves in here.” He tapped the
middle of his forehead.

Arya nodded, a sharp, birdlike motion that betrayed the fact she was not human, even though she had
assumed the shape of one. “It is always thus. The monsters of the mind are far worse than those that
actually exist. Fear, doubt, and hate have hamstrung more people than beasts ever have.”

“And love,” he pointed out.


“And love,” she admitted. “Also greed and jealousy and every other obsessive urge the sentient races
are susceptible to.”

Eragon thought of Tenga alone, in the ruined elf outpost of Edur Ithindra, hunched over his precious
hoard of tomes, searching, always searching, for his elusive “answer.” He refrained from mentioning the
hermit to Arya, for it was not in him to discuss that curious encounter at the present. Instead, he asked,
“Does it bother you when you kill?”

Arya’s green eyes narrowed. “Neither I nor the rest of my people eat the flesh of animals because we
cannot bear to hurt another creature to satisfy our hunger, and you have the effrontery to ask if killing
disturbs us? Do you really understand so little of us that you believe we are coldhearted murderers?”

“No, of course not,” he protested. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean, and do not give insult unless it is your intention.”

Choosing his words with greater care now, Eragon said, “I asked this of Roran before we attacked
Helgrind, or a question very like it. What I want to know is, how do you feel when you kill? How are you
supposed to feel?” He scowled at the fire. “Do you see the warriors you have vanquished staring back at
you, as real as you are before me?”

Arya tightened her arms around her legs, her gaze pensive. A flame jetted upward as the fire incinerated
one of the moths circling the camp. “Gánga,” she murmured, and motioned with a finger. With a flutter of
downy wings, the moths departed. Never lifting her eyes from the clump of burning branches, she said,
“Nine months after I became an ambassador, my mother’s only ambassador, if truth be told, I traveled
from the Varden in Farthen Dûr to the capital of Surda, which was still a new country in those days.
Soon after my companions and I left the Beor Mountains, we encountered a band of roving Urgals. We
were content to keep our swords in their sheaths and continue on our way, but as is their wont, the
Urgals insisted on trying to win honor and glory to better their standing within their tribes. Our force was
larger than theirs—for Weldon, the man who succeeded Brom as leader of the Varden, was with
us—and it was easy for us to drive them off. . . . That day was the first time I took a life. It troubled me
for weeks afterward, until I realized I would go mad if I continued to dwell upon it. Many do, and they
become so angry, so grief-ridden, they can no longer be relied upon, or their hearts turn to stone and
they lose the ability to distinguish right from wrong.”

“How did you come to terms with what you had done?”

“I examined my reasons for killing to determine if they were just. Satisfied they were, I asked myself if
our cause was important enough to continue supporting it, even though it would probably require me to
kill again. Then I decided that whenever I began to think of the dead, I would picture myself in the
gardens of Tialdarí Hall.”

“Did it work?”

Brushing her hair out of her face, she tucked it behind one round ear. “It did. The only antidote for the
corrosive poison of violence is finding peace within yourself. It’s a difficult cure to obtain, but well worth
the effort.” She paused and then added, “Breathing helps too.”

“Breathing?”


“Slow, regular breathing, as if you were meditating. It is one of the most effective methods for calming
yourself.”

Following her advice, Eragon began to consciously inhale and exhale, taking care to maintain a steady
tempo and to expel all the air from his lungs with each breath. Within a minute, the knot inside his gut
loosened, his frown eased, and the presence of his fallen enemies no longer seemed quite so tangible. . . .
The wolves howled again, and after an initial burst of trepidation, he listened without fear, for their baying
had lost the power to unsettle him. “Thank you,” he said. Arya responded with a gracious tilt of her chin.

Silence reigned for a quarter of an hour until Eragon said, “Urgals.” He let the statement stand for a
while, a verbal monolith of ambivalence. “What do you think about Nasuada allowing them to join the
Varden?”

Arya picked up a twig by the edge of her splayed dress and rolled it between her aquiline fingers,
studying the crooked piece of wood as if it contained a secret. “It was a courageous decision, and I
admire her for it. She always acts in the best interests of the Varden, no matter what the cost may be.”

“She upset many of the Varden when she accepted Nar Garzhvog’s offer of support.”

“And she won back their loyalty with the Trial of the Long Knives. Nasuada is very clever when it
comes to maintaining her position.” Arya flicked the twig into the fire. “I have no love for Urgals, but
neither do I hate them. Unlike the Ra’zac, they are not inherently evil, merely overfond of war. It is an
important distinction, even if it can provide no consolation to the families of their victims. We elves have
treated with Urgals before, and we shall again when the need arises. It is a futile prospect, however.”

She did not have to explain why. Many of the scrolls Oromis had assigned Eragon to read were devoted
to the subject of Urgals, and one in particular,The Travels of Gnaevaldrskald, had taught him that the
Urgals’ entire culture was based upon feats of combat. Male Urgals could only improve their standing by
raiding another village—whether Urgal, human, elf, or dwarf mattered little—or by fighting their rivals one
on one, sometimes to the death. And when it came to picking a mate, Urgal females refused to consider a
ram eligible unless he had defeated at least three opponents. As a result, each new generation of Urgals
had no choice but to challenge their peers, challenge their elders, and scour the land for opportunities to
prove their valor. The tradition was so deeply ingrained, every attempt to suppress it had failed.At least
they are true to who they are, mused Eragon.That’s more than most humans can claim .

“How is it,” he asked, “that Durza was able to ambush you, Glenwing, and Fäolin with Urgals? Didn’t
you have wards to protect yourself against physical attacks?”

“The arrows were enchanted.”

“Were the Urgals spellcasters, then?”

Closing her eyes, Arya sighed and shook her head. “No. It was some dark magic of Durza’s invention.
He gloated about it when I was in Gil’ead.”

“I don’t know how you managed to resist him for so long. I saw what he did to you.”

“It . . . it was not easy. I viewed the torments he inflicted on me as a test of my commitment, as a chance
to demonstrate that I had not made a mistake and I was indeed worthy of the yawë symbol. As such, I
welcomed the ordeal.”


“But still, even elves are not immune to pain. It’s amazing you could keep the location of Ellesméra
hidden from him all those months.”

A touch of pride colored her voice. “Not just the location of Ellesméra but also where I had sent
Saphira’s egg, my vocabulary in the ancient language, and everything else that might be of use to
Galbatorix.”

The conversation lapsed, and then Eragon said, “Do you think about it much, what you went through in
Gil’ead?” When she did not respond, he added, “You never talk about it. You recount the facts of your
imprisonment readily enough, but you never mention what it was like for you, nor how you feel about it
now.”

“Pain is pain,” she said. “It needs no description.”

“True, but ignoring it can cause more harm than the original injury. . . . No one can live through
something like that and escape unscathed. Not on the inside, at least.”

“Why do you assume I have not already confided in someone?”

“Who?”

“Does it matter? Ajihad, my mother, a friend in Ellesméra.”

“Perhaps I am wrong,” he said, “but you do not seem that close to anyone. Where you walk, you walk
alone, even among your own people.”

Arya’s countenance remained impassive. Her lack of expression was so complete, Eragon began to
wonder if she would deign to respond, a doubt that had just transformed into conviction when she
whispered, “It was not always so.”

Alert, Eragon waited without moving, afraid that whatever he might do would stop her from saying more.

“Once, I had someone to talk to, someone who understood what I was and where I came from. Once .
. . He was older than I, but we were kindred spirits, both curious about the world outside our forest,
eager to explore and eager to strike against Galbatorix. Neither of us could bear to stay in Du
Weldenvarden—studying, working magic, pursuing our own personal projects—when we knew the
Dragon Killer, the bane of the Riders, was searching for a way to conquer our race. He came to that
conclusion later than I—decades after I assumed my position as ambassador and a few years before
Hefring stole Saphira’s egg—but the moment he did, he volunteered to accompany me wherever
Islanzadí’s orders might take me.” She blinked, and her throat convulsed. “I wasn’t going to let him, but
the queen liked the idea, and he was so very convincing. . . .” She pursed her lips and blinked again, her
eyes brighter than normal.

As gently as he could, Eragon asked, “Was it Fäolin?”

“Yes,” she said, releasing the confirmation almost as a gasp.

“Did you love him?”

Casting back her head, Arya gazed up at the twinkling sky, her long neck gold with firelight, her face
pale with the radiance of the heavens. “Do you ask out of friendly concern or your own selfinterest?” She


gave an abrupt, choked laugh, the sound of water falling over cold rocks. “Never mind. The night air has
addled me. It has undone my sense of courtesy and left me free to say the most spiteful things that occur
to me.”

“No matter.”

“It does matter, because I regret it, and I shall not tolerate it. Did I love Fäolin? How would you define
love? For over twenty years, we traveled together, the only immortals to walk among the short-lived
races. We were companions . . . and friends.”

A pang of jealousy afflicted Eragon. He wrestled with it, subdued it, and tried to eliminate it but was not
altogether successful. A slight remnant of the feeling continued to aggravate him, like a splinter burrowing
underneath his skin.

“Over twenty years,” repeated Arya. Persisting in her survey of the constellations, she rocked back and
forth, seemingly oblivious to Eragon. “And then in a single instant, Durza tore that away from me. Fäolin
and Glenwing were the first elves to die in combat for nearly a century. When I saw Fäolin fall, I
understood then that the true agony of war isn’t being wounded yourself, it’s having to watch those you
care about being hurt. It was a lesson I thought I had already learned during my time with the Varden
when, one after another, the men and women I had come to respect died from swords, arrows, poison,
accidents, and old age. The loss had never been so personal, however, and when it happened, I thought,
‘Now I must surely die as well.’ For whatever danger we had encountered before, Fäolin and I had
always survived it together, and if he could not escape, then why should I?”

Eragon realized she was crying, thick tears rolling from the outer corners of her eyes, down her temples,
and into her hair. By the stars, her tears appeared like rivers of silvered glass. The intensity of her distress
startled him. He had not thought it was possible to elicit such a reaction from her, nor had he intended to.

“Then Gil’ead,” she said. “Those days were the longest of my life. Fäolin was gone, I did not know
whether Saphira’s egg was safe or if I had inadvertently returned her to Galbatorix, and Durza . . . Durza
sated the bloodlust of the spirits that controlled him by doing the most horrible things he could imagine to
me. Sometimes, if he went too far, he would heal me so he could begin anew the following morning. If he
had given me a chance to collect my wits, I might have been able to fool my jailer, as you did, and avoid
consuming the drug that kept me from using magic, but I never had more than a few hours’ respite.

“Durza needed sleep no more than you or I, and he kept at me whenever I was conscious and his other
duties permitted. While he worked on me, every second was an hour, every hour a week, and every day
an eternity. He was careful not to drive me mad—Galbatorix would have been displeased with that—but
he came close. He came very, very close. I began to hear birdsong where no birds could fly and to see
things that could not exist. Once, when I was in my cell, gold light flooded the room and I grew warm all
over. When I looked up, I found myself lying on a branch high in a tree near the center of Ellesméra. Thesun was about to set, and the whole city glowed as if it were on fire. The Äthalvard were chanting on the
path below, and everything was so calm, so peaceful . . . so beautiful, I would have stayed there forever.
But then the light faded, and I was again on my cot. . . . I had forgotten, but once there was a soldier
who left a white rose in my cell. It was the only kindness anyone ever showed me in Gil’ead. That night,
the flower took root and matured into a huge rosebush that climbed the wall, forced its way between the
blocks of stone in the ceiling, breaking them, and pushed its way out of the dungeon and into the open. It
continued to ascend until it touched the moon and stood as a great, twisting tower that promised escape
if I could but lift myself off the floor. I tried with every ounce of my remaining strength, but it was beyond
me, and when I glanced away, the rosebush vanished. . . . That was my state of mind when you dreamed
of me and I felt your presence hovering over me. Small wonder I disregarded the sensation as another


delusion.”

She gave him a wan smile. “And then you came, Eragon. You and Saphira. After hope had deserted me
and I was about to be taken to Galbatorix in Urû’baen, a Rider appeared to rescue me. A Rider and
dragon!”

“And Morzan’s son,” he said. “Bothof Morzan’s sons.”

“Describe it how you will, it was such an improbable rescue, I occasionally think that I did go mad and
that I’ve imagined everything since.”

“Would you have imagined me causing so much trouble by staying behind at Helgrind?”

“No,” she said. “I suppose not.” With the cuff of her left sleeve, she dabbed her eyes, drying them.
“When I awoke in Farthen Dûr, there was too much that needed doing for me to dwell on the past. But
events of late have been dark and bloody, and increasingly I have found myself remembering that which I
should not. It makes me grim and out of sorts, without patience for the ordinary delays of life.” She
shifted into a kneeling position and placed her hands on the ground on either side of her, as if to steady
herself. “You say I walk alone. Elves do not incline toward the open displays of friendship humans and
dwarves favor, and I have ever been of a solitary disposition. But if you had known me before Gil’ead, if
you had known me as I was, you would not have considered me so aloof. Then I could sing and dance
and not feel threatened by a sense of impending doom.”

Reaching out, Eragon placed his right hand over her left. “The stories about the heroes of old never
mention that this is the price you pay when you grapple with the monsters of the dark and the monsters of
the mind. Keep thinking about the gardens of Tialdarí Hall, and I’m sure you will be fine.”

Arya permitted the contact between them to endure for almost a minute, a time not of heat or passion for
Eragon, but rather of quiet companionship. He made no attempt to press his suit with her, for he
cherished her trust more than anything besides his bond with Saphira and he would sooner march into
battle than endanger it. Then, with a slight lift of her arm, Arya let him know the moment had passed, and
without complaint he withdrew his hand.

Eager to lighten her burden however he could, Eragon glanced about the ground nearest him and then
murmured so softly as to be inaudible, “Loivissa.” Guided by the power of the true name, he sifted
through the earth by his feet until his fingers closed upon what he sought: a thin, papery disk half the size
of his smallest fingernail. Holding his breath, he deposited it in his right palm, centering it over his gedwëy
ignasia with as much delicacy as he could muster. He reviewed what Oromis had taught him concerning
the sort of spell he was about to cast to ensure he would not make a mistake, and then he began to sing
after the fashion of the elves, smooth and flowing:

Eldhrimner O Loivissa nuanen, dautr abr deloi,

Eldhrimner nen ono weohnataí medh solus un thringa,

Eldhrimner un fortha onr fëon vara,

Wiol allr sjon.


Eldhrimner O Loivissa nuanen . . .

Again and again, Eragon repeated the same four lines, directing them toward the brown flake in his hand.
The flake trembled and then swelled and bulged, becoming spherical. White tendrils an inch or two long
sprouted from the bottom of the peeling globe, tickling Eragon, while a thin green stem poked its way out
of the tip and, at his urging, shot nearly a foot in the air. A single leaf, broad and flat, grew from the side
of the stem. Then the tip of the stem thickened, drooped, and, after a moment of seeming inactivity, split
into five segments that expanded outward to reveal the waxy petals of a deep-throated lily. The flower
was pale blue and shaped like a bell.

When it reached its full size, Eragon released the magic and examined his handiwork. Singing plants into
shape was a skill most every elf mastered at an early age, but it was one Eragon had practiced only a few
times, and he had been uncertain whether his efforts would meet with success. The spell had exacted a
heavy toll from him; the lily required a surprising amount of energy to feed what was the equivalent of a
year and a half of growth.

Satisfied with what he had wrought, he handed the lily to Arya. “It’s not a white rose, but . . .” He smiled
and shrugged.

“You should not have,” she said. “But I am glad you did.” She caressed the underside of the blossom
and lifted it to smell. The lines on her face eased. For several minutes, she admired the lily. Then she
scooped a hole in the soil next to her and planted the bulb, pressing down the soil with the flat of her
hand. She touched the petals again and kept glancing at the lily as she said, “Thank you. Giving flowers is
a custom both our races share, but we elves attach greater importance to the practice than do humans. It
signifies all that is good: life, beauty, rebirth, friendship, and more. I explain so you understand how much
this means to me. You did not know, but—”

“I knew.”

Arya regarded him with a solemn countenance, as if to decide what he was about. “Forgive me. That is
twice now I have forgotten the extent of your education. I shall not make the mistake again.”

She repeated her thanks in the ancient language, and—joining her in her native tongue—Eragon replied
that it was his pleasure and he was happy she enjoyed his gift. He shivered, hungry despite the meal they
had just eaten. Noticing, Arya said, “You used too much of your strength. If you have any energy left in
Aren, use it to steady yourself.”

It took Eragon a moment to remember that Aren was the name of Brom’s ring; he had heard it uttered
only once before, from Islanzadí, on the day he arrived in Ellesméra.My ring now, he told himself.I have
to stop thinking of it as Brom’s . He cast a critical gaze at the large sapphire that sparkled in its gold
setting on his finger. “I don’t know if thereis any energy in Aren. I’ve never stored any there myself, and I
never checked if Brom had.” Even as he spoke, he extended his consciousness toward the sapphire. The
instant his mind came into contact with the gem, he felt the presence of a vast, swirling pool of energy. To
his inner eye, the sapphire thrummed with power. He wondered that it did not explode from the amount
of force contained within the boundaries of its sharp-edged facets. After he used the energy to wash
away his aches and pains and restore strength to his limbs, the treasure trove inside Aren was hardly
diminished.

His skin tingling, Eragon severed his link with the gem. Delighted by his discovery and his sudden sense
of well-being, he laughed out loud, then told Arya what he had found. “Brom must have squirreled away


every bit of energy he could spare the whole time he was hiding in Carvahall.” He laughed again,
marveling. “All those years . . . With what’s in Aren, I could tear apart an entire castle with a single
spell.”

“He knew he would need it to keep the new Rider safe when Saphira hatched,” observed Arya. “Also, I
am sure Aren was a way for him to protect himself if he had to fight a Shade or some other similarly
powerful opponent. It was not by accident that he managed to frustrate his enemies for the better part of
a century. . . . If I were you, I would save the energy he left you for your hour of greatest need, and I
would add to it whenever I could. It is an incredibly valuable resource. You should not squander it.”

No,thought Eragon,that I will not . He twirled the ring around his finger, admiring how it gleamed in the
firelight.Since Murtagh stole Zar’roc, this, Saphira’s saddle, and Snowfire are the only things I
have of Brom, and even though the dwarves brought Snowfire from Farthen Dûr, I rarely ride
him nowadays. Aren is really all I have to remember him by. . . . My only legacy of him. My only
inheritance. I wish he were still alive! I never had a chance to talk with him about Oromis,
Murtagh, my father. . . . Oh, the list is endless. What would he have said about my feelings for
Arya? Eragon snorted to himself.I know what he would have said: he would have berated me for
being a love-struck fool and for wasting my energy on a hopeless cause. . . . And he would have
been right too, I suppose, but, ah, how can I help it? She is the only woman I wish to be with .

The fire cracked. A flurry of sparks flew upward. Eragon watched with half-closed eyes, contemplating
Arya’s revelations. Then his mind returned to a question that had been bothering him ever since the battle
on the Burning Plains. “Arya, do male dragons grow any faster than female dragons?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because of Thorn. He’s only a few months old, and yet he’s already nearly as big as Saphira. I don’t
understand it.”

Picking a dry blade of grass, Arya began sketching in the loose soil, tracing the curved shapes of glyphs
from the elves’ script, the Liduen Kvaedhí. “Most likely Galbatorix accelerated his growth so Thorn
would be large enough to hold his own with Saphira.”

“Ah. . . . Isn’t that dangerous, though? Oromis told me that if he used magic to give me the strength,
speed, endurance, and other skills I needed, I would not understand my new abilities as well as if I had
gained them the ordinary way: by hard work. He was right too. Even now, the changes the dragons made
to my body during the Agaetí Blödhren still sometimes catch me by surprise.”

Arya nodded and continued sketching glyphs in the dirt. “It is possible to reduce the undesirable side
effects by certain spells, but it is a long and arduous process. If you wish to achieve true mastery of your
body, it is still best to do so through normal means. The transformation Galbatorix has forced upon Thorn
must be incredibly confusing for him. Thorn now has the body of a nearly grown dragon, and yet his mind
is still that of a youngling.”

Eragon fingered the newly formed calluses on his knuckles. “Do you also know why Murtagh is so
powerful . . . more powerful than I am?”

“If I did, no doubt I would also understand how Galbatorix has managed to increase his own strength to
such unnatural heights, but alas, I do not.”

But Oromis does,Eragon thought. Or at least the elf had hinted as much. However, he had yet to share


the information with Eragon and Saphira. As soon as they were able to return to Du Weldenvarden,
Eragon intended to ask the elder Rider for the truth of the matter.He has to tell us now! Because of our
ignorance, Murtagh defeated us, and he could have easily taken us to Galbatorix . Eragon almost
mentioned Oromis’s comments to Arya but held his tongue, for he realized that Oromis would not have
concealed such an important fact for over a hundred years unless secrecy was of the utmost importance.

Arya signed a stop to the sentence she had been writing on the ground. Bending over, Eragon read,
Adrift upon the sea of time, the lonely god wanders from shore to distant shore, upholding the
laws of the stars above .

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and smoothed out the line with a sweep of her arm.

“Why is it,” he asked, speaking slowly as he organized his thoughts, “that no one ever refers to the
dragons of the Forsworn by name? We say ‘Morzan’s dragon’ or ‘Kialandí’s dragon,’ but we never
actually name the dragon. Surely they were as important as their Riders! I don’t even remember seeing
their names in the scrolls Oromis gave me . . . although theymust have been there. . . . Yes, I’m certain
they were, but for some reason, they don’t stick in my head. Isn’t that strange?” Arya started to answer,
but before she could do more than open her mouth, he said, “For once I’m glad Saphira’s not here. I’m
ashamed I haven’t noticed this before. Even you, Arya, and Oromis and every other elf I’ve met refuse
to call them by name, as if they were dumb animals, undeserving of the honor. Do you do it on purpose?
Is it because they were your enemies?”

“Did none of your lessons speak of this?” asked Arya. She seemed genuinely surprised.

“I think,” he said, “Glaedr mentioned something about it to Saphira, but I’m not exactly sure. I was in the
middle of a backbend during the Dance of Snake and Crane, so I wasn’t really paying attention to what
Saphira was doing.” He laughed a little, embarrassed by his lapse and feeling as if he had to explain
himself. “It got confusing at times. Oromis would be talking to me while I was listening to Saphira’s
thoughts while she and Glaedr communicated with their minds. What’s worse, Glaedr rarely uses a
recognizable language with Saphira; he tends to use images, smells, and feelings, rather than words.
Instead of names, he sends impressions of the people and objects he means.”

“Do you recall nothing of what he said, whether with words or not?”

Eragon hesitated. “Only that it concerned a name that was no name, or some such. I couldn’t make
heads or tails out of it.”

“What he spoke of,” said Arya, “was Du Namar Aurboda, The Banishing of the Names.”

“The Banishing of the Names?”

Touching her dry blade of grass to the ground, she resumed writing in the dirt. “It is one of the most
significant events that happened during the fighting between the Riders and the Forsworn. When the
dragons realized that thirteen of their own had betrayed them—that those thirteen were helping
Galbatorix to eradicate the rest of their race and that it was unlikely anyone could stop their
rampage—the dragons grew so angry, every dragon not of the Forsworn combined their strength and
wrought one of their inexplicable pieces of magic. Together, they stripped the thirteen of their names.”

Awe crawled over Eragon. “How is that possible?”


“Did I not just say it was inexplicable? All we know is that after the dragons cast their spell, no one
could utter the names of the thirteen; those who remembered the names soon forgot them; and while you
can read the names in scrolls and letters where they are recorded and even copy them if you look at only
one glyph at a time, they are as gibberish. The dragons spared Jarnunvösk, Galbatorix’s first dragon, for
it was not his fault he was killed by Urgals, and also Shruikan, for he did not choose to serve Galbatorix
but was forced to by Galbatorix and Morzan.”

What a horrible fate, to lose one’s name,thought Eragon. He shivered.If there’s one thing I’ve
learned since becoming a Rider, it’s that you never, ever want to have a dragon for an enemy .
“What about their true names?” he asked. “Did they erase those as well?”

Arya nodded. “True names, birth names, nicknames, family names, titles. Everything. And as a result, the
thirteen were reduced to little more than animals. No longer could they say, ‘I like this’ or ‘I dislike that’
or ‘I have green scales,’ for to say that would be to name themselves. They could not even call
themselves dragons. Word by word, the spell obliterated everything that defined them as thinking
creatures, and the Forsworn had no choice but to watch in silent misery as their dragons descended into
complete ignorance. The experience was so disturbing, at least five of the thirteen, and several of the
Forsworn, went mad as a result.” Arya paused, considering the outline of a glyph, then rubbed it out and
redrew it. “The Banishing of the Names is the main reason so many people now believe that dragons
were nothing more than animals to ride from one place to another.”

“They wouldn’t believe that if they had met Saphira,” said Eragon.

Arya smiled. “No.” With a flourish, she completed the latest sentence she had been working on. He
tilted his head and sidled closer in order to decipher the glyphs she had inscribed. They read:The
trickster, the riddler, the keeper of the balance, he of the many faces who finds life in death and
who fears no evil; he who walks through doors .

“What prompted you to write this?”

“The thought that many things are not what they appear.” Dust billowed around her hand as she patted
the ground, effacing the glyphs from the surface of the earth.

“Has anyone tried to guess Galbatorix’s true name?” Eragon asked. “It seems as if that would be the
fastest way to end this war. To be honest, I think it might be the only hope we have of vanquishing him in
battle.”

“Were you not being honest with me before?” asked Arya, a gleam in her eyes.

Her question forced him to chuckle. “Of course not. It’s just a figure of speech.”

“And a poor one at that,” she said. “Unless you happen to be in the habit of lying.”

Eragon floundered for a moment before he caught hold of his thread of speech again and could say, “I
know it would be hard to find Galbatorix’s true name, but if all the elves and all the members of the
Varden who know the ancient language searched for it, we could not help but succeed.”

Like a pale, sun-bleached pennant, the dry blade of grass hung from between Arya’s left thumb and
forefinger. It trembled in sympathy with each surge of blood through her veins. Pinching it at the top with
her other hand, she tore the leaf in half lengthwise, then did the same with each of the resulting strips,


quartering the leaf. Then she began to plait the strips, forming a stiff braided rod. She said, “Galbatorix’s
true name is no great secret. Three different elves—one a Rider, and two ordinary
spellcasters—discovered it on their own and many years apart.”

“They did!” exclaimed Eragon.

Unperturbed, Arya picked another blade of grass, tore it into strips, inserted the pieces into the gaps in
her braided rod, and continued plaiting in a different direction. “We can only speculate whether
Galbatorix himself knows his true name. I am of the opinion that he does not, for whatever it is, his true
name must be so terrible, he could not go on living if he heard it.”

“Unless he is so evil or so demented, the truth about his actions has no power to disturb him.”

“Perhaps.” Her nimble fingers flew so fast, twisting, braiding, weaving, that they were nearly invisible.
She picked two more blades of grass. “Either way, Galbatorix is certainly aware that he has a true name,
like all creatures and things, and that it is a potential weakness. At some point before he embarked upon
his campaign against the Riders, he cast a spell that kills whoever uses his true name. And since we do
not know exactly how this spell kills, we cannot shield ourselves from it. You see, then, why we have all
but abandoned that line of inquiry. Oromis is one of the few who are brave enough to continue seeking
out Galbatorix’s name, albeit in a roundabout manner.” With a pleased expression, she held out her
hands, palms-upward. Resting on them was an exquisite ship made of green and white grass. It was no
more than four inches long, but so detailed, Eragon descried benches for rowers, tiny railings along the
edge of the deck, and portholes the size of raspberry seeds. The curved prow was shaped somewhat
like the head and neck of a rearing dragon. There was a single mast.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

Arya leaned forward and murmured, “Flauga.” She gently blew upon the ship, and it rose from her
hands and sailed around the fire and then, gathering speed, slanted upward and glided off into the
sparkling depths of the night sky.

“How far will it go?”

“Forever,” she said. “It takes the energy to stay aloft from the plants below. Wherever there are plants,
it can fly.”

The idea bemused Eragon, but he also found it rather sad to think of the pretty grass ship wandering
among the clouds for the rest of eternity, with none but birds for company. “Imagine the stories people
will tell about it in years to come.”

Arya knit her long fingers together, as if to keep them from making something else. “Many such oddities
exist in the world. The longer you live and the farther you travel, the more of them you will see.”

Eragon gazed at the pulsing fire for a while, then said, “If it’s so important to protect your true name,
should I cast a spell to keep Galbatorix from using my true name against me?”

“You can if you wish to,” said Arya, “but I doubt it’s necessary. True names are not so easy to find as
you think. Galbatorix does not know you well enough to guess your name, and if he were inside your
mind and able to examine your every thought and memory, you would be already lost to him, true name
or no. If it is any comfort, I doubt that even I could divine your true name.”


“Couldn’t you?” he asked. He was both pleased and displeased that she believed any part of him was a
mystery to her.

She glanced at him and then lowered her eyes. “No, I do not think so. Could you guess mine?”

“No.”

Silence enveloped their camp. Above, the stars gleamed cold and white. A wind sprang up from the east
and raced across the plains, battering the grass and wailing with a long, thin voice, as if lamenting the loss
of a loved one. As it struck, the coals burst into flame again and a twisting mane of sparks trailed off to
the west. Eragon hunched his shoulders and pulled the collar of his tunic close around his neck. There
was something unfriendly about the wind; it bit at him with unusual ferocity, and it seemed to isolate him
and Arya from the rest of the world. They sat motionless, marooned on their tiny island of light and heat,
while the massive river of air rushed past, howling its angry sorrows into the empty expanse of land.

When the gusts became more violent and began to carry the sparks farther away from the bare patch
where Eragon had built the fire, Arya poured a handful of dirt over the wood. Moving forward onto his
knees, Eragon joined her, scooping the dirt with both hands to speed the process. With the fire
extinguished, he had difficulty seeing; the countryside had become a ghost of itself, full of writhing
shadows, indistinct shapes, and silvery leaves.

Arya made as if to stand, then stopped in a half crouch, arms outstretched for balance, her expression
alert. Eragon felt it as well: the air prickled and hummed, as if a bolt of lightning were about to strike. The
hair on the back of his hands rose from his skin and waved freely in the wind.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We are being watched. Whatever happens, don’t use magic or you may get us killed.”

“Who—”

“Shh.”

Casting about, he found a fist-sized rock, pried it out of the ground, and hefted it, testing its weight.

In the distance, a cluster of glowing multicolored lights appeared. They darted toward the camp, flying
low over the grass. As they drew near, he saw that the lights were constantly changing in size—ranging
from an orb no larger than a pearl to one several feet in diameter—and that their colors also varied,
cycling through every hue in the rainbow. A crackling nimbus surrounded each orb, a halo of liquid
tendrils that whipped and lashed, as if hungry to entangle something in their grasp. The lights moved so
fast, he could not determine exactly how many there were, but he guessed it was about two dozen.

The lights hurtled into the camp and formed a whirling wall around him and Arya. The speed with which
they spun, combined with the barrage of pulsing colors, made Eragon dizzy. He put a hand on the ground
to steady himself. The humming was so loud now, his teeth vibrated against one another. He tasted metal,
and his hair stood on end. Arya’s did the same, despite its additional length, and when he glanced at her,
he found the sight so ridiculous, he had to resist the urge to laugh.

“What do they want?” shouted Eragon, but she did not answer.

A single orb detached itself from the wall and hung before Arya at eye level. It shrank and expanded like


a throbbing heart, alternating between royal blue and emerald green, with occasional flashes of red. One
of its tendrils caught hold of a strand of Arya’s hair. There was a sharppop, and for an instant, the strand
shone like a fragment of the sun, then it vanished. The smell of burnt hair drifted toward Eragon.

Arya did not flinch or otherwise betray alarm. Her face calm, she lifted an arm and, before Eragon could
leap forward and stop her, laid her hand upon the lambent orb. The orb turned gold and white, and it
swelled until it was over three feet across. Arya closed her eyes and tilted her head back, radiant joy
suffusing her features. Her lips moved, but whatever she said, Eragon could not hear. When she finished,
the orb flushed blood-red and then in quick succession shifted from red to green to purple to a ruddy
orange to a blue so bright he had to avert his gaze and then to pure black fringed with a corona of
twisting white tendrils, like the sun during an eclipse. Its appearance ceased to fluctuate then, as if only
the absence of color could adequately convey its mood.

Drifting away from Arya, it approached Eragon, a hole in the fabric of the world, encircled by a crown
of flames. It hovered in front of him, humming with such intensity, his eyes watered. His tongue seemed
plated with copper, his skin crawled, and short filaments of electricity danced on the tips of his fingers.
Somewhat frightened, he wondered whether he should touch the orb as Arya had. He looked at her for
advice. She nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

He extended his right hand toward the void that was the orb. To his surprise, he encountered resistance.
The orb was incorporeal, but it pushed against his hand the way a swift stream of water might. The closer
he got, the harder it pushed. With an effort, he reached across the last few inches and came into contact
with the center of the creature’s being.

Bluish rays shot out from between Eragon’s palm and the surface of the orb, a dazzling, fanlike display
that overwhelmed the light from the other orbs and bleached everything a pale blue white. Eragon
shouted with pain as the rays stabbed at his eyes, and he ducked his head, squinting. Then something
moved inside the orb, like a sleeping dragon uncoiling, and apresence entered his mind, brushing aside
his defenses as if they were dry leaves in an autumn storm. He gasped. Transcendent joy filled him;
whatever the orb was, it seemed to be composed of distilled happiness. It enjoyed being alive, and
everything around it pleased it to a greater or lesser degree. Eragon would have wept with sheer
gladness, but he no longer had control of his body. The creature held him in place, the shimmering rays
still blazing from underneath his hand while it flitted through his bones and muscles, lingering at the sites
where he had been injured, and then returned to his mind. Euphoric as Eragon was, the creature’s
presence was so strange and so unearthly, he wanted to flee from it, but inside his consciousness, there
was nowhere to hide. He had to remain in intimate contact with the fiery soul of the creature while it
scoured his memories, dashing from one to the next with the speed of an elvish arrow. He wondered how
it could comprehend so much information so quickly. While it searched, he tried to probe the orb’s mind
in return, to learn what he could about its nature and its origins, but it defied his attempts to understand it.
The few impressions he gleaned were so different from those he had found in the minds of other beings,
they were incomprehensible.

After a final, nearly instantaneous circuit through his body, the creature withdrew. The contact between
them broke like a twisted cable under too much tension. The panoply of rays outlining Eragon’s hand
faded into oblivion, leaving behind lurid pink afterimages streaked across his field of vision.

Again changing colors, the orb in front of Eragon shrank to the size of an apple and rejoined its
companions in the swirling vortex of light that encircled him and Arya. The humming increased to an
almost unbearable pitch, and then the vortex exploded outward as the blazing orbs scattered in every
direction. They regrouped a hundred feet or so from the dim camp, tumbling over each other like
wrestling kittens, then raced off to the south and disappeared, as if they had never existed in the first


place. The wind subsided to a gentle breeze.

Eragon fell to his knees, arm outstretched toward where the orbs had gone, feeling empty without the
bliss they had given him. “What,” he asked, and then had to cough and start over again, his throat was so
dry. “What are they?”

“Spirits,” said Arya. She sat.

“They didn’t look like the ones that came out of Durza when I killed him.”

“Spirits can assume many different guises, dictated by their whim.”

He blinked several times and wiped the corners of his eyes with the back of a finger. “How can anyone
bear to enslave them with magic? It’s monstrous. I would be ashamed to call myself a sorcerer. Gah!
And Trianna boasts of being one. I’ll have her stop using spirits or I’ll expel her from Du Vrangr Gata
and ask Nasuada to banish her from the Varden.”

“I would not be so hasty.”

“Surely you don’t think it’s right for magicians to force spirits to obey their will. . . . They are so beautiful
that—” He broke off and shook his head, overcome with emotion. “Anyone who harms them ought to be
thrashed within an inch of their life.”

With a hint of a smile, Arya said, “I take it Oromis had yet to address the topic when you and Saphira
left Ellesméra.”

“If you mean spirits, he mentioned them several times.”

“But not in any great detail, I dare say.”

“Perhaps not.”

In the darkness, the outline of her shape moved as she leaned to one side. “Spirits always induce a sense
of rapture when they choose to communicate with we who are made of matter, but do not allow them to
deceive you. They are not as benevolent, content, or cheerful as they would have you believe. Pleasing
those they interact with is their way of defending themselves. They hate to be bound in one place, and
they realized long ago that if the person they are dealing with is happy, then he or she will be less likely to
detain the spirits and keep them as servants.”

“I don’t know,” said Eragon. “They make you feel so good, I can understand why someone would want
to keep them nearby, instead of releasing them.”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “Spirits have as much difficulty predicting our behavior as we do theirs.
They share so little in common with the other races of Alagaësia, conversing with them in even the
simplest terms is a challenging prospect, and any meeting is fraught with peril, for one never knows how
they will react.”

“None of which explains why I shouldn’t order Trianna to abandon sorcery.”

“Have you ever seen her summon spirits to do her bidding?”


“No.”

“I thought not. Trianna has been with the Varden for nigh on six years, and in that time she has
demonstrated her mastery of sorcery exactly once, and that after much coaxing on Ajihad’s part and
much consternation and preparation on Trianna’s. She has the necessary skills—she is no charlatan—but
summoning spirits is exceedingly dangerous, and one does not embark upon it lightly.”

Eragon rubbed his shining palm with his left thumb. The hue of light changed as blood rushed to the
surface of his skin, but his efforts did nothing to reduce the amount of light radiating from his hand. He
scratched at the gedwëy ignasia with his fingernails.This had better not last more than a few hours. I
can’t go around shining like a lantern. It could get me killed. And it’s silly too. Whoever heard of
a Dragon Rider with a glowing body part?

Eragon considered what Brom had told him. “They aren’t human spirits, are they? Nor elf, nor dwarf,
nor those of any other creature. That is, they aren’t ghosts. We don’t become them after we die.”

“No. And please do not ask me, as I know you are about to, what, then, they really are. It is a question
for Oromis to answer, not me. The study of sorcery, if properly conducted, is long and arduous and
should be approached with care. I do not want to say anything that may interfere with the lessons Oromis
has planned for you, and I certainly don’t want you to hurt yourself trying something I mentioned when
you lack the proper instruction.”

“And when am I supposed to return to Ellesméra?” he demanded. “I can’t leave the Varden again, not
like this, not while Thorn and Murtagh are still alive. Until we defeat the Empire, or the Empire defeats us,
Saphira and I have to support Nasuada. If Oromis and Glaedr really want to finish our training, they
should join us, and Galbatorix be blasted!”

“Please, Eragon,” she said. “This war shall not end as quickly as you think. The Empire is large, and we
have but pricked its hide. As long as Galbatorix does not know about Oromis and Glaedr, we have an
advantage.”

“Is it an advantage if they never make full use of themselves?” he grumbled. She did not answer, and
after a moment, he felt childish for complaining. Oromis and Glaedr wanted more than anyone else to
destroy Galbatorix, and if they chose to bide their time in Ellesméra, it was because they had excellent
reasons for doing so. Eragon could even name several of them if he was so inclined, the most prominent
being Oromis’s inability to cast spells that required large amounts of energy.

Cold, Eragon pulled his sleeves down over his hands and crossed his arms. “What was it you said to the
spirit?”

“It was curious why we had been using magic; that was what brought us to their attention. I explained,
and I also explained that you were the one who freed the spirits trapped inside of Durza. That seemed to
please them a great deal.” Silence crept between them, and then she sidled toward the lily and touched it
again. “Oh!” she said. “They were indeed grateful. Naina!”

At her command, a wash of soft light illuminated the camp. By it, he saw that the leaf and stem of the lily
were solid gold, the petals were a whitish metal he failed to recognize, and the heart of the flower, as
Arya revealed by tilting the blossom upward, appeared to have been carved out of rubies and diamonds.
Amazed, Eragon ran a finger over the curved leaf, the tiny wire hairs on it tickling him. Bending forward,
he discerned the same collection of bumps, grooves, pits, veins, and other minute details with which he
had adorned the original version of the plant; the only difference was they were now made of gold.


“It’s a perfect copy!” he said.

“And it is still alive.”

“No!” Concentrating, he searched for the faint signs of warmth and movement that would indicate the lily
was more than an inanimate object. He located them, strong as they ever were in a plant during the night.
Fingering the leaf again, he said, “This is beyond everything I know of magic. By all rights, this lily ought
to be dead. Instead, it is thriving. I cannot even imagine what would be involved in turning a plant into
living metal. Perhaps Saphira could do it, but she would never be able to teach the spell to anyone else.”

“The real question,” said Arya, “is whether this flower will produce seeds that are fertile.”

“It could spread?”

“I would not be surprised if it does. Numerous examples of selfperpetuating magic exist throughout
Alagaësia, such as the floating crystal on the island of Eoam and the dream well in Mani’s Caves. This
would be no more improbable than either of those phenomena.”

“Unfortunately, if anyone discovers this flower or the offspring it may have, they will dig them all up.
Every fortune hunter in the land would come here to pick the golden lilies.”

“They will not be so easy to destroy, I think, but only time will tell for sure.”

A laugh bubbled up inside of Eragon. With barely contained glee, he said, “I’ve heard the expression ‘to
gild the lily’ before, but the spirits actually did it! They gilded the lily!” And he fell to laughing, letting his
voice boom across the empty plain.

Arya’s lips twitched. “Well, their intentions were noble. We cannot fault them for being ignorant of
human sayings.”

“No, but . . . oh, ha, ha, ha!”

Arya snapped her fingers, and the wash of light faded into oblivion. “We have talked away most of the
night. It is time we rested. Dawn is fast approaching, and we must depart soon thereafter.”

Eragon stretched himself out on a rock-free expanse of the ground, still chuckling as he drifted into his
waking dreams.

AMID THERESTLESSCROWD

It was midafternoon when the Varden finally came into sight. Eragon and Arya stopped on the crest of a
low hill and studied the sprawling city of gray tents that lay before them, teeming as it was with thousands
of men, horses, and smoking cookfires. To the west of the tents, there wound the tree-lined Jiet River.
Half a mile to the east was a second, smaller camp—like an island floating close off the shore of its
mother continent—where the Urgals led by Nar Garzhvog resided. Ranging for several miles around the


perimeter of the Varden were numerous groups of horsemen. Some were riding patrol, others were
banner-carrying messengers, and others were raiding parties either setting out on or returning from a
mission. Two of the patrols spotted Eragon and Arya and, after sounding signal horns, galloped toward
them with all possible speed.

A broad smile stretched Eragon’s face, and he laughed, relieved. “We made it!” he exclaimed.
“Murtagh, Thorn, hundreds of soldiers, Galbatorix’s pet magicians, the Ra’zac—none of them could
catch us. Ha! How’s that for taunting the king? This’ll tweak his beard for sure when he hears of it.”

“He will be twice as dangerous then,” warned Arya.

“I know,” he said, grinning even wider. “Maybe he’ll get so angry, he’ll forget to pay his troops and they
will all throw away their uniforms and join the Varden.”

“You are in fine fettle today.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” he demanded. Bouncing on the tips of his toes, he opened his mind as wide
as he could and, gathering his strength, shouted,Saphira! sending the thought flying over the countryside
like a spear.

A response was not long in coming:

Eragon!

They embraced with their minds, smothering each other with warm waves of love, joy, and concern.
They exchanged memories of their time apart, and Saphira comforted Eragon over the soldiers he had
killed, drawing off the pain and anger that had accumulated within him since the incident. He smiled. With
Saphira so close, everything seemed right in the world.

I missed you,he said.

And I you, little one. Then she sent him an image of the soldiers he and Arya had fought and said,
Without fail, every time I leave you, you get yourself in trouble. Every time! I hate to so much as
turn tail on you for fear you will be locked in mortal combat the moment I take my eyes off you .

Be fair: I’ve gotten into plenty of trouble when I am with you. It’s not something that just
happens when I’m alone. We seem to be lodestones for unexpected events.

No, you are a lodestone for unexpected events,she sniffed.Nothing out of the ordinary ever occurs
to me when I’m by myself. But you attract duels, ambushes, immortal enemies, obscure creatures
such as the Ra’zac, long-lost family members, and mysterious acts of magic as if they were
starving weasels and you were a rabbit that wandered into their den.

What about the time you spent as Galbatorix’s possession? Was that an ordinary event?

I had not hatched yet,she said.You cannot count that. The difference between you and me is that
things happen toyou, whereas Icause things to happen .

Maybe, but that’s because I’m still learning. Give me a few years, and I’ll be as good as Brom at
getting things done, eh? You can’t say I didn’t seize the initiative with Sloan.


Mmh. We still have to talk about that. If you ever surprise me like that again, I will pin you on the
ground and lick you from head to toe.

Eragon shivered. Her tongue was covered with hooked barbs that could strip hair, hide, and meat off a
deer with a single swipe.Iknow, but I wasn’t sure myself whether I was going to kill Sloan or let him
go free until I was standing in front of him. Besides, if I had told you I was going to stay behind,
you would have insisted on stopping me.

He sensed a faint growl as it rumbled through her chest. She said,You should have trusted me to do
the right thing. If we cannot talk openly, how are we supposed to function as dragon and Rider?

Would doing the right thing have involved taking me from Helgrind, regardless of my wishes?

It mightnothave, she said with a hint of defensiveness.

He smiled.You’re right, though. I should have discussed my plan with you. I’m sorry. From now
on, I promise I will consult with you before I do anything you don’t expect. Is that acceptable?

Only if it involves weapons, magic, kings, or family members,she said.

Or flowers.

Or flowers,she agreed.I don’t need to know if you decide to eat some bread and cheese in the
middle of the night .

Unless a man with a very long knife is waiting for me outside of my tent.

If you could not defeat a single man with a very long knife, you would be a poor excuse for a
Rider indeed.

Not to mention dead.

Well . . .

By your own argument, you should take comfort in the fact that while I may attract more trouble
than most people, I am perfectly capable of escaping from situations that would kill most anyone
else.

Even the greatest warriors can fall prey to bad luck,she said.Remember the dwarf king Kaga,
who was killed by a novice swordsman—swordsdwarf?—when he tripped on a rock. You should
always remain cautious, for no matter your skills, you cannot anticipate and prevent every
misfortune fate directs your way.

Agreed. Now, can we please abandon such weighty conversation? I have become thoroughly
exhausted with thoughts of fate, destiny, justice, and other, equally gloomy topics over the past
few days. As far as I am concerned, philosophic questioning is just as likely to make you confused
and depressed as it is to improve your condition. Swiveling his head, Eragon surveyed the plain and
sky, searching for the distinctive blue glitter of Saphira’s scales.Where are you? I can feel you are
nearby, but I can’t see you .

Right above you!


With a bugle of joy, Saphira dove out of the belly of a cloud several thousand feet overhead, spiraling
toward the ground with her wings tucked close to her body. Opening her fearsome jaws, she released a
billow of fire, which streamed back over her head and neck like a burning mane. Eragon laughed and
held his arms outstretched to her. The horses of the patrol galloping toward him and Arya shied at the
sight and sound of Saphira and bolted in the opposite direction while their riders frantically tried to rein
them in.

“I had hoped we could enter the camp without attracting undue attention,” Arya said, “but I suppose I
should have realized we could not be unobtrusive with Saphira around. A dragon is hard to ignore.”

I heard that,said Saphira, spreading her wings and landing with a thunderous crash. Her massive thighs
and shoulders rippled as she absorbed the force of the impact. A blast of air struck Eragon’s face, and
the earth shuddered underneath him. He flexed his knees to maintain his balance. Folding her wings so
they lay flat upon her back, she said,I can be stealthy if I want . Then she cocked her head and blinked,
the tip of her tail whipping from side to side.But I don’t want to be stealthy today! Today I am a
dragon, not a frightened pigeon trying to avoid being seen by a hunting falcon .

When are you not a dragon?asked Eragon as he ran toward her. Light as a feather, he leaped from her
left foreleg to her shoulder and thence to the hollow at the base of her neck that was his usual seat.
Settling into place, he put his hands on either side of her warm neck, feeling the rise and fall of her
banded muscles as she breathed. He smiled again, with a profound sense of contentment.This is where I
belong, here with you . His legs vibrated as Saphira hummed with satisfaction, her deep rumbling
following a strange, subtle melody he did not recognize.

“Greetings, Saphira,” said Arya, and twisted her hand over her chest in the elves’ gesture of respect.

Crouching low and bending her long neck, Saphira touched Arya upon the brow with the tip of her
snout, as she had when she blessed Elva in Farthen Dûr, and said,Greetings, älfa-kona. Welcome, and
may the wind rise under your wings . She spoke to Arya with the same tone of affection that, until
then, she had reserved for Eragon, as if she now considered Arya part of their small family and worthy of
the same regard and intimacy as they shared. Her gesture surprised Eragon, but after an initial flare of
jealousy, he approved. Saphira continued speaking:I am grateful to you for helping Eragon to return
without harm. If he had been captured, I do not know what I would have done!

“Your gratitude means much to me,” said Arya, and bowed. “As for what you would have done if
Galbatorix had seized Eragon, why, you would have rescued him, and I would have accompanied you,
even if it was to Urû’baen itself.”

Yes, I like to think I would have rescued you, Eragon,said Saphira, turning her neck to look at him,
but I worry that I would have surrendered to the Empire in order to save you, no matter the
consequences for Alagaësia . Then she shook her head and kneaded the soil with her claws.Ah, these
are pointless meanderings. You are here and safe, and that is the true shape of the world. To while
away the day contemplating evils that might have been is to poison the happiness we already have
. . . .

At that moment, a patrol galloped toward them and, halting thirty yards away because of their nervous
horses, asked if they might escort the three to Nasuada. One of the men dismounted and gave his steed
to Arya, and then as a group, they advanced toward the sea of tents to the southwest. Saphira set the
pace: a leisurely crawl that allowed her and Eragon to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company before
they immersed themselves in the noise and chaos that were sure to assault them once they neared the


camp.

Eragon inquired after Roran and Katrina, then said,Have you been eating enough fireweed? Your
breath seems stronger than usual .

Of course I have. You only notice it because you have been gone for many days. I smell exactly as
a dragon should smell, and I’ll thank you not to make disparaging comments about it unless you
want me to drop you on your head. Besides, you humans have nothing to brag about, sweaty,
greasy, pungent things that you are. The only creatures in the wild as smelly as humans are male
goats and hibernating bears. Compared to you, the scent of a dragon is a perfume as delightful as
a meadow of mountain flowers.

Come now, don’t exaggerate. Although,he said, wrinkling his nose,since the Agaetí Blödhren, I
have noticed that humans tend to be rather smelly. But you cannot lump me in with the rest, for I
am no longer entirely human .

Perhaps not, but you still need a bath!

As they crossed the plain, more and more men congregated around Eragon and Saphira, providing them
with a wholly unnecessary but very impressive honor guard. After so long spent in the wilds of Alagaësia,
the dense press of bodies, the cacophony of high, excited voices, the storm of unguarded thoughts and
emotions, and the confused motion of flailing arms and prancing horses were overwhelming for Eragon.

He retreated deep within himself, where the discordant mental chorus was no louder than the distant
thunder of crashing waves. Even through the layers of barriers, he sensed the approach of twelve elves,
running in formation from the other side of the camp, swift and lean as yellow-eyed mountain cats.
Wanting to make a favorable impression, Eragon combed his hair with his fingers and squared his
shoulders, but he also tightened the armor around his consciousness so that no one but Saphira could
hear his thoughts. The elves had come to protect him and Saphira, but ultimately their allegiance belonged
to Queen Islanzadí. While he was grateful for their presence, and he doubted their inherent politeness
would allow them to eavesdrop on him, he did not want to provide the queen of the elves with any
opportunity to learn the secrets of the Varden, nor to gain a hold over him. If she could wrest him away
from Nasuada, he knew she would. On the whole, the elves did not trust humans, not after Galbatorix’s
betrayal, and for that and other reasons, he was sure Islanzadí would prefer to have him and Saphira
under her direct command. And of the potentates he had met, he trusted Islanzadí the least. She was too
imperious and too erratic.

The twelve elves halted before Saphira. They bowed and twisted their hands as Arya had done and, one
by one, introduced themselves to Eragon with the initial phrase of the elves’ traditional greeting, to which
he replied with the appropriate lines. Then the lead elf, a tall, handsome male with glossy blue-black fur
covering his entire body, proclaimed the purpose of their mission to everyone within earshot and formally
asked Eragon and Saphira if the twelve might assume their duties.

“You may,” said Eragon.

You may,said Saphira.

Then Eragon asked, “ Blödhgarm-vodhr, did I perchance see you at the Agaetí Blödhren?” For he
remembered watching an elf with a similar pelt gamboling among the trees during the festivities.

Blödhgarm smiled, exposing the fangs of an animal. “I believe you met my cousin Liotha. We share a


most striking family resemblance, although her fur is brown and flecked, whereas mine is dark blue.”

“I would have sworn it was you.”

“Unfortunately, I was otherwise engaged at the time and was unable to attend the celebration. Perhaps I
shall have the opportunity when next the occasion occurs, a hundred years from now.”

Would you not agree,Saphira said to Eragon,that he has a pleasant aroma?

Eragon sniffed the air.I don’t smell anything. And I would if there was anything to smell .

That’s odd. She provided him then with the range of odors she had detected, and at once he realized
what she meant. Blödhgarm’s musk surrounded him like a cloud, thick and heady, a warm, smoky scent
that contained hints of crushed juniper berries and that set Saphira’s nostrils to tingling.All the women in
the Varden seem to have fallen in love with him, she said.They stalk him wherever he goes,
desperate to talk with him but too shy to utter so much as a squeak when he looks at them .

Maybe only females can smell him. He cast a concerned glance at Arya.She does not seem to be
affected .

She has protection against magical influences.

I hope so. . . . Do you think we should put a stop to Blödhgarm?

What he is doing is a sneaky, underhanded way of gaining a woman’s heart.

Is it any more underhanded than adorning yourself with fine clothing to catch the eye of your
beloved? Blödhgarm has not taken advantage of the women who are fascinated by him, and it
seems improbable that he would have composed the notes of his scent to appeal specifically to
human women. Rather, I would guess it is an unintended consequence and that he created it to
serve another purpose altogether. Unless he discards all semblance of decency, I think we should
refrain from interfering.

What about Nasuada? Is she vulnerable to his charms?

Nasuada is wise and wary. She had Trianna place a ward around her that protects her against
Blödhgarm’s influence.

Good.

When they arrived at the tents, the crowd swelled in size until half the Varden appeared to be gathered
around Saphira. Eragon raised his hand in response as people shouted, “Argetlam!” and “Shadeslayer!”
and he heard others say, “Where have you been, Shadeslayer? Tell us of your adventures!” A fair
number referred to him as the Bane of the Ra’zac, which he found so immensely satisfying, he repeated
the phrase four times to himself under his breath. People also shouted blessings upon his health and
Saphira’s too, and invitations to dine, and offers of gold and jewelry, and piteous requests for aid: would
he please heal a son who had been born blind, or would he remove a growth that was killing a man’s
wife, or would he fix a horse’s broken leg or repair a bent sword, for as the man bellowed, “It was my
grandfather’s!” Twice a woman’s voice cried out, “Shadeslayer, will you marry me?” and while he
looked, he was unable to identify the source.


Throughout the commotion, the twelve elves hovered close. The knowledge that they were watching for
that which he could not see and listening for that which he could not hear was a comfort to Eragon and
allowed him to interact with the massed Varden with an ease that had escaped him in the past.

Then from between the curving rows of woolen tents, the former villagers of Carvahall began to appear.
Dismounting, Eragon walked among the friends and acquaintances of his childhood, shaking hands,
slapping shoulders, and laughing at jokes that would be incomprehensible to anyone who had not grown
up around Carvahall. Horst was there, and Eragon grasped the smith’s brawny forearm. “Welcome
back, Eragon. Well done. We’re in your debt for avenging us on the monsters that drove us from our
homes. I’m glad to see you are still in one piece, eh?”

“The Ra’zac would have had to move a sight faster to chop any parts off of me!” said Eragon. Then he
found himself greeting Horst’s sons, Albriech and Baldor; and then Loring the shoemaker and his three
sons; Tara and Morn, who had owned Carvahall’s tavern; Fisk; Felda; Calitha; Delwin and Lenna; and
then fierce-eyed Birgit, who said, “I thank you, Eragon Son of None. I thank you for ensuring that the
creatures who ate my husband were properly punished. My hearth is yours, now and forever.”

Before Eragon could respond, the crowd swept them apart.Son of None? he thought.Ha! I have a
father, and everyone hates him .

Then to his delight, Roran shouldered his way out of the throng, Katrina beside him. He and Roran
embraced, and Roran growled, “That was a fool thing to do, staying behind. I ought to knock your block
off for abandoning us like that. Next time, give me advance warning before you traipse off on your own.
It’s getting to be a habit with you. And you should have seen how upset Saphira was on the flight back.”

Eragon put a hand on Saphira’s left foreleg and said, “I’m sorry I could not tell you beforehand that I
planned to stay, but I did not realize it was necessary until the very last moment.”

“And why was it exactly you remained in those foul caverns?”

“Because there was something I had to investigate.”

When he failed to expand upon his answer, Roran’s broad face hardened, and for a moment Eragon
feared he would insist upon a more satisfactory explanation. But then Roran said, “Well, what hope has
an ordinary man like myself of understanding the whys and wherefores of a Dragon Rider, even if he is
my cousin? All that matters is that you helped free Katrina and you are here now, safe and sound.” He
craned his neck, as if he were trying to see what lay on top of Saphira, then he looked at Arya, who was
several yards behind them, and said, “You lost my staff! I crossed the entire breadth of Alagaësia with
that staff. Couldn’t you manage to hold on to it for more than a few days?”

“It went to a man who needed it more than I,” said Eragon.

“Oh, stop nipping at him,” Katrina said to Roran, and after a moment’s hesitation, she hugged Eragon.
“He is really very glad to see you, you know. He just has difficulty finding the words to say it.”

With a sheepish grin, Roran shrugged. “She’s right about me, as always.” The two of them exchanged a
loving glance.

Eragon studied Katrina closely. Her copper hair had regained its original luster, and for the most part,
the marks left by her ordeal had faded away, although she was still thinner and paler than normal.


Moving closer to him, so none of the Varden clustered around them could overhear, she said, “I never
thought that I would owe you so much, Eragon. Thatwe would owe you so much. Since Saphira brought
us here, I have learned what you risked to rescue me, and I am most grateful. If I had spent another
week in Helgrind, it would have killed me or stripped me of reason, which is a living death. For saving me
from that fate, and for repairing Roran’s shoulder, you have my utmost thanks, but more than that, you
have my thanks for bringing the two of us back together again. If not for you, we never would have been
reunited.”

“Somehow I think Roran would have found a way to extricate you from Helgrind, even without me,”
commented Eragon. “He has a silver tongue when roused. He would have convinced another spellcaster
to help him—Angela the herbalist, perhaps—and he would have succeeded all the same.”

“Angela the herbalist?” scoffed Roran. “That prating girl would have been no match for the Ra’zac.”

“You would be surprised. She’s more than she appears . . . or sounds.” Then Eragon dared to do
something that he never would have attempted when he was living in Palancar Valley but that he felt was
appropriate in his role as a Rider: he kissed Katrina upon her brow, and then he kissed Roran upon his,
and he said, “Roran, you are as a brother to me. And, Katrina, you are as a sister to me. If ever you are
in trouble, send for me, and whether you need Eragon the farmer or Eragon the Rider, everything I am
shall be at your disposal.”

“And likewise,” said Roran, “if ever you are in trouble, you have but to send for us, and we shall rush to
your aid.”

Eragon nodded, acknowledging his offer, and refrained from mentioning that the troubles he was most
likely to encounter would not be of a sort either of them could assist him with. He gripped them both by
the shoulders and said, “May you live long, may you always be together and happy, and may you have
many children.” Katrina’s smile faltered for a moment, and Eragon wondered at it. At Saphira’s urging,
they resumed walking toward Nasuada’s red pavilion in the center of the encampment. In due time, they
and the host of cheering Varden arrived at its threshold, where Nasuada stood waiting, King Orrin to her
left and scores of nobles and other notables gathered behind a double row of guards on either side.

Nasuada was garbed in a green silk dress that shimmered in the sun, like the feathers on the breast of a
hummingbird, in bright contrast to the sable shade of her skin. The sleeves of the dress ended in lace ruffs
at her elbows. White linen bandages covered the rest of her arms to her narrow wrists. Of all the men
and women assembled before her, she was the most distinguished, like an emerald resting on a bed of
brown autumn leaves. Only Saphira could compete with the brilliance of her appearance.

Eragon and Arya presented themselves to Nasuada and then to King Orrin. Nasuada gave them formal
welcome on behalf of the Varden and praised them for their bravery. She finished by saying, “Aye,
Galbatorix may have a Rider and dragon who fight for him even as Eragon and Saphira fight for us. He
may have an army so large that it darkens the land. And he may be adept at strange and terrible magics,
abominations of the spellcaster’s art. But for all his wicked power, he could not stop Eragon and Saphira
from invading his realm and killing four of his most favored servants, nor Eragon from crossing the Empire
with impunity. The pretender’s arm has grown weak indeed when he cannot defend his borders, nor
protect his foul agents within their hidden fortress.”

Amid the Varden’s enthusiastic cheering, Eragon allowed himself a secret smile at how well Nasuada
played upon their emotions, inspiring confidence, loyalty, and high spirits in spite of a reality that was far
less optimistic than she portrayed it. She did not lie to them—to his knowledge, she did not lie, not even
when dealing with the Council of Elders or other of her political rivals. What she did was report the truths


that best supported her position and her arguments. In that regard, he thought, she was like the elves.

When the Varden’s outpouring of excitement had subsided, King Orrin greeted Eragon and Arya as
Nasuada had. His delivery was staid compared with hers, and while the crowd listened politely and
applauded afterward, it was obvious to Eragon that however much the people respected Orrin, they did
not love him as they loved Nasuada, nor could he fire their imagination as Nasuada fired it. The
smooth–faced king was gifted with a superior intellect. But his personality was too rarefied, too eccentric,
and too subdued for him to be a receptacle for the desperate hopes of the humans that opposed
Galbatorix.

If we overthrow Galbatorix,Eragon said to Saphira,Orrin should not replace him in Urû’baen. He
would not be able to unite the land as Nasuada has united the Varden .

Agreed.

At length, King Orrin concluded. Nasuada whispered to Eragon, “Now it is your turn to address those
who have assembled to catch a glimpse of the renowned Dragon Rider.” Her eyes twinkled with
suppressed merriment.

“Me!”

“It is expected.”

Then Eragon turned and faced the multitude, his tongue dry as sand. His mind was blank, and for a
handful of panic-stricken seconds, he thought the use of language would continue to elude him and he
would embarrass himself in front of the entire Varden. Somewhere a horse nickered, but otherwise the
camp seemed frightfully quiet. It was Saphira who broke his paralysis by nudging his elbow with her
snout and saying,Tell them how honored you are to have their support and how happy you are to
be back among them . With her encouragement, he managed to find a few fumbling words, and then, as
soon as it was acceptable, he bowed and retreated a step.

Forcing a smile while the Varden clapped and cheered and beat their swords against their shields, he
exclaimed,That was horrible!I would rather fight a Shade than do that again .

Really! It was not that hard, Eragon.

Yes, it was!

A puff of smoke drifted up from her nostrils as she snorted with amusement.A fine Dragon Rider you
are, afraid of talking to a large group! If only Galbatorix knew, he could have you at his mercy if
he but asked you to make a speech to his troops. Ha!

It’s not funny,he grumbled, but she still continued to chuckle.

TOANSWER AKING



After Eragon gave his address to the Varden, Nasuada gestured and Jörmundur leaped to her side.
“Have everyone here return to their posts. If we were attacked now, we would be overwhelmed.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Beckoning to Eragon and Arya, Nasuada placed her left hand on King Orrin’s arm and, with him,
entered the pavilion.

What about you?Eragon asked Saphira as he followed. Then he stepped inside the pavilion and saw
that a panel at the back had been rolled up and tied to the wooden frame above so that Saphira might
insert her head and participate in the goings-on. He had to wait but a moment before her glittering head
and neck swung into view around the edge of the opening, darkening the interior as she settled into place.
Purple flecks of light adorned the walls, projected by her blue scales onto the red fabric.

Eragon examined the rest of the tent. It was barren compared with when he had last visited, a result of
the destruction Saphira had caused when she crawled into the pavilion to see Eragon in Nasuada’s
mirror. With only four pieces of furniture, the tent was austere even by military standards. There was the
polished high-backed chair where Nasuada was sitting, King Orrin standing next to her; the selfsame
mirror, which was mounted at eye level on a carved brass pole; a folding chair; and a low table strewn
with maps and other documents of import. An intricately knotted dwarf rug covered the ground. Besides
Arya and himself, a score of people were already gathered before Nasuada. They were all looking at
him. Among them he recognized Narheim, the current commander of the dwarf troops; Trianna and other
spellcasters from Du Vrangr Gata; Sabrae, Umérth, and the rest of the Council of Elders, save for
Jörmundur; and a random assortment of nobles and functionaries from King Orrin’s court. Those who
were strangers to him he assumed also held positions of distinction in one of the many factions that made
up the Varden’s army. Six of Nasuada’s guards were present—two stationed by the entrance and four
behind Nasuada—and Eragon detected the convoluted pattern of Elva’s dark and twisted thoughts from
where the witch-child was hidden at the far end of the pavilion.

“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “you have not met before, but let me introduce Sagabato-no Inapashunna
Fadawar, chief of the Inapashunna tribe. He is a brave man.”

For the next hour, Eragon endured what seemed like an endless procession of introductions,
congratulations, and questions that he could not answer forthrightly without revealing secrets that were
better left unsaid. When all of the guests had conversed with him, Nasuada bade them take their leave.
As they filed out of the pavilion, she clapped her hands and the guards outside ushered in a second group
and then, when the second group had enjoyed the dubious fruits of their visitation with him, a third.
Eragon smiled the whole while. He shook hand after hand. He exchanged meaningless pleasantries and
strove to memorize the plethora of names and titles that besieged him and otherwise acted with perfect
civility the role he was expected to play. He knew that they honored him not because he was their friend
but because of the chance of victory he embodied for the free peoples of Alagaësia, because of his
power, and because of what they hoped to gain by him. In his heart, he howled with frustration and
longed to break free of the stifling constraints of good manners and polite conduct and to climb on
Saphira and fly away to somewhere peaceful.

The one part of the process Eragon enjoyed was watching how the supplicants reacted to the two
Urgals who loomed behind Nasuada’s chair. Some pretended to ignore the horned warriors—although
from the quickness of their motions and the shrill tones of their voices, Eragon could tell that the creatures
unnerved them—while others glared at the Urgals and kept their hands on the pommels of their swords
or daggers, and still others affected a false bravado and belittled the Urgals’ notorious strength and
boasted of their own. Only a few people truly seemed unaffected by the sight of the Urgals. Foremost


among them was Nasuada, but their number also included King Orrin, Trianna, and an earl who said he
had seen Morzan and his dragon lay waste to an entire town when he had been but a boy.

When Eragon could bear no more, Saphira swelled her chest and released a low, humming growl, so
deep that it shook the mirror in its frame. The pavilion became as silent as a tomb. Her growl was not
overtly threatening, but it captured everyone’s attention and proclaimed her impatience with the
proceedings. None of the guests were foolish enough to test her forbearance. With hurried excuses, they
gathered their things and filed out of the pavilion, quickening their pace when Saphira tapped the tips of
her claws against the ground.

Nasuada sighed as the entrance flap swung closed behind the last visitor. “Thank you, Saphira. I am
sorry that I had to subject you to the misery of public presentation, Eragon, but as I am sure you are
aware, you occupy an exalted position among the Varden, and I cannot keep you to myself anymore.
You belong to the people now. They demand that you recognize them and that you give them what they
consider their rightful share of your time. Neither you nor Orrin nor I can refuse the wishes of the crowd.
Even Galbatorix in his dark seat of power at Urû’baen fears the fickle crowd, although he may deny it to
everyone, including himself.”

With the guests departed, King Orrin abandoned the guise of royal decorum. His stern expression
relaxed into one of more human relief, irritation, and ferocious curiosity. Rolling his shoulders beneath his
stiff robes, he looked at Nasuada and said, “I do not think we require your Nighthawks to wait on us any
longer.”

“Agreed.” Nasuada clapped her hands, dismissing the six guards from the inside of the tent.

Dragging the spare chair over to Nasuada’s, King Orrin seated himself in a tangle of sprawling limbs and
billowing fabric. “Now,” he said, switching his gaze between Eragon and Arya, “let us have a full account
of your doings, Eragon Shadeslayer. I have heard only vague explanations for why you chose to delay at
Helgrind, and I have had my fill of evasions and deceptive answers. I am determined to know the truth of
the matter, so I warn you, do not attempt to conceal what actually transpired while you were in the
Empire. Until I am satisfied you have told me everything there is to tell, none of us shall so much as step
outside of this tent.”

Her voice cold, Nasuada said, “You assume too much . . . Your Majesty. You do not have the authority
to bind me in place; nor Eragon, who is my vassal; nor Saphira; nor Arya, who answers to no mortal lord
but rather to one more powerful than the two of us combined. Nor do we have the authority to bind you.
The five of us are as close to equals as any of us is likely to find in Alagaësia. You would do well to
remember that.”

King Orrin’s response was equally flinty. “Do I exceed the bounds of my sovereignty? Well, perhaps I
do. You are right: I have no hold over you. However, if we are equals, I have yet to see evidence of it in
your treatment of me. Eragon answers to you and only you. By the Trial of the Long Knives, you have
gained dominion over the wandering tribes, many of which I have long counted among my subjects. And
you command as you will both the Varden and the men of Surda, who have long served my family with
bravery and determination beyond that of ordinary men.”

“It was you yourself who asked me to orchestrate this campaign,” said Nasuada. “I have not deposed
you.”

“Aye, it was at my request you assumed command of our disparate forces. I am not ashamed to admit
you have had more experience and success than I in waging war. Our prospects are too precarious for


you, me, or any of us to indulge in false pride. However, since your investiture, you seem to have
forgotten that I am still the king of Surda, and we of the Langfeld family can trace our line back to
Thanebrand the Ring Giver himself, he who succeeded old, mad Palancar and who was the first of our
race to sit on the throne in what is now Urû’baen.

“Considering our heritage and the assistance the House of Langfeld has rendered you in this cause, it is
insulting of you to ignore the rights of my office. You act as if yours was the only verdict of moment and
the opinions of others are of no account, to be trampled over in pursuit of whatever goal you have
already determined is best for the portion of free humanity that is fortunate enough to have you as their
leader. You negotiate treaties and alliances, such as that with the Urgals, of your own initiative and expect
me, and others, to abide by your decisions, as if you speak for us all. You arrange preemptive visits of
state, such as that with Blödhgarmvodhr, and do not trouble to alert me of his arrival, nor wait for me to
join you so we might greet his embassy together as equals. And when I have the temerity to ask why
Eragon—the man whose very existence is the reason I have staked my country in this venture—when I
have the temerity to askwhy this all-important person has elected to endanger the lives of Surdans and
those of every creature who opposes Galbatorix by tarrying in the midst of our enemies, how is it you
respond? By treating me as if I were no more than an overzealous, overinquisitive underling whose
childish concerns distracted you from more pressing matters. Bah! I will not have it, I tell you. If you
cannot bring yourself to respect my station and to accept a fair division of responsibility, as two allies
ought to, then it is my opinion that you are unfit to command a coalition such as ours, and I shall set
myself against you however I may.”

What a long-winded fellow,Saphira observed.

Alarmed by the direction the conversation had taken, Eragon said,What should I do? I had not
intended to tell anyone else about Sloan, except for Nasuada. The fewer people who know he’s
alive, the better.

A flickering sea-blue shimmer ran from the base of Saphira’s head to the crest of her shoulders as the
tips of the sharp, diamond-shaped scales along the sides of her neck rose a fraction of an inch from the
underlying skin. The jagged layers of projecting scales gave her a fierce, ruffled appearance.I cannot tell
you what is best, Eragon. In this, you must rely upon your own judgment. Listen closely to what
your heart says and perhaps it will become clear how to win free of these treacherous downdrafts
.

In response to King Orrin’s sally, Nasuada clasped her hands in her lap, her bandages startling white
against the green of her dress, and in a calm, even voice said, “If I have slighted you, Sire, then it was due
to my own hasty carelessness and not to any desire on my part to diminish you or your house. Please
forgive my lapses. They shall not happen again; that I promise you. As you have pointed out, I have but
recently ascended to this post, and I have yet to master all of the accompanying niceties.”

Orrin inclined his head in a cool but gracious acceptance of her words.

“As for Eragon and his activities in the Empire, I could not have provided you with specific details, for I
have had no further intelligence myself. It was not, as I am sure you can appreciate, a situation that I
wished to advertise.”

“No, of course not.”

“Therefore, it seems to me that the swiftest cure for the dispute that afflicts us is to allow Eragon to lay
bare the facts of his trip that we may apprehend the full scope of this event and render judgment upon it.”


“Of its own, that is not a cure,” said King Orrin. “But it is the beginning of a cure, and I will gladly listen.”

“Then let us tarry no longer,” said Nasuada. “Let us begin this beginning and have done with our
suspense. Eragon, it is time for your tale.”

With Nasuada and the others gazing at him with wondering eyes, Eragon made his choice. Lifting his
chin, he said, “What I tell you, I tell you in confidence. I know I cannot expect either you, King Orrin, or
you, Lady Nasuada, to swear that you will keep this secret bound within your hearts from now until the
day you die, but I beg you to act as if you had. It could cause a great deal of grief if this knowledge were
to be whispered in the wrong ears.”

“A king does not remain king for long unless he appreciates the value of silence,” said Orrin.

Without further ado, Eragon described everything that had happened to him in Helgrind and in the days
that had followed. Afterward, Arya explained how she had gone about locating Eragon and then
corroborated his account of their travels by providing several facts and observations of her own. When
they had both said their fill, the pavilion was quiet as Orrin and Nasuada sat motionless upon their chairs.
Eragon felt as if he were a child again, waiting for Garrow to tell him what his punishment would be for
doing something foolish on their farm.

Orrin and Nasuada remained lost deep in reflection for several minutes, then Nasuada smoothed the
front of her dress and said, “King Orrin may be of a different opinion, and if so, I look forward to hearing
his reasons, but for my part, I believe that you did the right thing, Eragon.”

“As do I,” said Orrin, surprising them all.

“You do!” exclaimed Eragon. He hesitated. “I don’t mean to sound impertinent, for I’m glad you
approve, but I didn’t expect you to look kindly upon my decision to spare Sloan’s life. If I may ask,
why—”

King Orrin interrupted. “Why do we approve? The rule of law must be upheld. If you had appointed
yourself Sloan’s executioner, Eragon, you would have taken for yourself the power that Nasuada and I
wield. For he who has the audacity to determine who should live and who should die no longer serves the
law but dictates the law. And however benevolent you might be, that would be no good thing for our
species. Nasuada and I, at least, answer to the one lord even kings must kneel before. We answer to
Angvard, in his realm of eternal twilight. We answer to the Gray Man on his gray horse. Death. We could
be the worst tyrants in the whole of history, and given enough time, Angvard would bring us to heel. . . .
But not you. Humans are a short-lived race, and we should not be governed by one of the Undying. We
do not need another Galbatorix.” A strange laugh escaped from Orrin then, and his mouth twisted in a
humorless smile. “Do you understand, Eragon? You are so dangerous, we are forced to acknowledge
the danger to your face and hope that you are one of the few people able to resist the lure of power.”

King Orrin laced his fingers together underneath his chin and gazed at a fold in his robes. “I have said
more than I intended. . . . So, for all those reasons, and others besides, I agree with Nasuada. You were
right to stay your hand when you discovered this Sloan in Helgrind. As inconvenient as this episode has
been, it would have been far worse, and for you as well, if you had killed to please yourself and not in
self-defense or in service to others.”

Nasuada nodded. “That was well spoken.”


Throughout, Arya listened with an inscrutable expression. Whatever her own thoughts on the matter
were, she did not divulge them.

Orrin and Nasuada pressed Eragon with a number of questions about the oaths he had laid upon Sloan,
as well as queries about the remainder of his trip. The interrogation continued for so long, Nasuada had a
tray of cooled cider, fruit, and meat pies brought into the pavilion, along with the haunch of a steer for
Saphira. Nasuada and Orrin had ample opportunity to eat between questions; however, they kept
Eragon so busy talking, he managed to consume only two bites of fruit and a few sips of cider to wet his
throat.

At long last King Orrin bade them farewell and departed to review the status of his cavalry. Arya left a
minute later, explaining that she needed to report to Queen Islanzadí and to, as she said, “heat a tub of
water, wash the sand from my skin, and return my features to their usual shape. I do not feel myself, with
the tips of my ears missing, my eyes round and level, and the bones of my face in the wrong places.”

When she was alone with Eragon and Saphira, Nasuada sighed and leaned her head against the back of
the chair. Eragon was shocked by how tired she appeared. Gone were her previous vitality and strength
of presence. Gone was the fire from her eyes. She had, he realized, been pretending to be stronger than
she was in order to avoid tempting her enemies and demoralizing the Varden with the spectacle of her
weakness.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

She nodded toward her arms. “Not exactly. It’s taking me longer to recuperate than I had anticipated. .
. . Some days are worse than others.”

“If you want, I can—”

“No. Thank you, but no. Do not tempt me. One rule of the Trial of the Long Knives is that you must
allow your wounds to heal at their own pace, without magic. Otherwise, the contestants will not have
endured the full measure of pain from their cuts.”

“That’s barbaric!”

A slow smile touched her lips. “Maybe so, but it is what it is, and I would not fail so late in the trial
merely because I could not withstand a bit of an ache.”

“What if your wounds fester?”

“Then they fester, and I shall pay the price for my mistake. But I doubt they will while Angela ministers
to me. She has an amazing storehouse of knowledge where medicinal plants are concerned. I half believe
she could tell you the true name of every species of grass on the plains east of here merely by feeling their
leaves.”

Saphira, who had been so still she appeared asleep, now yawned—nearly touching the floor and the
ceiling with the tips of her open jaws—and shook her head and neck, sending the flecks of light reflected
by her scales spinning about the tent with dizzying speed.

Straightening in her seat, Nasuada said, “Ah, I am sorry. I know this has been tedious. You have both
been very patient. Thank you.”


Eragon knelt and placed his right hand over hers. “You do not need to worry about me, Nasuada. I
know my duty. I have never aspired to rule; that is not my destiny. And if ever I am offered the chance to
sit upon a throne, I shall refuse and see that it goes to someone who is better suited than I to lead our
race.”

“You are a good person, Eragon,” murmured Nasuada, and pressed his hand between hers. Then she
chuckled. “What with you, Roran, and Murtagh, I seem to spend most of my time worrying about
members of your family.”

Eragon bridled at the statement. “Murtagh is no family of mine.”

“Of course. Forgive me. But still, you must admit it’s startling how much bother the three of you have
caused both the Empireand the Varden.”

“It’s a talent of ours,” joked Eragon.

It runs in their blood,said Saphira.Wherever they go, they get themselves entangled in the worst
danger possible. She nudged Eragon in the arm.Especially this one. What else can you expect of
people from Palancar Valley? Descendants all of a mad king .

“But not mad themselves,” said Nasuada. “At least I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell at times.” She
laughed. “If you, Roran, and Murtagh were locked in the same cell, I’m not sure who would survive.”

Eragon laughed as well. “Roran. He’s not about to let a little thing like death stand between him and
Katrina.”

Nasuada’s smile became slightly strained. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t at that.” For a score of
heartbeats, she was silent, then: “Goodness me, how selfish I am. The day is almost done, and here I am
detaining you merely so I can enjoy a minute or two of idle conversation.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Yes, but there are better places than this for talk among friends. After what you have been through, I
expect you would like a wash, a change, and a hearty meal, no? You must be famished!” Eragon glanced
at the apple he still held and regretfully concluded it would be impolite to continue eating it when his
audience with Nasuada was drawing to a close. Nasuada caught his look and said, “Your face answers
for you, Shadeslayer. You have the guise of a winter-starved wolf. Well, I shall not torment you any
longer. Go and bathe and garb yourself in your finest tunic. When you are presentable, I would be most
pleased if you would consent to join me for my evening meal. Understand, you would not be my only
guest, for the affairs of the Varden demand my constant attention, but you would brighten the
proceedings considerably for me if you chose to attend.”

Eragon fought back a grimace at the thought of having to spend hours more parrying verbal thrusts from
those who sought to use him for their own advantage or to satisfy their curiosity about Riders and
dragons. Still, Nasuada was not to be denied, so he bowed and agreed to her request.


A FEAST WITHFRIENDS

Eragon and Saphira left Nasuada’s crimson pavilion with the contingent of elves ranged about them and
walked to the small tent that had been assigned to him when they had joined the Varden at the Burning
Plains. There he found a hogs -head of boiling water waiting for him, the coils of steam opalescent in the
oblique light from the large evening sun. Ignoring it for the moment, he ducked inside the tent.

After checking to ensure that none of his few possessions had been disturbed during his absence, Eragon
unburdened himself of his pack and carefully removed his armor, storing it beneath his cot. It needed to
be wiped and oiled, but that was a task that would have to wait. Then he reached even farther
underneath the cot, his fingers scraping the fabric wall beyond, and groped in the darkness until his hand
came into contact with a long, hard object. Grasping it, he lay the heavy cloth-wrapped bundle across his
knees. He picked apart the knots in the wrapping, and then, starting at the thickest end of the bundle,
began to unwind the coarse strips of canvas.

Inch by inch, the scuffed leather hilt of Murtagh’s hand-and-a-half sword came into view. Eragon
stopped when he had exposed the hilt, the crossguard, and a fair expanse of the gleaming blade, which
was as jagged as a saw from where Murtagh had blocked Eragon’s blows with Zar’roc.

Eragon sat and stared at the weapon, conflicted. He did not know what had prompted him, but the day
after the battle, he had returned to the plateau and retrieved the sword from the morass of trampled dirt
where Murtagh had dropped it. Even after only a single night exposed to the elements, the steel had
acquired a mottled veil of rust. With a word, he had dispelled the scrim of corrosion. Perhaps it was
because Murtagh had stolen his own sword that Eragon felt compelled to take up Murtagh’s, as if the
exchange, unequal and involuntary though it was, minimized his loss. Perhaps it was because he wished to
claim a memento of that bloody conflict. And perhaps it was because he still harbored a sense of latent
affection for Murtagh, despite the grim circumstances that had turned them against each other. No matter
how much Eragon abhorred what Murtagh had become, and pitied him for it too, he could not deny the
connection that existed between them. Theirs was a shared fate. If not for an accident of birth, he would
have been raised in Urû’baen, and Murtagh in Palancar Valley, and then their current positions might well
have been reversed. Their lives were inexorably intertwined.

As he gazed at the silver steel, Eragon composed a spell that would smooth the wrinkles from the blade,
close the wedge-shaped gaps along the edges, and restore the strength of the temper. He wondered,
however, if he ought to. The scar that Durza had given him he had kept as a reminder of their encounter,
at least until the dragons erased it during the Agaetí Blödhren. Should he keep this scar as well, then?
Would it be healthy for him to carry such a painful memory on his hip? And what sort of message would
it send to the rest of the Varden if he chose to wield the blade of another betrayer? Zar’roc had been a
gift from Brom; Eragon could not have refused to accept it, nor was he sorry he had. But he was under
no such compulsion to claim as his own the nameless blade that rested upon his thighs.

I need a sword,he thought.But not this sword .

He wrapped the blade again in its shroud of canvas and slid it back under the cot. Then, with a fresh
shirt and tunic tucked under his elbow, he left the tent and went to bathe.

When he was clean and garbed in the fine lámarae shirt and tunic, he set out to meet with Nasuada near
the tents of the healers, as she had requested. Saphira flew, for as she said,It is too cramped for me on
the ground; I keep knocking over tents. Besides, if I walk with you, such a herd of people will
gather around us, we will hardly be able to move .


Nasuada was waiting for him by a row of three flagpoles, upon which a half-dozen gaudy pennants hung
limp in the cooling air. She had changed since they had parted and now wore a light summer frock, the
color of pale straw. Her dense, mosslike hair she had piled high on her head in an intricate mass of knots
and braids. A single white ribbon held the arrangement in place.

She smiled at Eragon. He smiled in return and quickened his pace. As he drew close, his guards mingled
with her guards with a conspicuous display of suspicion on the part of the Nighthawks and studied
indifference on the part of the elves.

Nasuada took his arm and, while they spoke in comfortable tones, guided his steps as they ambled
through the sea of tents. Above, Saphira circled the camp, content to wait until they arrived at their
destination before she went to the effort of landing. Eragon and Nasuada spoke of many things. Little of
consequence passed between their lips, but her wit, her gaiety, and the thoughtfulness of her remarks
charmed him. It was easy for him to talk to her and easier to listen, and that very ease caused him to
realize how much he cared for her. Her hold on him far exceeded that of a liegelord over her vassal. It
was a new feeling for him, their bond. Aside from his aunt Marian, of whom he had but faint memories,
he had grown up in a world of men and boys, and he had never had the opportunity to be friends with a
woman. His inexperience made him uncertain, and his uncertainty made him awkward, but Nasuada did
not seem to notice.

She stopped him before a tent that glowed from within with the light of many candles and that hummed
with a multitude of unintelligible voices. “Now we must dive into the swamp of politics again. Prepare
yourself.”

She swept back the entrance flap to the tent, and Eragon jumped as a host of people shouted,
“Surprise!” A wide trestle table laden with food dominated the center of the tent, and at the table were
sitting Roran and Katrina, twenty or so of the villagers from Carvahall—including Horst and his
family—Angela the herbalist, Jeod and his wife, Helen, and several people Eragon did not recognize but
who had the look of sailors. A half-dozen children had been playing on the ground next to the table; they
paused in their games and stared at Nasuada and Eragon with open mouths, seemingly unable to decide
which of these two strange figures deserved more of their attention.

Eragon grinned, overwhelmed. Before he could think of what to say, Angela raised her flagon and piped,
“Well, don’t just stand there gaping! Come in, sit down. I’m hungry!”

As everyone laughed, Nasuada pulled Eragon toward the two empty chairs next to Roran. Eragon
helped Nasuada to her seat, and as she sank into the chair, he asked, “Didyou arrange this?”

“Roran suggested whom you might want to attend, but yes, the original idea was mine. And I made a
few additions of my own to the table, as you can see.”

“Thank you,” said Eragon, humbled. “Thank you so much.”

He saw Elva sitting cross-legged in the far-left corner of the tent, a platter of food on her lap. The other
children shunned her—Eragon could not imagine they had much in common—and none of the adults,
save Angela, seemed comfortable in her presence. The small, narrow-shouldered girl gazed up at him
from under her black bangs with her horrible violet eyes and mouthed what he guessed was “Greetings,
Shadeslayer.”

“Greetings, Farseer,” he mouthed in return. Her small pink lips parted in what would have been a
charming smile if not for the fell orbs that burned above them.


Eragon gripped the arms of his chair as the table shook, the dishes rattled, and the walls of the tent
flapped. Then the back of the tent bulged and parted as Saphira pushed her head inside.Meat! she said.I
smell meat!

For the next few hours, Eragon lost himself in a blur of food, drink, and the pleasure of good company.
It was like returning home. The wine flowed like water, and after they had drained their cups once or
twice, the villagers forgot their deference and treated him as one of their own, which was the greatest gift
they could give. They were equally generous with Nasuada, although they refrained from making jokes at
her expense, as they sometimes did with Eragon. Pale smoke filled the tent as the candles consumed
themselves. Beside him, Eragon heard the boom of Roran’s laughter ring forth again and again, and
across the table the even deeper boom of Horst’s laugh. Muttering an incantation, Angela set to dancing
a small man she had fashioned from a crust of sourdough bread, much to everyone’s amusement. The
children gradually overcame their fear of Saphira and dared to walk up to her and pet her snout. Soon
they were clambering over her neck, hanging from her spikes, and tugging at the crests above her eyes.
Eragon laughed as he watched. Jeod entertained the crowd with a song he had learned from a book long
ago. Tara danced a jig. Nasuada’s teeth flashed as she tossed her head back. And Eragon, by popular
request, recounted several of his adventures, including a detailed description of his flight from Carvahall
with Brom, which was of special interest to his listeners.

“To think,” said Gertrude, the round-faced healer tugging on her shawl, “we had a dragon in our valley
and we never even knew it.” With a pair of knitting needles produced from within her sleeves, she
pointed at Eragon. “To think I nursed you when your legs had been scraped from flying on Saphira and I
never suspected the cause.” Shaking her head and clucking her tongue, she cast on with brown wool
yarn and began to knit with speed born of decades of practice.

Elain was the first to leave the party, pleading exhaustion brought on by her advanced stage of
pregnancy; one of her sons, Baldor, went with her. Half an hour later, Nasuada also made to leave,
explaining that the demands of her position prevented her from staying as long as she would like but that
she wished them health and happiness and hoped they would continue to support her in her fight against
the Empire.

As she moved away from the table, Nasuada beckoned to Eragon. He joined her by the entrance.
Turning her shoulder to the rest of the tent, she said, “Eragon, I know that you need time to recover from
your journey and that you have affairs of your own that you must tend to. Therefore, tomorrow and the
day after are yours to spend as you will. But on the morning of the third day, present yourself at my
pavilion and we shall talk about your future. I have a most important mission for you.”

“My Lady.” Then he said, “You keep Elva close at hand wherever you go, do you not?”

“Aye, she is my safeguard against any danger that might slip past the Nighthawks. Also, her ability to
divine what it is that pains people has proved enormously helpful. It is so much easier to obtain
someone’s cooperation when you are privy to all of their secret hurts.”

“Are you willing to give that up?”

She studied him with a piercing gaze. “You intend to remove your curse from Elva?”

“I intend to try. Remember, I promised her I would.”

“Yes, I was there.” The crash of a falling chair distracted her for an instant, then she said, “Your


promises will be the death of us. . . . Elva is irreplaceable; no one else has her skill. And the service she
provides, as I just testified, is worth more than a mountain of gold. I have even thought that, of all of us,
she alone might be able to defeat Galbatorix. She would be able to anticipate his every attack, and your
spell would show her how to counter them, and as long as countering them did not require her to sacrifice
her life, she would prevail. . . . For the good of the Varden, Eragon, for the good of everyone in
Alagaësia, couldn’t you feign your attempt to cure Elva?”

“No,” he said, biting off the word as if it offended him. “I would not do it even if I could. It would be
wrong. If we force Elva to remain as she is, she will turn against us, and I do not want her as an enemy.”
He paused, then at Nasuada’s expression added, “Besides, there is a good chance I may not succeed.
Removing such a vaguely worded spell is a difficult prospect at best. . . . If I may make a suggestion?”

“What?”

“Be honest with Elva. Explain to her what she means to the Varden, and ask her if she will continue to
carry her burden for the sake of all free people. She may refuse; she has every right to, but if she does,
her character is not one we would want to rely upon anyway. And if she accepts, then it shall be of her
own free will.”

With a slight frown, Nasuada nodded. “I shall speak with her tomorrow. You should be present as well,
to help me persuade her and to lift your curse if we fail. Be at my pavilion three hours after dawn.” And
with that, she swept into the torch-lit night outside.

Much later, when the candles guttered in their sockets and the villagers began to disperse in twos and
threes, Roran grasped Eragon’s arm by the elbow and drew him through the back of the tent to stand by
Saphira’s side, where the others could not hear. “What you said earlier about Helgrind, was that all of
it?” asked Roran. His grip was like a pair of iron pincers clamped around Eragon’s flesh. His eyes were
hard and questioning, and also unusually vulnerable.

Eragon held his gaze. “If you trust me, Roran, never ask me that question again. It’s not something you
want to know.” Even as he spoke, Eragon felt a deep sense of unease over having to conceal Sloan’s
existence from Roran and Katrina. He knew the deception was necessary, but it still made him
uncomfortable to lie to his family. For a moment, Eragon considered telling Roran the truth, but then he
remembered all the reasons he had decided not to and held his tongue.

Roran hesitated, his face troubled, then he set his jaw and released Eragon. “I trust you. That’s what
family is for, after all, eh? Trust.”

“That and killing each other.”

Roran laughed and rubbed his nose with a thumb. “That too.” He rolled his thick, round shoulders and
reached up to massage his right one, a habit he had fallen into since the Ra’zac had bitten him. “I have
another question.”

“Oh?”

“It is a boon . . . a favor I seek of you.” A wry smile touched his lips, and he shrugged. “I never thought
I would speak to you of this. You’re younger than I, you’ve barely reached your manhood, and you’re
my cousin to boot.”

“Speak of what? Stop beating around the bush.”


“Of marriage,” said Roran, and lifted his chin. “Will you marry Katrina and me? It would please me if
you would, and while I have refrained from mentioning it to her until I had your answer, I know Katrina
would be honored and delighted if you would consent to join us as man and wife.”

Astonished, Eragon was at a loss for words. At last he managed to stammer, “Me?” Then he hastened
to say, “I would be happy to do it, of course, but . . .me ? Is that really what you want? I’m sure
Nasuada would agree to marry the two of you. . . . You could have King Orrin, a real king! He would
leap at the chance to preside over the ceremony if it would help him earn my favor.”

“I want you, Eragon,” said Roran, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You are a Rider, and you are the
only other living person who shares my blood; Murtagh does not count. I cannot think of anyone else I
would rather have tie the knot around my wrist and hers.”

“Then,” said Eragon, “I shall.” The air whooshed out of him as Roran embraced him and squeezed with
all of his prodigious strength. He gasped slightly when Roran released him and then, once his breath had
returned, said, “When? Nasuada has a mission planned for me. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m
guessing it will keep me busy for some time. So . . . maybe early next month, if events allow?”

Roran’s shoulders bunched and knotted. He shook his head like a bull sweeping its horns through a
clump of brambles. “What about the day after tomorrow?”

“So soon? Isn’t that rushing it a bit? There would hardly be any time to prepare. People will think it’s
unseemly.”

Roran’s shoulders rose, and the veins on his hands bulged as he opened and closed his fists. “It can’t
wait. If we’re not married and quick, the old women will have something far more interesting to gossip
about than my impatience. Do you understand?”

It took Eragon a moment to grasp Roran’s meaning, but once he did, Eragon could not stop a broad
smile from spreading across his face.Roran’s going to be a father! he thought. Still smiling, he said, “I
think so. The day after tomorrow it is.” Eragon grunted as Roran hugged him again, pounding him on the
back. With some difficulty, he freed himself.

Grinning, Roran said, “I’m in your debt. Thank you. Now I must go share the news with Katrina, and
we must do what we can to ready a wedding feast. I will let you know the exact hour once we decide on
it.”

“That sounds fine.”

Roran began walking toward the tent, then he spun around and threw his arms out in the air as if he
would gather the entire world to his breast. “Eragon, I’m going to be married!”

With a laugh, Eragon waved his hand. “Go on, you fool. She’s waiting for you.”

Eragon climbed onto Saphira as the flaps of the tent closed over Roran. “Blödhgarm?” he called. Quiet
as a shadow, the elf glided into the light, his yellow eyes glowing like coals. “Saphira and I are going to fly
for a little while. We will meet you at my tent.”

“Shadeslayer,” said Blödhgarm, and tilted his head.


Then Saphira raised her massive wings, ran forward three steps, and launched herself over the rows of
tents, battering them with wind as she flapped hard and fast. The movements of her body beneath him
shook Eragon, and he gripped the spike in front of him for support. Saphira spiraled upward above the
twinkling camp until it was an inconsequential patch of light dwarfed by the dark landscape that
surrounded it. There she remained, floating between the heavens and the earth, and all was silent.

Eragon lay his head on her neck and stared up at the glittering band of dust that spanned the sky.

Rest if you want, little one,said Saphira.I shall not let you fall .

And he rested, and visions beset him of a circular stone city that stood in the center of an endless plain
and of a small girl who wandered among the narrow, winding alleys within and who sang a haunting
melody.

And the night wore on toward morning.

INTERSECTINGSAGAS

It was just after dawn and Eragon was sitting on his cot, oiling his mail hauberk, when one of the
Varden’s archers came to him and begged him to heal his wife, who was suffering from a malignant
tumor. Even though he was supposed to be at Nasuada’s pavilion in less than an hour, Eragon agreed
and accompanied the man to his tent. Eragon found his wife much weakened from the growth, and it
took all of his skill to extract the insidious tendrils from her flesh. The effort left him tired, but he was
pleased that he was able to save the woman from a long and painful death.

Afterward, Eragon rejoined Saphira outside of the archer’s tent and stood with her for a few minutes,
rubbing the muscles near the base of her neck. Humming, Saphira flicked her sinuous tail and twisted her
head and shoulders so that he had better access to her smooth plated underside. She said,While you
were occupied in there, other petitioners came to seek an audience with you, but Blödhgarm and
his ilk turned them away, for their requests were not urgent.

Is that so?He dug his fingers under the edge of one of her large neck scales, scratching even harder.
Perhaps I should emulate Nasuada .

How so?

On the sixth day of every week, from morning until noon, she grants an audience to everyone
who wishes to bring requests or disputes before her. I could do the same.

I like the idea,said Saphira.Only, you will have to be careful that you do not expend too much of
your energy on people’s demands. We must be ready to fight the Empire at a moment’s notice .
She pushed her neck against his hand, humming even louder.

I need a sword,Eragon said.

Then get one.


Mmh. . . .

Eragon continued to scratch her until she pulled away and said,You will be late for Nasuada unless
you hurry .

Together, they started toward the center of the camp and Nasuada’s pavilion. It was less than a quarter
of a mile away, so Saphira walked with him instead of soaring among the clouds, as she had before.

About a hundred feet from the pavilion, they chanced upon Angela the herbalist. She was kneeling
between two tents, pointing at a square of leather draped across a low, flat rock. On the leather lay a
jumbled pile of finger-length bones branded with a different symbol on each facet: the knucklebones of a
dragon, with which she had read Eragon’s future in Teirm.

Opposite Angela sat a tall woman with broad shoulders; tanned, weather-beaten skin; black hair
braided in a long, thick rope down her back; and a face that was still handsome despite the hard lines
that the years had carved around her mouth. She wore a russet dress that had been made for a shorter
woman; her wrists stuck out several inches from the ends of her sleeves. She had tied a strip of dark
cloth around each wrist, but the strip on the left had loosened and slipped toward her elbow. Eragon saw
thick layers of scars where it had been. They were the sort of scars one could only get from the constant
chafing of manacles. At some point, he realized, she had been captured by her enemies, and she had
fought—fought until she had torn open her wrists to the bone, if her scars were anything to judge by. He
wondered whether she had been a criminal or a slave, and he felt his countenance darken as he
considered the thought of someone being so cruel as to allow such harm to befall a prisoner under his
control, even if it was self-inflicted.

Next to the woman was a serious-looking teenage girl just entering into the full bloom of her adult
beauty. The muscles of her forearms were unusually large, as if she had been an apprentice to a smith or
a swordsman, which was highly improbable for a girl, no matter how strong she might be.

Angela had just finished saying something to the woman and her companion when Eragon and Saphira
halted behind the curlyhaired witch. With a single motion, Angela gathered up the knucklebones in the
leather square and tucked them under the yellow sash at her waist. Standing, she flashed Eragon and
Saphira a brilliant smile. “My, you both have the most impeccable sense of timing. You always seem to
turn up whenever the drop spindle of fate begins to spin.”

“The drop spindle of fate?” questioned Eragon.

She shrugged. “What? You can’t expect brilliance all the time, not even from me.” She gestured at the
two strangers, who had also stood, and said, “Eragon, will you consent to give them your blessing? They
have endured many dangers, and a hard road yet lies before them. I am sure they would appreciate
whatever protection the benediction of a Dragon Rider may convey.”

Eragon hesitated. He knew that Angela rarely cast the dragon bones for the people who sought her
services—usually only for those whom Solembum deigned to speak with—as such a prognostication was
no false act of magic but rather a true foretelling that could reveal the mysteries of the future. That Angela
had chosen to do this for the handsome woman with the scars on her wrists and the teenage girl with the
forearms of a swordfighter told him they were people of note, people who had had, and would have,
important roles in shaping the Alagaësia to be. As if to confirm his suspicions, he spotted Solembum in his
usual form of a cat with large, tufted ears lurking behind the corner of a nearby tent, watching the
proceedings with enigmatic yellow eyes. And yet Eragon still hesitated, haunted by the memory of the


first and last blessing he had bestowed—how, because of his relative unfamiliarity with the ancient
language, he had distorted the life of an innocent child.

Saphira?he asked.

Her tail whipped through the air.Do not be so reluctant. You have

learned from your mistake, and you shall not make it again. Why, then, should you withhold your
blessing from those who may benefit from it? Bless them, I say, and do it properly this time.

“What are your names?” he asked.

“If it please you, Shadeslayer,” said the tall, black-haired woman, with a hint of an accent he could not
place, “names have power, and we would prefer ours remain unknown.” She kept her gaze angled
slightly downward, but her tone was firm and unyielding. The girl uttered a small gasp, as if shocked by
the woman’s effrontery.

Eragon nodded, neither upset nor surprised, although the woman’s reticence had piqued his curiosity
even more. He would have liked to know their names, but they were not essential for what he was about
to do. Pulling the glove off his right hand, he placed his palm on the middle of the woman’s warm
forehead. She flinched at the contact but did not retreat. Her nostrils flared, the corners of her mouth
thinned, a crease appeared between her eyebrows, and he felt her tremble, as if his touch pained her and
she were fighting the urge to knock aside his arm. In the background, Eragon was vaguely aware of
Blödhgarm stalking closer, ready to pounce on the woman should she prove to be hostile.

Disconcerted by her reaction, Eragon broached the barrier in his mind, immersed himself in the flow of
magic, and, with the full power of the ancient language, said, “Atra guliä un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono
waíse sköliro fra rauthr.” By imbuing the phrase with energy, as he would the words of a spell, he
ensured that it would shape the course of events and thereby improve the woman’s lot in life. He was
careful to limit the amount of energy he transferred into the blessing, for unless he put checks on it, a spell
of that sort would feed off his body until it absorbed all of his vitality, leaving him an empty husk. Despite
his caution, the drop in his strength was more than he expected; his vision dimmed and his legs wobbled
and threatened to collapse underneath him.

A moment later, he recovered.

It was with a sense of relief that he lifted his hand from the woman’s brow, a sentiment that she seemed
to share, for she stepped back and rubbed her arms. She looked to him like a person trying to cleanse
herself of some foul substance.

Moving on, Eragon repeated the procedure with the teenage girl. Her face widened as he released the
spell, as if she could feel it becoming part of her body. She curtsied. “Thank you, Shadeslayer. We are in
your debt. I hope that you succeed in defeating Galbatorix and the Empire.”

She turned to leave but stopped when Saphira snorted and snaked her head past Eragon and Angela, so
she loomed above the two women. Bending her neck, Saphira breathed first upon the face of the older
woman and then upon the face of the younger, and projecting her thoughts with such force as to
overwhelm all but the thickest defenses—for she and Eragon had noticed that the black-haired woman
had a well-armored mind—she said,Good hunting, O Wild Ones. May the wind rise under your
wings, may the sun always be at your backs, and may you catch your prey napping. And,
Wolf-Eyes, I hope that when you find the one who left your paws in his traps, you do not kill him


too quickly .
Both women stiffened when Saphira began to speak. Afterward, the elder clapped her fists against her

chest and said, “That I shall not, O Beautiful Huntress.” Then she bowed to Angela, saying, “Train hard,
strike first, Seer.”

“Bladesinger.”

With a swirl of skirts, she and the teenager strode away and soon were lost from sight in the maze of

identical gray tents.

What, no marks upon their foreheads?Eragon asked Saphira.

Elva was unique. I shall not brand anyone else in a like manner. What happened in Farthen Dûr

just . . . happened. Instinct drove me. Beyond that, I cannot explain.

As the three of them walked toward Nasuada’s pavilion, Eragon glanced at Angela. “Who were they?”

Her lips quirked. “Pilgrims on their own quest.”

“That is hardly an answer,” he complained.

“It is not my habit to hand out secrets like candied nuts on winter solstice. Especially not when they
belong to others.”

He was silent for a few paces. Then: “When someone refuses to tell me a certain piece of information, it
only makes me that much more determined to find out the truth. I hate being ignorant. For me, a question
unanswered is like a thorn in my side that pains me every time I move until I can pluck it out.”

“You have my sympathy.”

“Why is that?”

“Because if that is so, you must spend every waking hour in mortal agony, for life is full of unanswerable
questions.”

Sixty feet from Nasuada’s pavilion, a contingent of pikemen marching through camp blocked their way.
While they waited for the warriors to file past, Eragon shivered and blew on his hands. “I wish we had
time for a meal.”

Quick as ever, Angela said, “It’s the magic, isn’t it? It has worn you down.” He nodded. Sticking a hand
into one of the pouches that hung from her sash, Angela pulled out a hard brown lump flecked with shiny
flaxseeds. “Here, this will hold you until lunch.”

“What is it?”

She thrust it at him, insistent. “Eat it. You’ll like it. Trust me.” As he took the oily lump from between her
fingers, she grasped his wrist with her other hand and held him in place while she inspected the
half-inch-high calluses on his knuckles. “How very clever of you,” she said. “They are as ugly as the
warts on a toad, but who cares if they help keep your skin intact, eh? I like this. I like this quite a lot.
Were you inspired by the dwarves’ Ascûdgamln?”


“Nothing escapes you, does it?” he asked.

“Let it escape. I only concern myself with things that exist.” Eragon blinked, thrown as he often was by
her verbal trickery. She tapped a callus with the tip of one of her short fingernails. “I would do this
myself, except that it would catch on the wool when I’m spinning or knitting.”

“You knit with your own yarn?” he said, surprised that she would engage in anything so ordinary.

“Of course! It’s a wonderful way to relax. Besides, if I didn’t, where would I get a sweater with
Dvalar’s ward against mad rabbits knit in the Liduen Kvaedhí across the inside of the chest, or a snood
that was dyed yellow, green, and bright pink?”

“Mad rabbits—”

She tossed her thick curls. “You would be amazed how many magicians have died after being bitten by
mad rabbits. It’s far more common than you might think.”

Eragon stared at her.Do you think she’s jesting? he asked Saphira.

Ask her and find out.

She would only answer with another riddle.

The pikemen having gone, Eragon, Saphira, and Angela continued toward the pavilion, accompanied by
Solembum, who had joined them without Eragon noticing. Picking her way around piles of dung left by
the horses of King Orrin’s cavalry, Angela said, “So tell me: aside from your fight with the Ra’zac, did
anything terribly interesting happen to you during your trip? You know how I love to hear about
interesting things.”

Eragon smiled, thinking of the spirits that had visited him and Arya. However, he did not want to discuss
them, so instead he said, “Since you ask, quite a few interesting things happened. For example, I met a
hermit named Tenga living in the ruins of an elf tower. He possessed the most amazing library. In it were
seven—”

Angela stopped so abruptly, Eragon kept walking another three paces before he caught himself and
turned back. The witch seemed stunned, as if she had taken a hard knock to her head. Padding toward
her, Solembum leaned against her legs and gazed upward. Angela wet her lips, then said, “Are . . .” She
coughed once. “Are you sure his name was Tenga?”

“Have you met him?”

Solembum hissed, and the hair on his back stood straight out. Eragon edged away from the werecat,
eager to escape the reach of his claws.

“Met him?” With a bitter laugh, Angela planted her hands on her hips. “Met him? Why, I did better than
that! I was his apprentice for . . . for an unfortunate number of years.”

Eragon had never expected Angela to willingly reveal anything about her past. Eager to learn more, he
asked, “When did you meet him? And where?”


“Long ago and far away. However, we parted badly, and I have not seen him for many, many years.”
Angela frowned. “In fact, I thought he was already dead.”

Saphira spoke then, saying,Since you were Tenga’s apprentice, do you know what question he’s
trying to answer?

“I have not the slightest idea. Tenga always had a question he was trying to answer. If he succeeded, he
immediately chose another one, and so on. He may have answered a hundred questions since I last saw
him, or he may still be gnashing his teeth over the same conundrum as when I left him.”

Which was?

“Whether the phases of the moon influence the number and quality of the opals that form in the roots of
the Beor Mountains, as is commonly held among the dwarves.”

“But how could you prove that?” objected Eragon.

Angela shrugged. “If anyone could, it would be Tenga. He may be deranged, but his brilliance is none
the less for it.”

He is a man who kicks at cats,said Solembum, as if that summed up Tenga’s entire character.

Then Angela clapped her hands together and said, “No more! Eat your sweet, Eragon, and let us go to
Nasuada.”