Brisingr Part 2

MAKINGAMENDS

“You are late,” said Nasuada as Eragon and Angela found seats in the row of chairs arranged in a
semicircle before Nasuada’s high-backed throne. Also seated in the semicircle were Elva and her
caretaker, Greta, the old woman who had pleaded with Eragon in Farthen Dûr to bless her charge. As
before, Saphira lay outside the pavilion and stuck her head through an opening at one end so that she
could participate in the meeting. Solembum had curled up in a ball next to her head. He appeared to be
sound asleep, except for occasional flicks of his tail.

Along with Angela, Eragon made his apologies for their tardiness, and then he listened as Nasuada
explained to Elva the value of her abilities to the Varden—As if she doesn’t already know,Eragon
commented to Saphira—and entreated her to release Eragon from his promise to try to undo the effects
of his blessing. She said she understood that what she was asking of Elva was difficult, but the fate of the
entire land was at stake, and was it not worth sacrificing one’s own comfort to help rescue Alagaësia
from Galbatorix’s evil clutches? It was a magnificent speech: eloquent, impassioned, and full of arguments
intended to appeal to Elva’s more noble sentiments.

Elva, who had been resting her small, pointed chin on her fists, raised her head and said, “No.” Shocked
silence pervaded the pavilion. Transferring her unblinking gaze from one person to the next, she
elaborated: “Eragon, Angela, you both know what it is like to share someone’s thoughts and emotions as
they die. You know how horrible, how wrenching it is, how it feels as if part of yourself has vanished


forever. And that is only from the death of one person. Neither of you has to endure the experience
unless you want to, whereas I . . . I have no choice but to share them all. I feel every death around me.
Even now I can feel the life ebbing out of Sefton, one of your swordsmen, Nasuada, who was wounded
on the Burning Plains, and I know what words I could say to him that would lessen his terror of
obliteration. His fear is so great, oh, it makes me tremble!” With an incoherent cry, she cast up her arms
before her face, as if to ward off a blow. Then: “Ah, he has gone. But there are others. There are always
others. The line of dead never ends.” The bitter mocking quality of her voice intensified, a travesty of a
child’s normal speech. “Do you truly understand, Nasuada, Lady Nightstalker . . . She Who Would Be
Queen of the World? Do you truly understand? I am privy to all of the agony around me, whether
physical or mental. I feel it as if it were my own, and Eragon’s magic drives me to alleviate the discomfort
of those who suffer, regardless of the cost to myself. And if I resist the urge, as I am this very moment,
my body rebels against me: my stomach turns acid, my head throbs as if a dwarf is hammering on it, and I
find it hard to move, much less think. Is this what you would wish on me, Nasuada?

“Night and day I have no respite from the pain of the world. Since Eragonblessed me, I have known
nothing but hurt and fear, never happiness or pleasure. The lighter side of life, the things that make this
existence bearable, these are denied me. Never do I see them. Never do I share in them. Only darkness.
Only the combined misery of all the men, women, and children within a mile, battering at me like a
midnight storm. Thisblessing has deprived me of the opportunity to be like other children. It has forced
my body to mature faster than normal, and my mind even faster still. Eragon may be able to remove this
ghastly ability of mine and the compulsion that accompanies it, but he cannot return me to what I was, nor
what I should be, not without destroying who I have become. I am a freak, neither a child nor an adult,
forever doomed to stand apart. I am not blind, you know. I see how you recoil when you hear me
speak.” She shook her head. “No, this is too much to ask of me. I will not continue like this for the sake
of you, Nasuada, nor the Varden, nor the whole of Alagaësia, nor even for my dear mother, were she
still alive today. It is not worth it, not for anything. I could go live by myself, so that I would be free of
other people’s afflictions, but I do not want to live like that. No, the only solution is for Eragon to attempt
to correct his mistake.” Her lips curved in a sly smile. “And if you disagree with me, if you think I am
being stupid and selfish, why, then, you would do well to remember that I am hardly more than a
swaddling babe and have yet to celebrate my second birthday. Only fools expect an infant to martyr
herself for the greater good. But infant or not, I have made my decision, and nothing you can say will
convince me otherwise. In this, I am as iron.”

Nasuada reasoned with her further, but as Elva had promised, it proved to be a futile prospect. At last
Nasuada asked Angela, Eragon, and Saphira to intervene. Angela refused on the grounds that she could
not improve on Nasuada’s words and that she believed Elva’s choice was a personal one and therefore
the girl ought to be able to do as she wished without being harried like an eagle by a flock of jays. Eragon
was of a similar opinion, but he consented to say, “Elva, I cannot tell you what you should do—only you
can determine that—but do not reject Nasuada’s request out of hand. She is trying to save us all from
Galbatorix, and she needs our support if we are to have any chance of success. The future is hidden to
me, but I believe that your ability might be the perfect weapon against Galbatorix. You could predict his
every attack. You could tell us exactly how to counteract his wards. And above all else, you would be
able to sense where Galbatorix is vulnerable, where he is most weak, and what we could do to hurt him.”

“You will have to do better than that, Rider, if you want to change my mind.”

“I don’t want to change your mind,” said Eragon. “I only want to make sure you have given due
consideration to the implications of your decision and that you are not being overly hasty.”

The girl shifted but did not respond.


Then Saphira asked:What is in your heart, O Shining Brow?
Elva answered in a soft tone, with no trace of malice. “I have spoken my heart, Saphira. Any other
words would be redundant.”
If Nasuada was frustrated by Elva’s obstinacy, she did not allow it to show, although her expression was
stern, as befitted the discussion. She said, “I do not agree with your choice, Elva, but we will abide by it,
for it is obvious that we cannot sway you. I suppose I cannot fault you, as I have no experience with the

suffering you are exposed to on a daily basis, and if I were in your position, it is possible I would act no
differently. Eragon, if you will . . .”
At her bidding, Eragon knelt in front of Elva. Her lustrous violet eyes bored into him as he placed her

small hands between his larger ones. Her flesh burned against his as if she had a fever.
“Will it hurt, Shadeslayer?” Greta asked, the old woman’s voice quavering.
“It shouldn’t, but I do not know for sure. Removing spells is a much more inexact art than casting them.

Magicians rarely if ever attempt it because of the challenges it poses.”

The wrinkles on her face contorted with worry, Greta patted Elva on the head, saying, “Oh, be brave,
my plum. Be brave.” She did not seem to notice the look of irritation Elva directed at her.
Eragon ignored the interruption. “Elva, listen to me. There are two different methods for breaking an

enchantment. One is for the magician who originally cast the spell to open himself to the energy that fuels

our magic—”
“That’s the part I always had difficulty with,” said Angela. “It’s why I rely more upon potions and plants
and objects that are magical in and of themselves than upon incantations.”

“Ifyou don’t mind . . .”
Her cheeks dimpling, Angela said, “I’m sorry. Proceed.”
“Right,” growled Eragon. “One is for the original magician to open himself—”
“Or herself,” Angela interjected.
“Will you please let me finish?”
“Sorry.”
Eragon saw Nasuada fight back a smile. “He opens himself to the flow of energy within his body and,


speaking in the ancient language, recants not only the words of his spell but also the intention behind it.
This can be quite difficult, as you might imagine. Unless the magician has the right intent, he will end up
altering the original spell instead of lifting it. And then he would have to unsaytwo intertwined spells.

“The other method is to cast a spell that directly counteracts the effects of the original spell. It does not
eliminate the original spell, but if done properly, it renders it harmless. With your permission, this is the
method I intend to use.”

“A most elegant solution,” Angela proclaimed, “but who, pray tell, provides the continuous stream of


energy needed to maintain this counterspell? And since someone must ask, what can go wrong with this
particular method?”

Eragon kept his gaze fixed on Elva. “The energy will have to come from you,” he told her, pressing her
hands with his. “It won’t be much, but it will still reduce your stamina by a certain amount. If I do this,
you will never be able to run as far or lift as many pieces of firewood as someone who does not have a
similar incantation leeching off them.”

“Why can’t you provide the energy?” asked Elva, arching an eyebrow. “You are the one who is
responsible for my predicament, after all.”

“I would, but the farther away I got from you, the harder it would be to send the energy to you. And if I
went too far—a mile, say, or maybe a bit more—the effort would kill me. As for what can go wrong, the
only risk is that I will word the counterspell improperly and it won’t block all of my blessing. If that
happens, I will simply cast another counterspell.”

“And if that falls short as well?”

He paused. “Then I can always resort to the first method I explained. I would prefer to avoid that,
however. It is the only way to completely do away with a spell, but if the attempt were to go amiss, and it
very well might, you could end up worse off than you are now.”

Elva nodded. “I understand.”

“Have I your permission to proceed, then?”

When she dipped her chin again, Eragon took a deep breath, readying himself. His eyes half closed from
the strength of his concentration, he began to speak in the ancient language. Each word fell from his
tongue with the weight of a hammer blow. He was careful to enunciate every syllable, every sound that
was foreign to his own language, so as to avoid a potentially tragic mishap. The counterspell was burned
into his memory. He had spent many hours during his trip from Helgrind inventing it, agonizing over it,
challenging himself to devise better alternatives, all in anticipation of the day he would attempt to atone for
the harm he had caused Elva. As he spoke, Saphira channeled her strength into him, and he felt her
supporting him and watching closely, ready to intervene if she saw in his mind that he was about to
mangle the incantation. The counterspell was very long and very complicated, for he had sought to
address every reasonable interpretation of his blessing. As a result, a full five minutes passed before
Eragon uttered the last sentence, word, and then syllable.

In the silence that followed, Elva’s face clouded with disappointment. “I can still sense them,” she said.

Nasuada leaned forward in her seat. “Who?”

“You, him, her, everyone who’s in pain. They haven’t gone away!

The urge to help them, that’s gone, but this agony still courses through me.”

Nasuada leaned forward in her throne. “Eragon?”

He frowned. “I must have missed something. Give me a little while to think, and I’ll put together another
spell that may do the trick. There are a few other possibilities I considered, but . . .” He trailed off,
troubled by the fact that the counterspell had not performed as expected. Moreover, deploying a spell


specifically to block the pain Elva was feeling would be far more difficult than trying to undo the blessing
as a whole. One wrong word, one poorly constructed phrase, and he might destroy her sense of
empathy, or preclude her from ever learning how to communicate with her mind, or inhibit her own sense
of pain, so she would not immediately notice when she was injured.

Eragon was in the midst of consulting with Saphira when Elva said, “No!”

Puzzled, he looked at her.

An ecstatic glow seemed to emanate from Elva. Her round, pearllike teeth gleamed as she smiled, her
eyes flashing with triumphant joy. “No, don’t try again.”

“But, Elva, why would—”

“Because I don’t want any more spells feeding off me. And because I just realizedI can ignore them !”
She gripped the arms of her chair, trembling with excitement. “Without the urge to aid everyone who is
suffering, I can ignore their troubles, and it doesn’t make me sick! I can ignore the man with the
amputated leg, I can ignore the woman who just scalded her hand, I can ignore them all, and I feel no
worse for it! It’s true I can’t block them perfectly, not yet at least, but oh, what a relief! Silence. Blessed
silence! No more cuts, scrapes, bruises, or broken bones. No more petty worries of airheaded youths.
No more anguish of abandoned wives or cuckolded husbands. No more the thousands of unbearable
injuries of an entire war. No more the gut-wrenching panic that precedes the final darkness.” With tears
starting down her cheeks, she laughed, a husky warble that set Eragon’s scalp atingle.

What madness is this?asked Saphira.Even if you can put it out of your mind, why remain shackled
to the pain of others when Eragon may yet be able to free you of it?

Elva’s eyes glowed with unsavory glee. “I will never be like ordinary people. If I must be different, then
let me keep that which sets me apart. As long as I can control this power, as it seems I now can, I have
no objection to carrying this burden, for it shall be by my choice and not forced upon me by your magic,
Eragon. Ha! From now on, I shall answer to no one and no thing. If I help anyone, it will be because I
want to. If I serve the Varden, it will be because my conscience tells me I should and not because you
ask me to, Nasuada, or because I’ll throw up if I don’t. I will do as I please, and woe unto those who
oppose me, for I know all their fears and shall not hesitate to play upon them in order to fulfill my
wishes.”

“Elva!” exclaimed Greta. “Do not say such terrible things! You cannot mean them!”

The girl turned toward her so sharply, her hair fanned out behind her. “Ah yes, I had forgotten about
you, my nursemaid. Ever faithful. Always fussing. I am grateful to you for adopting me after my mother
died, and for the care you’ve given me since Farthen Dûr, but I do not require your assistance anymore. I
will live alone, tend to myself, and be beholden to no one.” Cowed, the old woman covered her mouth
with the hem of a sleeve and shrank back.

What Elva said appalled Eragon. He decided that he could not allow her to retain her ability if she was
going to abuse it. With Saphira’s assistance, for she agreed with him, he picked the most promising of the
new counterspells he had been contemplating earlier and opened his mouth to deliver the lines.

Quick as a snake, Elva clamped a hand over his lips, preventing him from speaking. The pavilion shook
as Saphira snarled, nearly deafening Eragon, with his enhanced hearing. As everyone reeled, save for
Elva, who kept her hand pressed against Eragon’s face, Saphira said,Let him go, hatchling!


Drawn by Saphira’s snarl, Nasuada’s six guards charged inside, brandishing their weapons, while
Blödhgarm and the other elves ran up to Saphira and stationed themselves on either side of her
shoulders, pulling back the wall of the tent so they could all see what was happening. Nasuada gestured,
and the Nighthawks lowered their weapons, but the elves remained poised for action. Their blades
gleamed like ice.

Neither the commotion she had engendered nor the swords leveled at her seemed to perturb Elva. She
cocked her head and gazed at Eragon as if he were an unusual beetle she had found crawling along the
edge of her chair, and then she smiled with such a sweet, innocent expression, he wondered why he did
not have greater faith in her character. In a voice like warm honey, she said, “Eragon, cease. If you cast
that spell, you will hurt me as you hurt me once before. You do not want that. Every night when you lay
yourself down to sleep, you will think of me, and the memory of the wrong you have committed will
torment you. What you were about to do was evil, Eragon. Are you the judge of the world? Will you
condemn me in the absence of wrongdoing merely because you do not approve of me? That way lies the
depraved pleasure of controlling others for your own satisfaction. Galbatorix would approve.”

She released him then, but Eragon was too troubled to move. She had struck at his very core, and he
had no counterarguments with which to defend himself, for her questions and observations were the very
ones he directed at himself. Her understanding of him sent a chill crawling down his spine. “I am grateful
to you also, Eragon, for coming here today to correct your mistake. Not everyone is as willing to
acknowledge and confront their shortcomings. However, you have earned no favor with me today. You
have righted the scales as best you could, but that is only what any decent person ought to have done.
You have not compensated me for what I have endured, nor can you. So when next we cross paths,
Eragon Shadeslayer, count me not as a friend or foe. I am ambivalent toward you, Rider; I am just as
prepared to hate you as I am to love you. The outcome is yours alone to decide. . . . Saphira, you gave
me the star upon my brow, and you have always been kind to me. I am and shall always remain your
faithful servant.”

Lifting her chin to maximize her three-and-a-half-foot height, Elva surveyed the interior of the pavilion.
“Eragon, Saphira, Nasuada . . . Angela. Good day.” And with that, she swept off toward the entrance.
The Nighthawks parted ranks as she passed between them and went outside.

Eragon stood, feeling unsteady. “What sort of monster have I created?” The two Urgal Nighthawks
touched the tip of each of their horns, which he knew was how they warded off evil. To Nasuada, he
said, “I’m sorry. I seem to have only made things worse for you—for all of us.”

Calm as a mountain lake, Nasuada arranged her robes before answering: “No matter. The game has
gotten a little more complicated, that is all. It is to be expected the closer we get to Urû’baen and
Galbatorix.”

A moment later, Eragon heard the sound of an object rushing through the air toward him. He flinched,
but fast as he was, he was too slow to avoid a stinging slap that knocked his head to one side and sent
him staggering against a chair. He rolled across the seat of the chair and sprang upright, his left arm lifted
to ward off an oncoming blow, his right arm pulled back, ready to stab with the hunting knife he had
snatched from his belt during the maneuver. To his astonishment, he saw that it was Angela who had
struck him. The elves were gathered inches behind the fortuneteller, ready to subdue her if she should
attack him again or to escort her away should Eragon order it. Solembum was at her feet, teeth and
claws bared, and his hair standing on end.

Right then, Eragon could care less about the elves. “What did you do that for?” he demanded. He


winced as his split lower lip stretched, tearing the flesh farther apart. Warm, metallic-tasting blood
trickled down his throat.

Angela tossed her head. “Now I’m going to have to spend the next ten years teaching Elva how to
behave! That’snot what I had in mind for the next decade!”

“Teach her?” exclaimed Eragon. “She won’t let you. She’ll stop you as easily as she stopped me.”

“Humph. Not likely. She doesn’t know what bothers me, nor what might be about to hurt me. I saw to
that the day she and I first met.”

“Would you share this spell with us?” Nasuada asked. “After how this has turned out, it seems prudent
for us to have a means of protecting ourselves from Elva.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” said Angela. Then she too marched out of the pavilion, and Solembum stalked
after her, waving his tail ever so gracefully.

The elves sheathed their blades and retreated to a discreet distance from the tent.

Nasuada rubbed her temples with a circular motion. “Magic,” she cursed.

“Magic,” agreed Eragon.

The pair of them started as Greta cast herself upon the ground and began to weep and wail while pulling
at her thin hair, beating herself on the face, and ripping at her bodice. “Oh, my poor dear! I’ve lost my
lamb! Lost! What will become of her, all alone? Oh, woe is me, my own little blossom rejecting me. It’s
a shameful reward it is for the work I’ve done, bending my back like a slave I have. What a cruel, hard
world, always stealing your happiness from you.” She groaned. “My plum. My rose. My pretty sweet
pea. Gone!

And no one to look after her. . . . Shadeslayer! Will you watch over her?”

Eragon grasped her by the arm and helped her to her feet, consoling her with assurances that he and
Saphira would keep a close eye on Elva.If only, as Saphira said to Eragon,because she might attempt
to slip a knife between our ribs .

GIFTS OFGOLD

Eragon stood next to Saphira, fifty yards from Nasuada’s crimson pavilion. Glad to be free of all the
commotion that had surrounded Elva, he gazed up at the clear azure sky and rolled his shoulders, already
tired from the events of the day. Saphira intended to fly out to the Jiet River and bathe herself in its deep,
slow-moving water, but his own intentions were less definite. He still needed to finish oiling his armor,
prepare for Roran and Katrina’s wedding, visit with Jeod, locate a proper sword for himself, and also . .
. He scratched his chin.

How long will you be gone?he asked.


Saphira unfurled her wings in preparation for flight.A few hours. I’m hungry. Once I am clean, I am
going to catch two or three of those plump deer I’ve seen nibbling the grass on the western bank
of the river.The Varden have shot so many of them, though, I may have to fly a half-dozen leagues
toward the Spine before I find any game worth hunting.

Don’t go too far,he cautioned,else you might encounter the Empire .

I won’t, but if I happen upon a lone group of soldiers. . . She licked her chops.I would enjoy a
quick fight. Besides, humans taste just as good as deer .

Saphira, you wouldn’t!

Her eyes sparkled.Maybe, maybe not. It depends on whether they are wearing armor. I hate biting
through metal, and scooping my food out of a shell is just as annoying .

I see. He glanced over at the nearest elf, a tall, silver-haired woman.The elves won’t want you to go
alone. Will you allow a couple of them to ride on you? Otherwise, it will be impossible for them to
keep pace .

Not today. Today, I hunt alone!With a sweep of her wings, she took off, soaring high overhead. As
she turned west, toward the Jiet River, her voice sounded in his mind, fainter than before because of the
distance between them.When I return, we will fly together, won’t we, Eragon?

Yes, when you return, we will fly together, just the two of us. Her pleasure at that caused him to
smile as he watched her arrow away toward the west.

Eragon lowered his gaze as Blödhgarm ran up to him, lithe as a forest cat. The elf asked where Saphira
was going and seemed displeased with Eragon’s explanation, but if he had any objections, he kept them
to himself.

“Right,” Eragon said to himself as Blödhgarm rejoined his companions. “First things first.”

He strode through the camp until he found a large square of open space where thirty-some Varden were
practicing with a wide assortment of weapons. To his relief, they were too busy training to notice his
presence. Crouching, he lay his right hand palm-upward on the trampled earth. He chose the words he
would need from the ancient language, then murmured, “Kuldr, rïsa lam iet un malthinae unin böllr.”

The soil beside his hand appeared unchanged, although he could feel the spell sifting through the dirt for
hundreds of feet in every direction. Not more than five seconds later, the surface of the earth began to
boil like a pot of water left to sit for too long over a high flame, and it acquired a bright yellow sheen.
Eragon had learned from Oromis that wherever one went, the land was sure to contain minute particles of
nearly every element, and while they would be too small and scattered to mine with traditional methods, a
knowledgeable magician could, with great effort, extract them.

From the center of the yellow patch, a fountain of sparkling dust arched up and over, landing in the
middle of Eragon’s palm. There each glittering mote melded into the next, until three spheres of pure
gold, each the size of a large hazelnut, rested on his hand.

“Letta,” said Eragon, and released the magic. He sat back on his heels and braced himself against the
ground as a wave of weariness washed over him. His head drooped forward, and his eyelids descended


halfway as his vision flickered and dimmed. Taking a deep breath, he admired the mirror-smooth orbs in
his hand while he waited for his strength to return.So pretty, he thought.If only I could have done this
when we were living in Palancar Valley. . . . It would almost be easier to mine the gold, though. A
spell hasn’t taken so much out of me since I carried Sloan down from the top of Helgrind .

He pocketed the gold and set out again through the camp. He found a cook tent and ate a large lunch,
which he needed after casting so many arduous spells, then headed toward the area where the villagers
from Carvahall were staying. As he approached, he heard the ring of metal striking metal. Curious, he
turned in that direction.

Eragon stepped around a line of three wagons parked across the mouth of the lane and saw Horst
standing in a thirty-foot gap between the tents, holding one end of a five-foot-long bar of steel. The other
end of the bar was bright cherry red and rested on the face of a massive two-hundred-pound anvil that
was staked to the top of a low, wide stump. On either side of the anvil, Horst’s burly sons, Albriech and
Baldor, alternated striking the steel with sledgehammers, which they swung over their heads in huge
circular blows. A makeshift forge glowed several feet behind the anvil.

The hammering was so loud, Eragon kept his distance until Albriech and Baldor had finished spreading
the steel and Horst had returned the bar to the forge. Waving his free arm, Horst said, “Ho, Eragon!”
Then he held up a finger, forestalling Eragon’s reply, and pulled a plug of felted wool out of his left ear.
“Ah, now I can hear again. What brings you about, Eragon?” While he spoke, his sons scooped more
charcoal into the forge from a bucket and set about tidying up the tongs, hammers, dies, and other tools
that lay on the ground. All three men gleamed with sweat.

“I wanted to know what was causing such a commotion,” said Eragon. “I should have guessed it was
you. No one else can create as big an uproar as someone from Carvahall.”

Horst laughed, his thick, spade-shaped beard pointed up toward the sky until his mirth was exhausted.
“Ah, that tickles my pride, it does. And aren’t you the living truth of it, eh?”

“We all are,” Eragon replied. “You, me, Roran, everyone from Carvahall. Alagaësia will never be the
same once the lot of us are done.” He gestured at the forge and the other equipment. “Why are you
here? I thought that all the smiths were—”

“So they are, Eragon. So they are. However, I convinced the captain who’s in charge of this part of the
camp to let me work closer to our tent.” Horst tugged at the end of his beard. “It’s on account of Elain,
you know. This child, it goes hard with her, and no wonder, considering what we went through to get
here. She’s always been delicate, and now I worry that . . . well . . .” He shook himself like a bear
ridding itself of flies. “Maybe you could look in on her when you get a chance and see if you can ease her
discomfort.”

“I’ll do that,” Eragon promised.

With a satisfied grunt, Horst lifted the bar partway out of the coals to better judge the color of the steel.
Plunging the bar back into the center of the fire, he jerked his beard toward Albriech. “Here now, give it
some air. It’s almost ready.” As Albriech began to pump the leather bellows, Horst grinned at Eragon.
“When I told the Varden I was a smith, they were so happy, you would have thought I was another
Dragon Rider. They don’t have enough metal workers, you see. And they gave me what tools I was
missing, including that anvil. When we left Carvahall, I wept at the prospect that I would not have the
opportunity to practice my craft again. I am no swordsmith, but here, ah, here there is enough work to
keep Albriech, Baldor, and me busy for the next fifty years. It doesn’t pay very well, but at least we’re


not stretched out on a rack in Gal batorix’s dungeons.”

“Or the Ra’zac could be nibbling on our bones,” observed Baldor.

“Aye, that too.” Horst motioned for his sons to take up the sledgehammers again and then, holding the
felt plug beside his left ear, said, “Is there anything else you wish of us, Eragon? The steel is ready, and I
cannot leave it in the fire any longer without weakening it.”

“Do you know where Gedric is?”

“Gedric?” The furrow between Horst’s eyebrows deepened. “He should be practicing the sword and
spear along with the rest of the men, thataway about a quarter of a mile.” Horst pointed with a thumb.

Eragon thanked him and departed in the direction Horst had indicated. The repetitive ring of metal
striking metal resumed, clear as the peals of a bell and as sharp and piercing as a glass needle stabbing
the air. Eragon covered his ears and smiled. It comforted him that Horst had retained his strength of
purpose and that, despite the loss of his wealth and home, he was still the same person he had been in
Carvahall. Somehow the smith’s consistency and resiliency renewed Eragon’s faith that if only they could
overthrow Galbatorix, everything would be all right in the end, and his life and those of the villagers from
Carvahall would regain a semblance of normalcy.

Eragon soon arrived at the field where the men of Carvahall were drilling with their new weapons.
Gedric was there, as Horst had suggested he would be, sparring with Fisk, Darmmen, and Morn. A
quick word on the part of Eragon with the one-armed veteran who was leading the drills was sufficient to
secure Gedric’s temporary release.

The tanner ran over to Eragon and stood before him, his gaze lowered. He was short and swarthy, with
a jaw like a mastiff’s, heavy eyebrows, and arms thick and gnarled from stirring the foul-smelling vats
where he had cured his hides. Although he was far from handsome, Eragon knew him to be a kind and
honest man.

“What can I do for you, Shadeslayer?” Gedric mumbled.

“You have already done it. And I have come here to thank and repay you.”

“I? How have I helped you, Shadeslayer?” He spoke slowly, cautiously, as if afraid Eragon were setting
a trap for him.

“Soon after I ran away from Carvahall, you discovered that someone had stolen three ox hides from the
drying hut by the vats. Am I right?”

Gedric’s face darkened with embarrassment, and he shuffled his feet. “Ah, well now, I didn’t lock that
hut, you know. Anyone might have snuck in and carried those hides off. Besides, given what’s happened
since, I can’t see as it’s much important. I destroyed most of my stock before we trooped into the Spine,
to keep the Empire and those filthy Ra’zac from getting their claws on anything of use. Whoever took
those hides saved me from having to destroy three more. So let bygones be bygones, I say.”

“Perhaps,” said Eragon, “but I still feel honor-bound to tell you that it was I who stole your hides.”

Gedric met his gaze then, looking at him as if he were an ordinary person, without fear, awe, or undue
respect, as if the tanner were reevaluating his opinion of Eragon.


“I stole them, and I’m not proud of it, but I needed the hides. Without them, I doubt I would have
survived long enough to reach the elves in Du Weldenvarden. I always preferred to think that I had
borrowed the hides, but the truth is, I stole them, for I had no intention of returning them. Therefore, you
have my apologies. And since I am keeping the hides, or what is left of them, it seems only right to pay
you for them.” From within his belt, Eragon removed one of the spheres of gold—hard, round, and warm
from the heat of his flesh—and handed it to Gedric.

Gedric stared at the shiny metal pearl, his massive jaw clamped shut, the lines around his thin-lipped
mouth harsh and unyielding. He did not insult Eragon by weighing the gold in his hand, nor by biting it, but
when he spoke, he said, “I cannot accept this, Eragon. I was a good tanner, but the leather I made was
not worth this much. Your generosity does you credit, but it would bother me to keep this gold. I would
feel as if I hadn’t earned it.”

Unsurprised, Eragon said, “You would not deny another man the opportunity to haggle for a fair price,
would you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you cannot deny me this. Most people haggle downward. In this case, I have chosen to
haggle upward, but I will still haggle as fiercely as if I were trying to save myself a handful of coins. To
me, the hides are worth every ounce of that gold, and I would not pay you a copper less, not even if you
held a knife to my throat.”

Gedric’s thick fingers closed around the gold orb. “Since you insist, I will not be so churlish as to keep
refusing you. No one can say that Gedric Ostvensson allowed good fortune to pass him by because he
was too busy protesting his own unworthiness. My thanks, Shadeslayer.” He placed the orb in a pouch
on his belt, wrapping the gold in a patch of wool cloth to protect it from scratches. “Garrow did right by
you, Eragon. He did right by both you and Roran. He may have been sharp as vinegar and as hard and
dry as a winter rutabaga, but he raised the two of you well. He would be proud of you, I think.”

Unexpected emotion clogged Eragon’s chest.

As Gedric turned to rejoin the other villagers, he paused. “If I may ask, Eragon, why were those hides
worth so much to you? What did you use them for?”

Eragon chuckled. “Use them for? Why, with Brom’s help, I made a saddle for Saphira out of them. She
doesn’t wear it as often as she used to—not since the elves gave us a proper dragon’s saddle—but it
served us well through many a scrape and fight, and even the Battle of Farthen Dûr.”

Astonishment raised Gedric’s eyebrows, exposing pale skin that normally lay hidden in deep folds. Like
a split in blue-gray granite, a wide grin spread across his jaw, transforming his features. “A saddle!” he
breathed. “Imagine, me tanning the leather for a Rider’s saddle! And without a hint of what I was doing
at the time, no less! No, nota Rider,the Rider. He who will finally cast down the black tyrant himself! If
only my father could see me now!” Kicking up his heels, Gedric danced an impromptu jig. With his grin
undiminished, he bowed to Eragon and trotted back to his place among the villagers, where he began to
relate his tale to everyone within earshot.

Eager to escape before the lot of them could descend upon him, Eragon slipped away between the rows
of tents, pleased with what he had accomplished.It might take me a while , he thought,but I always
settle my debts .


Before long, he arrived at another tent, close to the eastern edge of the camp. He knocked on the pole
between the two front flaps.

With a sharp sound, the entrance was yanked aside to reveal Jeod’s wife, Helen, standing in the
opening. She regarded Eragon with a cold expression. “You’ve come to talk withhim, I suppose.”

“If he’s here.” Which Eragon knew perfectly well he was, for he could sense Jeod’s mind as clearly as
Helen’s.

For a moment, Eragon thought Helen might deny the presence of her husband, but then she shrugged
and moved aside. “You might as well come in, then.”

Eragon found Jeod sitting on a stool, poring over an assortment of scrolls, books, and sheaves of loose
papers that were piled high on a cot bare of blankets. A thin shock of hair hung across Jeod’s forehead,
mimicking the curve of the scar that stretched from his scalp to his left temple.

“Eragon!” he cried as he saw him, the lines of concentration on his face clearing. “Welcome, welcome!”
He shook Eragon’s hand and then offered him the stool. “Here, I shall sit on the corner of the bed. No,
please, you are our guest. Would you care for some food or drink? Nasuada gives us an extra ration, so
do not restrain yourself for fear that we will go hungry on your account. It is poor fare compared with
what we served you in Teirm, but then no one should go to war and expect to eat well, not even a king.”

“A cup of tea would be nice,” said Eragon.

“Tea and biscuits it is.” Jeod glanced at Helen.

Snatching the kettle off the ground, Helen braced it against her hip, fit the nipple of a waterskin in the end
of the spout, and squeezed. The kettle reverberated with a dull roar as a stream of water struck the
bottom. Helen’s fingers tightened around the neck of the waterskin, restricting the flow to a languorous
trickle. She remained thus, with the detached look of a person performing an unpleasant task, while the
water droplets drummed out a maddening beat against the inside of the kettle.

An apologetic smile flickered across Jeod’s face. He stared at a scrap of paper beside his knee as he
waited for Helen to finish. Eragon studied a wrinkle in the side of the tent.

The bombastic trickle continued for over three minutes.

When the kettle was finally full, Helen removed the deflated waterskin from the spout, hung it on a hook
on the center pole of the tent, and stormed out.

Eragon raised an eyebrow at Jeod.

Jeod spread his hands. “My position with the Varden is not as prominent as she had hoped, and she
blames me for the fact. She agreed to flee Teirm with me, expecting, or so I believe, that Nasuada would
vault me into the inner circle of her advisers, or grant me lands and riches fit for a lord, or some other
extravagant reward for my help stealing Saphira’s egg those many years ago. What Helen did not bargain
on was the unglamorous life of a common swordsman: sleeping in a tent, fixing her own food, washing her
own clothes, and so on. It’s not that wealth and status are her only concerns, but you have to understand,
she was born into one of the richest shipping families of Teirm, and for most of our marriage, I was not
unsuccessful in my own ventures. She is unused to such privations as these, and she has yet to reconcile


herself to them.” His shoulders rose and fell a fraction of an inch. “My own hope was that this
adventure—if it deserves such a romantic term—would narrow the rifts that have opened between us in
recent years, but as always, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.”

“Doyou feel that the Varden ought to show you greater consideration?” asked Eragon.

“For myself, no. For Helen . . .” Jeod hesitated. “I want her to be happy. My reward was in escaping
from Gil’ead with my life when Brom and I were attacked by Morzan, his dragon, and his men; in the
satisfaction of knowing that I had helped strike a crippling blow against Galbatorix; in being able to return
to my previous life and yet still help further the Varden’s cause; and in being able to marry Helen. Those
were my rewards, and I am more than content with them. Any doubts I had vanished the instant I saw
Saphira fly out of the smoke of the Burning Plains. I do not know what to do about Helen, though. But I
forget myself. These are not your troubles, and I should not lay them upon you.”

Eragon touched a scroll with the tip of his index finger. “Then tell me, why so many papers? Have you
become a copyist?”

The question amused Jeod. “Hardly, although the work is often as tedious. Since it was I who
discovered the hidden passageway into Galbatorix’s castle, in Urû’baen, and I was able to bring with me
some of the rare books from my library in Teirm, Nasuada has set me to searching for similar
weaknesses in the other cities of the Empire. If I could find mention of a tunnel that led underneath the
walls of Dras-Leona, for example, it might save us a great deal of bloodshed.”

“Where are you looking?”

“Everywhere I can.” Jeod brushed back the lock of hair that was hanging over his forehead. “Histories;
myths; legends; poems; songs; religious tracts; the writings of Riders, magicians, wanderers, madmen,
obscure potentates, various generals, anyone who might have knowledge of a hidden door or a secret
mechanism or something of that ilk that we might turn to our advantage. The amount of material I have to
sift through is immense, for all of the cities have stood for hundreds of years, and some antedate the
arrival of humans in Alagaësia.”

“Is it likely you will actually find anything?”

“No, not likely. It is never likely that you will succeed in ferreting out the secrets of the past. But I may
still prevail, given enough time. I have no doubt that what I am searching for exists in each of the cities;
they are too oldnot to contain surreptitious ways in and out through their walls. However, it is another
question entirely whetherrecords of those ways exist and whether we possess those records. People
who know about concealed trapdoors and the like usually want to keep the information to themselves.”
Jeod grasped a handful of the papers next to him on the cot and brought them closer to his face, then
snorted and tossed the papers away. “I’m trying to solve riddles invented by people who didn’t want
them to be solved.”

He and Eragon continued talking about other, less important matters until Helen reappeared, carrying
three mugs of steaming-hot red-clover tea. As Eragon accepted his mug, he noted that her earlier anger
seemed to have subsided, and he wondered if she had been listening outside to what Jeod had said about
her. She handed Jeod his mug and, from somewhere behind Eragon, procured a tin plate laden with flat
biscuits and a small clay pot of honey. Then she withdrew a few feet and stood leaning against the center
pole, blowing on her own mug.

As was polite, Jeod waited until Eragon had taken a biscuit from the plate and consumed a bite of it


before saying, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Eragon? Unless I am mistaken, this is
no idle visit.”

Eragon sipped his tea. “After the Battle of the Burning Plains, I promised I would tell you how Brom
died. That is why I have come.”

A gray pallor replaced the color in Jeod’s cheeks. “Oh.”

“I don’t have to, if that’s not what you want,” Eragon quickly pointed out.

With an effort, Jeod shook his head. “No, I do. You merely caught me by surprise.”

When Jeod did not ask Helen to leave, Eragon was uncertain whether he should continue, but then he
decided that it did not matter if Helen or anyone else heard his story. In a slow, deliberate voice, Eragon
began to recount the events that had transpired since he and Brom had left Jeod’s house. He described
their encounter with the band of Urgals, their search for the Ra’zac in Dras-Leona, how the Ra’zac had
ambushed them outside the city, and how the Ra’zac had stabbed Brom as they fled from Murtagh’s
attack.

Eragon’s throat constricted as he spoke of Brom’s last hours, of the cool sandstone cave where he had
lain, of the feelings of helplessness that had assailed Eragon as he watched Brom slipping away, of the
smell of death that had pervaded the dry air, of Brom’s final words, of the sandstone tomb Eragon had
made with magic, and of how Saphira had transformed it into pure diamond.

“If only I had known what I know now,” Eragon said, “then I could have saved him. Instead . . .”
Unable to summon words past the tightness in his throat, he wiped his eyes and gulped at his tea. He
wished it were something stronger.

A sigh escaped Jeod. “And so ended Brom. Alas, we are all far worse off without him. If he could have
chosen the means of his death, though, I think he would have chosen to die like this, in the service of the
Varden, defending the last free Dragon Rider.”

“Were you aware that he had been a Rider himself?”

Jeod nodded. “The Varden told me before I met him.”

“He seemed as if he was a man who revealed little about himself,” observed Helen.

Jeod and Eragon laughed. “That he was,” said Jeod. “I still have not recovered from the shock of seeing
him and you, Eragon, standing on our doorstep. Brom always kept his own counsel, but we became
close friends when we were traveling together, and I cannot understand why he let me believe he was
dead for what, sixteen, seventeen years? Too long. What’s more, since it was Brom who delivered
Saphira’s egg to the Varden after he slew Morzan in Gil’ead, the Varden couldn’t very well tell me they
had her egg without revealing that Brom was still alive. So I’ve spent the better part of two decades
convinced that the one great adventure of my life had ended in failure and that, as a result, we had lost
our only hope of having a Dragon Rider to help us overthrow Galbatorix. The knowledge was no easy
burden, I can assure you. . . .”

With one hand, Jeod rubbed his brow. “When I opened our front door and realized whom I was looking
at, I thought that the ghosts of my past had come to haunt me. Brom said he kept himself hidden to
ensure that he would still be alive to train the new Rider when he or she should appear, but his


explanation has never entirely satisfied me. Why was it necessary for him to cut himself off from nearly
everyone he knew or cared about? What was he afraid of? What was he protecting?”

Jeod fingered the handle of his mug. “I cannot prove it, but it seems to me that Brom must have
discovered something in Gil’ead when he was fighting Morzan and his dragon, something so momentous,
it moved Brom to abandon everything that was his life up until then. It’s a fanciful conjecture, I admit, but
I cannot account for Brom’s actions except by postulating that there was a piece of information he never
shared with me nor another living soul.”

Again Jeod sighed, and he drew a hand down his long face. “After so many years apart, I had hoped
Brom and I might ride together once more, but fate had other ideas, it seems. And then to lose him a
second time but a few weeks after discovering he was still alive was a cruel joke for the world to play.”
Helen swept past Eragon and went to stand by Jeod, touching him on the shoulder. He offered her a wan
smile and wrapped an arm around her narrow waist. “I’m glad that you and Saphira gave Brom a tomb
even a dwarf king might envy. He deserved that and more for all he did for Alagaësia. Although once
people discover his grave, I have a horrible suspicion they will not hesitate to break it apart for the
diamond.”

“If they do, they will regret it,” muttered Eragon. He resolved to return to the site at the earliest
opportunity and place wards around Brom’s tomb to protect it from grave robbers. “Besides, they will
be too busy hunting gold lilies to bother Brom.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s not important.” The three of them sipped their tea. Helen nibbled on a biscuit. Then
Eragon asked, “You met Morzan, didn’t you?”

“They were not the friendliest of occasions, but yes, I met him.”

“What was he like?”

“As a person? I really couldn’t say, although I’m well acquainted with tales of his atrocities. Every time
Brom and I crossed paths with him, he was trying to kill us. Or rather, capture, torture, andthen kill us,
none of which are conducive to establishing a close relationship.” Eragon was too intent to respond to
Jeod’s humor. Jeod shifted on the bed. “As a warrior, Morzan was terrifying. We spent a great deal of
time running away from him, I seem to remember—him and his dragon, that is. Few things are as
frightening as having an enraged dragon chasing you.”

“How did he look?”

“You seem inordinately interested in him.”

Eragon blinked once. “I’m curious. He was the last of the Forsworn to die, and Brom was the one who
slew him. And now Morzan’s son is my mortal enemy.”

“Let me see, then,” said Jeod. “He was tall, he had broad shoulders, his hair was dark like a raven’s
feathers, and his eyes were different colors. One was blue and one was black. His chin was bare, and he
was missing the tip of one of his fingers; I forget which. Handsome he was, in a cruel, haughty manner,
and when he spoke, he was most charismatic. His armor was always polished bright, whether mail or a
breastplate, as if he had no fear of being spotted by his enemies, which I suppose he hadn’t. When he
laughed, it sounded as if he were in pain.”


“What of his companion, the woman Selena? Did you meet her as well?”

Jeod laughed. “If I had, I would not be here today. Morzan may have been a fearsome swordsman, a
formidable magician, and a murderous traitor, but it was that woman of his who inspired the most terror
in people. Morzan only used her for missions that were so repugnant, difficult, or secretive that no one
else would agree to undertake them. She was his Black Hand, and her presence always signaled
imminent death, torture, betrayal, or some other horror.” Eragon felt sick hearing his mother described
thusly. “She was utterly ruthless, devoid of either pity or compassion. It was said that when she asked
Morzan to enter his service, he tested her by teaching her the word forheal in the ancient language—for
she was a spellcaster as well as a common fighter—and then pitting her against twelve of his finest
swordsmen.”

“How did she defeat them?”

“She healed them of their fear and their hate and all the things that drive a man to kill. And then while
they stood grinning at each other like idiot sheep, she went up to the men and cut their throats. . . . Are
you feeling well, Eragon? You are as pale as a corpse.”

“I’m fine. What else do you remember?”

Jeod tapped the side of his mug. “Precious little concerning Selena. She was always somewhat of an
enigma. No one besides Morzan even knew her real name until just a few months before Morzan’s
death. To the public at large, she has never been anything other than the Black Hand; the Black Hand we
have now—the collection of spies, assassins, and magicians who carry out Galbatorix’s low
skulduggery—is Galbatorix’s attempt to re-create Selena’s usefulness to Morzan. Even among the
Varden, only a handful of people were privy to her name, and most of them are moldering in graves now.
As I recall, it was Brom who discovered her true identity. Before I went to the Varden with the
information concerning the secret passageway into Castle Ilirea—which the elves built millennia ago and
which Galbatorix expanded upon to form the black citadel that now dominates Urû’baen—before I went
to them, Brom had spent a rather significant length of time spying on Morzan’s estate in the hope he might
unearth a hitherto unsuspected weakness of Morzan’s. . . . I believe Brom gained admittance to
Morzan’s hall by disguising himself as a member of the serving staff. It was then that he found out what he
did about Selena. Still, we never did learn why she was so attached to Morzan. Perhaps she loved him.
In any event, she was utterly loyal to him, even to the point of death. Soon after Brom killed Morzan,
word reached the Varden that sickness had taken her. It is as if the trained hawk was so fond of her
master, she could not live without him.”

She was not entirely loyal,thought Eragon.She defied Morzan when it came to me, even though she
lost her life as a result. If only she could have rescued Murtagh as well . As for Jeod’s accounts of
her misdeeds, Eragon chose to believe that Morzan had perverted her essentially good nature. For the
sake of his own sanity, Eragon could not accept that both his parents had been evil.

“She loved him,” he said, staring at the murky dregs at the bottom of his mug. “In the beginning, she
loved him; maybe not so much later. Murtagh is her son.”

Jeod raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? You have it from Murtagh himself, I suppose?” Eragon nodded.
“Well, that explains a number of questions I always had. Murtagh’s mother . . . I’m surprised that Brom
didn’t uncover that particular secret.”

“Morzan did everything he could to conceal Murtagh’s existence, even from the other members of the


Forsworn.”

“Knowing the history of those power-hungry, backstabbing knaves, he probably saved Murtagh’s life.
More’s the pity too.”

Silence crept among them then, like a shy animal ready to flee at the slightest motion. Eragon continued
to gaze into his mug. A host of questions bedeviled him, but he knew that Jeod could not answer them
and it was unlikely anyone else could either: Why had Brom hidden himself in Carvahall? To keep watch
over Eragon, the son of his most hated foe? Had it been some cruel joke giving Eragon Zar’roc, his
father’s blade? And why had Brom not told him the truth about his parentage? He tightened his grip on
the mug and, without meaning to, shattered the clay.

The three of them started at the unexpected noise.

“Here, let me help you with that,” said Helen, bustling forward and dabbing at his tunic with a rag.
Embarrassed, Eragon apologized several times, to which both Jeod and Helen responded by assuring
him it was a small mishap and not to worry himself about it.

While Helen picked up the shards of fire-hardened clay, Jeod began to dig through the layers of books,
scrolls, and loose papers that covered the bed, saying, “Ah, it had nearly slipped my mind. I have
something for you, Eragon, that might prove useful. If only I can find it here. . . .” With a pleased
exclamation, he straightened, flourishing a book, which he handed to Eragon.

It wasDomia abr Wyrda , theDominance of Fate , a complete history of Alagaësia written by Heslant
the Monk. Eragon had first seen it in Jeod’s library in Teirm. He had not expected that he would ever get
a chance to examine it again. Savoring the feeling, he ran his hands over the carved leather on the front
cover, which was shiny with age, then opened the book and admired the neat rows of runes within,
lettered in glossy red ink. Awed by the size of the knowledge hoard he held, Eragon said, “You wish me
to have this?”

“I do,” asserted Jeod. He moved out of the way as Helen retrieved a fragment of the mug from under
the bed. “I think you might profit by it. You are engaged in historic events, Eragon, and the roots of the
difficulties you face lie in happenings from decades, centuries, and millennia ago. If I were you, I would
study at every opportunity the lessons history has to teach us, for they may help you with the problems of
today. In my own life, reading the record of the past has often provided me with the courage and the
insight to choose the correct path.”

Eragon longed to accept the gift, but still he hesitated. “Brom said thatDomia abr Wyrda was the most
valuable thing in your house. And rare as well. . . . Besides, what of your work? Don’t you need this for
your research?”

“Domia abr Wyrdais valuable and it is rare,” said Jeod, “but only in the Empire, where Galbatorix burns
every copy he finds and hangs their unfortunate owners. Here in the camp, I have already had six copies
foisted upon me by members of King Orrin’s court, and this is hardly what one would call a great center
of learning. However, I do not part with it lightly, and only because you can put it to better use than I can.
Books should go where they will be most appreciated, and not sit unread, gathering dust on a forgotten
shelf, don’t you agree?”

“I do.” Eragon closedDomia abr Wyrda and again traced the intricate patterns on the front with his
fingers, fascinated by the swirling designs that had been chiseled into the leather. “Thank you. I shall
treasure it for as long as it is mine to watch over.” Jeod dipped his head and leaned back against the wall


of the tent, appearing satisfied. Turning the book on its edge, Eragon examined the lettering on the spine.
“What was Heslant a monk of?”

“A small, secretive sect called the Arcaena that originated in the area by Kuasta. Their order, which has
endured for at least five hundred years, believes that all knowledge is sacred.” A hint of a smile lent
Jeod’s features a mysterious cast. “They have dedicated themselves to collecting every piece of
information in the world and preserving it against a time when they believe an unspecified catastrophe will
destroy all the civilizations in Alagaësia.”

“It seems a strange religion,” Eragon said.

“Are not all religions strange to those who stand outside of them?” countered Jeod.

Eragon said, “I have a gift for you as well, or rather, for you, Helen.” She tilted her head, a quizzical
frown on her face. “Your family was a merchant family, yes?” She jerked her chin in an affirmative.
“Were you very familiar with the business yourself?”

Lightning sparked in Helen’s eyes. “If I had not married him”—she motioned with a shoulder—“I would
have taken over the family affairs when my father died. I was an only child, and my father taught me
everything he knew.”

That was what Eragon had hoped to hear. To Jeod, he said, “You claimed that you are content with
your lot here with the Varden.”

“And so I am. Mostly.”

“I understand. However, you risked a great deal to help Brom and me, and you risked even more to
help Roran and everyone else from Carvahall.”

“The Palancar Pirates.”

Eragon chuckled and continued. “Without your assistance, the Empire would surely have captured them.
And because of your act of rebellion, you both lost all that was dear to you in Teirm.”

“We would have lost it anyway. I was bankrupt and the Twins had betrayed me to the Empire. It was
only a matter of time before Lord Risthart had me arrested.”

“Maybe, but you still helped Roran. Who can blame you if you were protecting your own necks at the
same time? The fact remains that you abandoned your lives in Teirm in order to steal theDragon Wing
along with Roran and the villagers. And for your sacrifice, I will always be grateful. So this is part of my
thanks. . . .”

Sliding a finger underneath his belt, Eragon removed the second of the three gold orbs and presented it
to Helen. She cradled it as gently as if it were a baby robin. While she gazed at it with wonder, and Jeod
craned his neck to see over the edge of her hand, Eragon said, “It’s not a fortune, but if you are clever,
you should be able to make it grow. What Nasuada did with lace taught me that there is a great deal of
opportunity for a person to prosper in war.”

“Oh yes,” breathed Helen. “War is a merchant’s delight.”

“For one, Nasuada mentioned to me last night at dinner that the dwarves are running low on mead, and


as you might suspect, they have the means to buy as many casks as they want, even if the price were a
thousandfold of what it was before the war. But then, that’s just a suggestion. You may find others who
are more desperate to trade if you look for yourself.”

Eragon staggered back a step as Helen rushed at him and embraced him. Her hair tickled his chin. She
released him, suddenly shy, then her excitement burst forth again and she lifted the honey-colored globe
in front of her nose and said, “Thank you, Eragon! Oh, thank you!” She pointed at the gold. “This I can
use. I know I can. With it, I’ll build an empire even larger than my father’s.” The shiny orb disappeared
within her clenched fist. “You believe my ambition exceeds my abilities? It shall be as I have said. I shall
not fail!”

Eragon bowed to her. “I hope that you succeed and that your success benefits us all.”

Eragon noticed that hard cords stood out in Helen’s neck as she curtsied and said, “You are most
generous, Shadeslayer. Again I thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Jeod, rising from the bed. “I cannot think that we deserve this”—Helen shot him
a furious look, which he ignored—“but it is most welcome nevertheless.”

Improvising, Eragon added, “And for you, Jeod, your gift is not from me, but Saphira. She has agreed to
let you fly on her when you both have a spare hour or two.” It pained Eragon to share Saphira, and he
knew that she would be upset he had not consulted her before volunteering her services, but after giving
Helen the gold, he would have felt guilty about not giving Jeod something of equal value.

A film of tears glazed Jeod’s eyes. He grasped Eragon’s hand and shook it and, still holding it, said, “I
cannot imagine a higher honor. Thank you. You don’t know how much you have done for us.”

Extricating himself from Jeod’s grip, Eragon edged toward the entrance to the tent while excusing himself
as gracefully as he could and making his farewells. Finally, after yet another round of thanks on their part
and a self-deprecating “It was nothing,” he managed to escape outdoors.

Eragon heftedDomia abr Wyrda and then glanced at the sun. It would not be long until Saphira
returned, but he still had time to attend to one other thing. First, though, he would have to stop by his
tent; he did not want to risk damagingDomia abr Wyrda by carrying it with him across the camp.

I own a book,he thought, delighted.

He set off at a trot, clasping the book against his chest, as Blödhgarm and the other elves followed close
behind.

I NEED ASWORD!

OnceDomia abr Wyrda was safely ensconced in his tent, Eragon went to the Varden’s armory, a large
open pavilion filled with racks of spears, swords, pikes, bows, and crossbows. Mounds of shields and
leather armor filled slatted crates. The more expensive mail, tunics, coifs, and leggings hung on wooden
stands. Hundreds of conical helmets gleamed like polished silver. Bales of arrows lined the pavilion, and


among them sat a score or more fletchers, busy refurbishing arrows whose feathers had been damaged
during the Battle of the Burning Plains. A constant stream of men rushed in and out of the pavilion: some
bringing weapons and armor to be repaired, others new recruits coming to be outfitted, and still others
ferrying equipment to different parts of the camp. Everyone seemed to be shouting at the top of their
lungs. And in the center of the commotion stood the man Eragon had hoped to see: Fredric, the Varden’s
weapon master.

Blödhgarm accompanied Eragon as he strode into the pavilion toward Fredric. As soon as they stepped
underneath the cloth roof, the men inside fell silent, their eyes fixed on the two of them. Then they
resumed their activities, albeit with quicker steps and quieter voices.

Raising an arm in welcome, Fredric hurried to meet them. As always, he wore his suit of hairy oxhide
armor—which smelled nearly as offensive as the animal must have in its original form—as well as a
massive two-handed sword hung crosswise over his back, the hilt projecting above his right shoulder.
“Shadeslayer!” he rumbled. “How can I help you this fine afternoon?”

“I need a sword.”

Fredric’s smile broke through his beard. “Ah, I wondered if you’d be visiting me about that. When you
set out for Helgrind without a blade in hand, I thought, well, maybe you’re beyond such things now.
Maybe you can do all your fighting with magic.”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, I can’t say as I’m sorry. Everyone needs a good sword, no matter how skilled they may be with
conjuring. In the end, it always comes down to steel against steel. Just you watch, that’s how this fight
with the Empire will be resolved, with the point of a sword being driven through Galbatorix’s accursed
heart. Heh, I’d wager a year’s wages that even Galbatorix has a sword of his own and that heuses it too,
despite him being able to gut you like a fish with a flick of his finger. Nothing can quite compare to the
feel of fine steel in your fist.”

While he spoke, Fredric led them toward a rack of swords that stood apart from the others. “What kind
of sword are you looking for?” he asked. “That Zar’roc you had was a one-handed sword, if I
remember rightly. With a blade about two thumbs wide—two of my thumbs, in any case—and of a
shape equally suited for both the cut and thrust, yes?” Eragon indicated that was so, and the weapon
master grunted and began to pull swords off the rack and swing them through the air, only to replace
them with seeming dissatisfaction. “Elf blades tend to be thinner and lighter than ours or the dwarves’, on
account of the enchantments they forge into the steel. If we made ours as delicate as theirs, the swords
wouldn’t last more than a minute in a battle before bending, breaking, or chipping so badly, you couldn’t
cut soft cheese with them.” His eyes darted toward Blödhgarm. “Isn’t that so, elf?”

“Even as you say, human,” responded Blödhgarm in a perfectly modulated voice.

Fredric nodded and examined the edge of another sword, then snorted and dropped it back on the
rack. “Which means whatever sword you choose will probably be heavier than you’re used to. That
shouldn’t pose much difficulty for you, Shadeslayer, but the extra weight may still upset the timing of your
blows.”

“I appreciate the warning,” said Eragon.

“Not at all,” said Fredric. “That’s what I’m here for: to keep as many of the Varden from getting killed


as I can and to help them kill as many of Galbatorix’s blasted soldiers as I can. It’s a good job.” Leaving
the rack, he lumbered over to another one, hidden behind a pile of rectangular shields. “Finding the right
sword for someone is an art unto itself. A sword should feel like an extension of your arm, as if it had
grown out of your very flesh. You shouldn’t have to think about how you want it to move; you should
simply move it as instinctively as an egret his beak or a dragon her claws. The perfect sword is intent
incarnate: what you want, so it does.”

“You sound like a poet.”

With a modest expression, Fredric half shrugged. “I’ve been picking weapons for men who are about to
march into combat for twenty-six years. It seeps into your bones after a while, turns your mind to
thoughts of fate and destiny and whether that young fellow I sent off with a billed pike would still be alive
if I had given him a mace instead.” Fredric paused with a hand hovering over the middle sword on the
rack and looked at Eragon. “Do you prefer to fight with or without a shield?”

“With,” Eragon said. “But I can’t carry one around with me all the time. And there never seems to be
one handy when I’m attacked.”

Fredric tapped the hilt of the sword and gnawed on the edge of his beard. “Humph. So you need a
sword you can use by itself but that’s not too long to use with every kind of shield from a buckler to a
wall shield. That means a sword of medium length, easy to wield with one arm. It has to be a blade you
can wear at all occasions, elegant enough for a coronation and tough enough to fend off a band of Kull.”
He grimaced. “It’s not natural, what Nasuada’s done, allying us with those monsters. It can’t last. The
likes of us and them were never meant to mix. . . .” He shook himself. “It’s a pity you only want a single
sword. Or am I mistaken?”

“No. Saphira and I travel far too much to be lugging around a half-dozen blades.”

“I suppose you’re right. Besides, a warrior like you isn’t expected to have more than one weapon. The
curse of the named blade, I call it.”

“What’s that?”

“Every great warrior,” said Fredric, “wields a sword—it’s usually a sword—that has a name. Either he
names it himself or, once he proves his prowess with some extraordinary feat, the bards name it for him.
Thereafter, hehas to use that sword. It’s expected of him. If he shows up to a battle without it, his fellow
warriors will ask where it is, and they will wonder if he is ashamed of his success and if he is insulting
them by rejecting the acclaim they have bestowed upon him, and even his enemies may insist upon
waiting to fight until he fetches his famed blade. Just you watch; as soon as you fight Murtagh or do
anything else memorable with your new sword, the Varden will insist upon giving it a title. And they will
look to see it on your hip from then on.” He continued speaking while he proceeded to a third rack: “I
never thought I would be fortunate enough to help a Rider choose his weapon. What an opportunity! It
feels as if this is a culmination of my work with the Varden.”

Plucking a sword from the rack, Fredric handed it to Eragon. Eragon tilted the tip of the sword up and
down, then shook his head; the shape of the hilt was wrong for his hand. The weapon master did not
seem disappointed. To the contrary, Eragon’s rejection seemed to invigorate him, as if he relished the
challenge Eragon posed. He presented another sword to Eragon, and again Eragon shook his head; the
balance was too far forward for his liking.

“What worries me,” Fredric said, returning to the rack, “is that any sword I give you will have to


withstand impacts that would destroy an ordinary blade. What you need is dwarf-work. Their smiths are
the finest besides the elves’, and sometimes they even exceed them.” Fredric peered at Eragon. “Hold
now, I’ve been asking the wrong questions! How was it you were taught to block and parry? Was it
edge on edge? I seem to recall you doing something of the kind when you dueled Arya in Farthen Dûr.”

Eragon frowned. “What of it?”

“What of it?” Fredric guffawed. “Not to be disrespectful, Shadeslayer, but if you hit the edge of a sword
against that of another, you will cause grave damage to both. That might not have been a problem with an
enchanted blade like Zar’roc, but you can’t do it with any of the swords I have here, not unless you want
to replace your sword after every battle.”

An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of the chipped edges of Murtagh’s sword, and he felt irritated with
himself for having forgotten something so obvious. He had become accustomed to Zar’roc, which never
dulled, never showed signs of wear, and, so far as he knew, was impervious to most spells. He was not
even sure it was possible to destroy a Rider’s sword. “You need not worry about that; I will protect the
sword with magic. Must I wait all day for a weapon?”

“One more question, Shadeslayer. Will your magic last forever?”

Eragon’s frown deepened. “Since you ask, no. Only one elf understands the making of a Rider’s sword,
and she has not shared her secrets with me. What Ican do is transfer a certain amount of energy into a
sword. The energy will keep it from getting damaged until the blows thatwould have damaged the sword
exhaust the store of energy, at which point the sword will revert to its original state and, odds are, shatter
in my grip the next time I close with my opponent.”

Fredric scratched his beard. “I’ll take your word for it, Shadeslayer. The point being, if you hammer on
soldiers long enough, you’ll wear out your spells, and the harder you hammer, the sooner the spells will
vanish. Eh?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you should still avoid going edge on edge, as it will wear out your spells faster than most any other
move.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Eragon snapped, his impatience overflowing. “I don’t have the time to learn
a completely different way of fighting. The Empire might attack at any moment. I have to concentrate on
practicing what Ido know, not trying to master a whole new set of forms.”

Fredric clapped his hands. “I know just the thing for you, then!” Going to a crate filled with arms, he
began digging through it, talking to himself as he did. “Firstthis, thenthat, and then we’ll see where we
stand.” From the bottom of the crate, he pulled out a large black mace with a flanged head.

Fredric rapped a knuckle against the mace. “You can break swords with this. You can split mail and
batter in helms, and you won’t do it the slightest bit of harm, no matter what you hit.”

“It’s a club,” Eragon protested. “A metal club.”

“What of it? With your strength, you can swing it as if it were light as a reed. You’ll be a terror on the
battlefield with this, you will.”


Eragon shook his head. “No. Smashing things isn’t how I prefer to fight. Besides, I would never have
been able to kill Durza by stabbing him through the heart if I had been carrying a mace instead of a
sword.”

“Then I have only one more suggestion, unless you insist upon a traditional blade.” From another part of
the pavilion, Fredric brought Eragon a weapon he identified as a falchion. It was a sword, but not a type
of sword Eragon was accustomed to, although he had seen them among the Varden before. The falchion
had a polished, disk-shaped pommel, bright as a silver coin; a short grip made of wood covered with
black leather; a curved crossguard carved with a line of dwarf runes; and a single-edged blade that was
as long as his outstretched arm and had a thin fuller on either side, close to the spine. The falchion was
straight until about six inches from the end, where the back of the blade flared upward in a small peak
before gently curving down to the needle-sharp tip. This widening of the blade reduced the likelihood that
the point would bend or snap when driven through armor and lent the end of the falchion a fanglike
appearance. Unlike a double-edged sword, the falchion was made to be held with the blade and
crossguard perpendicular to the ground. The most curious aspect of the falchion, though, was the bottom
half inch of the blade, including the edge, which was pearly gray and substantially darker than the
mirror-smooth steel above. The boundary between the two areas was wavy, like a silk scarf rippling in
the wind.

Eragon pointed at the gray band. “I’ve not seen that before. What is it?”

“The thriknzdal,” said Fredric. “The dwarves invented it. They temper the edge and the spine separately.
The edge they make hard, harder than we dare with the whole of our blades. The middle of the blade
and the spine they anneal so that the back of the falchion is softer than the edge, soft enough to bend and
flex and survive the stress of battle without fracturing like a frost-ridden file.”

“Do the dwarves treat all their blades thusly?”

Fredric shook his head. “Only their single-edged swords and the finest of their double-edged swords.”
He hesitated, and uncertainty crept into his gaze. “You understand why I chose this for you, Shadeslayer,
yes?”

Eragon understood. With the blade of the falchion at right angles to the ground, unless he deliberately
tilted his wrist, any blows he caught on the sword would strike the flat of the blade, saving the edge for
attacks of his own. Wielding the falchion would require only a small adjustment to his fighting style.

Striding out of the pavilion, he assumed a ready position with the falchion. Swinging it over his head, he
brought it down upon the head of an imaginary foe, then twisted and lunged, beat aside an invisible spear,
sprang six yards to his left, and, in a brilliant but impractical move, spun the blade behind his back,
passing it from one hand to the next as he did so. His breathing and heartbeat calm as ever, he returned
to where Fredric and Blödhgarm were waiting. The speed and balance of the falchion had impressed
Eragon. It was not the equal of Zar’roc, but it was still a superb sword.

“You chose well,” he said.

Fredric detected the reticence in his bearing, however, for he said, “And yet you are not entirely
pleased, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon twirled the falchion in a circle, then grimaced. “I just wish it didn’t look so much like a big
skinning knife. I feel rather ridiculous with it.”


“Ah, pay no heed if your enemies laugh. They’ll not be able to once you lop off their heads.”

Amused, Eragon nodded. “I’ll take it.”

“One moment, then,” said Fredric, and disappeared into the pavilion, returning with a black leather
scabbard decorated with silver scrollwork. He handed the scabbard to Eragon and asked, “Did you ever
learn how to sharpen a sword, Shadeslayer? You wouldn’t have had need with Zar’roc, would you?”

“No,” Eragon admitted, “but I am a fair hand with a whetstone. I can hone a knife until it is so keen, it
will cut a thread draped over it. Besides, I can always true up the edge with magic if I have to.”

Fredric groaned and slapped his thighs, knocking loose a dozen or so hairs from his oxhide leggings.
“No, no, a razor-thin edge is just what youdon’t want on a sword. The bevel has to be thick, thick and
strong. A warrior has to be able to maintain his equipment properly, and that includes knowing how to
sharpen his sword!”

Fredric insisted, then, on procuring a new whetstone for Eragon and showing him exactly how to put a
battle-ready edge on the falchion while they sat in the dirt beside the pavilion. Once he was satisfied that
Eragon could grind an entirely new edge on the sword, he said, “You can fight with rusty armor. You can
fight with a dented helmet. But if you want to see the sun rise again, never fight with a dull sword. If
you’ve just survived a battle and you’re tired as a man who has climbed one of the Beor Mountains and
your sword isn’t sharp as it is now, it doesn’t matter how you feel, you plunk yourself down the first
chance you get and pull out your whetstone and strop. Just as you would see to your horse, or to
Saphira, before you attended to your own needs, so too you should care for your sword before yourself.
Because without it, you’re no more than helpless prey for your enemies.”

They had been sitting out in the late-afternoon sun for over an hour by the time the weapon master finally
finished his instructions. As he did, a cool shadow slid over them and Saphira landed close by.

You waited,said Eragon.You deliberately waited! You could have rescued me ages ago, but instead
you left me here to listen to Fredric go on about water stones, oil stones, and whether linseed oil is
better than rendered fat for protecting metal from water.

And is it?

Not really. It’s just not as smelly. But that’s irrelevant! Why did you leave me to this doom?

One of her thick eyelids drooped in a lazy wink.Don’t exaggerate. Doom? You and I have far worse
dooms to look forward to if we are not properly prepared. What the man with the smelly clothes
was saying seemed important for you to know .

Well, perhaps it was,he conceded. She arched her neck and licked the claws on her right foreleg.

After thanking Fredric and bidding him farewell, and agreeing upon a meeting place with Blödhgarm,
Eragon fastened the falchion to the belt of Beloth the Wise and clambered onto Saphira’s back. He
whooped and she roared as she raised her wings and surged up into the sky.

Giddy, Eragon clung to the spike in front of him and watched the people and tents below dwindle away
into flat, miniature versions of themselves. From above, the camp was a grid of gray, triangular peaks, the
eastern faces of which were deep in shadow, giving the whole region a checkered appearance. The
fortifications that encircled the camp bristled like a hedgehog, the white tips of the distant poles bright in


the slanted sunlight. King Orrin’s cavalry was a mass of milling dots in the northwestern quadrant of the
camp. To the east was the Urgals’ camp, low and dark on the rolling plain.

They soared higher.

The cold, pure air stung Eragon’s cheeks and burned in his lungs. He took only shallow breaths. Beside
them floated a thick column of clouds, looking as solid as whipped cream. Saphira spiraled around it, her
ragged shadow racing across the plume. A lone scrap of moisture struck Eragon, blinding him for a few
seconds and filling his nose and mouth with frigid droplets. He gasped and wiped his face.

They rose above the clouds.

A red eagle screeched at them as it flew past.

Saphira’s flapping became labored, and Eragon began to feel light-headed. Stilling her wings, Saphira
glided from one thermal to the next, maintaining her altitude but ascending no farther.

Eragon looked down. They were so high, height had ceased to matter and things on the ground no
longer seemed real. The Varden’s camp was an irregularly shaped playing board covered with tiny gray
and black rectangles. The Jiet River was a silver rope fringed with green tassels. To the south, the
sulfurous clouds rising from the Burning Plains formed a range of glowing orange mountains, home to
shadowy monsters that flickered in and out of existence. Eragon quickly averted his gaze.

For perhaps half an hour, he and Saphira drifted with the wind, relaxing in the silent comfort of each
other’s company. An inaudible spell served to insulate Eragon from the chill. At last they were alone
together, alone as they had been in Palancar Valley before the Empire had intruded upon their life.

Saphira was the first to speak.We are the rulers of the sky .

Here at the ceiling of the world. Eragon reached up, as if from where he sat he could brush the stars.

Banking to the left, Saphira caught a gust of warmer air from below, then leveled off again.You will
marry Roran and Katrina tomorrow.

What a strange thought that is. Strange Roran should marry, and strange I should be the one to
perform the ceremony. . . . Roran married. Thinking about it makes me feel older. Even we, who
were boys but a short while ago, cannot escape the inexorable progress of time. So the
generations pass, and soon it will be our turn to send our children out into the land to do the work
that needs to be done.

But not unless we can survive the next few months.

Aye, there is that.

Saphira wobbled as turbulence buffeted them. Then she looked back at him and asked:Ready?

Go!

Tilting forward, she pulled her wings close against her sides and plummeted toward the ground, faster
than a speeding arrow. Eragon laughed as the sensation of weightlessness overtook him. He tightened his
legs around Saphira to keep himself from drifting away from her, then, overtaken by a surge of


recklessness, released his grip and held his hands over his head. The disk of land below spun like a wheel
as Saphira augered through the air. Slowing and then stopping her rotation, she rolled to the right until she
was falling upside down.

“Saphira!” cried Eragon, and pounded her shoulder.

A ribbon of smoke streaming from her nostrils, she righted herself and again pointed herself at the
fast-approaching ground. Eragon’s ears popped, and he worked his jaw as the pressure increased. Less
than a thousand feet above the Varden’s camp, and only a few seconds from crashing into the tents and
excavating a large and bloody crater, Saphira allowed the wind to catch her wings. The subsequent jolt
threw Eragon forward, and the spike he had been holding nearly stabbed him in the eye.

With three powerful flaps, Saphira brought them to a complete halt. Locking her wings outstretched, she
then began to gently circle downward.

Now that was fun!exclaimed Eragon.

There is no more exciting sport than flying, for if you lose, you die.

Ah, but I have complete confidence in your abilities; you would never run us into the ground. Her
pleasure at his compliment radiated from her.

Angling toward his tent, she shook her head, jostling him, and said,I ought to be accustomed to it by
now, but every time I come out of a dive like that, it makes my chest and wing arms so sore, the
next morning I can barely move .

He patted her.Well, you shouldn’t have to fly tomorrow. The wedding is our only obligation, and
you can walk to it . She grunted and landed amid a billow of dust, knocking over an empty tent with her
tail in the process.

Dismounting, Eragon left her grooming herself with six of the elves standing nearby, and with the other
six, he trotted through the camp until he located the healer Gertrude. From her he learned the marriage
rites he would need the following day, and he practiced them with her that he might avoid an
embarrassing blunder when the moment arrived.

Then Eragon returned to his tent and washed his face and changed his clothes before going with Saphira
to dine with King Orrin and his entourage, as promised.

Late that night, when the feast was finally over, Eragon and Saphira walked back to his tent, gazing at
the stars and talking about what had been and what yet might be. And they were happy. When they
arrived at their destination, Eragon paused and looked up at Saphira, and his heart was so full of love, he
thought it might stop beating.

Good night, Saphira.

Good night, little one.


UNEXPECTEDGUESTS

The next morning, Eragon went behind his tent, removed his heavy outer clothes, and began to glide
through the poses of the second level of the Rimgar, the series of exercises the elves had invented. Soon
his initial chill vanished. He began to pant from the effort, and sweat coated his limbs, which made it
difficult for him to keep hold of his feet or his hands when contorted into a position that felt as if it were
going to tear the muscles from his bones.

An hour later, he finished the Rimgar. Drying his palms on the corner of his tent, he drew the falchion and
practiced his swordsmanship for another thirty minutes. He would have preferred to continue familiarizing
himself with the sword for the rest of the day—for he knew his life might depend upon his skill with
it—but Roran’s wedding was fast approaching, and the villagers could use all the help they could get if
they were to complete the preparations in time.

Refreshed, Eragon bathed in cold water and dressed, and then he and Saphira walked to where Elain
was overseeing the cooking of Roran and Katrina’s wedding feast. Blödhgarm and his companions
followed a dozen or so yards behind, slipping between the tents with stealthy ease.

“Ah, good, Eragon,” Elain said. “I had hoped you would come.” She stood with both her hands pressed
into the small of her back to relieve the weight of her pregnancy. Pointing with her chin past a row of spits
and cauldrons suspended over a bed of coals, past a clump of men butchering a hog, past three
makeshift ovens built of mud and stone, and past a pile of kegs toward a line of planks set on stumps that
six women were using as a counter, she said, “There are still twenty loaves of bread dough that have to
be kneaded. Will you see to it, please?” Then she frowned at the calluses on his knuckles. “And try not
to get those in the dough, won’t you?”

The six women standing at the planks, which included Felda and Birgit, fell silent when Eragon took his
place among them. His few attempts to restart the conversation failed, but after a while, when he had
given up on putting them at ease and was concentrating on his kneading, they resumed talking of their
own accord. They spoke about Roran and Katrina and how lucky the two of them were and of the
villagers’ life in the camp and of their journey thence, and then without preamble, Felda looked over at
Eragon and said, “Your dough looks a little sticky. Shouldn’t you add some flour?”

Eragon checked the consistency. “You’re right. Thank you.” Felda smiled, and after that, the women
included him in their conversation. While Eragon worked the warm dough, Saphira lay basking on a
nearby patch of grass. The children from Carvahall played on and around her; laughing shrieks
punctuated the deeper thrum of the adults’ voices. When a pair of mangy dogs started barking at
Saphira, she lifted her head off the ground and growled at them. They ran away yipping.

Everyone in the clearing was someone Eragon had known while growing up. Horst and Fisk were on the
other side of the spits, constructing tables for the feast. Kiselt was wiping the hog’s blood off his
forearms. Albriech, Baldor, Mandel, and several other of the younger men were carrying poles wound
with ribbons toward the hill where Roran and Katrina wished to be married. The tavern-keeper Morn
was off mixing the wedding drink, with his wife, Tara, holding three flagons and a cask for him. A few
hundred feet away, Roran was shouting something at a mule-driver who was attempting to run his
charges through the clearing. Loring, Delwin, and the boy Nolfavrell stood clustered nearby, watching.
With a loud curse, Roran grabbed the lead mule’s harness and struggled to turn the animals around. The
sight amused Eragon; he had never known Roran to get so flustered, nor to be so short-tempered.

“The mighty warrior is nervous ere his contest,” observed Isold, one of the six women next to Eragon.


The group laughed.

“Perhaps,” Birgit said, stirring water into flour, “he is worried his sword may bend in the battle.” Gales of
merriment swept the women. Eragon’s cheeks flushed. He kept his gaze fixed on the dough in front of
him and increased the speed of his kneading. Bawdy jokes were common at weddings, and he had
enjoyed his share before, but hearing them directed at his cousin disconcerted him.

The people who would not be able to attend the wedding were as much on Eragon’s mind as those who
could. He thought of Byrd, Quimby, Parr, Hida, young Elmund, Kelby, and the others who had died
because of the Empire. But most of all, he thought of Garrow and wished his uncle were still alive to see
his only son acclaimed a hero by the villagers and the Varden alike and to see him take Katrina’s hand
and finally become a man in full.

Closing his eyes, Eragon turned his face toward the noonday sun and smiled up at the sky, content. The
weather was pleasant. The aroma of yeast, flour, roasting meat, freshly poured wine, boiling soups, sweet
pastries, and melted candies suffused the clearing. His friends and family were gathered around him for
celebration and not for mourning. And for the moment, he was safe and Saphira was safe.This is how
life ought to be .

A single horn rang out across the land, unnaturally loud.

Then again.

And again.

Everyone froze, uncertain what the three notes signified.

For a brief interval, the entire camp was silent, except for the animals, then the Varden’s war-drums
began to beat. Chaos erupted. Mothers ran for their children and cooks dampened their fires while the
rest of the men and women scrambled after their weapons.

Eragon sprinted toward Saphira even as she surged to her feet. Reaching out with his mind, he found
Blödhgarm and, once the elf lowered his defenses somewhat, said,Meet us at the north entrance .

We hear and obey, Shadeslayer.

Eragon flung himself onto Saphira. The instant he got a leg over her neck, she jumped four rows of tents,
landed, and then jumped a second time, her wings half furled, not flying but rather bounding through the
camp like a mountain cat crossing a fast-flowing river. The impact of each landing jarred Eragon’s teeth
and spine and threatened to knock him off his perch. As they rose and fell, frightened warriors dodging
out of their path, Eragon contacted Trianna and the other members of Du Vrangr Gata, identifying the
location of each spellcaster and organizing them for battle.

Someone who was not of Du Vrangr Gata touched his thoughts. He recoiled, slamming walls up around
his consciousness, before he realized that it was Angela the herbalist and allowed the contact. She said,I
am with Nasuada and Elva. Nasuada wants you and Saphira to meet her at the north entrance —

As soon as we can. Yes, yes, we’re on our way. What of Elva? Does she sense anything?

Pain. Great pain. Yours. The Varden’s. The others’. I’m sorry, she’s not very coherent right now.
It’s too much for her to cope with. I’m going to put her to sleep until the violence is at an end.


Angela severed the connection.

Like a carpenter laying out and examining his tools before beginning a new project, Eragon reviewed the
wards he had placed around himself, Saphira, Nasuada, Arya, and Roran. They all seemed to be in
order.

Saphira slid to a stop before his tent, furrowing the packed earth with her talons. He leaped off her
back, rolling as he struck the ground. Bouncing upright, he dashed inside, undoing his sword belt as he
went. He dropped the belt and the attached falchion into the dirt and, scrabbling under his cot, retrieved
his armor. The cold, heavy rings of the mail hauberk slid over his head and settled on his shoulders with a
sound like falling coins. He tied on his arming cap, placed the coif over it, and then jammed his head into
his helm. Snatching up the belt, he refastened it around his waist. With his greaves and his bracers in his
left hand, he hooked his little finger through the arm strap of his shield, grabbed Saphira’s heavy saddle
with his right hand, and burst out of the tent.

Releasing his armor in a noisy clatter, he threw the saddle onto the mound of Saphira’s shoulders and
climbed after it. In his haste and excitement, and his apprehension, he had trouble buckling the straps.

Saphira shifted her stance.Hurry. You’re taking too long .

Yes! I’m moving as fast as I can! It doesn’t help you’re so blasted big!

She growled.

The camp swarmed with activity, men and dwarves streaming in jangling rivers toward the north, rushing
to answer the summons of the war–drums.

Eragon collected his abandoned armor off the ground, mounted Saphira, and settled into the saddle.
With a flash of down-swept wings, a jolt of acceleration, a blast of swirling air, and the bitter complaint of
bracers scraping against shield, Saphira took to the air. While they sped toward the northern edge of the
camp, Eragon strapped the greaves to his shins, holding himself on Saphira merely with the strength of his
legs. The bracers he wedged between his belly and the front of the saddle. The shield he hung from a
neck spike. When the greaves were secure, he slid his legs through the row of leather loops on either side
of the saddle, then tightened the slipknot on each loop.

Eragon’s hand brushed against the belt of Beloth the Wise. He groaned, remembering that he had
emptied the belt while healing Saphira in Helgrind.Argh! I should have stored some energy in it .

We’ll be fine,said Saphira.

He was just fitting on the bracers when Saphira arched her wings, cupping the air with the translucent
membranes, and reared, stalling to a standstill as she alighted upon the crest of one of the embankments
that ringed the camp. Nasuada was already there, sitting upon her massive charger, Battle-storm. Beside
her was Jörmundur, also mounted; Arya, on foot; and the current watch of the Nighthawks, led by
Khagra, one of the Urgals Eragon had met on the Burning Plains. Blödhgarm and the other elves
emerged from the forest of tents behind them and stationed themselves close to Eragon and Saphira.
From a different part of the camp galloped King Orrin and his retinue, reining in their prancing steeds as
they drew near Nasuada. Close upon their heels came Narheim, chief of the dwarves, and three of his
warriors, the group of them riding ponies clad with leather and mail armor. Nar Garzhvog ran out of the
fields to the east, the Kull’s thudding footsteps preceding his arrival by several seconds. Nasuada
shouted an order, and the guards at the north entrance pulled aside the crude wooden gate to allow


Garzhvog inside the camp, although if he had wanted, the Kull probably could have knocked open the
gate by himself.

“Who challenges?” growled Garzhvog, scaling the embankment with four inhumanly long strides. The
horses shied away from the gigantic Urgal.

“Look.” Nasuada pointed.

Eragon was already studying their enemies. Roughly two miles away, five sleek boats, black as pitch,
had landed upon the near bank of the Jiet River. From the boats there issued a swarm of men garbed in
the livery of Galbatorix’s army. The host glittered like wind-whipped water under a summer sun as
swords, spears, shields, helmets, and mail ringlets caught and reflected the light.

Arya shaded her eyes with a hand and squinted at the soldiers. “I put their number between two hundred
seventy and three hundred.”

“Why so few?” wondered Jörmundur.

King Orrin scowled. “Galbatorix cannot be mad enough to believe he can destroy us with such a paltry
force!” Orrin pulled off his helm, which was in the shape of a crown, and dabbed his brow with the
corner of his tunic. “We could obliterate that entire group and not lose a man.”

“Maybe,” said Nasuada. “Maybe not.”

Gnawing on the words, Garzhvog added, “The Dragon King is a false-tongued traitor, a rogue ram, but
his mind is not feeble. He is cunning like a blood-hungry weasel.”

The soldiers assembled themselves in orderly ranks and then began marching toward the Varden.

A messenger boy ran up to Nasuada. She bent in her saddle to listen, then dismissed him. “Nar
Garzhvog, your people are safe within our camp. They are gathered near the east gate, ready for you to
lead them.”

Garzhvog grunted but remained where he was.

Looking back at the approaching soldiers, Nasuada said, “I can think of no reason to engage them in the
open. We can pick them off with archers once they are within range. And when they reach our
breastwork, they will break themselves against the trenches and the staves. Not a single one will escape
alive,” she concluded with evident satisfaction.

“When they have committed themselves,” said Orrin, “my horsemen and I could ride out and attack
them from the rear. They will be so surprised, they will not even have a chance to defend themselves.”

“The tide of battle may—” Nasuada was replying when the brazen horn that had announced the arrival
of the soldiers sounded once more, so loudly that Eragon, Arya, and the rest of the elves covered their
ears. Eragon winced with pain from the blast.

Where is that coming from?he asked Saphira.

A more important question, I think, is why the soldiers would want to warn us of their attack, if
they are indeed responsible for this baying.


Maybe it’s a diversion or—

Eragon forgot what he was going to say as he saw a stir of motion on the far side of the Jiet River,
behind a veil of sorrowful willow trees. Red as a ruby dipped in blood, red as iron hot to forge, red as a
burning ember of hate and anger, Thorn appeared above the languishing trees. And upon the back of the
glittering dragon, there sat Murtagh in his bright steel armor, thrusting Zar’roc high over his head.

They have come for us,said Saphira. Eragon’s gut twisted, and he felt Saphira’s own dread like a
current of bilious water running through his mind.

FIRE IN THESKY

As Eragon watched Thorn and Murtagh rise high in the northern sky, he heard Narheim whisper,
“Barzûl,” and then curse Murtagh for killing Hrothgar, the king of the dwarves.

Arya spun away from the sight. “Nasuada, Your Majesty,” she said, her eyes flicking toward Orrin,
“you have to stop the soldiers before they reach the camp. You cannot allow them to attack our
defenses. If they do, they will sweep over these ramparts like a storm-driven wave and wreak untold
havoc in our midst, among the tents, where we cannot maneuver effectively.”

“Untold havoc?” Orrin scoffed. “Have you so little confidence in our prowess, Ambassador? Humans
and dwarves may not be as gifted as elves, but we shall have no difficulty in disposing of these miserable
wretches, I can assure you.”

The lines of Arya’s face tightened. “Your prowess is without compare, Your Majesty. I do not doubt it.
But listen: this is a trap set for Eragon and Saphira.They ”—she flung an arm toward the rising figures of
Thorn and Murtagh—“have come to capture Eragon and Saphira and spirit them away to Urû’baen.
Galbatorix would not have sent so few men unless he was confident they could keep the Varden
occupied long enough for Murtagh to overwhelm Eragon. Galbatorixmust have placed spells on those
men, spells to aid them in their mission. What those enchantments might be, I do not know, but of this I
am certain: the soldiers are more than they appear, and we must prevent them from entering this camp.”

Emerging from his initial shock, Eragon said, “You don’t want to let Thorn fly over the camp; he could
set fire to half of it with a single pass.”

Nasuada clasped her hands over the pommel of her saddle, seemingly oblivious to Murtagh and Thorn
and to the soldiers, who were now less than a mile away. “But why not attack us while we were
unawares?” she asked. “Why alert us to their presence?”

It was Narheim who answered. “Because they would not want Eragon and Saphira to get caught up in
the fighting on the ground. No, unless I am mistaken, their plan is for Eragon and Saphira to meet Thorn
and Murtagh in the air while the soldiers assail our position here.”

“Is it wise, then, to accommodate their wishes, to willingly send Eragon and Saphira into this trap?”
Nasuada raised an eyebrow.


“Yes,” insisted Arya, “for we have an advantage they could not suspect.” She pointed at Blödhgarm.
“This time Eragon shall not face Murtagh alone. He will have the combined strength of thirteen elves
supporting him. Murtagh will not be expecting that. Stop the soldiers before they reach us, and you will
have frustrated part of Galbatorix’s design. Send Saphira and Eragon up with the mightiest spellcasters of
my race bolstering their efforts, and you will disrupt the remainder of Galbatorix’s scheme.”

“You have convinced me,” said Nasuada. “However, the soldiers are too close for us to intercept them
any distance from the camp with men on foot. Orrin—”

Before she finished, the king had turned his horse around and was racing toward the north gate of the
camp. One of his retinue winded a trumpet, a signal for the rest of Orrin’s cavalry to assemble for a
charge.

To Garzhvog, Nasuada said, “King Orrin will require assistance. Send your rams to join him.”

“Lady Nightstalker.” Throwing back his massive horned head, Garzhvog loosed a wild wailing bellow.
The skin on the back of Eragon’s arms and neck prickled as he listened to the Urgal’s savage howl. With
a snap of his jaws, Garzhvog ceased his belling and then grunted, “They will come.” The Kull broke into
an earth-shattering trot and ran toward the gate where King Orrin and his horsemen were gathered.

Four of the Varden dragged open the gate. King Orrin raised his sword, shouted, and galloped out of
the camp, leading his men toward the soldiers in their gold-stitched tunics. A plume of cream-colored
dust billowed out from underneath the hooves of the horses, obscuring the arrowhead-shaped formation
from view.

“Jörmundur,” said Nasuada.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Order two hundred swordsmen and a hundred spearmen after them. And have fifty archers station
themselves seventy to eighty yards away from the fighting. I want these soldiers crushed, Jörmundur,
obliterated, ground out of existence. The men are to understand that no quarter is to be given or
accepted.”

Jörmundur bowed.

“And tell them that although I cannot join them in this battle, on account of my arms, my spirit marches
with them.”

“My Lady.”

As Jörmundur hurried off, Narheim urged his pony closer to Nasuada. “What of mine own people,
Nasuada? What role shall we play?”

Nasuada frowned at the thick, choking dust that drifted across the rolling expanse of grass. “You can
help guard our perimeter. If the soldiers should somehow win free of—” She was forced to pause as four
hundred Urgals—more had arrived since the Battle of the Burning Plains—pounded out of the center of
the camp, through the gate, and onto the field beyond, roaring incomprehensible warcries the whole
while. As they vanished into the dust, Nasuada resumed speaking: “If the soldiers should win free, your
axes will be most welcome in the lines.”


The wind gusted toward them, carrying with it the screams of dying men and horses, the shivery sound
of metal sliding over metal, the clink of swords glancing off helmets, the dull impact of spears on shields,
and, underlying it all, a horrible humorless laughter that issued from a multitude of throats and continued
without pause throughout the mayhem. It was, Eragon thought, the laughter of the insane.

Narheim pounded his fist against his hip. “By Morgothal, we are not ones to stand by idly when there is
a fight to be had! Release us, Nasuada, and let us hew a few necks for you!”

“No!” exclaimed Nasuada. “No, no, and no! I have given you my orders, and I expect you to abide by
them. This is a battle of horses and men and Urgals and perhaps even dragons. It is not a fit place for
dwarves. You would be trampled like children.” At Narheim’s outraged oath, she raised a hand. “I am
well aware you are fearsome warriors. No one knows that better than I, who fought beside you in
Farthen Dûr. However, not to put too fine a point on it, you are short by our standards, and I would
rather not risk your warriors in a fray such as this, where your stature might be your undoing. Better to
wait here, on the high ground, where you stand taller than anyone who tries to climb this berm, and let the
soldiers come to you. If any soldiers do reach us, they shall be warriors of such tremendous skill, I want
you and your people there to repel them, for one might as well try to uproot a mountain as defeat a
dwarf.”

Still displeased, Narheim grumbled some response, but whatever he said was lost as the Varden
Nasuada had deployed filed through the cleft in the embankment where the gate had been. The noise of
tramping feet and clattering equipment faded as the men drew away from the camp. Then the wind
stiffened into a steady breeze, and from the direction of the fighting, the grim giggle again wafted toward
them.

A moment later, a mental shout of incredible strength overwhelmed Eragon’s defenses and tore through
his consciousness, filling him with agony as he heard a man say,Ah, no, help me! They won’t die!
Angvard take them, they won’t die! The link between their minds vanished then, and Eragon
swallowed hard as he realized that the man had been killed.

Nasuada shifted in her saddle, her expression strained. “Who was that?”

“You heard him too?”

“It seems we all did,” said Arya.

“I think it was Barden, one of the spellcasters who rides with King Orrin, but—”

“Eragon!”

Thorn had been circling higher and higher while King Orrin and his men engaged the soldiers, but now
the dragon hung motionless in the sky, halfway between the soldiers and the camp, and Murtagh’s voice,
augmented with magic, echoed forth across the land: “Eragon!I see you there, hiding behind Nasuada’s
skirts. Come fight me, Eragon! It is your destiny. Or are you a coward,Shadeslayer ?”

Saphira answered for Eragon by lifting her head and roaring even louder than Murtagh’s thunderous
speech, then discharging a twenty-foot-long jet of crackling blue fire. The horses close to Saphira,
including Nasuada’s, bolted away, leaving Saphira and Eragon alone on the embankment with the elves.

Walking over to Saphira, Arya placed a hand on Eragon’s left leg and looked up at him with her slanted


green eyes. “Accept this from me, Shur’tugal,” she said. And he felt a surge of energy flow into him.

“Eka elrun ono,” he murmured to her.

Also in the ancient language, she said, “Be careful, Eragon. I would not want to see you broken by
Murtagh. I . . .” It seemed as if she were going to say more, but she hesitated, then removed her hand
from his leg and retreated to stand by Blödhgarm.

“Fly well, Bjartskular!” the elves sang out as Saphira launched herself off the embankment.

As Saphira winged her way toward Thorn, Eragon joined his mind first with her and then with Arya and,
through Arya, with Blödhgarm and the eleven other elves. By having Arya serve as the focal point for the
elves, Eragon was able to concentrate on the thoughts of Arya and Saphira; he knew them so well that
their reactions would not distract him in the middle of a fight.

Eragon grasped the shield with his left hand and unsheathed his falchion, holding it upraised so he would
not accidentally stab Saphira’s wings as she flapped, nor slash her shoulders nor her neck, which were in
constant motion.I’m glad I took the time last night to reinforce the falchion with magic, he said to
Saphira and Arya.

Let us hope your spells hold,Saphira answered.

Remember,said Arya,remain as close to us as you can. The more distance you place between us,
the harder it is for us to maintain this bond with you.

Thorn did not dive at Saphira or otherwise attack her as she neared him, but rather slid away on rigid
wings, allowing her to rise to his level unmolested. The two dragons balanced upon the thermals, facing
each other across a gap of fifty yards, the tips of their barbed tails twitching, both of their muzzles
wrinkled with ferocious snarls.

He’s bigger,observed Saphira.It’s not been two weeks since we last fought and he has grown
another four feet, if not more .

She was right. Thorn was longer from head to tail, and deeper in the chest, than he had been when they
first clashed over the Burning Plains. He was barely older than a hatchling, but he was already nearly as
large as Saphira.

Eragon reluctantly shifted his gaze from the dragon to the Rider.

Murtagh was bareheaded, and his long black hair billowed behind him like a sleek mane. His face was
hard, harder than Eragon had ever seen before, and Eragon knew that this time Murtagh would not,
could not, show him mercy. The volume of his voice substantially reduced, but still louder than normal,
Murtagh said, “You and Saphira have caused us a great deal of pain, Eragon. Galbatorix was furious
with us for letting you go. And after the two of you killed the Ra’zac, he was so angry, he slew five of his
servants and then turned his wrath upon Thorn and me. We have both suffered horribly on account of
you. We shall not do so again.” He drew back his arm, as if Thorn were about to lunge forward and
Murtagh were preparing to slash at Eragon and Saphira.

“Wait!” cried Eragon. “I know of a way you can both free yourselves of your oaths to Galbatorix.”

An expression of desperate longing transformed Murtagh’s features, and he lowered Zar’roc a few


inches. Then he scowled and spat toward the ground and shouted, “I don’t believe you! It’s not
possible!”

“It is! Just let me explain.”

Murtagh seemed to be struggling with himself, and for a while Eragon thought he might refuse. Swinging
his head around, Thorn looked back at Murtagh, and something passed between them. “Blast you,
Eragon,” said Murtagh, and lay Zar’roc across the front of his saddle. “Blast you for baiting us with this.
We had already made peace with our lot, and you have to tantalize us with the specter of a hope we had
abandoned. If this proves to be a false hope,brother, I swear I’ll cut off your right hand before we
present you to Galbatorix. . . . You won’t need it for what you will be doing in Urû’baen.”

A threat of his own occurred to Eragon, but he suppressed it. Lowering the falchion, he said,
“Galbatorix would not have told you, but when I was among the elves—”

Eragon, do not reveal anything more about us!exclaimed Arya.

“—I learned that if your personality changes, so does your true name in the ancient language. Who you
are isn’t cast in iron, Murtagh! If you and Thorn can change something about yourselves, your oaths will
no longer bind you, and Galbatorix will lose his hold on you.”

Thorn drifted several yards closer to Saphira. “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Murtagh
demanded.

“I was too confused at the time.”

A scant fifty feet separated Thorn and Saphira by then. The red dragon’s snarl had subsided to a faint
warning curl of his upper lip, and in his sparkling crimson eyes appeared a vast, puzzled sadness, as if he
hoped Saphira or Eragon might know why he had been brought into the world merely so Galbatorix
could enslave him, abuse him, and force him to destroy other beings’ lives. The tip of Thorn’s nose
twitched as he sniffed at Saphira. She sniffed him in return, and her tongue darted out of her mouth as she
tasted his scent. Pity for Thorn welled up inside Eragon and Saphira together, and they wished they could
speak with him directly, but they dared not open their minds to him.

With so little distance between them, Eragon noticed the bundles of cords that ridged Murtagh’s neck
and the forked vein that pulsed in the middle of his forehead.

“I am not evil!” said Murtagh. “I’ve done the best I could under the circumstances. I doubt you would
have survived as well as I did if our mother had seen fit to leaveyou in Urû’baen and hideme in
Carvahall.”

“Perhaps not.”

Murtagh banged his breastplate with his fist. “Aha! Then how am I supposed to follow your advice? If I
am already a good man, if I have already done as well as could be expected, how can I change? Must I
become worse than I am? Must I embrace Galbatorix’s darkness in order to free myself of it? That
hardly seems like a reasonable solution. If I succeeded in so altering my identity, you would not like who
I had become, and you would curse me as strongly as you curse Galbatorix now.”

Frustrated, Eragon said, “Yes, but you do not have to become better or worse than you are now, only
different. There are many kinds of people in the world and many ways to behave honorably. Look at


someone whom you admire but who has chosen paths other than your own through life and model your
actions upon his. It may take a while, but if you can shift your personality enough, you can leave
Galbatorix, and you can leave the Empire, and you and Thorn could join us in the Varden, where you
would be free to do as you wish.”

What of your own oaths to avenge Hrothgar’s death?Saphira asked. Eragon ignored her.

Murtagh sneered at him. “So you are asking me to be that which I am not. If Thorn and I are to save
ourselves, we must destroy our current identities. Your cure is worse than our affliction.”

“I’m asking you to allow yourself to grow into something other than you are now. It’s a difficult thing to
do, I know, but people remake themselves all the time. Let go of your anger, for one, and you can turn
your back on Galbatorix once and for all.”

“Let go of my anger?” Murtagh laughed. “I’ll let go of my anger when you forget yours over the
Empire’s role in the death of your uncle and the razing of your farm. Anger defines us, Eragon, and
without it, you and I would be a feast for maggots. Still . . .” His eyes half lidded, Murtagh tapped
Zar’roc’s crossguard, the cords in his neck softening, although the vein that split his forehead remained
swollen as ever. “The concept is intriguing, I admit. Perhaps we can work on it together when we are in
Urû’baen. That is, if the king permits us to be alone with each other. Of course, he may decide to keep
us permanently separated. I would if I were in his position.”

Eragon tightened his fingers around the hilt of the falchion. “You seem to think we will accompany you to
the capital.”

“Oh, but you will, brother.” A crooked smile stretched Murtagh’s mouth. “Even if we wanted to, Thorn
and I could not change who we are in an instant. Until such time as we may have that opportunity, we
shall remain beholden to Galbatorix, and he has ordered us, in no uncertain terms, to bring him the two of
you. Neither of us is willing to brave the king’s displeasure again. We defeated you once before. It will
be no great achievement to do so again.”

A spurt of flame escaped from between Saphira’s teeth, and Eragon had to stifle a similar response in
words. If he lost control of his temper now, bloodshed would be unavoidable. “Please, Murtagh, Thorn,
will you not at least try what I’ve suggested? Have you no desire to resist Galbatorix? You will never cast
off your chains unless you are willing to defy him.”

“You underestimate Galbatorix, Eragon,” growled Murtagh. “He has been creating name-slaves for over
a hundred years, ever since he recruited our father. Do you think he is unaware that a person’s true name
may vary over the course of his life? He is sure to have taken precautions against that eventuality. If my
true name were to change this very moment, or Thorn’s, most likely it would trigger a spell that would
alert Galbatorix to the change and force us to return to him in Urû’baen so he could bind us to him
again.”

“But only if he could guess your new names.”

“He is most adept at the practice.” Murtagh raised Zar’roc off the saddle. “We may make use of your
suggestion in the future, but only after careful study and preparation, so that Thorn and I do not regain
our freedom only to have Galbatorix steal it back from us directly afterward.” He hefted Zar’roc, the
sword’s iridescent blade shimmering. “Therefore, we have no choice but to take you with us to
Urû’baen. Will you go peacefully?”


Unable to contain himself any longer, Eragon said, “I would sooner tear out my own heart!”

“Better to tear out my hearts,” Murtagh replied, then stabbed Zar’roc overhead and shouted a wild war
cry.

Roaring in unison, Thorn flapped twice, fast, to climb above Saphira. He twisted in a half circle as he
rose, so his head would be over Saphira’s neck, where he could immobilize her with a single bite at the
base of her skull.

Saphira did not wait for him. She tipped forward, rotating her wings in their shoulder sockets, so that,
for the span of a heartbeat, she pointed straight down, her wings still parallel with the dustsmeared
ground, supporting her entire unstable weight. Then she pulled in her right wing and swung her head to
the left and her tail to the right, spinning in a clockwise direction. Her muscular tail struck Thorn across
his left side just as he sailed over her, breaking his wing in five separate places. The jagged ends of
Thorn’s hollow flight bones pierced his hide and stuck out between his flashing scales. Globules of
steaming dragon blood rained down upon Eragon and Saphira. A droplet splashed against the back of
Eragon’s coif and seeped through the mail to his bare skin. It burned like hot oil. He scrabbled at his
neck, trying to wipe off the blood.

His roar converting into a whine of pain, Thorn tumbled past Saphira, unable to stay aloft.

“Well done!” Eragon shouted to Saphira as she righted herself.

Eragon watched from above as Murtagh removed a small round object from his belt and pressed it
against Thorn’s shoulder. Eragon sensed no surge of magic from Murtagh, but the object in his hand
flared and Thorn’s broken wing jerked as his bones snapped back in place and muscles and tendons
rippled and the tears in them vanished. Lastly, the wounds in Thorn’s hide sealed over.

How did he do that?Eragon exclaimed.

Arya answered,He must have imbued the item with a spell of healing beforehand .

We should have thought of that ourselves.

His injuries mended, Thorn halted his fall and began to ascend toward Saphira with prodigious speed,
searing the air in front of him with a boiling spear of sullen red fire. Saphira dove at him, spiraling around
the tower of flame. She snapped at Thorn’s neck—causing him to shy away—and raked his shoulders
and chest with her front claws and buffeted him with her huge wings. The edge of her right wing clipped
Murtagh, knocking him sideways in his saddle. He recovered quickly and slashed at Saphira, opening up
a three-foot rent in the membrane of her wing.

Hissing, Saphira kicked Thorn away with her hind legs and released a jet of fire, which split and passed
harmlessly on either side of Thorn.

Eragon felt through Saphira the throbbing of her wound. He stared at the bloody gash, thoughts racing. If
they had been fighting any magician besides Murtagh, he would not dare to cast a spell while engaged in
hostilities, for the magician would most likely believe he or she was about to die and would counter with a
desperate, all-out magical attack.

It was different with Murtagh. Eragon knew Galbatorix had ordered Murtagh to capture, not kill, him
and Saphira.No matter what I do, Eragon thought,he will not attempt to slay me . It was safe, then,


Eragon decided, to heal Saphira. And, he belatedly realized, he could attack Murtagh with any spells he
desired and Murtagh would not be able to respond with deadly force. But he wondered why Murtagh
had used an enchanted object to cure Thorn’s hurts instead of casting the spell himself.

Saphira said,Perhaps he wants to preserve his strength. Or perhaps he wanted to avoid
frightening you. It would not please Galbatorix if, by using magic, Murtagh caused you to panic
and you killed yourself or Thorn or Murtagh as a result. Remember, the king’s great ambition is to
have all four of us under his command, not dead, where we are beyond his reach .

That must be it, Eragon agreed.

As he prepared to mend Saphira’s wing, Arya said,Wait. Do not.

What? Why? Can’t you feel Saphira’s pain?

Let my brethren and I tend to her. It will confuse Murtagh, and this way, the effort shall not
weaken you.

Aren’t you too far away to work such a change?

Not when the lot of us pool our resources. And, Eragon? We recommend you refrain from
striking at Murtagh with magic until he attacks with mind or magic himself. He may yet be
stronger than you, even with the thirteen of us lending our strength. We do not know. It is better
not to test yourself against him until there is no other alternative.

And if I cannot prevail?

All of Alagaësia will fall to Galbatorix.

Eragon sensed Arya concentrating, then the cut in Saphira’s wing ceased weeping tears of blood and the
raw edges of the delicate cerulean membrane flowed together without a scab or a scar. Saphira’s relief
was palpable. With a tinge of fatigue, Arya said,Guard yourself better if you can. This was not easy.

After Saphira had kicked him, Thorn flailed and lost altitude. He must have assumed that Saphira meant
to harry him downward, where it would be harder for him to evade her attacks, because he fled west a
quarter of a mile. When he finally noticed that Saphira was not pursuing him, he circled up and around
until he was a good thousand feet higher than she was.

Drawing in his wings, Thorn hurtled toward Saphira, flames flickering in his open maw, his ivory talons
outstretched, Murtagh brandishing Zar’roc on his back.

Eragon nearly lost his grip on the falchion as Saphira folded one wing and flipped upside down with a
dizzying wrench, then extended the wing again to slow her descent. If he craned his head backward,
Eragon could see the ground below them. Or was it above them? He gritted his teeth and concentrated
on maintaining his hold on the saddle.

Thorn and Saphira collided, and to Eragon, it was as if Saphira had crashed into the side of a mountain.
The force of the impact drove him forward, and he banged his helmet against the neck spike in front of
him, denting the thick steel. Dazed, he hung loose from the saddle and watched as the disks of the
heavens and the earth reversed themselves, spinning without a discernible pattern. He felt Saphira
shudder as Thorn battered her exposed belly. Eragon wished there had been time to dress her in the


armor the dwarves had given her.

A glittering ruby leg appeared around Saphira’s shoulder, mauling her with bloody claws. Without
thinking, Eragon hacked at it, shattering a line of scales and severing a bundle of tendons. Three of the
toes on the foot went limp. Eragon hacked again.

Snarling, Thorn disengaged from Saphira. He arched his neck, and Eragon heard an inrush of air as the
stocky dragon filled his lungs. Eragon ducked, burying his face in the corner of his elbow. A ravening
inferno engulfed Saphira. The heat of the fire could not harm them—Eragon’s wards prevented that—but
the torrent of incandescent flames was still blinding.

Saphira veered to the left, out of the churning fire. By then, Murtagh had repaired the damage to Thorn’s
leg, and Thorn again flung himself at Saphira, grappling with her as they plummeted in sickening lurches
toward the gray tents of the Varden. Saphira managed to clamp her teeth on the horned crest that
projected from the rear of Thorn’s head, despite the points of bone that punctured her tongue. Thorn
bellowed and thrashed like a hooked fish, trying to pull away, but he was no match for the iron muscles
of Saphira’s jaws. The two dragons drifted downward side by side, like a pair of interlocked leaves.

Eragon leaned over and slashed crosswise at Murtagh’s right shoulder, not intending to kill him but
rather to injure him severely enough to end the fight. Unlike during their clash over the Burning Plains,
Eragon was well rested; with his arm as fast as an elf’s, he was confident Murtagh would be defenseless
before him.

Murtagh lifted his shield and blocked the falchion.

His reaction was so unexpected, Eragon faltered, then barely had time to recoil and parry as Murtagh
retaliated, swinging Zar’roc at him, the blade humming through the air with inordinate speed. The stroke
jarred Eragon’s shoulder. Pressing the attack, Murtagh struck at Eragon’s wrist and then, when Eragon
dashed aside Zar’roc, thrust underneath Eragon’s shield and stabbed through the fringe of his mail
hauberk and his tunic and the waist of his breeches and into his left hip. The tip of Zar’roc embedded
itself in bone.

The pain shocked Eragon like a splash of frigid water, but it also lent his thoughts a preternatural clarity
and sent a burst of uncommon strength coursing through his limbs.

As Murtagh withdrew Zar’roc, Eragon yelled and lunged at Murtagh, who, with a flip of his wrist,
trapped the falchion beneath Zar’roc. Murtagh bared his teeth in a sinister smile. Without pause, Eragon
yanked the falchion free, feinted toward Murtagh’s right knee, then whipped the falchion in the opposite
direction and sliced Murtagh across the cheek.

“You should have worn a helmet,” said Eragon.

They were so close to the ground then—only a few hundred feet—that Saphira had to release Thorn,
and the two dragons separated before Eragon and Murtagh could exchange any more blows.

As Saphira and Thorn spiraled upward, racing each other toward a pearl-white cloud gathering over the
tents of the Varden, Eragon lifted his hauberk and tunic and examined his hip. A fist-sized patch of skin
was discolored where Zar’roc had crushed the mail against his flesh. In the middle of the patch was a thin
red line, two inches long, where Zar’roc had pierced him. Blood oozed from the wound, soaking the top
of his breeches.


Being hurt by Zar’roc—a sword that had never failed him in moments of danger and that he still
regarded as rightfully his—unsettled him. To have his own weapon turned against him waswrong . It was
a warping of the world, and his every instinct rebelled against it.

Saphira wobbled as she flew through an eddy of air, and Eragon winced, renewed pain lancing up his
side. It was fortunate, he concluded, that they were not fighting on foot, for he did not think his hip would
bear his weight.

Arya,he said,do you want to heal me, or shall I do it myself and let Murtagh stop me if he can?

We shall attend to it for you,Arya said.You may be able to catch Murtagh by surprise if he believes
you are still wounded.

Oh, wait.

Why?

I have to give you permission. Otherwise, my wards will block the spell. The phrase did not leap
into Eragon’s mind at first, but eventually he remembered the construction of the safeguard and, in the
ancient language, whispered, “I agree to let Arya, daughter of Islanzadí, cast a spell on me.”

We shall have to talk about your wards when you are not so distracted. What if you were
unconscious? How could we minister to you then?

It seemed like a good idea after the Burning Plains. Murtagh immobilized us both with magic. I
don’t want him or anyone else to be able to cast spells on us without our consent.

Nor should they, but there are more elegant solutions than yours.

Eragon squirmed in the saddle as the elves’ magic took effect and his hip began to tingle and itch as if
covered with flea bites. When the itching ceased, he slid a hand under his tunic and was delighted to feel
nothing but smooth skin.

Right,he said, rolling his shoulders.Let us teach them to fear our names!

The pearl-white cloud looming large before them, Saphira twisted to the left and then, while Thorn was
struggling to turn, plunged into the heart of the cloud. Everything went cold and damp and white, then
Saphira shot out of the far side, exiting only a few feet above and behind Thorn.

Roaring with triumph, Saphira dropped upon Thorn and seized him by the flanks, sinking her claws deep
into his thighs and along his spine. She snaked her head forward, caught Thorn’s left wing in her mouth,
and clamped down with thesnick of razor teeth cutting through meat.

Thorn writhed and screamed, a horrible sound Eragon had not suspected dragons were capable of
producing.

I have him,said Saphira.I can tear off his wing, but I would rather not. Whatever you are going to
do, do it before we fall too far.

His face pale beneath smeared gore, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with Zar’roc—the sword trembling in
the air—and a mental ray of immense power invaded Eragon’s consciousness. The foreign presence


groped after his thoughts, seeking to grab ahold and subdue them and subject them to Murtagh’s
approval. As on the Burning Plains, Eragon noticed that Murtagh’s mind felt as if it contained multitudes,
as if a confused chorus of voices was murmuring beneath the turmoil of Murtagh’s own thoughts.

Eragon wondered if Murtagh had a group of magicians assisting him, even as the elves were him.

Difficult as it was, Eragon emptied his mind of everything but an image of Zar’roc. He concentrated on
the sword with all his might, smoothing the plane of his consciousness into the calm of meditation so
Murtagh would find no purchase with which to establish a foothold in Eragon’s being. And when Thorn
flailed underneath them and Murtagh’s attention wavered for an instant, Eragon launched a furious
counterattack, clutching at Murtagh’s consciousness.

The two of them strove against each other in grim silence while they fell, wrestling back and forth in the
confines of their minds. Sometimes Eragon seemed to gain the upper hand, sometimes Murtagh, but
neither could defeat the other. Eragon glanced at the ground rushing up at them and realized that their
contest would have to be decided by other means.

Lowering the falchion so it was level with Murtagh, Eragon shouted, “Letta!”—the same spell Murtagh
had used on him during their previous confrontation. It was a simple piece of magic—it would do nothing
more than hold Murtagh’s arms and torso in place—but it would allow them to test themselves directly
against one another and determine which of them had the most energy at their disposal.

Murtagh mouthed a counterspell, the words lost in Thorn’s snarling and in the howling of the wind.

Eragon’s pulse raced as the strength ebbed from his limbs. When he had nearly depleted his reserves
and was faint from the effort, Saphira and the elves poured the energy from their bodies into his,
maintaining the spell for him. Across from him, Murtagh had originally appeared smug and confident, but
as Eragon continued to restrain him, Murtagh’s scowl deepened, and he pulled back his lips, baring his
teeth. And the whole while, they besieged each other’s minds.

Eragon felt the energy Arya was funneling into him decrease once, then twice, and he assumed that two
of the spellweavers under Blödhgarm’s command had fainted.Murtagh can’thold out much longer, he
thought, and then had to struggle to regain control of his mind, for his lapse of concentration had granted
Murtagh entry.

The force from Arya and the other elves declined by half, and even Saphira began to shake with
exhaustion. Just as Eragon became convinced Murtagh would prevail, Murtagh uttered an anguished
shout, and a great weight seemed to lift off Eragon as Murtagh’s resistance vanished. Murtagh appeared
astonished by Eragon’s success.

What now?Eragon asked Arya and Saphira.Do we take them as hostages? Can we?

Now,said Saphira,I must fly . She released Thorn and pushed herself away from him, raising her wings
and laboriously flapping as she endeavored to keep them aloft. Eragon looked over her shoulder and had
a brief impression of horses and sun-streaked grass hurtling toward them; then it was as if a giant struck
him from underneath and his sight went black.

The next thing Eragon saw was a swath of Saphira’s neck scales an inch or two in front of his nose. The
scales shone like cobalt-blue ice. Eragon was dimly aware of someone reaching out to his mind from
across a great distance, their consciousness projecting an intense sense of urgency. As his faculties


returned, he recognized the other person as Arya. She said:End the spell, Eragon! It will kill us all if
you keep it up. End it; Murtagh is too far away! Wake up, Eragon, or you will pass into the void .

With a jolt, Eragon sat upright in the saddle, barely noticing that Saphira was crouched amid a circle of
King Orrin’s horsemen. Arya was nowhere to be seen. Now that he was alert again, Eragon could feel
the spell he had cast on Murtagh still draining his strength, and in ever-increasing amounts. If not for the
aid of Saphira and Arya and the other elves, he would have already died.

Eragon released the magic, then looked for Thorn and Murtagh on the ground.

There,said Saphira, and motioned with her snout. Low in the northwestern sky, Eragon saw Thorn’s
glittering shape, the dragon winging his way up the Jiet River, fleeing toward Galbatorix’s army some
miles distant.

How?

Murtagh healed Thorn again, and Thorn was lucky enough to land on the slope of a hill. He ran
down it, then took off before you regained consciousness.

From across the rolling landscape, Murtagh’s magnified voice boomed: “Do not think you have won,
Eragon, Saphira. We shall meet again, I promise, and Thorn and I shall defeat you then, for we shall be
even stronger than we are now!”

Eragon clenched his shield and his falchion so tightly, he bled from underneath his fingernails.Do you
think you can overtake him?

I could, but the elves would not be able to help you from so far away, and I doubt we could
prevail without their support.

We might be able—Eragon stopped and pounded his leg in frustration.Blast it, I’m an idiot! I forgot
about Aren. We could have used the energy in Brom’s ring to help defeat them.

You had other things on your mind. Anyone might have made the same mistake.

Maybe, but I still wish I had thought of Aren sooner. We could still use it to capture Thorn and
Murtagh.

And then what?asked Saphira.How could we keep them as prisoners? Would you drug them like
Durza drugged you in Gil’ead? Or do you just want to kill them?

I don’t know! We could help them to change their true names, to break their oaths to Galbatorix.
Letting them wander around unchecked, though, is too dangerous.

Arya said,In theory, you are right, Eragon, but you are tired, Saphira is tired, and I would rather
Thorn and Murtagh escape than we lose the two of you because you were not at your best.

But—

But we do not have the capabilities to safely detain a dragon and Rider for an extended period,
and I do not think killing Thorn and Murtagh would be as easy as you assume, Eragon. Be
grateful we have driven them off, and rest easy knowing we can do so again when next they dare


to confront us.So saying, she withdrew from his mind.
Eragon watched until Thorn and Murtagh had vanished from sight, then he sighed and rubbed Saphira’s

neck.I could sleep for a fortnight.

As could I.

You should be proud; you outflew Thorn at nearly every turn.

Yes, I did, didn’t I?She preened.It was hardly a fair competition. Thorn does not have my

experience.
Nor your talent, I should think.

Twisting her neck, she licked the upper part of his right arm, the mail hauberk tinkling, and then gazed

down at him with sparkling eyes.

He managed a ghost of a smile.I suppose I should have expected it, but it still surprised me that
Murtagh was as fast as me. More magic on the part of Galbatorix, no doubt .

Why did your wards fail to deflect Zar’roc, though? They saved you from worse blows when we
fought the Ra’zac.

I’m not sure. Murtagh or Galbatorix might have invented a spell I had not thought to guard
against. Or it could just be that Zar’roc is a Rider’s blade, and as Glaedr said—

—the swords Rhunön forged excel at—

—cutting through enchantments of every kind, and—

—it is only rarely they are—

—affected by magic. Exactly. Eragon stared at the streaks of dragon blood on the flat of the falchion,
weary.When will we be able to defeat our enemies on our own? I couldn’t have killed Durza if
Arya hadn’t broken the star sapphire. And we were only able to prevail over Murtagh and Thorn
with the help of Arya and twelve others .

We must become more powerful.

Yes, but how? How has Galbatorix amassed his strength? Has he found a way to feed off the
bodies of his slaves even when he is hundreds of miles away? Garr! I don’t know.

A runnel of sweat coursed down Eragon’s brow and into the corner of his right eye. He wiped off the
perspiration with the palm of his hand, then blinked and again noticed the horsemen gathered around him
and Saphira.What are they doing here? Looking beyond, he realized Saphira had landed close to
where King Orrin had intercepted the soldiers from the boats. Not far off to her left, hundreds of men,
Urgals, and horses milled about in panic and confusion. Occasionally, the clatter of swords or the scream
of a wounded man broke through the uproar, accompanied by snatches of demented laughter.

I think they are here to protect us,said Saphira.


Us! From what? Why haven’t they killed the soldiers yet? Where—Eragon abandoned his question
as Arya, Blödhgarm, and four other haggard-looking elves sprinted up to Saphira from the direction of
the camp. Raising a hand in greeting, Eragon called, “Arya! What’s happened? No one seems to be in
command.”

To Eragon’s alarm, Arya was breathing so hard, she was unable to speak for a few moments. Then:
“The soldiers proved more dangerous than we anticipated. We do not know how. Du Vrangr Gata has
heard nothing but gibberish from Orrin’s spellcasters.” Regaining her breath, Arya started examining
Saphira’s cuts and bruises.

Before Eragon could ask more, a collection of excited cries from within the maelstrom of warriors
drowned out the rest of the tumult, and he heard King Orrin shout, “Back, back, all of you! Archers,
hold the line! Blast you, no one move, we have him!”

Saphira had the same thought as Eragon. Gathering her legs under her, she leaped over the ring of
horsemen—startling the horses so they bucked and ran—and made her way across the corpsestrewn
battlefield toward the sound of King Orrin’s voice, brushing aside men and Urgals alike as if they were so
many stalks of grass. The rest of the elves hurried to keep up, swords and bows in hand.

Saphira found Orrin sitting on his charger at the leading edge of the tightly packed warriors, staring at a
lone man forty feet away. The king was flushed and wild-eyed, his armor besmirched with filth from
combat. He had been wounded under his left arm, and the shaft of a spear protruded several inches from
his right thigh. When Saphira’s approach caught his attention, his face registered sudden relief.

“Good, good, you’re here,” he muttered as Saphira crawled abreast of his charger. “We needed you,
Saphira, and you, Shade slayer.” One of the archers edged forward a few inches. Orrin waved his sword
at him and yelled, “Back! I’ll have the head of anyone who doesn’t remain where he is, I swear by
Angvard’s crown!” Then Orrin resumed glaring at the lone man.

Eragon followed his gaze. The man was a soldier of medium height, with a purple birthmark on his neck
and brown hair plastered flat by the helmet he had been wearing. His shield was a splintered ruin. His
sword was notched, bent, and broken, missing the last six inches. River mud caked his mail hose. Blood
sheeted from a gash along his ribs. An arrow fletched with white swan feathers had impaled his right foot
and pinned it to the ground, three-quarters of the shaft buried in the hard dirt. From the man’s throat, a
horrid gurgling laugh emanated. It rose and fell with a drunken cadence, pitching from note to note as if
the man were about to begin shrieking with horror.

“What are you?” shouted King Orrin. When the soldier did not immediately respond, the king cursed
and said, “Answer me, or I’ll let my spellcasters at you. Be you man or beast or some ill-spawned
demon? In what foul pit did Galbatorix find you and your brothers? Are you kin of the Ra’zac?”

The king’s last question acted like a needle driven into Eragon; he straightened bolt upright, every sense
tingling.

The laughter paused for a moment. “Man. I am a man.”

“You are like no man I know.”

“I wanted to assure the future of my family. Is that so foreign to you, Surdan?”

“Give me no riddles, you fork-tongued wretch! Tell me how you became as you are, and speak


honestly, lest you convince me to pour boiling lead down your throat and see ifthat pains you.”

The unbalanced chuckles intensified, then the soldier said, “You cannot hurt me, Surdan. No one can.
The king himself made us impervious to pain. In return, our families will live in comfort for the rest of their
lives. You can hide from us, but we will never stop pursuing you, even when ordinary men would drop
dead from exhaustion. You can fight us, but we will continue killing you as long as we have an arm to
swing. You cannot even surrender to us, for we take no prisoners. You can do nothing but die and return
this land to peace.”

With a gruesome grimace, the soldier wrapped his mangled shield hand around the arrow and, with the
sound of tearing flesh, pulled the shaft out of his foot. Lumps of crimson meat clung to the arrowhead as it
came free. The soldier shook the arrow at them, then threw the missile at one of the archers, wounding
him in the hand. His laugh louder than ever, the soldier lurched forward, dragging his injured foot behind
him. He raised his sword, as if he intended to attack.

“Shoot him!” shouted Orrin.

Bowstrings twanged like badly tuned lutes, then a score of spinning arrows leaped toward the soldier
and, an instant later, struck him in the torso. Two of the arrows bounced off his gambeson; the remainder
penetrated his rib cage. His laughter reduced to a wheezing chuckle as blood seeped into his lungs, the
soldier continued moving forward, painting the grass underneath him bright scarlet. The archers shot
again, and arrows sprouted from the man’s shoulders and arms, but he did not stop. Another volley of
arrows followed close upon the last. The soldier stumbled and fell as an arrow split his left kneecap and
others skewered his upper legs and one passed entirely through his neck—punching a hole in his
birthmark—and whistled out across the field, trailing a spray of blood. And still the soldier refused to die.
He began to crawl, dragging himself forward with his arms, grinning and giggling as if the whole world
were an obscene joke that only he could appreciate.

A cold tingle shivered down Eragon’s spine as he watched.

King Orrin swore violently, and Eragon detected a hint of hysteria in his voice. Jumping off his charger,
Orrin threw his sword and his shield into the dirt and then pointed at the nearest Urgal. “Give me your
ax.” Startled, the gray-skinned Urgal hesitated, then surrendered his weapon.

King Orrin limped over to the soldier, raised the heavy ax with both hands, and, with a single blow,
chopped off the soldier’s head.

The giggling ceased.

The soldier’s eyes rolled and his mouth worked for another few seconds, and then he was still.

Orrin grasped the head by the hair and lifted it so all could see. “Theycan be killed,” he declared.
“Spread the word that the only sure way of stopping these abominations is to behead them. That or bash
in their skulls with a mace or shoot them in the eye from a safe distance. . . . Graytooth, where are you?”
A stout, middle-aged horseman urged his mount forward. Orrin threw him the head, which he caught.
“Mount that on a pole by the north gate of the camp. Mountall of their heads. Let them serve as a
message to Galbatorix that we do not fear his underhanded tricks and we shall prevail in spite of them.”
Striding back to his charger, Orrin returned the ax to the Urgal, then picked up his own weapons.

A few yards away, Eragon spotted Nar Garzhvog standing among a cluster of Kull. Eragon spoke a few
words to Saphira, and she sidled over to the Urgals. After exchanging nods, Eragon asked Garzhvog,


“Were all the soldiers like that?” He gestured toward the arrow-riddled corpse.

“All men with no pain. You hit them and you think them dead, turn your back and they hamstring you.”
Garzhvog scowled. “I lost many rams today. We have fought droves of humans, Firesword, but never
before these laughing ghouls. It is not natural. It makes us think they are possessed by hornless spirits,
that maybe the gods themselves have turned against us.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Eragon. “It is merely a spell by Galbatorix, and we shall soon have a way to
protect ourselves against it.” Notwithstanding his outer confidence, the concept of fighting enemies who
felt no pain unsettled him as much as it did the Urgals. Moreover, from what Garzhvog had said, he
guessed that maintaining morale among the Varden was going to be even more difficult for Nasuada once
everyone learned about the soldiers.

While the Varden and the Urgals set about collecting their fallen comrades, stripping the dead of useful
equipment, and beheading the soldiers and dragging their truncated bodies into piles to burn, Eragon,
Saphira, and King Orrin returned to the camp, accompanied by Arya and the other elves.

Along the way, Eragon offered to heal Orrin’s leg, but the king refused, saying, “I have my own
physicians, Shadeslayer.”

Nasuada and Jörmundur were waiting for them by the north gate. Accosting Orrin, Nasuada said,
“What went wrong?”

Eragon closed his eyes as Orrin explained how at first the attack on the soldiers had seemed to go well.
The horsemen had swept through their ranks, dealing what they had thought were death blows left and
right, and had suffered only one casualty during their charge. When they had engaged the remaining
soldiers, however, many of those they had struck down before rose up and rejoined the fight. Orrin
shuddered. “We lost our nerve then. Any man would have. We did not know if the soldiers were
invincible, or if they were even men at all. When you see an enemy coming at you with bone sticking out
of his calf, a javelin through his belly, and half his face sheared away, and helaughs at you, it’s a rare man
who can stand his ground. My warriors panicked. They broke formation. It was utter confusion.
Slaughter. When the Urgals and your warriors, Nasuada, reached us, they became caught up in the
madness.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen the like of it, not even on the Burning Plains.”

Nasuada’s face had grown pale, even with her dark skin. She looked at Eragon and then Arya. “How
could Galbatorix have done this?”

It was Arya who answered, “Block most, but not all, of a person’s ability to feel pain. Leave just enough
sensation so they know where they are and what they are doing, but not so much that pain can
incapacitate them. The spell would require only a small amount of energy.”

Nasuada wet her lips. Again speaking to Orrin, she said, “Do you know how many we lost?”

A tremor racked Orrin. He doubled over, pressed a hand against his leg, gritted his teeth, and growled,
“Three hundred soldiers against . . . What was the size of the force you sent?”

“Two hundred swordsmen. A hundred spearmen. Fifty archers.”

“Those, plus the Urgals, plus my cavalry . . . Say around a thousand strong. Against three hundred foot
soldiers on an open field. We slew every last one of the soldiers. What it cost us, though . . .” The king
shook his head. “We won’t know for sure until we count the dead, but it looked to me as if


three-quarters of your swordsmen are gone. More of the spearmen. Some archers. Of my cavalry, few
remain: fifty, seventy. Many of them were my friends. Perhaps a hundred, a hundred and fifty Urgals
dead. Overall? Five or six hundred to bury, and the better part of the survivors wounded. I don’t know .
. . I don’t know. I don’t—” His jaw going slack, Orrin slumped to the side and would have fallen off his
horse if Arya had not sprung forward and caught him.

Nasuada snapped her fingers, summoning two of the Varden from among the tents, and ordered them to
take Orrin to his pavilion and then to fetch the king his healers.

“We have suffered a grievous defeat, no matter that we exterminated the soldiers,” Nasuada murmured.
She pressed her lips together, sorrow and despair mixed in equal portions in her expression. Her eyes
glimmered with unshed tears. Stiffening her back, she fixed Eragon and Saphira with an iron gaze. “How
fared it with the two of you?” She listened without moving while Eragon described their encounter with
Murtagh and Thorn. Afterward, she nodded. “That you would be able to escape their clutches was all
we dared hope. However, you accomplished more than that. You proved that Galbatorix has not made
Murtagh so powerful that we have no hope of defeating him. With a few more spellcasters to help you,
Murtagh would have been yours to do with as you pleased. For that reason, he will not dare confront
Queen Islanzadí’s army by himself, I think. If we can gather enough spellcasters around you, Eragon, I
believe we can finally kill Murtagh and Thorn the next time they come to abduct the pair of you.”

“Don’t you want to capture them?” Eragon asked.

“I want a great number of things, but I doubt I shall receive very many of them. Murtagh and Thorn may
not be trying to kill you, but if the opportunity presents itself, we must kill them without hesitation. Or do
you see it otherwise?”

“. . . No.”

Shifting her attention to Arya, Nasuada asked, “Did any of your spellweavers die during the contest?”

“Some fainted, but they have all recovered, thank you.”

Nasuada took a deep breath and looked northward, her eyes focused on infinity. “Eragon, please inform
Trianna that I want Du Vrangr Gata to figure out how to replicate Galbatorix’s spell. Despicable as it is,
we must imitate Galbatorix in this. We cannot afford not to. It won’t be practical for all of us to be unable
to feel pain—we would hurt ourselves far too easily—but we should have a few hundred swordsmen,
volunteers, who are immune to physical suffering.”

“My Lady.”

“So many dead,” said Nasuada. She twisted her reins in her hands. “We have remained in one place for
too long. It is time we force the Empire onto the defensive again.” She spurred Battlestorm away from
the carnage that lay before the camp, the stallion tossing his head and gnawing on his bit. “Your cousin,
Eragon, begged me to allow him to take part in today’s fighting. I refused, on account of his impending
marriage, which pleased him not—although I suspect his betrothed feels otherwise. Would you do me the
favor of notifying me if they still intend to proceed with the ceremony today? After so much bloodshed, it
would hearten the Varden to attend a marriage.”

“I will let you know as soon as I find out.”

“Thank you. You may go now, Eragon.”


The first thing Eragon and Saphira did upon leaving Nasuada was to visit the elves who had fainted
during their battle with Murtagh and Thorn and thank them and their companions for their assistance.
Then Eragon, Arya, and Blödhgarm attended to the hurts Thorn had dealt Saphira, mending her cuts and
scratches and a few of her bruises. When they finished, Eragon located Trianna with his mind and
conveyed Nasuada’s instructions.

Only then did he and Saphira seek out Roran. Blödhgarm and his elves accompanied them; Arya left to
attend to business of her own.

Roran and Katrina were arguing quietly and intensely when Eragon spotted them standing by the corner
of Horst’s tent. They fell silent as Eragon and Saphira drew near. Katrina crossed her arms and stared
away from Roran, while Roran gripped the top of his hammer thrust through his belt and scuffed the heel
of his boot against a rock.

Stopping in front of them, Eragon waited a few moments, hoping they would explain the reason for their
quarrel, but instead Katrina said, “Are either of you injured?” Her eyes flicked from him to Saphira and
back.

“We were, but no longer.”

“That is so . . . strange. We heard tales of magic in Carvahall, but I never really believed them. They
seemed so impossible. But here, there are magicians everywhere. . . . Did you wound Murtagh and
Thorn badly? Is that why they fled?”

“We bested them, but we caused them no permanent harm.” Eragon paused, and when neither Roran
nor Katrina spoke, he asked if they still wanted to get married that day. “Nasuada suggested you
proceed, but it might be better to wait. The dead have yet to be buried, and there is much that needs
doing. Tomorrow would be more convenient . . . and more seemly.”

“No,” said Roran, and ground the tip of his boot against the rock. “The Empire could attack again at any
moment. Tomorrow might be too late. If . . . if somehow I died before we were wed, what would
become of Katrina or our . . .” He faltered and his cheeks reddened.

Her expression softening, Katrina turned to Roran and took his hand. She said, “Besides, the food has
been cooked, the decorations have been hung, and our friends have gathered for our marriage. It would
be a pity if all those preparations were for nothing.” Reaching up, she stroked Roran’s beard, and he
smiled at her and placed an arm around her.

I don’t understand half of what goes on between them,Eragon complained to Saphira. “When shall
the ceremony take place, then?”

“In an hour,” said Roran.

MAN ANDWIFE



Four hours later, Eragon stood on the crest of a low hill dotted with yellow wildflowers.

Surrounding the hill was a lush meadow that bordered the Jiet River, which rushed past a hundred feet to
Eragon’s right. The sky was bright and clear; sunshine bathed the land with a soft radiance. The air was
cool and calm and smelled fresh, as if it had just rained.

Gathered in front of the hill were the villagers from Carvahall, none of whom had been injured during the
fighting, and what seemed to be half of the men of the Varden. Many of the warriors held long spears
mounted with embroidered pennants of every color. Various horses, including Snowfire, were picketed
at the far end of the meadow. Despite Nasuada’s best efforts, organizing the assembly had taken longer
than anyone had reckoned.

Wind tousled Eragon’s hair, which was still wet from washing, as Saphira glided over the congregation
and alighted next to him, fanning her wings. He smiled and touched her on the shoulder.

Little one.

Under normal circumstances, Eragon would have been nervous about speaking in front of so many
people and performing such a solemn and important ceremony, but after the earlier fighting, everything
had assumed an air of unreality, as if it were no more than a particularly vivid dream.

At the base of the hill stood Nasuada, Arya, Narheim, Jörmundur, Angela, Elva, and others of
importance. King Orrin was absent, as his wounds had proved to be more serious than they had first
appeared and his healers were still laboring over him in his pavilion. The king’s prime minister, Irwin, was
attending in his stead.

The only Urgals present were the two in Nasuada’s private guard. Eragon had been there when
Nasuada had invited Nar Garzhvog to the event, and he had been relieved when Garzhvog had had the
good sense to decline. The villagers would never have tolerated a large group of Urgals at the wedding.
As it was, Nasuada had difficulty convincing them to allow her guards to remain.

With a rustle of cloth, the villagers and the Varden parted, forming a long, open path from the hill to the
edge of the crowd. Then, joining their voices, the villagers began to sing the ancient wedding songs of
Palancar Valley. The well-worn verses spoke of the cycle of the seasons, of the warm earth that gave
birth to a new crop each year, of the spring calving, of nesting robins and spawning fish, and of how it
was the destiny of the young to replace the old. One of Blödhgarm’s spellcasters, a female elf with silver
hair, withdrew a small gold harp from a velvet case and accompanied the villagers with notes of her own,
embellishing upon the simple themes of their melodies, lending the familiar music a wistful mood.

With slow, steady steps, Roran and Katrina emerged from either side of the crowd at the far end of the
path, turned toward the hill, and, without touching, began to advance toward Eragon. Roran wore a new
tunic he had borrowed from one of the Varden. His hair was brushed, his beard was trimmed, and his
boots were clean. His face beamed with inexpressible joy. All in all, he seemed very handsome and
distinguished to Eragon. However, it was Katrina who commanded Eragon’s attention. Her dress was
light blue, as befitted a bride at her first wedding, of a simple cut but with a lace train that was twenty feet
long and carried by two girls. Against the pale fabric, her free-flowing locks glowed like polished copper.
In her hands was a posy of wildflowers. She was proud, serene, and beautiful.

Eragon heard gasps from some of the women as they beheld Katrina’s train. He resolved to thank
Nasuada for having Du Vrangr Gata make the dress for Katrina, for he assumed it was she who was


responsible for the gift.

Three paces behind Roran walked Horst. And at a similar distance behind Katrina walked Birgit, careful
to avoid stepping on the train.

When Roran and Katrina were halfway to the hill, a pair of white doves flew out from the willow trees
lining the Jiet River. The doves carried a circlet of yellow daffodils clutched in their feet. Katrina slowed
and stopped as they approached her. The birds circled her three times, north to east, and then dipped
down and laid the circlet upon the crown of her head before returning to the river.

“Did you arrange that?” Eragon murmured to Arya.

She smiled.

At the top of the hill, Roran and Katrina stood motionless before Eragon while they waited for the
villagers to finish singing. As the final refrain faded into oblivion, Eragon raised his hands and said,
“Welcome, one and all. Today we have come together to celebrate the union between the families of
Roran Garrowsson and Katrina Ismirasdaughter. They are both of good reputation, and to the best of my
knowledge, no one else has a claim upon their hands. If that not be the case, however, or if any other
reason exists that they should not become man and wife, then make your objections known before these
witnesses, that we may judge the merit of your arguments.” Eragon paused for an appropriate interval,
then continued. “Who here speaks for Roran Garrowsson?”

Horst stepped forward. “Roran has neither father nor uncle, so I, Horst Ostrecsson, speak for him as
my blood.”

“And who here speaks for Katrina Ismirasdaughter?”

Birgit stepped forward. “Katrina has neither mother nor aunt, so I, Birgit Mardrasdaughter, speak for
her as my blood.” Despite her vendetta against Roran, by tradition it was Birgit’s right and responsibility
to represent Katrina, as she had been a close friend of Katrina’s mother.

“It is right and proper. What, then, does Roran Garrowsson bring to this marriage, that both he and his
wife may prosper?”

“He brings his name,” said Horst. “He brings his hammer. He brings the strength of his hands. And he
brings the promise of a farm in Carvahall, where they may both live in peace.”

Astonishment rippled through the crowd as people realized what Roran was doing: he was declaring in
the most public and binding way possible that the Empire would not stop him from returning home with
Katrina and providing her with the life she would have had if not for Galbatorix’s murderous interference.
Roran was staking his honor, as a man and a husband, on the downfall of the Empire.

“Do you accept this offer, Birgit Mardrasdaughter?” Eragon asked.

Birgit nodded. “I do.”

“And what does Katrina Ismirasdaughter bring to this marriage, that both she and her husband may
prosper?”

“She brings her love and devotion, with which she shall serve Roran Garrowsson. She brings her skills at


running a household. And she brings a dowry.” Surprised, Eragon watched as Birgit motioned and two
men who were standing next to Nasuada came forward, carrying a metal casket between them. Birgit
undid the clasp to the casket, then lifted open the lid and showed Eragon the contents. He gaped as he
beheld the mound of jewelry inside. “She brings with her a gold necklace studded with diamonds. She
brings a brooch set with red coral from the Southern Sea and a pearl net to hold her hair. She brings five
rings of gold and electrum. The first ring—” As Birgit described each item, she lifted it from the casket so
all might see she spoke the truth.

Bewildered, Eragon glanced at Nasuada and noted the pleased smile she wore.

After Birgit had finished her litany and closed the casket and fastened the lock again, Eragon asked, “Do
you accept this offer, Horst Ostrecsson?”

“I do.”

“Thus your families become one, in accordance with the law of the land.” Then, for the first time, Eragon
addressed Roran and Katrina directly: “Those who speak for you have agreed upon the terms of your
marriage. Roran, are you pleased with how Horst Ostrecsson has negotiated on your behalf?”

“I am.”

“And, Katrina, are you pleased with how Birgit Mardrasdaughter has negotiated on your behalf?”

“I am.”

“Roran Stronghammer, son of Garrow, do you swear then, by your name and by your lineage, that you
shall protect and provide for Katrina Ismirasdaughter while you both yet live?”

“I, Roran Stronghammer, son of Garrow, do swear, by my name and by my lineage, that I shall protect
and provide for Katrina Ismirasdaughter while we both yet live.”

“Do you swear to uphold her honor, to remain steadfast and faithful to her in the years to come, and to
treat her with the proper respect, dignity, and gentleness?”

“I swear I shall uphold her honor, remain steadfast and faithful to her in the years to come, and treat her
with the proper respect, dignity, and gentleness.”

“And do you swear to give her the keys to your holdings, such as they may be, and to your strongbox
where you keep your coin, by sunset tomorrow, so she may tend to your affairs as a wife should?”

Roran swore he would.

“Katrina, daughter of Ismira, do you swear, by your name and by your lineage, that you shall serve and
provide for Roran Garrowsson while you both yet live?”

“I, Katrina, daughter of Ismira, do swear, by my name and by my lineage, that I shall serve and provide
for Roran Garrowsson while we both yet live.”

“Do you swear to uphold his honor, to remain steadfast and faithful to him in the years to come, to bear
his children while you may, and to be a caring mother for them?”


“I swear I shall uphold his honor, remain steadfast and faithful to him in the years to come, bear his

children while I may, and be a caring mother for them.”
“And do you swear to assume charge of his wealth and his possessions, and to manage them
responsibly, so he may concentrate upon those duties that are his alone?”

Katrina swore she would.
Smiling, Eragon drew a red ribbon from his sleeve and said, “Cross your wrists.” Roran and Katrina
extended their left and right arms, respectively, and did as he instructed. Laying the middle of the ribbon
across their wrists, Eragon wound the strip of satin three times around and then tied the ends together
with a bowknot. “As is my right as a Dragon Rider, I now declare you man and wife!”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Leaning toward each other, Roran and Katrina kissed, and the crowd
redoubled their cheering.
Saphira dipped her head toward the beaming couple and, as Roran and Katrina separated, she touched
each of them on the brow with the tip of her snout.Live long, and may your love deepen with every
passing year, she said.

Roran and Katrina turned toward the crowd and raised their joined arms skyward. “Let the feast begin!”
Roran declared.
Eragon followed the pair as they descended from the hill and walked through the press of shouting

people toward two chairs that had been set at the forefront of a row of tables. There Roran and Katrina

sat, as the king and queen of their wedding.
Then the guests lined up to offer their congratulations and pre sent gifts. Eragon was first. His grin as
large as theirs, he shook Roran’s free hand and inclined his head toward Katrina.

“Thank you, Eragon,” Katrina said.
“Yes, thank you,” Roran added.
“The honor was mine.” He looked at both of them, then burst out laughing.
“What?” demanded Roran.
“You! The two of you are as happy as fools.”
Eyes sparkling, Katrina laughed and hugged Roran. “That we are!”
Growing sober, Eragon said, “You must know how fortunate you are to be here today, together. Roran,


if you had not been able to rally everyone and travel to the Burning Plains, and if the Ra’zac had taken


you, Katrina, to Urû’baen, neither of you would have—”
“Yes, but I did, and they didn’t,” interrupted Roran. “Let us not darken this day with unpleasant thoughts
about what might have been.”

“That is not why I mention it.” Eragon glanced at the line of people waiting behind him, making sure they
were not close enough to eavesdrop. “All three of us are enemies of the Empire. And as today has


demonstrated, we are not safe, even here among the Varden. If Galbatorix can, he will strike at any one
of us, including you, Katrina, in order to hurt the others. So I made these for you.” From the pouch at his
belt, Eragon withdrew two plain gold rings, polished until they shone. The previous night, he had molded
them out of the last of the gold orbs he had extracted from the earth. He handed the larger one to Roran
and the smaller one to Katrina.

Roran turned his ring, examining it, then held it up against the sky, squinting at the glyphs in the ancient
language carved into the inside of the band. “It’s very nice, but how can these help protect us?”

“I enchanted them to do three things,” said Eragon. “If you ever need my help, or Saphira’s, twist the
ring once around your finger and say, ‘Help me, Shadeslayer; help me, Brightscales,’ and we will hear
you, and we will come as fast as we can. Also, if either of you is close to death, your ring will alert us and
you, Roran, or you, Katrina, depending on who is in peril. And so long as the rings are touching your
skin, you will always know how to find each other, no matter how far apart you may be.” He hesitated,
then added, “I hope you will agree to wear them.”

“Of course we will,” said Katrina.

Roran’s chest swelled, and his voice became husky. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. I wish we had
had these before she and I were separated in Carvahall.”

Since they only had one free hand apiece, Katrina slid Roran’s ring on for him, placing it on the third
finger of his right hand, and he slid Katrina’s on for her, placing it on the third finger of her left hand.

“I have another gift for you as well,” said Eragon. Turning, he whistled and waved. Pushing his way
through the crowd, a groom hurried toward them, leading Snowfire by the bridle. The groom handed
Eragon the reins to the stallion, then bowed and withdrew. Eragon said, “Roran, you will need a good
steed. This is Snowfire. He was Brom’s to begin with, then mine, and now I am giving him to you.”

Roran ran his eyes over Snowfire. “He’s a magnificent beast.”

“The finest. Will you accept him?”

“With pleasure.”

Eragon summoned back the groom and returned Snowfire to his care, instructing him that Roran was the
stallion’s new owner. As the man and horse left, Eragon looked at the people in line who were carrying
presents for Roran and Katrina. Laughing, he said, “The two of you may have been poor this morning,
but you’ll be rich by this evening. If Saphira and I ever have a chance to settle down, we’ll have to come
live with you in the giant hall you will build for all of your children.”

“Whatever we build, it will hardly be large enough for Saphira, I think,” said Roran.

“But you will always be welcome with us,” said Katrina. “Both of you.”

After congratulating them once more, Eragon ensconced himself at the end of a table and amused himself
by throwing scraps of roast chicken toward Saphira and watching her snap them out of the air. He
remained there until Nasuada had spoken with Roran and Katrina, handing them something small he
could not see. Then he intercepted Nasuada as she was departing the festivities.

“What is it, Eragon?” she asked. “I cannot linger.”


“Was it you who gave Katrina her dress and her dowry?”

“Aye. Do you disapprove?”

“I am grateful you were so kind to my family, but I wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t the Varden desperate for gold?”

“We are,” Nasuada said, “but not so desperate as before. Since my scheme with the lace, and since I
triumphed in the Trial of the Long Knives and the wandering tribes swore absolute fealty to me and
granted me access to their riches, we are less likely to starve to death and more likely to die because we
don’t have a shield or a spear.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “What I gave Katrina is insignificant
compared with the vast sums this army requires to function. And I do not believe I have squandered my
gold. Rather, I believe I have made a valuable purchase. I have purchased prestige and selfrespect for
Katrina, and by extension, I have purchased Roran’s goodwill. I may be overly optimistic, but I suspect
his loyalty will prove far more valuable than a hundred shields or a hundred spears.”

“You are always seeking to improve the Varden’s prospects, aren’t you?” Eragon said.

“Always. As you should be.” Nasuada started to walk away from him, then returned and said,
“Sometime before sunset, come to my pavilion, and we will visit the men who were wounded today.
There are many we cannot heal, you know. It will do them good to see that we care about their welfare
and that we appreciate their sacrifice.”

Eragon nodded. “I will be there.”

“Good.”

Hours passed as Eragon laughed and ate and drank and traded stories with old friends. Mead flowed
like water, and the wedding feast became ever more boisterous. Clearing a space between the tables, the
men tested their prowess against one another with feats of wrestling and archery and bouts with
quarterstaves. Two of the elves, a man and a woman, demonstrated their skill with swordplay—awing
the onlookers with the speed and grace of their dancing blades—and even Arya consented to perform a
song, which sent shivers down Eragon’s spine.

Throughout, Roran and Katrina said little, preferring to sit and gaze at each other, oblivious to their
surroundings.

When the bottom of the orange sun touched the distant horizon, however, Eragon reluctantly excused
himself. With Saphira by his side, he left the sounds of revelry behind and walked to Nasuada’s pavilion,
breathing deeply of the cool evening air to clear his head. Nasuada was waiting for him in front of her red
command tent, the Nighthawks gathered close around. Without saying a word, she, Eragon, and Saphira
made their way across the camp to the tents of the healers, where the injured warriors lay.

For over an hour, Nasuada and Eragon visited with the men who had lost their limbs or their eyes or had
contracted an incurable infection in the course of fighting the Empire. Some of the warriors had been
injured that morning. Others, as Eragon discovered, had been wounded on the Burning Plains and had


yet to recover, despite all the herbs and spells lavished upon them. Before they had set forth among the
rows of blanket-covered men, Nasuada had warned Eragon not to tire himself further by attempting to
heal everyone he met, but he could not help muttering a spell here and there to ease pain or to drain an
abscess or to reshape a broken bone or to remove an unsightly scar.

One of the men Eragon met had lost his left leg below the knee, as well as two fingers on his right hand.
His beard was short and gray, and his eyes were covered with a strip of black cloth. When Eragon
greeted him and asked how he fared, the man reached out and grasped Eragon by the elbow with the
three fingers of his right hand. In a hoarse voice, the man said, “Ah, Shadeslayer. I knew you would
come. I have been waiting for you ever since the light.”

“What do you mean?”

“The light that illuminated the flesh of the world. In a single instant, I saw every living thing around me,
from the largest to the smallest. I saw my bones shining through my arms. I saw the worms in the earth
and the gore-crows in the sky and the mites on the wings of the crows. The gods have touched me,
Shadeslayer. They gave me this vision for a reason. I saw you on the field of battle, you and your dragon,
and you were like a blazing sun among a forest of dim candles. And I saw your brother, your brother and
his dragon, and they too were like a sun.”

The nape of Eragon’s neck prickled as he listened. “I have no brother,” he said.

The maimed swordsman cackled. “You cannot fool me, Shade slayer. I know better. The world burns
around me, and from the fire, I hear the whisper of minds, and I learn things from the whispers. You hide
yourself from me now, but I can still see you, a man of yellow flame with twelve stars floating around
your waist and another star, brighter than the others, upon your right hand.”

Eragon pressed his palm against the belt of Beloth the Wise, checking that the twelve diamonds sewn
within were still concealed. They were.

“Listen to me, Shadeslayer,” whispered the man, pulling Eragon toward his lined face. “I saw your
brother, and he burned. But he did not burn like you. Oh no. The light from his soul shonethrough him,
as if it came from somewhere else. He,he was a void, a shape of a man. And through that shape came
the brilliance that burned. Do you understand?Others illuminated him.”

“Where were these others? Did you see them as well?”

The warrior hesitated. “I could feel them close at hand, raging at the world as if they hated everything in
it, but their bodies were hidden from my sight. They were there and not there. I cannot explain better than
that. . . . I would not want to get any closer to those creatures, Shadeslayer. They aren’t human, of that
I’m sure, and their hate, it was like the largest thunderstorm you’ve ever seen crammed into a tiny glass
bottle.”

“And when the bottle breaks . . . ,” Eragon murmured.

“Exactly, Shadeslayer. Sometimes I wonder if Galbatorix has managed to capture the gods themselves
and make them his slaves, but then I laugh and call myself a fool.”

“Whose gods, though? The dwarves’? Those of the wandering tribes?”

“Does it matter, Shadeslayer? A god is a god, regardless of where he comes from.”


Eragon grunted. “Perhaps you’re right.”

As he left the man’s pallet, one of the healers pulled Eragon aside. She said, “Forgive him, my Lord. The
shock of his wounds has driven him quite mad. He’s always ranting about suns and stars and glowing
lights he claims to see. Sometimes it seems as if he knows things he shouldn’t, but don’t you be deceived,
he gets them from the other patients. They gossip all the time, you know. It’s all they have to do, poor
things.”

“I am not a lord,” Eragon said, “and he is not mad. I’m not sure what he is, but he has an uncommon
ability. If he gets better or worse, please inform one of Du Vrangr Gata.”

The healer curtsied. “As you wish, Shadeslayer. I’m sorry for my mistake, Shadeslayer.”

“How was he hurt?”

“A soldier cut off his fingers when he tried to block a sword with his hand. Later, one of the missiles
from the Empire’s catapults landed upon his leg, crushing it beyond repair. We had to amputate. The men
who were beside him said that when the missile struck, he immediately began screaming about the light,
and when they picked him up, they noticed that his eyes had turned pure white. Even his pupils have
disappeared.”

“Ah. You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

It was dark when Eragon and Nasuada finally left the healers’ tents. Nasuada sighed and said, “Now I
could use a mug of mead.” Eragon nodded, staring down between his feet. They started back to her
pavilion, and after a while, she asked, “What are you thinking, Eragon?”

“That we live in a strange world, and I’ll be lucky if I ever understand more than a small portion of it.”
Then he recounted his conversation with the man, which she found as interesting as he had.

“You should tell Arya about this,” said Nasuada. “She might know what these ‘others’ could be.”

They parted at her pavilion, Nasuada going inside to finish reading a report, while Eragon and Saphira
continued on to Eragon’s tent. There Saphira curled up on the ground and prepared to sleep as Eragon
sat next to her and gazed at the stars, a parade of wounded men marching before his eyes.

What many of them had told him continued to reverberate through his mind:We fought for you,
Shadeslayer .

WHISPERS IN THENIGHT
Roran opened his eyes and stared at the drooping canvas overhead.



A thin gray light pervaded the tent, leaching objects of their color, rendering everything a pale shadow of
its daylight self. He shivered. The blankets had slid down to his waist, exposing his torso to the cold night
air. As he pulled them back up, he noticed that Katrina was no longer by his side.

He saw her sitting by the entrance to the tent, staring up at the sky. She had a cloak wrapped over her
shift. Her hair fell to the small of her back, a dark tangled bramble.

A lump formed in Roran’s throat as he studied her.
Dragging the blankets with him, he sat beside her. He placed an arm around her shoulders, and she
leaned against him, her head and neck warm against his chest. He kissed her on the brow. For a long
while, he contemplated the glimmering stars with her and listened to the regular pattern of her breathing,
the only sound besides his own in the sleeping world.

Then she whispered, “The constellations are shaped differently here. Have you noticed?”

“Aye.” He shifted his arm, fitting it against the curve of her waist and feeling the slight bulge of her
growing belly. “What woke you?”
She shivered. “I was thinking.”
“Oh.”
Starlight gleamed in her eyes as she twisted in his arms and gazed at him. “I was thinking about you and

us . . . and our future together.”
“Those are heavy thoughts for so late at night.”
“Now that we are married, how do you plan to care for me and for our child?”
“Is that what worries you?” He smiled. “You won’t starve; we have gold enough to assure that. Besides,

the Varden will always see to it that Eragon’s cousins have food and shelter. Even if something were to
happen to me, they would continue to provide for you and the baby.”


“Yes, but what do you intend todo ?”
Puzzled, he searched her face for the source of her agitation. “I am going to help Eragon end this war so
we can return to Palancar Valley and settle down without fear of soldiers dragging us off to Urû’baen.
What else would I do?”


“You will fight with the Varden, then?”
“You know I will.”
“As you would have fought today if Nasuada had let you?”
“Yes.”
“What of our baby, though? An army on the march is no place to raise a child.”



“We cannot run away and hide from the Empire, Katrina. Unless the Varden win, Galbatorix will find
and kill us, or he will find and kill our children, or our children’s children. And I do not think the Varden
will achieve victory unless everyone does their utmost to help them.”

She placed a finger over his lips. “You are my only love. No other man shall ever capture my heart. I will
do everything I can to lighten your burden. I will cook your meals, mend your clothes, and clean your
armor. . . . But once I give birth, I will leave this army.”

“Leave!” He went rigid. “That’s nonsense! Where would you go?”

“Dauth, perhaps. Remember, Lady Alarice offered us sanctuary, and some of our people are still there. I
would not be alone.”

“If you think I’m going to let you and our newborn child go tramping across Alagaësia by yourselves,
then—”

“You don’t need to shout.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” Clasping his hand between hers and pressing it against her heart, she said, “It’s not safe
here. If it were only the two of us, I could accept the danger, but not when it is our baby who might die. I
love you, Roran, I love you so much, but our child has to come before anything we want for ourselves.
Otherwise, we do not deserve to be called parents.” Tears shone in her eyes, and he felt his own eyes
dampen. “It was you, after all, who convinced me to leave Carvahall and hide in the Spine when the
soldiers attacked. This is no different.”

The stars swam before Roran as his vision blurred. “I would rather lose an arm than be parted from you
again.”

Katrina began to cry then, her quiet sobs shaking his body. “I don’t want to leave you either.”

He tightened his embrace and rocked back and forth with her. When her weeping subsided, he
whispered in her ear, “I would rather lose an arm than be parted from you, but I would rather die than
allow anyone to hurt you . . . or our child. If you are going to leave, you should leave now, while it’s still
easy for you to travel.”

She shook her head. “No. I want Gertrude as my midwife. She’s the only one I trust. Besides, if I have
any difficulty, I would rather be here, where there are magicians trained in healing.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” he said. “As soon as our child is born, you will go to Aberon, not Dauth; it is
less likely to be attacked. And if Aberon becomes too dangerous, then you will go to the Beor
Mountains and live with the dwarves. And if Galbatorix strikes at the dwarves, then you will go to the
elves in Du Weldenvarden.”

“And if Galbatorix attacks Du Weldenvarden, I will fly to the moon and raise our child among the spirits
who inhabit the heavens.”

“And they will bow down to you and make you their queen, as you deserve.”

She snuggled closer to him.


Together, they sat and watched as, one by one, the stars vanished from the sky, obscured by the glow
spreading in the east. When only the morning star remained, Roran said, “You know what this means,
don’t you?”

“What?”

“I’ll just have to ensure we kill every last one of Galbatorix’s soldiers, capture all the cities in the Empire,
defeat Murtagh and Thorn, and behead Galbatorix and his turncoat dragon before your time comes. That
way, there will be no need for you to go away.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “If you could, I would be very happy.”

They were about to return to their cot when, out of the glimmering sky, there sailed a miniature ship,
woven of dry strips of grass. The ship hovered in front of their tent, rocking upon invisible waves of air,
and almost seemed to be looking at them with its dragon-head-shaped prow.

Roran froze, as did Katrina.

Like a living creature, the ship darted across the path before their tent, then it swooped up and around,
chasing an errant moth. When the moth escaped, the ship glided back toward the tent, stopping only
inches from Katrina’s face.

Before Roran could decide if he should snatch the ship out of the air, it turned and flew off toward the
morning star, vanishing once more into the endless ocean of the sky, leaving them to gaze after it in
wonder.

ORDERS

Late that night, visions of death and violence gathered along the edges of Eragon’s dreams, threatening
to overwhelm him with panic. He stirred with unease, wanting to break free but unable to do so. Brief,
disjointed images of stabbing swords and screaming men and Murtagh’s angry face flashed before his
eyes.

Then Eragon felt Saphira enter his mind. She swept through his dreams like a great wind, brushing aside
his looming nightmare. In the silence that followed, she whispered,All is well, little one. Rest easy; you
are safe, and I am with you. . . . Rest easy .

A sense of profound peace crept over Eragon. He rolled over and drifted off into happier memories,
comforted by his awareness of Saphira’s presence.

When Eragon opened his eyes, an hour before sunrise, he found himself lying underneath one of
Saphira’s vein-webbed wings. She had her tail wrapped around him, and her side was warm against his


head. He smiled and crawled out from under her wing even as she lifted her head and yawned.

Good morning,he said.

She yawned again and stretched like a cat.

Eragon bathed, shaved with magic, cleaned the falchion’s scabbard of dried blood from the previous
day, and then dressed in one of his elf tunics.

Once he was satisfied he was presentable, and Saphira had finished her tongue bath, they walked to
Nasuada’s pavilion. All six of the current shift of Nighthawks were standing outside, their seamed faces
set into their usual grim expressions. Eragon waited while a

stocky dwarf announced them. Then he entered the tent, and Saphira crawled around to the open panel
where she could insert her head and participate in the discussion.

Eragon bowed to Nasuada where she sat in her high-backed chair carved with blooming thistles. “My
Lady, you asked me to come here to talk about my future; you said you had a most important mission for
me.”

“I did, and I do,” said Nasuada. “Please, be seated.” She indicated a folding chair next to Eragon. Tilting
the sword at his waist so it would not catch, he settled into the chair. “As you know, Galbatorix has sent
battalions to the cities of Aroughs, Feinster, and Belatona in an attempt to prevent us from taking them by
siege or, failing that, to slow our progress and force us to divide our own troops so we would be more
vulnerable to the depredations of the soldiers who were camped north of us. After yesterday’s battle, our
scouts reported that the last of Galbatorix’s men withdrew to parts unknown. I was going to strike at
those soldiers days ago, but I had to refrain since you were absent. Without you, Murtagh and Thorn
could have slaughtered our warriors with impunity, and we had no way of discovering whether the two of
them were among the soldiers. Now that you are with us again, our position is somewhat improved,
although not as much as I had hoped, given that we must now also contend with Galbatorix’s latest
artifice, these men without pain. Our only encouragement is that the two of you, along with Islanzadí’s
spellcasters, have proved you can fend off Murtagh and Thorn. Upon that hope depends our plan for
victory.”

That red runt is no match for me,said Saphira.If he did not have Murtagh protecting him, I would
trap him against the ground and shake him by the neck until he submitted to me and
acknowledged me as leader of the hunt.

“I am sure you would,” said Nasuada, smiling.

Eragon asked, “What course of action have you decided upon, then?”

“I have decided upon several courses, and we must undertake them all simultaneously if any are to be
successful. First, we cannot push farther into the Empire, leaving cities behind us that Gal batorix still
controls. To do that would be to expose ourselves to attacks from both the front and the rear and to
invite Galbatorix to invade and seize Surda while we were absent. So I have already ordered the Varden
to march north, to the nearest place where we can safely cross the Jiet River. Once we are on the other
side of the river, I will send warriors south to capture Aroughs while King Orrin and I continue with the
remainder of our forces to Feinster, which, with your help and Saphira’s, should fall before us without
too much trouble.


“While we are engaged in the tedious business of tramping across the countryside, I have other
responsibilities for you, Eragon.” She leaned forward in her seat. “We need the full help of the dwarves.
The elves are fighting for us in the north of Alagaësia, the Surdans have joined with us body and mind,
and even the Urgals have allied themselves with us. But we need the dwarves. We cannot succeed
without them. Especially now that we must contend with soldiers who cannot feel pain.”

“Have the dwarves chosen a new king or queen yet?”

Nasuada grimaced. “Narheim assures me that the process is moving apace, but like the elves, dwarves
take a longer view of time than we do.Apace for them might mean months of deliberations.”

“Don’t they realize the urgency of the situation?”

“Some do, but many oppose helping us in this war, and they seek to delay the proceedings as long as
possible and to install one of their own upon the marble throne in Tronjheim. The dwarves have lived in
hiding for so long, they have become dangerously suspicious of outsiders. If someone hostile to our aims
wins the throne, we shall lose the dwarves. We cannot allow that to happen. Nor can we wait for the
dwarves to resolve their differences at their usual pace.But ”—she raised a finger—“from so far away, I
cannot effectively intervene in their politics. Even if I were in Tronjheim, I could not ensure a favorable
outcome; the dwarves do not take kindly to anyone who is not of their clans meddling in their
government. So I want you, Eragon, to travel to Tronjheim in my stead and do what you can to ensure
that the dwarves choose a new monarch in an expeditious manner—and that they choose a monarch who
is sympathetic to our cause.”

“Me! But—”

“King Hrothgar adopted you into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. According to their laws and customs, youare a
dwarf, Eragon. You have a legal right to participate in the hallmeets of the Ingeitum, and as Orik is set to
become their chief, and as he is your foster brother and a friend of the Varden’s, I am sure he will agree
to let you accompany him into the secret councils of the thirteen clans where they elect their rulers.”

Her proposal seemed preposterous to Eragon. “What about Murtagh and Thorn? When they return, as
they surely will, Saphira and I are the only ones who can hold our own against them, albeit with some
assistance. If we are not here, no one will be able to stop them from killing you or Arya or Orrin or the
rest of the Varden.”

The gap between Nasuada’s eyebrows narrowed. “You dealt Murtagh a stinging defeat yesterday.
Most likely, he and Thorn are winging their way back to Urû’baen even as we speak so Galbatorix may
interrogate them about the battle and chastise them for their failure. He will not send them to attack us
again until he is confident that they can overwhelm you. Murtagh is surely uncertain about the true limits of
your strength now, so that unhappy event may yet be some while off. Between now and then, I believe
you will have enough time to travel back and forth between Farthen Dûr.”

“You could be wrong,” argued Eragon. “Besides, how would you keep Galbatorix from learning about
our absence and attacking while we are gone? I doubt you have found all of the spies he has seeded
among us.”

Nasuada tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair. “I said I wanted you to go to Farthen Dûr, Eragon.
I did not say I wanted Saphira to go as well.” Turning her head, Saphira released a small puff of smoke
that drifted toward the peak of the tent.


“I’m not about to—”

“Let me finish, please, Eragon.”

He clamped shut his jaw and glared at her, his left hand tight around the pommel of the falchion.

“You are not beholden to me, Saphira, but my hope is that you will agree to stay here while Eragon
journeys to the dwarves so that we can deceive the Empire and the Varden as to Eragon’s whereabouts.
If we can hide your departure”—she gestured at Eragon—“from the masses, no one will have any reason
to suspect you are not still here. We will only have to devise a suitable excuse, then, to account for your
sudden desire to remain in your tent during the day—perhaps that you and Saphira are flying sorties into
enemy territory at night and so must rest while the sun is up.

“In order for the ruse to work, however, Blödhgarm and his companions will have to stay here as well,
both to avoid arousing suspicion and for reasons of defense. If Murtagh and Thorn reappear while you
are gone, Arya can take your place on Saphira. Between her, Blödhgarm’s spellcasters, and the
magicians of Du Vrangr Gata, we should have a fair chance of thwarting Murtagh.”

In a harsh voice, Eragon said, “If Saphira doesn’t fly me to Farthen Dûr, then how am I supposed to
travel there in a timely fashion?”

“By running. You told me yourself you ran much of the distance from Helgrind. I expect that without
having to hide from soldiers or peasants you can traverse many more leagues each day on the way to
Farthen Dûr than you were able to in the Empire.” Again Nasuada drummed the polished wood of her
chair. “Of course, it would be foolish to go alone. Even a powerful magician can die of a simple accident
in the far reaches of the wilderness if he has no one to help him. Shepherding you through the Beor
Mountains would be a waste of Arya’s talents, and people would notice if one of Blödhgarm’s elves
disappeared without explanation. Therefore, I

have decided that a Kull should accompany you, as they are the only other creatures capable of
matching your pace.”

“A Kull!” exclaimed Eragon, unable to contain himself any longer. “You would send me among the
dwarves with a Kull by my side? I cannot think of any race the dwarves hate more than the Urgals. They
make bows out of their horns! If I walked into Farthen Dûr with an Urgal, the dwarves would not pay
heed to anything I had to say.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Nasuada. “Which is why you will not go directly to Farthen Dûr. Instead,
you will first stop at Bregan Hold on Mount Thardûr, which is the ancestral home of the Ingeitum. There
you will find Orik, and there you can leave the Kull while you continue on to Farthen Dûr in Orik’s
company.”

Staring somewhat beyond Nasuada, Eragon said, “And what if I do not agree with the path you have
chosen? What if I believe there are other, safer ways to accomplish what you desire?”

“What ways would those be, pray tell?” asked Nasuada, her fingers pausing in midair.

“I would have to think about it, but I am sure they exist.”

“Ihave thought about it, Eragon, and at great length. Having you act as my emissary is our only hope of
influencing the succession of the dwarves. I was raised among dwarves, remember, and I have a better


understanding of them than most humans.”

“I still believe it’s a mistake,” he growled. “Send Jörmundur instead, or one of your other commanders. I
won’t go, not while—”

“Youwon’t ?” said Nasuada, her voice rising. “A vassal who disobeys his lord is no better than a
warrior who ignores his captain on the field of battle and may be punished similarly. As your liegelord,
then, Eragon, I order you to run to Farthen Dûr, whether you want to or not, and to oversee the choosing
of the next ruler of the dwarves.”

Furious, Eragon breathed heavily through his nose, gripping and regripping the pommel of his falchion.

In a softer, although still guarded, tone, Nasuada said, “What will

it be, Eragon? Will you do as I ask, or will you dispossess me and lead the Varden yourself? Those are
your only options.”

Shocked, he said, “No, I can reason with you. I can convince you otherwise.”

“You cannot, because you cannot provide me with an alternative that is as likely to succeed.”

He met her gaze. “I could refuse your order and let you punish me however you deem fit.”

His suggestion startled her. Then she said, “To see you lashed to a whipping post would do irreparable
harm to the Varden. And it would destroy my authority, for people would know you could defy me
whenever you wanted, with the only consequence being a handful of stripes that you could heal an instant
later, for we cannot execute you, as we would any other warrior who disobeyed a superior. I would
rather abdicate my post and grant you command of the Varden than allow such a thing to occur. If you
believe you are better suited for the task, then take my position, take my chair, and declare yourself
master of this army! But so long as I speak for the Varden, I have the right to make these decisions. If
they be mistakes, then that is my responsibility as well.”

“Will you listen to no advice?” Eragon asked, troubled. “Will you dictate the course of the Varden
regardless of what those around you counsel?”

Nasuada’s middle fingernail clacked against the polished wood of her chair. “I do listen to advice. I
listen to a continuous stream of advice every waking hour of my life, but sometimes my conclusions do
not match those of my underlings. Now, you must decide whether you will uphold your oath of fealty and
abide by my decision, even though you may not agree with it, or if you will set yourself up as a mirror
image of Galbatorix.”

“I only want what is best for the Varden,” he said.

“As do I.”

“You leave me no choice but one I dislike.”

“Sometimes it is harder to follow than it is to lead.”

“May I have a moment to think?”


“You may.”

Saphira?he asked.

Flecks of purple light danced around the interior of the pavilion as she twisted her neck and fixed her

eyes upon Eragon’s.Little one?

Should I go?

I think you must.

He pressed his lips together in a rigid line.And what of you?

You know I hate to be separated from you, but Nasuada’s arguments are well reasoned. If I can

help keep Murtagh and Thorn away by remaining with the Varden, then perhaps I should.

His emotions and hers washed between their minds, tidal surges in a shared pool of anger, anticipation,
reluctance, and tenderness. From him flowed the anger and reluctance; from her other, gentler
sentiments—as rich in scope as his own—that moderated his choleric passion and lent him perspectives
he would not otherwise have. Nevertheless, he clung with stubborn insistence to his opposition to
Nasuada’s scheme.If you flew me to Farthen Dûr, I would not be gone for as long, meaning
Galbatorix would have less of an opportunity to mount a new assault.

But his spies would tell him the Varden were vulnerable the moment we left.

I do not want to part with you again so soon after Helgrind.

Our own desires cannot take precedence over the needs of the Varden, but no, I do not want to
part with you either. Still, remember what Oromis said, that the prowess of a dragon and Rider is
measured not only by how well they work together but also by how well they can function when
apart. We are both mature enough to operate independently of each other, Eragon, however
much we may dislike the prospect. You proved that yourself during your trip from Helgrind.

Would it bother you fighting with Arya on your back, as Nasuada mentioned?

Her I would mind least of all. We have fought together before, and it was she who ferried me
across Alagaësia for nigh on twenty years when I was in my egg. You know that, little one. Why
pose this question? Are you jealous?

What if I am?

An amused twinkle lit her sapphire eyes. She flicked her tongue at him.Then it is very sweet of you. . . .
Would you I should stay or go?

It is your choice to make, not mine.

But it affects us both.

Eragon dug at the ground with the tip of his boot. Then he said,If we must participate in this mad
scheme, we should do everything we can to help it succeed. Stay, and see if you can keep Nasuada
from losing her head over this thrice-blasted plan of hers.


Be of good cheer, little one. Run fast, and we shall be reunited in short order.

Eragon looked up at Nasuada. “Very well,” he said, “I will go.”

Nasuada’s posture relaxed somewhat. “Thank you. And you, Saphira? Will you stay or go?”

Projecting her thoughts to include Nasuada as well as Eragon, Saphira said,I will stay, Nightstalker .

Nasuada inclined her head. “Thank you, Saphira. I am most grateful for your support.”

“Have you spoken to Blödhgarm of this?” asked Eragon. “Has he agreed to it?”

“No, I assumed you would inform him of the details.”

Eragon doubted the elves would be pleased by the prospect of him traveling to Farthen Dûr with only an
Urgal for company. He said, “If I might make a suggestion?”

“You know I welcome your suggestions.”

That stopped him for a moment. “A suggestion and a request, then.” Nasuada lifted a finger, motioning
for him to continue.

“When the dwarves have chosen their new king or queen, Saphira should join me in Farthen Dûr, both
to honor the dwarves’ new ruler and to fulfill the promise she made to King Hrothgar after the battle for
Tronjheim.”

Nasuada’s expression sharpened into that of a hunting wildcat. “What promise was this?” she asked.
“You have not told me of this before.”

“That Saphira would mend the star sapphire, Isidar Mithrim, as recompense for Arya breaking it.”

Her eyes wide with astonishment, Nasuada looked at Saphira and said, “You are capable of such a
feat?”

I am, but I do not know if I will be able to summon the magic I will need when I am standing
before Isidar Mithrim. My ability to cast spells is not subject to my own desires. At times, it is as if
I have gained a new sense and I can feel the pulse of energy within my own flesh, and by directing
it with my will, I can reshape the world as I wish. The rest of my life, however, I can no more cast
a spell than a fish can fly. If I could mend Isidar Mithrim, though, it would go a long way toward
earning us the goodwill of all the dwarves, not just a select few who have the breadth of
knowledge to appreciate the importance of their cooperation with us.

“It would do more than you imagine,” said Nasuada. “The star sapphire holds a special place in the
hearts of dwarves. Every dwarf has a love of gemstones, but Isidar Mithrim they love and cherish above
all others, because of its beauty, and most of all because of its immense size. Restore it to its previous
glory and you will restore the pride of their race.”

Eragon said, “Even if Saphira failed to repair Isidar Mithrim, she should be present for the coronation of
the dwarves’ new ruler. You could conceal her absence for a few days by letting it be known among the
Varden that she and I have left on a brief trip to Aberon, or some such. By the time Galbatorix’s spies


realized you had deceived them, it would be too late for the Empire to organize an attack before we
returned.”

Nasuada nodded. “It is a good idea. Contact me as soon as the dwarves set a date for the coronation.”

“I shall.”

“You have made your suggestion, now out with your request. What is it you wish of me?”

“Since you insist I must make this trip, with your permission, I would like to fly with Saphira from
Tronjheim to Ellesméra, after the coronation.”

“For what purpose?”

“To consult with the ones who taught us during our last visit to Du Weldenvarden. We promised them
that as soon as events allowed, we would return to Ellesméra to complete our training.”

The line between Nasuada’s eyebrows deepened. “There is not the time for you to spend weeks or
months in Ellesméra continuing your education.”

“No, but perhaps we have the time for a brief visit.”

Nasuada leaned her head against the back of her carved chair and gazed down at Eragon from
underneath heavy lids. “And who exactly are your teachers? I have noticed you always evade direct
questions about them. Who was it that taught the two of you in Ellesméra, Eragon?”

Fingering his ring, Aren, Eragon said, “We swore an oath to Islanzadí that we would not reveal their
identity without permission from her, Arya, or whoever may succeed Islanzadí to her throne.”

“By all the demons above and below, how many oaths have you and Saphira sworn?” demanded
Nasuada. “You seem to bind yourself to everyone you meet.”

Feeling somewhat sheepish, Eragon shrugged and had opened his mouth to speak when Saphira said to
Nasuada,We do not seek them out, but how can we avoid pledging ourselves when we cannot
topple Galbatorix and the Empire without the support of every race in Alagaësia? Oaths are the
price we pay for winning the aid of those in power.

“Mmh,” said Nasuada. “So I must ask Arya for the truth of the matter?”

“Aye, but I doubt she will tell you; the elves consider the identity of our teachers to be one of their most
precious secrets. They will not risk sharing it unless absolutely necessary, to keep word of it from
reaching Galbatorix.” Eragon stared at the royal-blue gemstone set in his ring, wondering how much more
information his oath and his honor would allow him to divulge, then said, “Know this, though: we are not
so alone as we once assumed.”

Nasuada’s expression sharpened. “I see. That is good to know, Eragon. . . . I only wish the elves were
more forthcoming with me.” After pursing her lips for a brief moment, Nasuada continued. “Why must
you travel all the way to Ellesméra? Have you no means to communicate with your tutors directly?”

Eragon spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “If only we could. Alas, the spell has yet to be
invented that can broach the wards that encircle Du Weldenvarden.”


“The elves did not even leave an opening they themselves can exploit?”

“If they had, Arya would have contacted Queen Islanzadí as soon as she was revived in Farthen Dûr,
rather than physically going to Du Weldenvarden.”

“I suppose you are right. But then how was it you were able to consult Islanzadí about Sloan’s fate?
You implied that when you spoke with her, the elves’ army was still situated within Du Weldenvarden.”

“They were,” he said, “but only in the fringe, beyond the protective measures of the wards.”

The silence between them was palpable as Nasuada considered his request. Outside the tent, Eragon
heard the Nighthawks arguing among themselves about whether a bill or a halberd was better suited for
fighting large numbers of men on foot and, beyond them, the creak of a passing oxcart, the jangle of
armor on men trotting in the opposite direction, and hundreds of other indistinct sounds that drifted
through the camp.

When Nasuada spoke, she said, “What exactly do you hope to gain from such a visit?”

“I don’t know!” growled Eragon. He struck the pommel of the falchion with his fist. “And that’s the
heart of the problem: we don’t know enough. It might accomplish nothing, but on the other hand, we
might learn something that could help us vanquish Murtagh and Galbatorix once and for all. We barely
won yesterday, Nasuada. Barely! And I fear that when we again face Thorn and Murtagh, Murtagh will
be even stronger than before, and frost coats my bones when I consider the fact that Galbatorix’s abilities
far exceed Murtagh’s, despite the vast amount of power he has already bestowed upon mybrother . The
elf who taught me, he . . .” Eragon hesitated, considering the wisdom of what he was about to say, then
forged onward: “He hinted that he knows how it is Galbatorix’s strength has been increasing every year,
but he refused to reveal more at the time because we were not advanced enough in our training. Now,
after our encounters with Thorn and Murtagh, I think he will share his knowledge with us. Moreover,
there are entire branches of magic we have yet to explore, and any one of them might provide the means
to defeat Galbatorix. If we are going to gamble upon this trip, Nasuada, then let us not gamble to
maintain our current position; let us gamble to increase our standing and so win this game of chance.”

Nasuada sat motionless for over a minute. “I cannot make this decision until after the dwarves hold their
coronation. Whether you go to Du Weldenvarden will depend on the movements of the Empire then and
on what our spies report about Murtagh and Thorn’s activities.”

Over the course of the next two hours, Nasuada instructed Eragon about the thirteen dwarf clans. She
schooled him in their history and their politics; in the products upon which each clan based the majority of
its trade; in the names, families, and personalities of the clan chiefs; in the list of important tunnels
excavated and controlled by each clan; and in what she felt would be the best way to coax the dwarves
to elect a king or queen friendly to the goals of the Varden.

“Ideally, Orik would be the one to take the throne,” she said. “King Hrothgar was highly regarded by
most of his subjects, and Dûrgrimst Ingeitum remains one of the richest and most influential of clans, all of
which is to Orik’s benefit. Orik is devoted to our cause. He has served as one of the Varden, you and I
both count him as a friend, and he is your foster brother. I believe he has the skills to become an excellent
king for the dwarves.” Amusement kindled in her expression. “Small matter, that. However, he is young
by the standards of the dwarves, and his association with us may prove to be an insurmountable barrier
for the other clan chiefs. Another obstacle is that the other great clans—Dûrgrimst Feldûnost and
Dûrgrimst Knurlcarathn, to name but two—are eager, after over a hundred years of rule by the Ingeitum,


to see the crown go to a different clan. By all means, support Orik if it can help him onto the throne, but if
it becomes obvious that his attempt is doomed and your backing could guarantee the success of another
clan chief who favors the Varden, then transfer your support, even if doing so will offend Orik. You
cannot allow friendship to interfere with politics, not now.”

When Nasuada finished her lecture on the dwarf clans, she, Eragon, and Saphira spent several minutes
figuring out how Eragon could slip out of the camp without being noticed. After they had finally
hammered out the details of the plan, Eragon and Saphira returned to their tent and told Blödhgarm what
they had decided.

To Eragon’s surprise, the fur-covered elf did not object. Curious, Eragon asked, “Do you approve?”

“It is not my place to say whether I approve or not,” Blödhgarm replied, his voice a low purr. “But since
Nasuada’s stratagem does not seem to put either of you in unreasonable danger, and by means of this
you may have the opportunity to further your learning in Ellesméra, neither I nor my brethren shall
object.” He inclined his head. “If you will excuse me, Bjartskular, Argetlam.” Skirting Saphira, the elf
exited the tent, allowing a bright flash of light to pierce the darkness inside as he pushed aside the
entrance flap.

For a handful of minutes, Eragon and Saphira sat in silence, then Eragon put his hand on the top of her
head.Say what you will, I will miss you .

And I you, little one.

Be careful. If anything happened to you, I would . . .

And you as well.

He sighed.We’ve been together only a few days, and already we must part again. I find it hard to
forgive Nasuada for that.

Do not condemn her for doing what she must.

No, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Move swiftly then, so I may soon join you in Farthen Dûr.

I wouldn’t mind being so far away from you if only I could still touch your mind. That’s the worst
part of it: the horrible sense of emptiness. We dare not even speak to each other through the
mirror in Nasuada’s tent, for people would wonder why you kept visiting her without me.

Saphira blinked and flicked out her tongue, and he sensed a strange shift in her emotions.

What?he asked.

I. . . She blinked again.I agree. I wish we could remain in mental contact when we were at great
distances from each other. It would reduce our worry and trouble and would allow us to confound
the Empire more easily . She hummed with satisfaction as he sat next to her and began to scratch the
small scales behind the corner of her jaw.

FOOTPRINTS OFSHADOW

With a series of giddy leaps, Saphira carried Eragon through the camp to Roran and Katrina’s tent.
Outside the tent, Katrina was washing a shift in a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the white fabric
against a board of ridged wood. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes as a cloud of dust from Saphira’s
landing drifted over her.

Roran stepped out of the tent, buckling on his belt. He coughed and squinted in the dust. “What brings
you here?” he asked as Eragon dismounted.

Speaking quickly, Eragon told them of his impending departure and impressed upon them the
importance of keeping his absence a secret from the rest of the villagers. “No matter how slighted they
feel because I supposedly refuse to see them, you cannot reveal the truth to them, not even to Horst or
Elain. Let them think I have become a rude and ungrateful lout before you so much as utter a word about
Nasuada’s scheme. This I ask of you, for the sake of everyone who has pitted themselves against the
Empire. Will you do it?”

“We would never betray you, Eragon,” said Katrina. “Of that, you need have no doubts.”

Then Roran said that he too was leaving.

“Where?” exclaimed Eragon.

“I just received my assignment a few minutes ago. We are going to raid the Empire’s supply trains,
somewhere well north of us, behind enemy lines.”

Eragon gazed at the three of them in turn. First Roran, serious and determined, already tense with
anticipation of battle; then Katrina, worried and trying to conceal it; and then Saphira, whose nostrils
flickered with small tongues of flame, which sputtered as she breathed. “So we are all going our separate
ways.” What he did not say, but which hung over them like a shroud, was that they might never again see
each other alive.

Grasping Eragon by the forearm, Roran pulled him close and hugged him for a moment. He released
Eragon and stared deep into his eyes. “Guard your back, brother. Galbatorix isn’t the only one who
would like to slip a knife between your ribs when you aren’t looking.”

“Do the same yourself. And if you find yourself facing a spellcaster, run in the opposite direction. The
wards I placed around you won’t last forever.”

Katrina hugged Eragon and whispered, “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.”

Together, Roran and Katrina went to Saphira and touched their foreheads to her long, bony snout. Her
chest vibrated as she produced a pure bass note deep within her throat.Remember, Roran, she said,do
not make the mistake of leaving your enemies alive. And, Katrina? Do not dwell on that which
you cannot change. It will only worsen your distress . With a rustle of skin and scales, Saphira


unfolded her wings and enveloped Roran, Katrina, and Eragon in a warm embrace, isolating them from
the world.

As Saphira lifted her wings, Roran and Katrina stepped away while Eragon climbed onto her back. He
waved at the newlywed couple, a lump in his throat, and continued waving even as Saphira took to the
air. Blinking to clear his eyes, Eragon leaned against the spike behind him and gazed up at the tilting sky.

To the cook tents now?asked Saphira.

Aye.

Saphira climbed a few hundred feet before she aimed herself at the southwestern quadrant of the camp,
where pillars of smoke drifted up from rows of ovens and large, wide pit fires. A thin stream of wind
slipped past her and Eragon as she glided downward toward a clear patch of ground between two
open-walled tents, each fifty feet long. Breakfast was over, so the tents were empty of men when Saphira
landed with a loud thump.

Eragon hurried toward the fires beyond the plank tables, Saphira beside him. The many hundreds of men
who were busy tending the fires, carving meat, cracking eggs, kneading dough, stirring cast-iron kettles
full of mysterious liquids, scrubbing clean enormous piles of dirty pots and pans, and who were otherwise
engaged in the enormous and never-ending task of preparing food for the Varden did not pause to gawk
at Eragon and Saphira. For what importance was a dragon and Rider compared with the merciless
demands of the ravenous many-mouthed creature whose hunger they were striving to sate?

A stout man with a close-cropped beard of white and black, who was almost short enough to pass for a
dwarf trotted over to Eragon and Saphira and gave a curt bow. “I’m Quoth Merrinsson. How can I help
you? If you want, Shadeslayer, we have some bread that just finished baking.” He gestured toward a
double row of sourdough loaves resting on a platter on a nearby table.

“I might have half a loaf, if you can spare it,” said Eragon. “However, my hunger isn’t the reason for our
visit. Saphira would like something to eat, and we haven’t time for her to hunt as she usually does.”

Quoth looked past him and eyed Saphira’s bulk, and his face grew pale. “How much does she normally
. . . Ah, that is, how much doyou normally eat, Saphira? I can have six sides of roast beef brought over
immediately, and another six will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Will that be enough, or . . . ?” The
knob in his throat jumped as he swallowed.

Saphira emitted a soft, rippling growl, which caused Quoth to squeak and hop backward. “She would
prefer a live animal, if that’s convenient,” Eragon said.

In a high-pitched voice, Quoth said, “Convenient? Oh yes, it’s convenient.” He bobbed his head,
twisting at his apron with his grease-stained hands. “Most convenient indeed, Shadeslayer, Dragon
Saphira. King Orrin’s table will not be lacking this afternoon, then, oh no.”

And a barrel of mead,Saphira said to Eragon.

White circles appeared around Quoth’s irises as Eragon repeated her request. “I—I am afraid that the
dwarves have purchased most of our stocks of m-m-mead. We have only a few barrels left, and those
are reserved for King—” Quoth flinched as a four-foot-long flame leaped out of Saphira’s nostrils and
singed the grass in front of him. Snarled lines of smoke drifted up from the blackened stalks. “I—I—I will
have a barrel brought to you at once. If you will f-follow me, I will take y-you to the livestock, where you


may have whatever beast you like.”

Skirting the fires and tables and groups of harried men, the cook led them to a collection of large
wooden pens, which contained pigs, cattle, geese, goats, sheep, rabbits, and a number of wild deer the
Varden’s foragers had captured during their forays into the surrounding wilderness. Close to the pens
were coops full of chickens, ducks, doves, quail, grouse, and other birds. Their squawking, chirping,
cooing, and crowing formed a cacophony so harsh, it made Eragon grit his teeth with annoyance. In
order to avoid being overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings of so many creatures, he was careful to
keep his mind closed to all but Saphira.

The three of them stopped over a hundred feet from the pens so Saphira’s presence would not panic the
imprisoned animals. “Is there any here catches your fancy?” Quoth asked, gazing up at her and rubbing
his hands with nervous dexterity.

As she surveyed the pens, Saphira sniffed and said to Eragon,What pitiful prey. . . . I’m not really
that hungry, you know. I went hunting only the day before yesterday, and I’m still digesting the
bones of the deer I ate .

You’re still growing quickly. The food will do you good.

Not if I can’t stomach it.

Pick something small, then. A pig, maybe.

That would hardly be of any help to you. No . . . I’ll takethatone .From Saphira, Eragon received the
image of a cow of medium stature with a splattering of white splotches on her left flank.

After Eragon pointed out the cow, Quoth shouted at a line of men idling by the pens. Two of them
separated the cow from the rest of the herd, slipped a rope over its head, and pulled the reluctant animal
toward Saphira. Thirty feet from Saphira, the cow balked and lowed with terror and tried to shake free
of the rope and flee. Before the animal could escape, Saphira pounced, leaping across the distance
separating them. The two men who were pulling on the rope threw themselves flat as Saphira rushed
toward them, her jaws gaping.

Saphira struck the cow broadside as it turned to run, knocking the animal over and holding it in place
with her splayed feet. It uttered a single, terrified bleat before Saphira’s jaws closed over its neck. With a
ferocious shake of her head, she snapped its spine. She paused then, crouched low over her kill, and
looked expectantly at Eragon.

Closing his eyes, Eragon reached out with his mind toward the cow. The animal’s consciousness had
already faded into darkness, but its body was still alive, its flesh thrumming with motive energy, which
was all the more intense for the fear that had coursed through it moments before. Repugnance for what
he was about to do filled Eragon, but he ignored it and, placing a hand over the belt of Beloth the Wise,
transferred what energy he could from the body of the cow into the twelve diamonds hidden around his
waist. The process took only a few seconds.

He nodded to Saphira.I’m done .

Eragon thanked the men for their assistance, and then the two of them left him and Saphira alone.

While Saphira gorged herself, Eragon sat against the barrel of mead and watched the cooks go about


their business. Every time they or one of their assistants beheaded a chicken or cut the throat of a pig or a
goat or any other animal, he transferred the energy from the dying animal into the belt of Beloth the Wise.
It was grim work, for most of the animals were still aware when he touched their consciousness and the
howling storm of their fear and confusion and pain battered at him until his heart pounded and sweat
beaded his brow and he wished nothing more than to heal the suffering creatures. However, he knew it
was their doom to die, lest the Varden should starve. He had depleted his reserve of energy during the
past few battles, and Eragon wanted to replenish it before setting out on a long and potentially hazardous
journey. If Nasuada had allowed him to remain with the Varden for another week, he could have
stocked the diamonds with energy from his own body and still had time to recuperate before running to
Farthen Dûr, but he could not in the few hours he had. And even if he had done nothing but lie in bed and
pour the fire from his limbs into the gems, he would not have been able to garner as much force as he did
then from the multitude of animals.

The diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise seemed to be able to absorb an almost unlimited amount of
energy, so he stopped when he was unable to bear the prospect of immersing himself in the death throes
of another animal. Shaking and dripping with sweat from head to toe, he leaned forward, his hands on his
knees, and gazed at the ground between his feet, struggling not to be ill. Memories not his own intruded
upon his thoughts, memories of Saphira soaring over Leona Lake with him on her back, of them plunging
into the clear, cool water, a cloud of white bubbles swarming past them, of their shared delight in flying
and swimming and playing together.

His breathing calmed, and he looked at Saphira where she sat among the remnants of her kill, chewing
on the cow’s skull. He smiled and sent her his gratitude for her help.

We can go now,he said.

Swallowing, she replied,Take my strength as well. You may need it .

No.

This is one argument you will not win. I insist.

And I insist otherwise. I won’t leave you here weakened and unfitfor battle. What if Murtagh and
Thorn attack later today? We both need to be ready to fight at any moment. You’ll be in more
danger than I will because Galbatorix and the whole of the Empire will still believe I’m with you.

Yes, but you will be alone with a Kull in the middle of the wilderness.

I am as accustomed to the wilderness as you. Being away from civilization does not frighten me.
As for a Kull, well, I don’t know if I could beat one at a wrestling match, but my wards will
protect me from any treachery. . . . I have enough energy, Saphira. You don’t need to give me
more.

She eyed him, considering his words, then lifted a paw and started licking it clean of blood.Very well, I
will keep myself . . . to myself? The corners of her mouth seemed to lift with amusement. Lowering her
paw, she said,Would you be so kind as to roll that barrel over to me? With a grunt, he got to his feet
and did as she asked. She extended a single talon and punched two holes in the top of the barrel, which
released the sweet smell of apple-honey mead. Arching her neck so her head was directly above the
barrel, she grasped it between her massive jaws, then lifted it skyward and poured the gurgling contents
down her gullet. The empty barrel shattered against the ground when she dropped it, and one of the iron
hoops rolled several yards away. Her upper lip wrinkled, Saphira shook her head, then her breath


hitched and she sneezed so hard that her nose struck the ground and a gout of fire erupted from both her
mouth and her nostrils.

Eragon yelped with surprise and jumped sideways, batting at the smoking hem of his tunic. The right side
of his face felt seared raw by the heat of the fire.Saphira, be more careful! he exclaimed.

Oops. She lowered her head and rubbed her dust-caked snout against the edge of one foreleg,
scratching at her nostrils.The mead tickles .

Really, you ought to know better by now,he grumbled as he climbed onto her back.

After rubbing her snout against her foreleg once more, Saphira leaped high into the air and, gliding over
the Varden’s camp, returned Eragon to his tent. He slid off her, then stood looking up at Saphira. For a
time, they said nothing, allowing their shared emotions to speak for them.

Saphira blinked, and he thought her eyes glistened more than normal.This is a test, she said.If we pass
it, we shall be the stronger for it, as dragon and Rider .

We must be able to function by ourselves if necessary, else we will forever be at a disadvantage
compared with others.

Yes. She gouged the earth with her clenching claws.Knowing that does nothing to ease my pain,
however . A shiver ran the length of her sinuous body. She shuffled her wings.May the wind rise under
your wings and the sun always be at your back. Travel well and travel fast, little one .

Goodbye,he said.

Eragon felt that if he remained with her any longer, he would never leave, so he whirled around and,
without a backward glance, plunged into the dark interior of his tent. The connection between
them—which had become as integral to him as the structure of his own flesh—he severed completely.
They would soon be too far apart to sense each other’s minds anyway, and he had no desire to prolong
the agony of their parting. He stood where he was for a moment, gripping the hilt of the falchion and
swaying as if he were dizzy. Already the dull ache of loneliness suffused him, and he felt small and
isolated without the comforting presence of Saphira’s consciousness.I did this before, and I can do this
again, he thought, and forced himself to square his shoulders and lift his chin.

From underneath his cot, he removed the pack he had made during his trip from Helgrind. Into it he
placed the carved wooden tube wrapped in cloth that contained the scroll of the poem he had written for
the Agaetí Blödhren, which Oromis had copied for him in his finest calligraphy; the flask of enchanted
faelnirv and the small soapstone box of nalgask that were also gifts from Oromis; the thick book,Domia
abr Wyrda, which was Jeod’s present; his whetstone and his strop; and, after some hesitation, the many
pieces of his armor, for he reasoned,If the occasion arises where I need it, I will be more happy to
have it than I will be miserable carrying it all the way to Farthen Dûr . Or so he hoped. The book
and the scroll he took because—after having done so much traveling—he had concluded that the best
way to avoid losing the objects he cared about was to keep them with him wherever he went.

The only extra clothes he decided to bring were a pair of gloves, which he stuffed inside his helmet, and
his heavy woolen cloak, in case it got cold when they stopped nights. All the rest, he left rolled up in
Saphira’s saddlebags.If I really am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, he thought,they will clothe me
properly when I arrive at Bregan Hold .


Cinching off the pack, he lay his unstrung bow and quiver across the top and lashed them to the frame.
He was about to do the same with the falchion when he realized that if he leaned to the side, the sword
could slide out of the sheath. Therefore, he tied the sword flat against the rear of the pack, angling it so
the hilt would ride between his neck and his right shoulder, where he could still draw it if need be.

Eragon donned the pack and then stabbed through the barrier in his mind, feeling the energy surging in
his body and in the twelve diamonds mounted on the belt of Beloth the Wise. Tapping into that flow of
force, he murmured the spell he had cast but once be-fore: that which bent rays of light around him and
rendered him invisible. A slight pall of fatigue weakened his limbs as he released the spell.

He glanced downward and had the disconcerting experience of looking through where he knew his torso
and legs to be and seeing the imprint of his boots on the dirt below.Now for the difficult part, he
thought.

Going to the rear of the tent, he slit the taut fabric with his hunting knife and slipped through the opening.
Sleek as a well-fed cat, Blödhgarm was waiting for him outside. He inclined his head in the general
direction of Eragon and murmured, “Shadeslayer,” then devoted his attention to mending the hole, which
he did with a half-dozen short words in the ancient language.

Eragon drifted down the path between two rows of tents, using his knowledge of woodcraft to make as
little noise as possible. Whenever anyone approached, Eragon darted off the path and stood motionless,
hoping they would not notice the footprints of shadow in the dirt or on the grass. He cursed the fact that
the land was so dry; his boots tended to raise small puffs of dust no matter how gently he lowered them.
To his surprise, being invisible degraded his sense of balance; without the ability to see where his hands
or his feet were, he kept misjudging distances and bumping into things, almost as if he had consumed too
much ale.

Despite his uncertain progress, he reached the edge of the camp in fairly good time and without arousing
any suspicion. He paused behind a rain barrel, hiding his footprints in its thick shadow, and studied the
packed-earth ramparts and ditches lined with sharpened stakes that protected the Varden’s eastern
flank. If he had been trying to enter the camp, it would have been extremely difficult to escape detection
by one of the many sentinels who patrolled the ramparts, even while invisible. But since the trenches and
the ramparts had been designed to repel attackers and not imprison the defenders, crossing them from
the opposite direction was a far easier task.

Eragon waited until the two closest sentinels had their backs turned toward him, and then he sprinted
forward, pumping his arms with all his might. Within seconds, he traversed the hundred or so feet that
separated the rain barrel from the slope of the rampart and dashed up the embankment so fast, he felt as
if he were a stone skipping across water. At the crest of the embankment, he drove his legs into the
ground and, arms flailing, leaped out over the lines of the Varden’s defenses. For three silent heartbeats,
he flew, then landed with a bone-jarring impact.

As soon as he regained his balance, Eragon pressed himself flat against the ground and held his breath.
One of the sentinels paused in his rounds, but he did not seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, and
after a moment he resumed his pacing. Eragon released his breath and whispered, “Du deloi lunaea,” and
felt as the spell smoothed out the impressions his boots had left in the embankment.

Still invisible, he stood and trotted away from the camp, careful to step only on clumps of grass so he
would not kick up more dust. The farther he got from the sentinels, the faster he ran, until he sped over
the land more quickly than a galloping horse.


Almost an hour later, he danced down the steep side of a narrow draw that the wind and rain had
etched into the surface of the grasslands. At the bottom was a trickle of water lined with rushes and
cattails. He continued downstream, staying well away from the soft ground next to the water—in an
attempt to avoid leaving traces of his passage—until the creek widened into a small pond, and there by
the edge, he saw the bulk of a bare-chested Kull sitting on a boulder.

As Eragon pushed his way through a stand of cattails, the sound of rustling leaves and stalks alerted the
Kull of his presence. The creature turned his massive horned head toward Eragon, sniffing at the air. It
was Nar Garzhvog, leader of the Urgals who had allied themselves with the Varden.

“You!” exclaimed Eragon, becoming visible once more.

“Greetings, Firesword,” Garzhvog rumbled. Heaving up his thick limbs and giant torso, the Urgal rose to
his full eight and a half feet, his gray-skinned muscles rippling in the light of the noonday sun.

“Greetings, Nar Garzhvog,” said Eragon. Confused, he asked, “What of your rams? Who will lead them
if you go with me?”

“My blood brother, Skgahgrezh, will lead. He is not Kull, but he has long horns and a thick neck. He is
a fine war chief.”

“I see. . . . Why didyou want to come, though?”

The Urgal lifted his square chin, baring his throat. “You are Firesword. You must not die, or the
Urgralgra—the Urgals, as you name us—will not have our revenge against Galbatorix, and our race will
die in this land. Therefore, I will run with you. I am the best of our fighters. I have defeated forty-two
rams in single combat.”

Eragon nodded, not displeased by the turn of events. Of all the Urgals, he trusted Garzhvog the most,
for he had probed the Kull’s consciousness before the Battle of the Burning Plains and had discovered
that, by the standards of his race, Garzhvog was honest and reliable.As long as he doesn’t decide that
his honor requires him to challenge me to a duel, we should have no cause for conflict .

“Very well, Nar Garzhvog,” he said, tightening the strap of the pack around his waist, “let us run
together, you and I, as has not happened in the whole of recorded history.”

Garzhvog chuckled deep in his chest. “Let us run, Firesword.”

Together they faced east, and together they set forth for the Beor Mountains, Eragon running light and
swift, and Garzhvog loping beside him, taking one stride for every two of Eragon’s, the earth shuddering
beneath the burden of his weight. Above them, swollen thunderheads gathered along the horizon,
portending a torrential storm, and circling hawks uttered lonesome cries as they hunted their prey.

OVERHILLANDMOUNTAIN
Eragon and Nar Garzhvog ran for the rest of the day, through the night, and through the following day,



stopping only to drink and to relieve themselves.

At the end of the second day, Garzhvog said, “Firesword, I must eat, and I must sleep.”

Eragon leaned against a nearby stump, panting, and nodded. He had not wanted to speak first, but he
was just as hungry and exhausted as the Kull. Soon after leaving the Varden, he had discovered that
while he was faster than Garzhvog at distances of up to five miles, beyond that, Garzhvog’s endurance
was equal to or greater than his own.

“I will help you hunt,” he said.

“That is not needed. Make us a big fire, and I will bring us food.”

“Fine.”

As Garzhvog strode off toward a thicket of beech trees north of them, Eragon untied the strap around
his waist and, with a sigh of relief, dropped his pack next to the stump. “Blasted armor,” he muttered.
Even in the Empire, he had not run so far while carrying such a load. He had not anticipated how arduous
it would be. His feet hurt, his legs hurt, his back hurt, and when he tried to crouch, his knees refused to
bend properly.

Trying to ignore his discomfort, he set about gathering grass and dead branches for a fire, which he piled
on a patch of dry, rocky ground.

He and Garzhvog were somewhere just east of the southern tip of Lake Tüdosten. The land was wet
and lush, with fields of grass that stood six feet high, through which there roamed herds of deer, gazelles,
and wild oxen with black hides and wide, backswept horns. The riches of the area were due, Eragon
knew, to the Beor Mountains, which caused the formation of huge banks of clouds that drifted for many
leagues over the plains beyond, bringing rain to places that would otherwise have been as dry as the
Hadarac Desert.

Although the two of them had already run an enormous number of leagues, Eragon was disappointed by
their progress. Between the Jiet River and Lake Tüdosten, they had lost several hours while hiding and
taking detours to avoid being seen. Now that Lake Tüdosten was behind them, he hoped that their pace
would increase.Nasuada didn’t foresee this delay, now did she? Oh no. She thought I could run flat
out from there to Farthen Dûr. Ha! Kicking at a branch that was in his way, he continued to gather
wood, grumbling to himself the entire time.

When Garzhvog returned an hour later, Eragon had built a fire a yard long and two feet wide and was
sitting in front of it, staring at the flames and fighting the urge to slip into the waking dreams that were his
rest. His neck cracked as he looked up.

Garzhvog strode toward him, holding the carcass of a plump doe under his left arm. As if it weighed no
more than a sack of rags, he lifted the doe and wedged its head in the fork of a tree twenty yards from
the fire. Then he drew a knife and began to clean the carcass.

Eragon stood, feeling as if his joints had turned to stone, and stumbled toward Garzhvog.

“How did you kill it?” he asked.


“With my sling,” rumbled Garzhvog.

“Do you intend to cook it on a spit? Or do Urgals eat their meat raw?”

Garzhvog turned his head and gazed through the coil of his left horn at Eragon, a deep-set yellow eye

gleaming with some enigmatic emotion. “We are not beasts, Firesword.”

“I did not say you were.”

With a grunt, the Urgal returned to his work.

“It will take too long to cook on a spit,” said Eragon.

“I thought a stew, and we can fry what is left on a rock.”

“Stew? How? We don’t have a pot.”

Reaching down, Garzhvog scrubbed his right hand clean on the ground, then removed a square of folded

material from the pouch at his belt and tossed it at Eragon.
Eragon tried to catch it but was so tired he missed, and the object struck the ground. It looked like an

exceptionally large piece of vellum. As he picked it up, the square fell open, and he saw it had the shape
of a bag, perhaps a foot and a half wide and three feet deep.

The rim was reinforced with a thick strip of leather, upon which were sewn metal rings. He turned the

container over, amazed by its softness and the fact that it had no seams.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The stomach of the cave bear I killed the year I first got my horns. Hang it from a frame or put it in a

hole, then fill it with water and drop hot stones in it. Stones heat water, and stew tastes good.”

“Won’t the stones burn through the stomach?”

“They have not yet.”

“Is it enchanted?”

“No magic. Strong stomach.” Garzhvog’s breath huffed out as he grasped the deer’s hips on either side

and, with a single movement, broke its pelvis in two. The sternum he split using his knife.

“It must have been a big bear,” Eragon said.

Garzhvog made aruk-ruk sound deep in his throat. “It was bigger than I am now, Shadeslayer.”

“Did you kill it with your sling as well?”

“I choked him to death with my hands. No weapons are allowed when you come of age and must prove
your courage.” Garzhvog paused for a moment, his knife buried to the hilt in the carcass. “Most do not
try to kill a cave bear. Most hunt wolves or mountain goats. That is why I became war chief and others
did not.”


Eragon left him preparing the meat and went to the fire. Next to it, he dug a hole, which he lined with the
bear stomach, pushing stakes through the metal rings to hold the stomach in place. He gathered a dozen
apple-sized rocks from the surrounding field and tossed them into the center of the fire. While he waited
for the rocks to heat, he used magic to fill the bear stomach two-thirds with water, and then he fashioned
a pair of tongs out of a sapling willow and a piece of knotted rawhide.

When the rocks were cherry red, he shouted, “They’re ready!”

“Put them in,” Garzhvog replied.

Using the tongs, Eragon extracted the nearest stone from the fire and lowered it into the container. The
surface of the water exploded into steam as the stone touched it. He deposited two more stones in the
bear stomach, which brought the water to a rolling boil.

Garzhvog lumbered over and poured a double handful of meat into the water, then seasoned the stew
with large pinches of salt from the pouch at his belt and several sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and other wild
greens he had chanced upon while hunting. Then he placed a flat piece of shale across one side of the
fire. When the stone was hot, he fried strips of meat on it.

While the food cooked, Eragon and Garzhvog carved themselves spoons from the stump where Eragon
had dropped his pack.

Hunger made it seem longer to Eragon, but it was not many more minutes before the stew was done,
and he and Garzhvog ate, ravenous as wolves. Eragon devoured twice as much as he thought he ever
had before, and what he did not consume, Garzhvog did, eating enough for six large men.

Afterward, Eragon lay back, propping himself up on his elbows, and stared at the flashing fireflies that
had appeared along the edge of the beech trees, swirling in abstract patterns as they chased one another.
Somewhere an owl hooted, soft and throaty. The first few stars speckled the purple sky.

Eragon stared without seeing and thought of Saphira and then of Arya and then of Arya and Saphira,
and then he closed his eyes, a dull throb forming behind his temples. He heard a cracking sound and,
opening his eyes once more, saw that on the other side of the empty bear stomach, Garzhvog was
cleaning his teeth with the pointed end of a broken thighbone. Eragon dropped his gaze to the bottom of
the Urgal’s bare feet—Garzhvog having removed his sandals before they began their meal—and to his
surprise noticed that the Urgal had seven toes on each foot.

“The dwarves have the same number of toes as you do,” he said.

Garzhvog spat a piece of meat into the coals of the fire. “I did not know that. I have never wanted to
look at the feet of a dwarf.”

“Don’t you find it curious that Urgals and dwarves should both have fourteen toes, while elves and
humans have ten?”

Garzhvog’s thick lips lifted in a snarl. “We share no blood with those hornless mountain rats, Firesword.
They have fourteen toes, and we have fourteen toes. It pleased the gods to shape us so when they
created the world. There is no other explanation.”

Eragon grunted in response and returned to watching the fireflies. Then: “Tell me a story your race is


fond of, Nar Garzhvog.”

The Kull pondered for a moment, then removed the bone from his mouth. He said, “Long ago, there
lived a young Urgralgra, and her name was Maghara. She had horns that shone like polished stone, hair
that hung past her waist, and a laugh that could charm the birds out of the trees. But she was not pretty.
She was ugly. Now, in her village, there also lived a ram who was very strong. He had killed four rams in
wrestling matches and had defeated twenty-three others besides. But although his feats had won him
wide renown, he had yet to choose a brood-mate. Maghara wished to be his broodmate, but he would
not look at her, for she was ugly, and because of her ugliness, he did not see her bright horns, nor her
long hair, and he did not hear her pleasant laugh. Sick at heart that he would not look at her, Maghara
climbed the tallest mountain in the Spine, and she called out to Rahna to help her. Rahna is mother of us
all, and it was she who invented weaving and farming and she who raised the Beor Mountains when she
was fleeing the great dragon. Rahna, She of the Gilded Horns, she answered Maghara, and she asked
why Maghara had summoned her. ‘Make me pretty, Honored Mother, so I can attract the ram I want,’
said Maghara. And Rahna answered, ‘You do not need to be pretty, Maghara. You have bright horns
and long hair and a pleasant laugh. With those, you can catch a ram who is not so foolish as to look at
only a female’s face.’ And Maghara, she threw herself down upon the ground and said, ‘I will not be
happy unless I can have this ram, Honored Mother. Please, make me pretty.’ Rahna, she smiled then and
said, ‘If I do this, child, how will you repay me for this favor?’ And Maghara said, ‘I will give you
anything you want.’

“Rahna was well pleased with her offer, and so she made Maghara pretty then, and Maghara returned to
her village, and everyone wondered at her beauty. With her new face, Maghara became the brood-mate
of the ram she wanted, and they had many children, and they lived in happiness for seven years. Then
Rahna came to Maghara, and Rahna said, ‘You have had seven years with the ram you wanted. Have
you enjoyed them?’ And Maghara said, ‘I have.’ And Rahna said, ‘Then I have come for my payment.’
And she looked around their house of stone, and she seized hold of Maghara’s eldest son and said, ‘I
will have him.’ Maghara begged She of the Gilded Horns not to take her eldest son, but Rahna would not
relent. At last, Maghara took her brood-mate’s club, and she struck at Rahna, but the club shattered in
her hands. In punishment, Rahna stripped Maghara’s beauty from her, and then Rahna left with
Maghara’s son for her hall where the four winds dwell, and she named the boy Hegraz and raised him to
be one of the mightiest warriors who has ever walked this land. And so one should learn from Maghara
to never fight one’s fate, for you will lose that which you hold most dear.”

Eragon watched the glowing rim of the crescent moon appear above the eastern horizon. “Tell me
something about your villages.”

“What?”

“Anything. I experienced hundreds of memories when I was in your mind and in Khagra’s and in
Otvek’s, but I can recall only a handful of them, and those imperfectly. I am trying to make sense of what
I saw.”

“There is much I could tell you,” rumbled Garzhvog. His heavy eyes pensive, he worked his makeshift
toothpick around one of his fangs and then said, “We take logs, and we carve them with faces of the
animals of the mountains, and these we bury upright by our houses so they will frighten away the spirits of
the wild. Sometimes the poles almost seem to be alive. When you walk into one of our villages, you can
feel the eyes of all the carved animals watching you. . . .” The bone paused in the Urgal’s fingers, then
resumed its back-and-forth motion. “By the doorway of each hut, we hang the namna. It is a strip of
cloth as wide as my outstretched hand. The namna are brightly colored, and the patterns on them depict
the history of the family that lives in that hut. Only the oldest and most skilled weavers are allowed to add


to a namna or to reweave one if it becomes damaged. . . .” The bone disappeared inside of Garzhvog’s
fist. “During the months of winter, those who have mates work with them on their hearth rug. It takes at
least five years to finish such a rug, so by the time it is done, you know whether you have made a good
choice of mate.”

“I’ve never seen one of your villages,” said Eragon. “They must be very well hidden.”

“Well hidden and well defended. Few who see our homes live to tell of it.”

Focusing on the Kull and allowing an edge to creep into his voice, Eragon said, “How is it you learned
this language, Garzhvog?

Was there a human who lived among you? Did you keep any of us as slaves?”

Garzhvog returned Eragon’s gaze without flinching. “We have no slaves, Firesword. I tore the
knowledge from the minds of the men I fought, and I shared it with the rest of my tribe.”

“You have killed many humans, haven’t you?”

“You have killed many Urgralgra, Firesword. It is why we must be allies, or my race will not survive.”

Eragon crossed his arms. “When Brom and I were tracking the Ra’zac, we passed through Yazuac, a
village by the Ninor River. We found all of the people piled in the center of the village, dead, with a baby
stuck on a spear at the top of the pile. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. And it was Urgals who killed
them.”

“Before I got my horns,” said Garzhvog, “my father took me to visit one of our villages along the western
fringes of the Spine. We found our people tortured, burnt, and slaughtered. The men of Narda had
learned of our presence, and they had surprised the village with many soldiers. Not one of our tribe
escaped. . . . It is true we love war more than other races, Firesword, and that has been our downfall
many times before. Our women will not consider a ram for a mate unless he has proven himself in battle
and killed at least three foes himself. And there is a joy in battle unlike any other joy. But though we love
feats of arms, that does not mean we are not aware of our faults.

If our race cannot change, Galbatorix will kill us all if he defeats the Varden, and you and Nasuada will
kill us all if you overthrow that snake-tongued betrayer. Am I not right, Firesword?”

Eragon jerked his chin in a nod. “Aye.”

“It does no good, then, to dwell upon past wrongs. If we cannot overlook what each of our races has
done, there will never be peace between humans and the Urgralgra.”

“How should we treat you, though, if we defeat Galbatorix and Nasuada gives your race the land you
have asked for and, twenty years from now, your children begin to kill and plunder so they can win
mates? If you know your own history, Garzhvog, then you know it has always been so when Urgals sign
peace accords.”

With a thick sigh, Garzhvog said, “Then we will hope that there are still Urgralgra across the sea and that
they are wiser than us, for we will be no more in this land.”

Neither of them spoke again that night. Garzhvog curled up on his side and slept with his massive head


resting on the ground, while Eragon wrapped himself in his cloak and sat against the stump and gazed at
the slowly turning stars, drifting in and out of his waking dreams.

By the end of the next day, they had come into sight of the Beor Mountains. At first the mountains were
nothing more than ghostly shapes on the horizon, angled panes of white and purple, but as evening drew
nigh, the distant range acquired substance, and Eragon was able to make out the dark band of trees
along the base and, above that, the even wider band of gleaming snow and ice and, still higher yet, the
peaks themselves, which were gray, bare stone, for they were so tall, no plants grew upon them and no
snow fell upon them. As when he had first seen them, the sheer size of the Beor Mountains overwhelmed
Eragon. His every instinct insisted that nothing that large could exist, and yet he knew his eyes did not
deceive him. The mountains averaged ten miles high, and many were even taller.

Eragon and Garzhvog did not stop that night but continued running through the hours of darkness and
through the day thereafter. When morning arrived, the sky grew bright, but because of the Beor
Mountains, it was almost noon before the sun burst forth between two peaks and rays of light as wide as
the mountains themselves streamed out over the land that was still caught in the strange twilight of
shadow. Eragon paused then, on the bank of a brook, and contemplated the sight in silent wonderment
for several minutes.

As they skirted the vast range of mountains, their journey began to seem to Eragon uncomfortably similar
to his flight from Gil’ead to Farthen Dûr with Murtagh, Saphira, and Arya. He even thought he
recognized the place where they had camped after crossing the Hadarac Desert.

The long days and longer nights slipped by with both excruciating slowness and surprising speed, for
every hour was identical to the last, which made Eragon feel not only as if their ordeal would never end
but also as if large portions of it had never taken place.

When he and Garzhvog arrived at the mouth of the great rift that split the range of mountains for many
leagues from north to south, they turned to their right and passed between the cold and indifferent peaks.
Arriving at the Beartooth River—which flowed out of the narrow valley that led to Farthen Dûr—they
forded the frigid waters and continued southward.

That night, before they ventured east into the mountains proper, they camped by a small pond and rested
their limbs. Garzhvog killed another deer with his sling, this time a buck, and they both ate their fill.

His hunger sated, Eragon was hunched over, mending a hole in the side of his boot, when he heard an
eerie howl that set his pulse racing. He glanced around the darkened landscape, and to his alarm, he saw
the silhouette of a huge beast loping around the pebble-lined shore of the pond.

“Garzhvog,” said Eragon in a low voice, and reached over to his pack and drew his falchion.

Taking a fist-sized rock from the ground, the Kull placed it in the leather pocket of his sling, and then
rising to his full height, he opened his maw and bellowed into the night until the land rang with echoes of
his defiant challenge.

The beast paused, then proceeded at a slower pace, sniffing at the ground here and there. As it entered
the circle of firelight, Eragon’s breath caught in his throat. Standing before them was a graybacked wolf
as big as a horse, with fangs like sabers and burning yellow eyes that followed their every movement. The
wolf’s feet were the size of bucklers.


A Shrrg!thought Eragon.

As the giant wolf circled their camp, moving almost silently despite his great bulk, Eragon thought of the
elves and how they would deal with a wild animal, and in the ancient language, he said, “Brother Wolf,
we mean you no harm. Tonight our pack rests and does not hunt. You are welcome to share our food
and the warmth of our den until morning.” The Shrrg paused, and his ears swiveled forward while Eragon
spoke in the ancient language.

“Firesword, what are you doing?” growled Garzhvog.

“Don’t attack unless he does.”

The heavy-shouldered beast slowly entered their camp, the tip of his huge wet nose twitching the whole
while. The wolf poked his shaggy head toward the fire, seemingly curious about the writhing flames, then
moved over to the scraps of meat and viscera scattered over the ground where Garzhvog had butchered
the buck. Crouching, the wolf snapped up the gobbets of flesh, then rose and, without a backward
glance, padded off into the depths of the night.

Eragon relaxed and sheathed the falchion. Garzhvog, however, remained standing where he was, his lips
pulled back in a snarl, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary in the surrounding darkness.

At dawn’s first light, Eragon and Garzhvog left their camp, and running eastward, entered the valley that
would lead them to Mount Thardûr.

As they passed underneath the boughs of the dense forest that guarded the interior of the mountain
range, the air became noticeably cooler and the soft bed of needles on the ground muffled their footsteps.
The tall, dark, grim trees that loomed over them seemed to be watching as they made their way between
the thick trunks and around the twisted roots that knuckled up out of the moist earth, standing two, three,
and often four feet high. Large black squirrels scampered among the branches, chattering loudly. A thick
layer of moss blanketed the corpses of trees that had fallen. Ferns and thimbleberries and other green
leafy plants flourished alongside mushrooms of every shape, size, and color.

The world narrowed once Eragon and Garzhvog were fully inside the long valley. The gigantic mountains
pressed close on either side, oppressive with their bulk, and the sky was a distant, unreachable

strip of sea blue, the highest sky Eragon had ever seen. A few thin clouds grazed the shoulders of the
mountains.

An hour or so after noon, Eragon and Garzhvog slowed as a series of terrible roars echoed among the
trees. Eragon pulled his sword from its sheath, and Garzhvog plucked a smooth river rock from the
ground and fit it in the pocket of his sling.

“It is a cave bear,” said Garzhvog. A furious, high-pitched squeal, similar to metal scraping over metal,
punctuated his statement. “And Nagra. We must be careful, Firesword.”

They proceeded at a slow pace and soon spotted the animals several hundred feet up the side of a
mountain. A drove of reddish boars with thick, slashing tusks milled in squealing confusion before a huge
mass of silver-brown fur, hooked claws, and snapping teeth that moved with deadly speed. At first the
distance fooled Eragon, but then he compared the animals to the trees next to them and realized that each


boar would have dwarfed a Shrrg and that the bear was nearly as large as his house in Palancar Valley.
The boars had bloodied the cave bear’s flanks, but that seemed to only enrage the beast. Rearing on his
hind legs, the bear bellowed and swatted one of the boars with a massive paw, knocking it aside and
tearing open its hide. Three more times the boar attempted to rise, and three more times the cave bear
struck at it, until at last the boar gave up and lay still. As the bear bent to feed, the rest of the squealing
pigs fled back under the trees, heading higher up the mountain and away from the bear.

Awed by the bear’s strength, Eragon followed Garzhvog as the Urgal slowly walked across the bear’s
field of vision. Lifting his crimson snout from the belly of his kill, the bear watched them with small, beady
eyes, then apparently decided they were no threat to him and resumed eating.

“I think even Saphira might not be able to overcome such a monster,” Eragon murmured.

Garzhvog uttered a small grunt. “She can breathe fire. A bear cannot.”

Neither of them looked away from the bear until trees hid it from view, and even then they kept their
weapons at readiness, not knowing what other dangers they might encounter.

The day had passed into late afternoon when they became conscious of another sound: laughter. Eragon
and Garzhvog halted, and then Garzhvog raised a finger and, with surprising stealth, crept through a wall
of brush toward the laughter. Placing his feet with care, Eragon went with the Kull, holding his breath for
fear his breathing would betray their presence.

Peering through a cluster of dogwood leaves, Eragon saw that there was now a well-worn path at the
bottom of the valley, and next to the path, three dwarf children were playing, throwing sticks at each
other and shrieking with laughter. No adults were visible. Eragon withdrew to a safe distance, exhaled,
and studied the sky, where he spotted several plumes of white smoke perhaps a mile farther up the
valley.

A branch snapped as Garzhvog squatted next to him, so that they were about level. Garzhvog said,
“Firesword, here we part.”

“You will not come to Bregan Hold with me?”

“No. My task was to keep you safe. If I go with you, the dwarves will not trust you as they should.
Thardûr mountain is close at hand, and I am confident no one will dare hurt you between here and there.”

Eragon rubbed the back of his neck and looked back and forth between Garzhvog and the smoke east
of them. “Are you going to run straight back to the Varden?”

With a low chuckle, Garzhvog said, “Aye, but maybe not so fast as we did coming here.”

Unsure of what to say, Eragon pushed at the rotten end of a log with the tip of his boot, exposing a
clutch of white larvae squirming in the tunnels they had excavated. “Don’t let a Shrrg or a bear eat you,
eh? Then I would have to track down the beast and kill him, and I don’t have the time for that.”

Garzhvog pressed both his fists against his bony forehead. “May your enemies cower before you,
Firesword.” Standing and turning, Garzhvog loped away from Eragon. The forest soon hid the Kull’s
bulky form.

Eragon filled his lungs with the fresh mountain air, then pushed his way through the wall of brush. As he


emerged from the thicket of brakes and dogwood, the tiny dwarf children froze, the expressions on their
round-cheeked faces wary. Holding his hands out to his sides, Eragon said, “I am Eragon Shadeslayer,
Son of None. I seek Orik, Thrifk’s son, at Bregan Hold. Can you take me to him?”

When the children did not respond, he realized they understood nothing of his own language. “I am a
Dragon Rider,” he said, speaking slowly and emphasizing the words. “Eka eddyr aí Shur’tugal . . .
Shur’tugal . . . Argetlam.”

At that, the children’s eyes brightened, and their mouths formed round shapes of amazement.
“Argetlam!” they exclaimed. “Argetlam!” And they ran over and threw themselves at him, wrapping their
short arms around his legs and tugging at his clothes, shouting with merriment the entire time. Eragon
stared down at them, feeling a foolish grin spread across his face. The children grasped his hands, and he
allowed them to pull him down the path. Even though he could not understand, the children kept up a
continuous stream of Dwarvish, telling him about what he knew not, but he enjoyed listening to their
speech.

When one of the children—a girl, he thought—held her arms out toward him, he picked her up and
placed her on his shoulders, wincing as she grasped fistfuls of his hair. She laughed, high and sweet,
which made him smile again. Thus accoutered and accompanied, Eragon made his way toward Mount
Thardûr and there to Bregan Hold and his foster brother, Orik.

FORMYLOVE

Roran stared at the round, flat stone he held cupped in his hands. His eyebrows met in a scowl of
frustration.

“Stenr rïsa!” he growled under his breath.

The stone refused to budge.

“What are you up to, Stronghammer?” asked Carn, dropping onto the log where Roran sat.

Slipping the stone into his belt, Roran accepted the bread and cheese Carn had brought him and said,
“Nothing. Just woolgath ering.”

Carn nodded. “Most do before a mission.”

As he ate, Roran allowed his gaze to drift over the men he found himself with. Their group was thirty
strong, himself included. They were all hardened warriors. Everyone carried a bow, and most also wore
a sword, although a few chose to fight with a spear, or with a mace or a hammer. Of the thirty men, he
guessed that seven or eight were close to his own age, while the rest were several years older. The eldest
among them was their captain, Martland Redbeard, the deposed earl of Thun, who had seen enough
winters that his famed beard had become frosted with silver hairs.


When Roran had first joined Martland’s command, he had presented himself to Martland in his tent. The
earl was a short man, with powerful limbs from a lifetime of riding horses and wielding swords. His titular
beard was thick and well groomed and hung to the middle of his sternum. After looking Roran over, the
earl had said, “Lady Nasuada has told me great things about you, my boy, and I have heard much else
from the stories my men tell, rumors, gossip, hearsay, and the like. You know how it is. No doubt, you
have accomplished notable feats; bearding the Ra’zac in their own den, for example, now there was a
tricky piece of work. Of course, you had your cousin to help you, didn’t you, hmm? . . . You may be
accustomed to having your way with the people from your village, but you are part of the Varden now,
my boy. More specifically, you are one of my warriors. We are not your family. We are not your
neighbors. We are not even necessarily your friends. Our duty is to carry out Nasuada’s orders, and
carry them out we will, no matter how any one of us might feel about it. While you serve under me, you
will do what I tell you, when I tell you, and how I tell you, or I swear upon the bones of my blessed
mother—may she rest in peace—I will personally whip the skin off your back, no matter to whom you
may be related. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Very good. If you behave yourself and show you have some common sense, and if you can manage to
stay alive, it is possible for a man of determination to advance quickly among the Varden. Whether you
do or not, however, depends entirely on if I deem you fit to command men of your own. But don’t you
believe, not for one moment, notone blasted moment, that you can flatter me into a good opinion of you.
I don’t care whether you like or hate me. My only concern is whether you can do what needs to be
done.”

“I understand perfectly, sir!”

“Yes, well, maybe you do at that, Stronghammer. We shall know soon enough. Leave and report to
Ulhart, my right-hand man.”

Roran swallowed the last of his bread and washed it down with a swig of wine from the skin he carried.
He wished they could have had a hot dinner that night, but they were deep in the Empire’s territory, and
soldiers might have spotted a fire. With a sigh, he stretched out his legs. His knees were sore from riding
Snowfire from dusk until dawn for the past three days.

In the back of his mind, Roran felt a faint but constant pressure, a mental itch that, night or day, pointed
him in the same direction: the direction of Katrina. The source of the sensation was the ring Eragon had
given him, and it was a comfort to Roran knowing that, because of it, he and Katrina could find each
other anywhere in Alagaësia, even if they were both blind and deaf.

Beside him, he heard Carn muttering phrases in the ancient language, and he smiled. Carn was their
spellcaster, sent to ensure that an enemy magician could not kill them all with a wave of his hand. From
some of the other men, Roran had gathered that Carn was not a particularly strong magician—he
struggled to cast every spell—but that he compensated for his weakness by inventing extraordinarily
clever spells and by excelling at worming his way into his opponents’ minds. Carn was thin of face and
thin of body, with drooping eyes and a nervous, excitable air. Roran had taken an immediate liking to
him.

Across from Roran, two of the men, Halmar and Ferth, were sitting in front of their tent, and Halmar
was telling Ferth, “. . . so when the soldiers came for him, he pulled all his men inside his estate and set
fire to the pools of oil his servants had poured earlier, trapping the soldiers and making it appear to those
who came later as if the whole lot of them had burned to death. Can you believe it? Five hundred soldiers


he killed at one go, without even drawing a blade!”

“How did he escape?” Ferth asked.

“Redbeard’s grandfather was a cunning bastard, he was. He had a tunnel dug all the way from the family
hall to the nearest river. With it, Redbeard was able to get his family and all their servants out alive. He
took them to Surda then, where King Larkin sheltered them. It was quite a number of years before
Galbatorix learned they were still alive. We’re lucky to be under Redbeard, to be sure. He’s lost only
two battles, and those because of magic.”

Halmar fell silent as Ulhart stepped into the middle of the row of sixteen tents. The grim-faced veteran
stood with his legs spread, immovable as a deep-rooted oak tree, and surveyed the tents, checking that
everyone was present. He said, “Sun’s down, get to sleep. We ride out two hours before first light.
Convoy should be seven miles northwest of us. Make good time, we strike just as they start moving. Kill
everyone, burn everything, an’ we go back. You know how it goes. Stronghammer, you ride with me.
Mess up, an’ I’ll gut you with a dull fishhook.” The men chuckled. “Right, get to sleep.”

Wind whipped Roran’s face. The thunder of pulsing blood filled his ears, drowning out every other
sound. Snowfire surged between his legs, galloping. Roran’s vision had narrowed; he saw nothing but the
two soldiers sitting on brown mares next to the second-to-last wagon of the supply train.

Raising his hammer overhead, Roran howled with all his might.

The two soldiers started and fumbled with their weapons and shields. One of them dropped his spear
and bent to recover it.

Pulling on Snowfire’s reins to slow him, Roran stood upright in his stirrups and, drawing abreast of the
first soldier, struck him on the shoulder, splitting his mail hauberk. The man screamed, his arm going limp.
Roran finished him off with a backhand blow.

The other soldier had retrieved his spear, and he jabbed at Roran, aiming at his neck. Roran ducked
behind his round shield, the spear jarring him each time it buried itself in the wood. He pressed his legs
against Snowfire’s sides, and the stallion reared, neighing and pawing at the air with iron-shod hooves.
One hoof caught the soldier in the chest, tearing his red tunic. As Snowfire dropped to all fours again,
Roran swung his hammer sideways and crushed the man’s throat.

Leaving the soldier thrashing on the ground, Roran spurred Snowfire toward the next wagon in the
convoy, where Ulhart was battling three soldiers of his own. Four oxen pulled each wagon, and as
Snowfire passed the wagon Roran had just captured, the lead ox tossed his head, and the tip of his left
horn caught Roran in the lower part of his right leg. Roran gasped. He felt as if a red-hot iron had been
laid against his shin. He glanced down and saw a flap of his boot hanging loose, along with a layer of his
skin and muscle.

With another battle-cry, Roran rode up to the closest of the three soldiers Ulhart was fighting and felled
him with a single swipe of his hammer. The next man evaded Roran’s subsequent attack, then turned his
horse and galloped away.

“Get him!” Ulhart shouted, but Roran was already in pursuit.

The fleeing soldier dug his spurs into the belly of his horse until the animal bled, but despite his desperate


cruelty, his steed could not outrun Snowfire. Roran bent low over Snowfire’s neck as the stallion
extended himself, flying over the ground with incredible speed. Realizing flight was hopeless, the soldier
reined in his mount, wheeled about, and slashed at Roran with a saber. Roran lifted his hammer and
barely managed to deflect the razor-sharp blade. He immediately retaliated with a looping overhead
attack, but the soldier parried and then slashed at Roran’s arms and legs twice more. In his mind, Roran
cursed. The soldier was obviously more experienced with swordplay than he was; if he could not win the
engagement in the next few seconds, the soldier would kill him.

The soldier must have sensed his advantage, for he pressed the attack, forcing Snowfire to prance
backward. On three occasions, Roran was sure the soldier was about to wound him, but the man’s saber
twisted at the last moment and missed Roran, diverted by an unseen force. Roran was thankful for
Eragon’s wards then.

Having no other recourse, Roran resorted to the unexpected: he stuck his head and neck out and
shouted, “Bah!” just as he would if he were trying to scare someone in a dark hallway. The soldier
flinched, and as he flinched, Roran leaned over and brought his hammer down on the man’s left knee.
The man’s face went white with pain. Before he could recover, Roran struck him in the small of his back,
and then as the soldier screamed and arched his spine, Roran ended his misery with a quick blow to the
head.

Roran sat panting for a moment, then tugged on Snowfire’s reins and spurred him into a canter as they
returned to the convoy. His eyes darting from place to place, drawn by any flicker of motion, Roran took
stock of the battle. Most of the soldiers were already dead, as were the men who had been driving the
wagons. By the lead wagon, Carn stood facing a tall man in robes, the two of them rigid except for
occasional twitches, the only sign of their invisible duel. Even as Roran watched, Carn’s opponent
pitched forward and lay motionless on the ground.

By the middle of the convoy, however, five enterprising soldiers had cut the oxen loose from three
wagons and had pulled the wagons into a triangle, from within which they were able to hold off Martland
Redbeard and ten other Varden. Four of the soldiers poked spears between the wagons, while the fifth
fired arrows at the Varden, forcing them to retreat behind the nearest wagon for cover. The archer had
already wounded several of the Varden, some of whom had fallen off their horses, others of whom had
kept their saddles long enough to find cover.

Roran frowned. They could not afford to linger out in the open on one of the Empire’s main roads while
they slowly picked off the entrenched soldiers. Time was against them.

All the soldiers were facing west, the direction from which the Varden had attacked. Aside from Roran,
none of the Varden had crossed to the other side of the convoy. Thus, the soldiers were unaware that he
was bearing down on them from the east.

A plan occurred to Roran. In any other circumstances, he would have dismissed it as ludicrous and
impractical, but as it was, he accepted the plan as the only course of action that could resolve the
standoff without further delay. He did not bother to consider the danger to himself; he had abandoned all
fear of death and injury the moment their charge had begun.

Roran urged Snowfire into a full gallop. He placed his left hand on the front of his saddle, edged his
boots almost out of the stirrups, and gathered his muscles in preparation. When Snowfire was fifty feet
away from the triangle of wagons, he pressed downward with his hand and, lifting himself, placed his feet
on the saddle and stood crouched on Snowfire. It took all his skill and concentration to maintain his
balance. As Roran had expected, Snowfire lessened his speed and started to veer to the side as the


cluster of wagons loomed large before them.

Roran released the reins just as Snowfire turned, and jumped off the horse’s back, leaping high over the
east-facing wagon of the triangle. His stomach lurched. He caught a glimpse of the archer’s upturned
face, the soldier’s eyes round and edged with white, then slammed into the man, and they both crashed
to the ground. Roran landed on top, the soldier’s body cushioning his fall. Pushing himself onto his knees,
Roran raised his shield and drove its rim through the gap between the soldier’s helm and his tunic,
breaking his neck. Then Roran shoved himself upright.

The other four soldiers were slow to react. The one to Roran’s left made the mistake of trying to pull his
spear inside the triangle of wagons, but in his haste, he wedged the spear between the rear of one wagon
and the front wheel of another, and the shaft splintered in his hands. Roran lunged toward him. The
soldier tried to retreat, but the wagons blocked his way. Swinging the hammer in an underhand blow,
Roran caught the soldier beneath his chin.

The second soldier was smarter. He let go of his spear and reached for the sword at his belt but only
succeeded in drawing the blade halfway out of the sheath before Roran staved in his chest.

The third and fourth soldiers were ready for Roran by then. They converged on him, naked blades
outstretched, snarls on their faces. Roran tried to sidestep them, but his torn leg failed him, and he
stumbled and fell to one knee. The closest soldier slashed downward. With his shield, Roran blocked the
blow, then dove forward and crushed the soldier’s foot with the flat end of his hammer. Cursing, the
soldier toppled to the ground. Roran promptly smashed the soldier’s face, then flipped onto his back,
knowing that the last soldier was directly behind him.

Roran froze, his arms and legs splayed to either side.

The soldier stood over him, holding his sword extended, the tip of the gleaming blade less than an inch
away from Roran’s throat.

So this is how it ends,thought Roran.

Then a thick arm appeared around the soldier’s neck, yanking him backward, and the soldier uttered a
choked cry as a sword blade sprouted from the middle of his chest, along with a spray of blood. The
soldier collapsed into a limp pile, and in his place, there stood Martland Redbeard. The earl was
breathing heavily, and his beard and chest were splattered with gore.

Martland stuck his sword in the dirt, leaned on the pommel, and surveyed the carnage within the triangle
of wagons. He nodded. “You’ll do, I think.”

Roran sat on the end of a wagon, biting his tongue as Carn cut off the rest of his boot. Trying to ignore
the stabs of agony from his leg, Roran gazed up at the vultures circling overhead and concentrated on
memories of his home in Palancar Valley.

He grunted as Carn probed especially deep into the gash.

“Sorry,” said Carn. “I have to inspect the wound.”

Roran kept staring at the vultures and did not answer. After a minute, Carn uttered a number of words in
the ancient language, and a few seconds later, the pain in Roran’s leg subsided to a dull ache. Looking


down, Roran saw his leg was whole once more.

The effort of healing Roran and the two other men before him had left Carn gray-faced and shaking. The
magician slumped against the wagon, wrapping his arms around his middle, his expression queasy.

“Are you all right?” Roran asked.

Carn lifted his shoulders in a minuscule shrug. “I just need a moment to recover. . . . The ox scratched
the outer bone of your lower leg. I repaired the scratch, but I didn’t have the strength to completely heal
the rest of your injury. I stitched together your skin and muscle, so it won’t bleed or pain you overmuch,
but only lightly. The flesh there won’t hold much more than your weight, not until it mends on its own, that
is.”

“How long will that take?”

“A week, perhaps two.”

Roran pulled on the remains of his boot. “Eragon cast wards around me to protect me from injury. They
saved my life several times today. Why didn’t they protect me from the ox’s horn, though?”

“I don’t know, Roran,” Carn said, sighing. “No one can prepare for every eventuality. That’s one reason
magic is so perilous. If you overlook a single facet of a spell, it may do nothing but weaken you, or
worse, it may do some horrible thing you never intended. It happens to even the best magicians. There
must be a flaw in your cousin’s wards—a misplaced word or a poorly reasoned statement—that allowed
the ox to gore you.”

Easing himself off the wagon, Roran limped toward the head of the convoy, assessing the result of the
battle. Five of the Varden had been wounded during the fighting, including himself, and two others had
died: one a man Roran had barely met, the other Ferth, whom he had spoken with on several occasions.
Of the soldiers and the men who steered the wagons, none remained alive.

Roran paused by the first two soldiers he had killed and studied their corpses. His saliva turned bitter,
and his gut roiled with revulsion.Now I have killed . . . I don’t know how many . He realized that
during the madness of the Battle of the Burning Plains, he had lost count of the number of men he had
slain. That he had sent so many to their deaths he could not remember the full number unsettled him.Must
I slaughter entire fields of men in order to regain what the Empire stole from me? An even more
disconcerting thought occurred to him:And if I do, how could I return to Palancar Valley and live in
peace when my soul was stained black with the blood of hundreds?

Closing his eyes, Roran consciously relaxed all the muscles in his body, seeking to calm himself.I kill for
my love. I kill for my love of Katrina, and for my love of Eragon and everyone from Carvahall,
andalso for my love of the Varden, and my love of this land of ours. For my love, I will wade
through an ocean of blood, even if it destroys me .

“Never seen the likes o’ that before, Stronghammer,” said Ulhart. Roran opened his eyes to find the
grizzled warrior standing in front of him, holding Snowfire by the reins. “No one else crazy enough to try
a trick like that, jumping over the wagons, none that lived to tell the tale, nohow. Good job, that. Watch
yourself, though. Can’t go around leaping off horses an’ taking on five men yourself an’ expect to see
another summer, eh? Bit of caution if you’re wise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Roran as he accepted Snowfire’s reins from Ulhart.


In the minutes since Roran had disposed of the last of the soldiers, the uninjured warriors had been going
to each of the wagons in the convoy, cutting open their bundles of cargo, and reporting the contents to
Martland, who recorded what they found so Nasuada could study the information and perhaps gather
from it some indication of Galbatorix’s plans. Roran watched as the men examined the last few wagons,
which contained bags of wheat and stacks of uniforms. That finished, the men slit the throats of the
remaining oxen, soaking the road with blood. Killing the beasts bothered Roran, but he understood the
importance of denying them to the Empire and would have wielded the knife himself if asked. They would
have taken the oxen back to the Varden, but the animals were too slow and cumbersome. The soldiers’
horses, however, could keep pace as they fled enemy territory, so they captured as many as they could
and tied them behind their own steeds.

Then one of the men took a resin-soaked torch from his saddlebags and, after a few seconds of work
with his flint and steel, lit it. Riding up and down the convoy, he pressed the torch against each wagon
until it caught fire and then tossed the torch into the back of the last wagon.

“Mount up!” shouted Martland.

Roran’s leg throbbed as he pulled himself onto Snowfire. He spurred the stallion over next to Carn as
the surviving men assembled on their steeds in a double line behind Martland. The horses snorted and
pawed at the ground, impatient to put distance between themselves and the fire.

Martland started forward at a swift trot, and the rest of the group followed, leaving behind them the line
of burning wagons, like so many glowing beads strung out upon the lonely road.

A FOREST OFSTONE

Acheer went up from the crowd.

Eragon was sitting in the wooden stands that the dwarves had built along the base of the outer ramparts
of Bregan Hold. The hold sat on a rounded shoulder of Thardûr mountain, over a mile above the floor of
the mist-laden valley, and from it one could see for leagues in either direction, or until the ridged
mountains obscured the view. Like Tronjheim and the other dwarf cities Eragon had visited, Bregan Hold
was made entirely of quarried stone—in this case, a reddish granite that lent a sense of warmth to the
rooms and corridors within. The hold itself was a thick, solid building that rose five stories to an open bell
tower, which was topped by a teardrop of glass that was as large around as two dwarves and was held
in place by four granite ribs that joined together to form a pointed capstone. The teardrop, as Orik had
told Eragon, was a larger version of the dwarves’ flameless lanterns, and during notable occasions or
emergencies, it could be used to illuminate the entire valley with a golden light. The dwarves called it Az
Sindriznarrvel, or The Gem of Sindri. Clustered around the flanks of the hold were numerous
outbuildings, living quarters for the servants and warriors of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, as well as other
structures, such as stables, forges, and a church devoted to Morgothal, the dwarves’ god of fire and their
patron god of smiths. Below the high, smooth walls of Bregan Hold were dozens of farms scattered
about clearings in the forest, coils of smoke drifting up from the stone houses.


All that and more, Orik had shown and explained to Eragon after the three dwarf children had escorted
Eragon into the courtyard of Bregan Hold, shouting, “Argetlam!” to everyone within earshot. Orik had
greeted Eragon like a brother and then had taken him to the baths and, when he was clean, saw to it that
he was garbed in a robe of deep purple, with a gold circlet for his brow.

Afterward, Orik surprised Eragon by introducing him to Hvedra, a bright-eyed, apple-faced dwarf
woman with long hair, and proudly announcing that they had been married but two days past. While
Eragon expressed his astonishment and congratulations, Orik shifted from foot to foot before replying, “It
pained me that you were not able to attend the ceremony, Eragon. I had one of our spellcasters contact
Nasuada, and I asked her if she would give you and Saphira my invitation, but she refused to mention it
to you; she feared the offer might distract you from the task at hand. I cannot blame her, but I wish that
this war would have allowed you to be at our wedding, and us at your cousin’s, for we are all related
now, by law if not by blood.”

In her thick accent, Hvedra said, “Please, consider me as your kin now, Shadeslayer. So long as it is
within mine power, you shall always be treated as family at Bregan Hold, and you may claim sanctuary of
us whenever you need, even if it is Galbatorix who hunts you.”

Eragon bowed, touched by her offer. “You are most kind.” Then he asked, “If you don’t mind my
curiosity, why did you and Orik choose to marry now?”

“We had planned to join hands this spring, but . . .”

“But,” Orik continued in his gruff manner, “the Urgals attacked Farthen Dûr, and then Hrothgar sent me
traipsing off with you to Ellesméra. When I returned here and the families of the clan accepted me as their
new grimstborith, we thought it the perfect time to consummate our betrothal and become husband and
wife. None of us may survive the year, so why tarry?”

“So youdid become clan chief,” Eragon said.

“Aye. Choosing the next leader of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum was a contentious business—we were hard at it
for over a week—but in the end, most of the families agreed that I should follow in Hrothgar’s footsteps
and inherit his position since I was his only named heir.”

Now Eragon sat next to Orik and Hvedra, devouring the bread and mutton the dwarves had brought
him and watching the contest taking place in front of the stands. It was customary, Orik had said, for a
dwarf family, if they had the gold, to stage games for the entertainment of their wedding guests.
Hrothgar’s family was so wealthy, the current games had already lasted for three days and were
scheduled to continue for another four. The games consisted of many events: wrestling, archery,
swordsmanship, feats of strength, and the current event, the Ghastgar.

From opposite ends of a grassy field, two dwarves rode toward each other on white Feldûnost. The
horned mountain goats bounded across the sward, each leap over seventy feet long. The dwarf on the
right had a small buckler strapped to his left arm but carried no weapons. The dwarf on the left had no
shield, but in his right hand, he held a javelin poised to throw.

Eragon held his breath as the distance between the Feldûnost narrowed. When they were less than thirty
feet apart, the dwarf with the spear whipped his arm through the air and launched the missile at his
opponent. The other dwarf did not cover himself with his shield, but rather reached out and, with amazing
dexterity, caught the spear by the shaft. He brandished it over his head. The crowd gathered around the


lists let out a resounding cheer, which Eragon joined in, clapping vigorously.

“That was skillfully done!” exclaimed Orik. He laughed and drained his tankard of mead, his polished
coat of mail sparkling in the early-evening light. He wore a helm embellished with gold, silver, and rubies
and, on his fingers, five large rings. At his waist hung his ever-present ax. Hvedra was attired even more
richly, with strips of embroidered cloth upon her sumptuous dress, strands of pearls and twisted gold
around her neck, and in her hair, an ivory comb set with an emerald as large as Eragon’s thumb.

A line of dwarves stood and winded a set of curved horns, the brassy notes echoing off the mountains.
Then a barrel-chested dwarf stepped forward and, in Dwarvish, announced the winner of the last
contest, as well as the names of the next pair to compete in the Ghastgar.

When the master of ceremonies finished speaking, Eragon bent over and asked, “Will you be
accompanying us to Farthen Dûr, Hvedra?”

She shook her head and smiled widely. “I cannot. I must stay here and tend to the affairs of the Ingeitum
while Orik is gone, so he does not return to find our warriors starving and all our gold spent.”

Chuckling, Orik held out his tankard toward one of the servants standing several yards away. As the
dwarf hurried over and refilled it with mead from a pitcher, Orik said to Eragon with obvious pride,
“Hvedra does not boast. She is not only my wife, she is the . . . Ach, you have no word for it. She is the
grimstcarvlorss of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum.Grimstcarvlorss means . . . ‘the keeper of the house,’ ‘the
arranger of the house.’ It is her duty to ensure that the families of our clan pay their agreed-upon tithes to
Bregan Hold, that our herds are driven to the proper fields at the proper times, that our stocks of feed
and grain do not fall too low, that the women of the Ingeitum weave enough fabric, that our warriors are
well equipped, that our smiths always have ore to smelt into iron, and in short, that our clan is well
managed and will prosper and thrive. There is a saying among our people: a good grimstcarvlorss can
make a clan—”

“And a bad grimstcarvlorss will destroy a clan,” said Hvedra.

Orik smiled and clasped one of her hands in his. “And Hvedra is the best of grimstcarvlorssn. It is not an
inherited title. You must prove that you are worthy of the post if you are to hold it. It is rare for the wife
of a grimstborith to be grimstcarvlorss as well. I am most fortunate in that regard.” Bending their heads
together, he and Hvedra rubbed noses. Eragon glanced away, feeling lonely and excluded. Leaning back,
Orik took a draught of mead, then said, “There have been many famous grimstcarvlorssn in our history. It
is often said that the only thing we clan leaders are good for is declaring war on each other and that the
grimstcarvlorssn prefer we spend our time squabbling among ourselves so we do not have the time to
interfere in the workings of the clan.”

“Come now, Skilfz Delva,” chided Hvedra. “You know that is not truth. Or it shall not be truth with us.”

“Mmm,” said Orik, and touched his forehead to Hvedra’s. They rubbed noses again.

Eragon returned his attention to the crowd below as it erupted in a frenzy of hissing and jeering. He saw
that one of the dwarves competing in the Ghastgar had lost his nerve and, at the last moment, had yanked
his Feldûnost off to one side and even then was attempting to flee his opponent. The dwarf with the
javelin pursued him twice around the lists. When they were close enough, he rose up in his stirrups and
cast the spear, striking the cowardly dwarf in the back of his left shoulder. With a howl, the dwarf fell off
his steed and lay on his side, clutching at the blade and shaft embedded in his flesh. A healer rushed
toward him. After a moment, everyone turned their backs on the spectacle.


Orik’s upper lip curved with disgust. “Bah! It will be many years before his family is able to erase the
stain of their son’s dishonor. I am sorry you have had to witness this contemptible act, Eragon.”

“It’s never enjoyable watching someone shame themselves.”
The three of them sat in silence through the next two contests, then Orik startled Eragon by grasping him
by the shoulder and asking, “How would you like to see a forest of stone, Eragon?”


“No such thing exists, unless it is carved.”
Orik shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “It is not carved, and it does exist. So I ask again, would you


like to see a forest of stone?”
“If you are not jesting . . . yes, I would.”
“Ah, I am glad you accepted. I do not jest, and I promise you that tomorrow you and I shall walk


among trees of granite. It is one of the wonders of the Beor Mountains. Everyone who is a guest of
Dûrgrimst Ingeitum should have an opportunity to visit it.”


The following morning, Eragon rose from his too-small bed in his stone room with its low ceiling and
half-sized furniture, washed his face in a basin of cold water, and, out of habit, reached with his mind
toward Saphira. He felt only the thoughts of the dwarves and the animals in and around the hold. Eragon
faltered and leaned forward, gripping the rim of the basin, overcome by his sense of isolation. He
remained in that position, unable to move or think, until his vision turned crimson and flashing spots
floated in front of his eyes. With a gasp, he exhaled and refilled his lungs.

I missed her during the trip from Helgrind,he thought,but at least I knew I was returning to her as
fast as I could. Now I am traveling awayfrom her, and I do not know when we will be reunited .

Shaking himself, he dressed and made his way through the winding corridors of Bregan Hold, bowing to
the dwarves he passed, who for their part greeted him with energetic reiterations of “Argetlam!”

He found Orik and twelve other dwarves in the courtyard of the hold, saddling a line of sturdy ponies,
whose breath formed white plumes in the cold air. Eragon felt like a giant as the short, burly men moved
about him.

Orik hailed him. “We have a donkey in our stables, if you would like to ride.”

“No, I’ll continue on foot, if it’s all the same to you.”

Orik shrugged. “As you wish.”

When they were ready to depart, Hvedra descended the broad stone steps from the entrance to the
main hall of Bregan Hold, her dress trailing behind her, and presented to Orik an ivory horn clad with
gold filigree around the mouth and bell. She said, “This was mine father’s when he rode with Grimstborith
Aldhrim. I give it to you so you may remember me in the days to come.” She said more in Dwarvish, so
softly Eragon could not hear, and then she and Orik touched foreheads. Straightening in his saddle, Orik
placed the horn to his lips and winded it. A deep, rousing note rang forth, increasing in volume until the air


within the courtyard seemed to vibrate like a wind-sawed rope. A pair of black ravens rose from the
tower above, cawing. The sound of the horn made Eragon’s blood tingle. He shifted in place, eager to be
gone.

Lifting the horn over his head and with a final look at Hvedra, Orik spurred his pony forward, trotted out
of the main gates of Bregan Hold, and turned east, toward the head of the valley. Eragon and the twelve
other dwarves followed close behind.

For three hours, they followed a well-worn trail across the side of Thardûr mountain, climbing ever
higher above the valley floor. The dwarves drove the ponies as fast as they could without injuring the
animals, but their pace was still only a fraction of Eragon’s speed when he was free to run unchecked.
Although he was frustrated, Eragon refrained from complaining, for he realized that it was inevitable he
would have to travel slower with any but elves or Kull.

He shivered and pulled his cloak closer around himself. The sun had yet to appear over the Beor
Mountains, and a damp chill pervaded the valley, even though noon was only a few hours away.

Then they came upon a flat expanse of granite over a thousand feet wide, bordered on the right by a
slanting cliff of naturally formed octagonal pillars. Curtains of shifting mist obscured the far end of the
stone field.

Orik raised a hand and said, “Behold, Az Knurldrâthn.”

Eragon frowned. Stare as he might, he could discern nothing of interest in the barren location. “I see no
forest of stone.”

Clambering down from his pony, Orik handed the reins to the warrior behind him and said, “Walk with
me, if you would, Eragon.”

Together they strode toward the twisting bank of fog, Eragon shortening his steps to match Orik’s. The
mist kissed Eragon’s face, cool and moist. The vapor became so thick that it obscured the rest of the
valley, enveloping them in a featureless gray landscape where even up and down seemed arbitrary.
Undaunted, Orik proceeded with a confident gait. Eragon, however, felt disoriented and slightly
unsteady, and he walked with a hand held out in front of him, in case he should bump into anything
hidden within the fog.

Orik stopped at the edge of a thin crack that defaced the granite they stood on and said, “What see you
now?”

Squinting, Eragon swept his gaze back and forth, but the fog seemed as monotonous as ever. He
opened his mouth to say as much but then noticed a slight irregularity in the texture of the mist to his right,
a faint pattern of light and dark that held its shape even while the mist drifted past. He became aware of
other areas that were static as well: strange, abstract patches of contrast that formed no recognizable
objects.

“I don’t . . . ,” he started to say when a breath of wind ruffled his hair. Under the gentle encouragement
of the newborn breeze, the fog thinned and the disjoined patterns of shade resolved into the boles of
large, ash-colored trees with bare and broken limbs. Dozens of the trees surrounded him and Orik, the
pale skeletons of an ancient forest. Eragon pressed his palm against a trunk. The bark was as cold and
hard as a boulder. Blotches of pallid lichen clung to the surface of the tree. The back of Eragon’s neck
prickled. Although he did not consider himself overly superstitious, the ghostly mist and the eerie half-light


and the appearance of the trees themselves—grim and foreboding and mysterious—ignited a spark of
fear inside of him.

He wet his lips and asked, “How did these come to be?”

Orik shrugged. “Some claim that Gûntera must have placed them here when he created Alagaësia out of
nothingness. Others claim Helzvog made them, for stone is his favorite element, and would not the god of
stone have trees of stone for his garden? And still others say no, that once these were trees like any
others, and a great catastrophe eons ago must have buried them in the ground, and that over time, wood
became dirt, and dirt became stone.”

“Is that possible?”

“Only the gods know for certain. Who besides them can hope to understand the whys and wherefores
of the world?” Orik shifted his position. “Our ancestors discovered the first of the trees while quarrying
granite here, over a thousand years ago. The then grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, Hvalmar
Lackhand, stopped the mining and, instead, had his masons chisel out the trees from the surrounding
stone. When they had excavated nigh on fifty trees, Hvalmar realized that there might be hundreds, or
even thousands, of stone trees entombed within the side of Mount Thardûr, and so he ordered his men to
abandon the project. This place, however, captured the imagination of our race, and ever since, knurlan
from every clan have traveled here and labored to extricate more trees from the grip of the granite. There
are even knurlan who have dedicated their lives to the task. It has also become a tradition to send
troublesome offspring here to chisel out a tree or two while under the supervision of a master mason.”

“That sounds tedious.”

“It gives them time to repent of their ways.” With one hand, Orik stroked his braided beard. “I spent
some months here myself when I was a rambunctious lad of four-and-thirty.”

“And did you repent of your ways?”

“Eta. No. It was too . . .tedious . After all those weeks, I had freed only a single branch from the
granite, so I ran away and fell in with a group of Vrenshrrgn—”

“Dwarves from the clan Vrenshrrgn?”

“Yes, knurlagn of the clan Vrenshrrgn, War Wolves, Wolves of War, however you might say it in this
tongue. I fell in with them, became drunk on ale, and as they were hunting Nagran, decided that I too
should kill a boar and bring it to Hrothgar to appease his anger at me. It wasn’t the wisest thing I have
done. Even our most skilled warriors fear to hunt Nagran, and I was still more boy than man. Once my
mind cleared, I cursed myself for a fool, but I had sworn I would, so I had no choice but to fulfill my
oath.”

When Orik paused, Eragon asked, “What happened?”

“Oh, I killed a Nagra, with help from the Vrenshrrgn, but the boar gored me in the shoulder and tossed
me into the branches of a nearby tree. The Vrenshrrgn had to carry the both of us, the Nagra and me,
back to Bregan Hold. The boar pleased Hrothgar, and I . . . I, despite the ministrations of our best
healers, I had to spend the next month resting in bed, which Hrothgar said was punishment enough for
defying his orders.”


Eragon watched the dwarf for a while. “You miss him.”

Orik stood for a moment with his chin tucked against his stocky chest. Lifting his ax, he struck the
granite with the end of the haft, producing a sharp clack that echoed among the trees. “It has been nigh
on two centuries since the last dûrgrimstvren, the last clan war, racked our nation, Eragon. But by
Morgothal’s black beard, we stand on the brink of another one now.”

“Now, of all times?” exclaimed Eragon, appalled. “Is it really that bad?”

Orik scowled. “It is worse. Tensions between the clans are higher than they have ever been in living
memory. Hrothgar’s death and Nasuada’s invasion of the Empire have served to inflame passions,
aggravate old rivalries, and lend strength to those who believe it is folly to cast our lot with the Varden.”

“How can they believe that when Galbatorix has already attacked Tronjheim with the Urgals?”

“Because,” said Orik, “they are convinced it is impossible to defeat Galbatorix, and their argument holds
much sway with our people. Can you honestly tell me, Eragon, that if Galbatorix were to confront you
and Saphira this very instant, that the two of you could best him?”

Eragon’s throat tightened. “No.”

“I thought not. Those who are opposed to the Varden have blinded themselves to Galbatorix’s threat.
They say that if we had refused shelter to the Varden, if we had not accepted you and Saphira into fair
Tronjheim, then Galbatorix would have had no reason to make war on us. They say that if we just keep
to ourselves and remain hidden in our caves and tunnels, we shall have nothing to fear from Galbatorix.
They do not realize that Galbatorix’s hunger for power is insatiable and that he will not rest until all of
Alagaësia lies at his feet.” Orik shook his head, and the muscles in his forearms bunched and knotted as
he pinched the ax blade between his wide fingers. “I will not allow our race to cower in tunnels like
frightened rabbits until the wolf outside digs his way in and eats us all. We must continue fighting out of
the hope that somehow we can find a way to kill Galbatorix. And I will not allow our nation to
disintegrate into a clan war. With circumstances as they are, another dûrgrimstvren would destroy our
civilization and possibly doom the Varden as well.” His jaw set, Orik turned toward Eragon. “For the
good of my people, I intend to seek the throne myself. Dûrgrimstn Gedthrall, Ledwonnû, and Nagra have
already pledged their support to me. However, there are many who stand between me and the crown; it
will not be easy to garner enough votes to become king. I need to know, Eragon, will you back me in
this?”

Crossing his arms, Eragon walked from one tree to the next and then back again. “If I do, my support
might turn the other clans against you. Not only will you be asking your people to ally themselves with the
Varden, you will be asking them to accept a Dragon Rider as one of their own, which they have never
done before and I doubt they will want to now.”

“Aye, it may turn some against me,” said Orik, “but it may also gain me the votes of others. Let me be
the judge of that. All I wish to know is, Will you back me? . . . Eragon, why do you hesitate?”

Eragon stared at a gnarled root that rose out of the granite by his feet, avoiding Orik’s eyes. “You are
concerned about the good of your people, and rightly so. But my concerns are broader; they encompass
the good of the Varden and the elves and everyone else who opposes Galbatorix. If . . . if it is not likely
you can win the crown, and there is another clan chief who could, and who is not unsympathetic to the
Varden—”


“No one would be a more sympathetic grimstnzborith than I!”

“I’m not questioning your friendship,” Eragon protested. “But if what I said came to pass and my
support might ensure that such a clan chief won the throne, for the good of your people and for the good
of the rest of Alagaësia, shouldn’t I back the dwarf who has the best chance of succeeding?”

In a deadly quiet voice, Orik said, “You swore a blood-oath on the Knurlnien, Eragon. By every law of
our realm, you are a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, no matter how greatly others may disapprove. What
Hrothgar did by adopting you has no precedent in all of our history, and it cannot be undone unless, as
grimstborith, I banish you from our clan. If you turn against me, Eragon, you will shame me in front of our
entire race and none will ever trust my leadership again. Moreover, you will prove to your detractors that
we cannot trust a Dragon Rider. Clan members do not betray each other to other clans, Eragon. It is not
done, not unless you wish to wake up one night with a dagger buried in your heart.”

“Are you threatening me?” asked Eragon, just as quietly.

Orik swore and banged his ax against the granite again. “No! I would never lift a hand against you,
Eragon! You are my foster brother, you are the only Rider free of Galbatorix’s influence, and blast it if I
have not become fond of you during our travels together. But even though I would not harm you, that
does not mean the rest of the Ingeitum would be so forbearing. I say that not as a threat but as a
statement of fact. You must understand this, Eragon. If the clan hears you have given your support to
another, I may not be able to restrain them. Even though you are our guest and the rules of hospitality
protect you, if you speak out against the Ingeitum, the clan will see you as having betrayed them, and it is
not our custom to allow traitors to remain within our midst. Do you understand me, Eragon?”

“What do you expect of me?” shouted Eragon. He flung his arms outward and paced back and forth in
front of Orik. “I swore an oath to Nasuada as well, and those were the orders she gave me.”

“And you also pledged yourself to Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!” roared Orik.

Eragon stopped and stared at the dwarf. “Would you have me doom all of Alagaësia just so you can
maintain your standing among the clans?”

“Do not insult me!”

“Then don’t ask the impossible of me! I will back you if it seems likely you can ascend to the throne, and
if not, then I won’t. You worry about Dûrgrimst Ingeitum and your race as a whole, while it is my duty to
worry about them and all of Alagaësia as well.” Eragon slumped against the cold trunk of a tree. “And I
cannot afford to offend you or your—I mean,our —clan or the rest of dwarfdom.”

In a kinder tone, Orik said, “There is another way, Eragon. It would be more difficult for you, but it
would resolve your quandary.”

“Oh? What wondrous solution would this be?”

Sliding his ax back under his belt, Orik walked over to Eragon, grasped him by the forearms, and gazed
up at him through bushy eyebrows. “Trust me to do the right thing, Eragon Shadeslayer. Give me the
same loyalty you would if you were indeed born of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. Those under me would never
presume to speak out against their own grimstborith in favor of another clan. If a grimstborith strikes the
rock wrong, it is his responsibility alone, but that does not mean I am oblivious to your concerns.” He
glanced down for a moment, then said, “If I cannot be king, trust me not to be so blinded by the prospect


of power that I cannot recognize when my bid has failed. If that should happen—not that I believe it
shall—then I will, of my own volition, lend my support to one of the other candidates, for I have no more
desire than you to see a grimstnzborith elected who is hostile to the Varden. And if I should help promote
another to the throne, the status and prestige I will place at the service of that clan chief shall, of its very
nature, include your own, since you are Ingeitum. Will you trust me, Eragon? Will you accept me as your
grimstborith, as the rest of my hall-sworn subjects do?”

Eragon groaned and leaned his head against the rough tree and peered up at the crooked, bone-white
branches wreathed in mist.Trust . Of all the things Orik could have asked of him, that was the most
difficult to grant. Eragon liked Orik, but to subordinate himself to the dwarf’s authority when so much
was at stake would be to relinquish even more of his freedom, a prospect he loathed. And along with his
freedom, he would also be relinquishing part of his responsibility for the fate of Alagaësia. Eragon felt as if
he were hanging off the edge of a precipice and Orik was trying to convince him there was a ledge only a
few feet below him, but Eragon could not bring himself to release his grip, for fear he would fall to his
doom.

He said, “I would not be a mindless servant for you to order about. When it came to matters of
Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, I would defer to you, but in all else, you would have no hold over me.”

Orik nodded, his face serious. “I’m not worried about what mission Nasuada might send you on, nor
whom you might kill while fighting the Empire. No, what gives me restless nights when I ought to be
sleeping sound as Arghen in his cave is imagining you attempting to influence the clanmeet’s voting. Your
intentions are noble, I know, but noble or not, you are unfamiliar with our politics, no matter how well
Nasuada may have schooled you. This is mine area of expertise, Eragon. Let me conduct it in the manner
I deem appropriate. It is what Hrothgar groomed me for my entire life.”

Eragon sighed, and with a sensation of falling, he said, “Very well. I will do as you think best about the
succession, Grimstborith Orik.”

A broad smile spread across Orik’s face. He tightened his grip on Eragon’s forearms, then released him,
saying, “Ah, thank you, Eragon. You don’t know what this means to me. It is good of you, very good of
you, and I won’t forget it, not if I live to be two hundred years old and my beard grows so long, it drags
in the dirt.”

Despite himself, Eragon chuckled. “Well, I hope it doesn’t grow that long. You would trip over it all the
time!”

“Perhaps I would at that,” said Orik, laughing. “Besides, I rather think Hvedra would cut it short once it
reached my knees. She has very definite opinions about the proper length of a beard.”


Orik led the way as the two of them departed the forest of stone trees, striding through the colorless mist
that swirled among the calcified trunks. They rejoined Orik’s twelve warriors, then began to descend the
side of Mount Thardûr. At the bottom of the valley, they continued in a straight line to the other side, and
there the dwarves brought Eragon to a tunnel hidden so cleverly within the rock face, he never would
have found the entrance on his own.

It was with regret that Eragon left behind the pale sunshine and fresh mountain air for the darkness of the
tunnel. The passageway was eight feet wide and six feet high—which made it feel quite low to
Eragon—and like all the dwarf tunnels he had visited, it was as straight as an arrow for as far as he could


see. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see the dwarf Farr swing closed the hinged slab of
granite that served as a door to the tunnel, plunging their party into night. A moment later, fourteen
glowing orbs of differing colors appeared as the dwarves removed flameless lanterns from their
saddlebags. Orik handed one to Eragon.

Then they started forward under the roots of the mountain, and the ponies’ hooves filled the tunnel with
clashing echoes that seemed to shout at them like angry wraiths. Eragon grimaced, knowing they would
have to listen to the din all the way to Farthen Dûr, for that was where the tunnel ended, many leagues
thence. He hunched his shoulders and tightened his grip on the straps of his pack and wished he were
with Saphira, flying high above the ground.

THELAUGHINGDEAD

Roran squatted and gazed through the latticework of willow branches.

Two hundred yards away, fifty-three soldiers and wagon drivers sat around three separate cookfires,
eating their dinner as dusk rapidly settled over the land. The men had stopped for the night on the broad,
grass-covered bank next to a nameless river. The wagons full of supplies for Galbatorix’s troops were
parked in a rough half circle around the fires. Scores of hobbled oxen grazed behind the camp, lowing
occasionally to each other. Twenty yards or so downstream, however, a soft earth shelf reared high out
of the ground, which prevented any attack or escape from that quarter.

What were they thinking?Roran wondered. It was only prudent, when in hostile territory, to camp in a
defensible location, which usually meant finding a natural formation to protect your back. Even so, you
had to be careful to choose a resting place you could flee from if ambushed. As it was, it would be
childishly easy for Roran and the other warriors under Martland’s command to sweep out of the brush
where they were hiding and pin the men of the Empire in the tip of the V formed by the earthen shelf and
the river, where they could pick off the soldiers and drivers at their leisure. It puzzled Roran that trained
soldiers would make such an obvious mistake.Maybe they are from a city, he thought.Or maybe they
are merely inexperienced . He frowned.Then why would they be entrusted with such a crucial
mission?

“Have you detected any traps?” he asked. He did not have to turn his head to know that Carn was close
beside him, as well as Halmar and two other men. Save the four swordsmen who had joined Martland’s
company to replace those who had died or been irreparably wounded during their last engagement,
Roran had fought alongside all of the men in their group. While he did not like every single one, he trusted
them with his life, as he knew they trusted him. It was a bond that transcended age or upbringing. After
his first battle, Roran had been surprised by how close he felt to his companions, as well as by how warm
they were to him in turn.

“None that I can tell,” murmured Carn. “But then—”

“They may have invented new spells you cannot detect, yes, yes. Is there a magician with them, though?”


“I can’t tell for sure, but no, I don’t think so.”

Roran pushed away a shock of narrow willow leaves to better see the layout of the wagons. “I don’t like
it,” he grumbled. “A magician accompanied the other convoy. Why not this one?”

“There are fewer of us than you might imagine.”

“Mmh.” Roran scratched his beard, still bothered by the soldiers’ apparent disregard of common sense.
Could they be trying to invite an attack? They don’t seem prepared for one, but appearances are
hardly everything. What sort of trap could they have prepared for us? No one else is within thirty
leagues, and Murtagh and Thorn were last spotted flying north from Feinster . “Send the signal,” he
said. “But tell Martland it bothers me they camped here. Either they’re idiots or they have some sort of
defense invisible to us: magic or other trickery of the king.”

Silence, then: “I sent it. Martland says he shares your concern, but unless you want to run back to
Nasuada with your tail tucked between your legs, we try our luck.”

Roran grunted and turned away from the soldiers. He gestured with his chin, and the other men
scampered with him on hands and knees to where they had left their horses.

Standing, Roran mounted Snowfire.

“Whoa, steady, boy,” he whispered, petting Snowfire as the stallion tossed his head. In the dim light,
Snowfire’s mane and hide gleamed like silver. Not for the first time, Roran wished his horse were a less
visible shade, a nice bay or chestnut perhaps.

Taking his shield from where it hung by his saddle, Roran fit his left arm through the straps, then pulled
his hammer from his belt.

He dry-swallowed, a familiar tightness between his shoulders, and readjusted his grip on the hammer.

When the five men were ready, Carn raised a finger and his eyelids drifted half closed and his lips
twitched, as if he were talking with himself. A cricket sounded nearby.

Carn’s eyelids snapped open. “Remember, keep your gaze directed downward until your vision adjusts,
and even then, don’t look at the sky.” Then he began to chant in the ancient language, incomprehensible
words that shivered with power.

Roran covered himself with his shield and squinted at his saddle as a pure white light, bright as the
noonday sun, illuminated the landscape. The stark glow originated from a point somewhere above the
camp; Roran resisted the temptation to see exactly where.

Shouting, he kicked Snowfire in the ribs and hunched over the horse’s neck as his steed leaped forward.
On either side, Carn and the other warriors did the same, brandishing their weapons. Branches tore at
Roran’s head and shoulders, and then Snowfire broke free of the trees and raced toward the camp at full
gallop.

Two other groups of horsemen also thundered toward the camp, one led by Martland, the other Ulhart.

The soldiers and drivers cried out in alarm and covered their eyes. Staggering about like blind men, they
scrabbled after their weapons while trying to position themselves to repel the attack.


Roran made no attempt to slow Snowfire. Spurring the stallion once more, he rose high in the stirrups
and held on with all his strength as Snowfire jumped over the slight gap between two wagons. His teeth
clattered as they landed. Snowfire kicked dirt into one of the fires, sending up a burst of sparks.

The rest of Roran’s group jumped the wagons as well. Knowing they would attend to the soldiers
behind him, Roran concentrated on those in front. Aiming Snowfire at one of the men, he jabbed at the
soldier with the end of his hammer and broke the man’s nose, splashing crimson blood across his face.
Roran dispatched the man with a second blow to the head, then parried a sword from another soldier.

Farther down the curved line of wagons, Martland, Ulhart, and their men also jumped into the camp,
alighting with a clack of hooves and a jangle of armor and weapons. A horse screamed and fell as a
soldier wounded it with a spear.

Roran blocked the soldier’s sword a second time, then rapped the man’s sword hand, breaking bones
and forcing the man to drop his weapon. Without pause, Roran struck the man in the center of his red
tunic, cracking his sternum and felling the gasping, mortally wounded soldier.

Roran twisted in the saddle, searching the camp for his next opponent. His muscles vibrated with frantic
excitement; every detail around him was as sharp and clear as if it were etched in glass. He felt invincible,
invulnerable. Time itself seemed to stretch and slow, so that a confused moth that fluttered past him
appeared to be flying through honey instead of air.

Then a pair of hands clamped down on the back of his mail hauberk and yanked him off Snowfire and
slammed him into the hard ground, knocking the breath out of him. Roran’s sight flickered and went
black for a moment. When he recovered, he saw that the first soldier he had attacked was sitting on his
chest, choking him. The soldier blotted out the source of light Carn had created in the sky. A white halo
surrounded his head and shoulders, casting his features in such deep shadow, Roran could make out
nothing of his face but the flash of bared teeth.

The soldier tightened his fingers around Roran’s throat as Roran gasped for air. Roran groped after his
hammer, which he had dropped, but it was not within reach. Tensing his neck to keep the soldier from
crushing the life out of him, he drew his dagger from his belt and drove it through the soldier’s hauberk,
through his gambeson, and between the ribs on the soldier’s left side.

The soldier did not even flinch, nor did his grip relax.

A continuous stream of gurgling laughter emanated from the soldier. The lurching, heart-stopping
chuckle, hideous in the extreme, turned Roran’s stomach cold with fear. He remembered the sound from
before; he had heard it while watching the Varden fight the men who felt no pain on the grassy field
beside the Jiet River. In a flash, he understood why the soldiers had chosen such a poor campsite:They
do not care if they are trapped or not, for we cannot hurt them .

Roran’s vision turned red, and yellow stars danced before his eyes. Teetering on the edge of
unconsciousness, he yanked the dagger free and stabbed upward, into the soldier’s armpit, twisting the
blade in the wound. Gouts of hot blood spurted over his hand, but the soldier did not seem to notice. The
world exploded in blotches of pulsing colors as the soldier smashed Roran’s head against the ground.
Once. Twice. Three times. Roran bucked his hips, trying without success to throw the man off. Blind and
desperate, he slashed at where he guessed the man’s face to be and felt the dagger catch in soft flesh. He
pulled the dagger back slightly, then lunged in that direction, feeling the impact as the tip of the blade
struck bone.


The pressure around Roran’s neck vanished.

Roran lay where he was, his chest heaving, then rolled over and vomited, throat burning. Still gasping
and coughing, he staggered upright and saw the soldier sprawled motionless next to him, the dagger
protruding from the man’s left nostril.

“Go for the head!” shouted Roran, despite his raw throat. “The head!”

He left the dagger buried in the soldier’s nostril and retrieved his hammer from the trampled ground
where it had fallen, pausing long enough to also grab an abandoned spear, which he held with his shield
hand. Jumping over the fallen soldier, he ran toward Halmar, who was on foot as well and dueling three
soldiers at once. Before the soldiers noticed him, Roran bashed the two closest ones in the head so hard,
he split their helms. The third he left to Halmar, instead bounding over to the soldier whose sternum he
had broken and whom he had left for dead. He found the man sitting against the wheel of a wagon,
spitting up clotted blood and struggling to string a bow.

Roran gored him through an eye with the spear. Pieces of gray flesh clung to the blade of the spear as he
pulled it free.

An idea occurred to Roran then. He threw the spear at a man in a red tunic on the other side of the
nearest fire—impaling him through the torso—then slid the haft of his hammer under his belt and strung
the soldier’s bow. Placing his back against a wagon, Roran began to shoot the soldiers rushing about the
encampment, attempting either to kill them with a lucky shot to the face, the throat, or the heart or to
cripple them so his companions could more easily dispatch them. If nothing else, he reasoned that an
injured soldier might bleed to death before the fight ended.

The initial confidence of the attack had faded into confusion. The Varden were scattered and dismayed,
some on their steeds, some on foot, and most bloodied. At least five, so far as Roran could tell, had died
when soldiers they had thought slain had returned to assail them. How many soldiers were left, it was
impossible to tell in the throng of flailing bodies, but Roran could see that they still outnumbered the scant
twenty-five or so of the remaining Varden.They could tear us into pieces with their bare hands while
we try to hack them apart, he realized. He searched with his eyes among the frenzy for Snowfire and
saw that the white horse had run farther down the river, where he now stood by a willow tree, nostrils
flared and ears plastered flat against his skull.

With the bow, Roran killed four more soldiers and wounded over a score. When he had only two
arrows left, he spotted Carn standing on the other side of the camp, dueling a soldier by the corner of a
burning tent. Drawing the bow until the fletching on the arrow tickled his ear, Roran shot the soldier in the
chest. The soldier stumbled, and Carn decapitated him.

Roran tossed the bow aside and, hammer in hand, ran over to Carn and shouted, “Can’t you kill them
with magic?”

For a moment, Carn could only pant, then he shook his head and said, “Every spell I cast was blocked.”
The light from the burning tent gilded the side of his face.

Roran cursed. “Together then!” he cried, and hefted his shield.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two of them advanced upon the nearest group of soldiers: a cluster of eight
men surrounding three of the Varden. The next few minutes were a spasm of flashing weapons, tearing


flesh, and sudden pains for Roran. The soldiers tired more slowly than ordinary men, and they never
shirked from an attack, nor did they slacken in their efforts even when suffering from the most horrific
injuries. The exertion of the fight was so great, Roran’s nausea returned, and after the eighth soldier fell,
he leaned over and vomited again. He spat to clear his mouth of bile.

One of the Varden they had sought to rescue had died in the struggle, slain by a knife in the kidneys, but
the two who were still standing joined forces with Roran and Carn, and with them, they charged the next
batch of soldiers.

“Drive them toward the river!” Roran shouted. The water and the mud would limit the soldiers’
movement and perhaps allow the Varden to gain the upper hand.

Not far away, Martland had succeeded in rallying the twelve of the Varden who were still on their
horses, and they were already doing what Roran had suggested: herding the soldiers back toward the
shining water.

The soldiers and the few drivers who were still alive resisted. They shoved their shields against the men
on foot. They jabbed spears at the horses. But in spite of their violent opposition, the Varden forced
them to retreat a step at a time until the men in the crimson tunics stood knee-deep in the fast-flowing
water, half blinded by the uncanny light shining down on them.

“Hold the line!” shouted Martland, dismounting and planting himself with spread legs on the edge of the
riverbank. “Don’t let them regain the shore!”

Roran dropped into a half crouch, ground his heels into the soft earth until he was comfortable with his
stance, and waited for the large soldier standing in the cold water several feet in front of him to attack.
With a roar, the soldier splashed out of the shallows, swinging his sword at Roran, which Roran caught
on his shield. Roran retaliated with a stroke of his hammer, but the soldier blocked him with his own
shield and then cut at Roran’s legs. For several seconds, they exchanged blows, but neither wounded the
other. Then Roran shattered the man’s left forearm, knocking him back several paces. The soldier merely
smiled and uttered a mirthless, soul-chilling laugh.

Roran wondered whether he or any of his companions would survive the night.They’re harder to kill
than snakes. We can cut them to ribbons, and they’ll still keep coming at us unless we hit
something vital . His next thought vanished as the soldier rushed at him again, his notched sword
flickering in the pale light like a tongue of flame.

Thereafter, the battle assumed a nightmarish quality for Roran. The strange, baleful light gave the water
and the soldiers an unearthly aspect, bleaching them of color and projecting long, thin, razor-sharp
shadows across the shifting water, while beyond and all around, the fullness of night prevailed. Again and
again, he repelled the soldiers who stumbled out of the water to kill him, hammering at them until they
were barely recognizable as human, and yet they would not die. With every blow, medallions of black
blood stained the surface of the river, like blots of spilled ink, and drifted away on the current. The
deadly sameness of each clash numbed and horrified Roran. No matter how hard he strove, there was
always another mutilated soldier there to slash and stab at him. And always the demented giggling of men
who knew they were dead and yet continued to maintain a semblance of life even while the Varden
destroyed their bodies.

And then silence.

Roran remained crouched behind his shield with his hammer half raised, gasping and drenched with


sweat and blood. A minute passed before it dawned on him that no one stood in the water before him.
He glanced left and right three times, unable to grasp that the soldiers were finally, blessedly, irrevocably
dead. A corpse floated past him in the glittering water.

An inarticulate bellow escaped him as a hand gripped his right arm. He whipped around, snarling and
pulling away, only to see Carn next to him. The wan, gore-smeared spellcaster was speaking. “We won,
Roran! Eh? They’re gone! We vanquished them!”

Roran let his arms drop and tilted his head back, too tired even to sit. He felt . . . he felt as if his senses
were abnormally sharp, and yet his emotions were dull, muted things, tamped down somewhere deep
inside of himself. He was glad it was so; otherwise, he thought he would go mad.

“Gather up and inspect the wagons!” shouted Martland. “The sooner you bestir yourselves, the sooner
we can leave this accursed place! Carn, attend to Welmar. I don’t like the look of that gash.”

With an enormous effort of will, Roran turned and trudged across the bank to the nearest wagon.
Blinking away the sweat that dripped from his brow, he saw that of their original force, only nine were
still fit to stand. He pushed the observation out of his mind.Mourn later, not now .

As Martland Redbeard walked across the corpse-strewn encampment, a soldier who Roran had
assumed was dead flipped over and, from the ground, lopped off the earl’s right hand. With a movement
so graceful it appeared practiced, Martland kicked the sword out of the soldier’s grip, then knelt on the
soldier’s throat and, using his left hand, drew a dagger from his belt and stabbed the man through one of
his ears, killing him. His face flushed and strained, Martland shoved the stump of his wrist under his left
armpit and waved away everyone who rushed over to him. “Leave me alone! It’s hardly a wound at all.
Get to those wagons! Unless you wastrels hurry up, we’ll be here so long, my beard will turn white as
snow. Go on!” When Carn refused to budge, however, Martland scowled and shouted, “Begone with
you, or I’ll have you flogged for insubordination, I will!”

Carn held up Martland’s wayward hand. “I might be able to re attach it, but I’ll need a few minutes.”

“Ah, confound it, give me that!” exclaimed Martland, and snatched his hand away from Carn. He tucked
it inside his tunic. “Stop fretting about me and save Welmar and Lindel if you can. You can try reattaching
it once we’ve put a few leagues between us and these monsters.”

“It might be too late then,” said Carn.

“That was an order, spellcaster, not a request!” thundered Mart land. As Carn retreated, the earl used
his teeth to tie off the sleeve of his tunic over the stump of his arm, which he again stuck in his left armpit.
Sweat beaded his face. “Right, then! What misbegotten items are hidden in those confounded wagons?”

“Rope!” someone shouted.

“Whiskey!” shouted someone else.

Martland grunted. “Ulhart, you record the figures for me.”

Roran helped the others as they rifled through each of the wagons, calling out the contents to Ulhart.
Afterward, they slaughtered the teams of oxen and lit the wagons on fire, as before. Then they rounded
up their horses and mounted them, tying the injured into their saddles.


When they were ready to depart, Carn gestured toward the flare of light in the sky and murmured a
long, tangled word. Night enveloped the world. Glancing up, Roran beheld a throbbing after image of
Carn’s face superimposed over the faint stars, and then as he became accustomed to the darkness, he
beheld the soft gray shapes of thousands of disoriented moths scattering across the sky like the shades of
men’s souls.

His heart heavy within him, Roran touched his heels to Snowfire’s flanks and rode away from the
remnants of the convoy.

BLOOD ON THEROCKS

Frustrated, Eragon stormed out of the circular chamber buried deep under the center of Tronjheim. The
oak door slammed shut behind him with a hollow boom.

Eragon stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the arched corridor outside the chamber and
glared at the floor, which was tessellated with rectangles of agate and jade. Since he and Orik had
arrived in Tronjheim, three days ago, the thirteen chiefs of the dwarf clans had done nothing but argue
about issues that Eragon considered inconsequential, such as which clans had the right to graze their
flocks in certain disputed pastures. As he listened to the clan chiefs debate obscure points of their legal
code, Eragon often felt like shouting that they were being blind fools who were going to doom all of
Alagaësia to Galbatorix’s rule unless they put aside their petty concerns and chose a new ruler without
further delay.

Still lost in thought, Eragon slowly walked down the corridor, barely noticing the four guards who
followed him—as they did wherever he went—nor the dwarves he passed in the hall, who greeted him
with variations of “Argetlam.”The worst one is Íorûnn, Eragon decided. The dwarf woman was the
grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Vrenshrrgn, a powerful, warlike clan, and she had made it clear, from the very
beginning of the deliberations, that she intended to have the throne for herself. Only one other clan, the
Urzhad, had openly pledged themselves to her cause, but as she had demonstrated on multiple occasions
during the meetings between the clan chiefs, she was clever, cunning, and able to twist most any situation
to her advantage.She might make an excellent queen, Eragon admitted to himself,but she’s so
devious, it’s impossible to know whether she would support the Varden once she was enthroned .
He allowed himself a wry smile. Talking with Íorûnn was always awkward for him. The dwarves
considered her a great beauty, and even by the standards of humans, she cut a striking figure. Besides
which, she seemed to have developed a fascination with Eragon that he was unable to fathom. In every
conversation they had, she insisted upon making allusions to the dwarves’ history and mythology that
Eragon did not understand but that seemed to amuse Orik and the other dwarves to no end.

In addition to Íorûnn, two other clan chiefs had emerged as rivals for the throne: Gannel, chief of
Dûrgrimst Quan, and Nado, chief of Dûrgrimst Knurlcarathn. As the custodians of the dwarves’ religion,
the Quan wielded enormous influence among their race, but so far, Gannel had obtained the support of
but two other clans, Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn and Dûrgrimst Ebardac—a clan primarily devoted to
scholarly research. In contrast, Nado had forged a larger coalition, consisting of the clans Feldûnost,
Fanghur, and Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.


Whereas Íorûnn seemed to want the throne merely for the power she would gain thereafter, and Gannel
did not seem inherently hostile to the Varden—although neither was he friendly toward them—Nado was
openly and vehemently opposed to any involvement with Eragon, Nasuada, the Empire, Galbatorix,
Queen Islanzadí, or, so far as Eragon could tell, any living being outside of the Beor Mountains. The
Knurlcarathn were the stoneworkers’ clan and, in men and material goods, they had no equal, for every
other clan depended upon their expertise for the tunneling and the building of their abodes, and even the
Ingeitum needed them to mine the ore for their smiths. And if Nado’s bid for the crown should falter,
Eragon knew that many of the other, lesser clan chiefs who shared his views would leap up to take his
place. Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, for example—whom Galbatorix and the Forsworn had nearly obliterated
during their uprising—had declared themselves Eragon’s blood enemies during his visit to the city of
Tarnag and, in every action of theirs at the clanmeet, had demonstrated their implacable hatred of
Eragon, Saphira, and all things to do with dragons and those who rode them. They had objected to
Eragon’s very presence at the meetings of the clan chiefs, even though it was perfectly legal by dwarf
law, and forced a vote on the issue, thereby delaying the proceedings another six unnecessary hours.

One of these days,thought Eragon,I will have to find a way to make peace with them. That or I’ll
have to finish what Galbatorix started. I refuse to live my entire life in fear of Az Sweldn rak
Anhûin. Again, as he had done so often in the past few days, he waited a moment for Saphira’s
response, and when it was not forthcoming, a familiar pang of unhappiness lanced his heart.

How secure the alliances between any of the clans were, however, was a question of some uncertainty.
Neither Orik nor Íorûnn nor Gannel nor Nado had enough support to win a popular vote, so they were
all actively engaged in trying to retain the loyalties of the clans who had already promised to help them
while at the same time trying to poach their opponents’ backers. Despite the importance of the process,
Eragon found it exceedingly tedious and frustrating.

Based upon Orik’s explanation, it was Eragon’s understanding that before the clan chiefs could elect a
ruler, they had to vote on whether they wereprepared to choose a new king or queen and that the
preliminary election had to garner at least nine votes in its favor if it was to pass. As of yet, none of the
clan chiefs, Orik included, felt secure enough in their positions to bring the matter to a head and proceed
to the final election. It was, as Orik had said, the most delicate part of the process and, in some
instances, had been known to drag on for a frustratingly long time.

As he pondered the situation, Eragon wandered aimlessly through the warren of chambers below
Tronjheim until he found himself in a dry, dusty room lined with five black arches on one side and a
bas-relief carving of a snarling bear twenty feet high on the other. The bear had gold teeth and round,
faceted rubies for eyes.

“Where are we, Kvîstor?” asked Eragon, glancing at his guards. His voice spawned hollow echoes in
the room. Eragon could sense the minds of many of the dwarves in the levels above them, but he had no
idea how to reach them.

The lead guard, a youngish dwarf no older than sixty, stepped forward. “These rooms were cleared
millennia ago by Grimstnzborith Korgan, when Tronjheim was under construction. We have not used
them much since, except when our entire race congregates in Farthen Dûr.”

Eragon nodded. “Can you lead me back to the surface?”

“Of course, Argetlam.”


Several minutes of brisk walking brought them to a broad staircase with shallow, dwarf-sized steps that
climbed out of the ground to a passageway somewhere in the southwestern quadrant of Tronjheim’s
base. From there Kvîstor guided Eragon to the southern branch of the four mile-long hallways that
divided Tronjheim along the cardinal compass points.

It was the same hallway through which Eragon and Saphira had first entered Tronjheim several months
ago, and Eragon walked down it, toward the center of the city-mountain, with a strange sense of
nostalgia. He felt as if he had aged several years in the interim.

The four-story-high avenue thronged with dwarves from every clan. All of them noticed Eragon, of that
he was sure, but not all deigned to acknowledge him, for which he was grateful, as it saved him the effort
of having to return even more greetings.

Eragon stiffened as he saw a line of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin cross the hallway. As one, the dwarves
turned their heads and looked at him, their expressions obscured behind the purple veils those of their
clan always wore in public. The last dwarf in line spat on the floor toward Eragon before filing through an
archway and out of the hall along with his or her brethren.

If Saphira were here, they would not dare to be so rude,thought Eragon.

A half hour later, he reached the end of the majestic hallway, and although he had been there many times
before, a sense of awe and wonder overwhelmed him as he stepped between the pillars of black onyx
topped with yellow zircons thrice the size of a man and entered the circular chamber in the heart of
Tronjheim.

The chamber was a thousand feet from side to side, with a floor of polished carnelian etched with a
hammer surrounded by twelve pentacles, which was the crest of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum and of the dwarves’
first king, Korgan, who had discovered Farthen Dûr while mining for gold. Opposite Eragon and to either
side were the openings to the three other halls that radiated out through the citymountain. The chamber
had no ceiling but ascended all the way to the top of Tronjheim, a mile overhead. There it opened to the
dragonhold where Eragon and Saphira had resided before Arya broke the star sapphire, and then to the
sky beyond: a rich blue disk that seemed unimaginably distant, ringed as it was by the open mouth of
Farthen Dûr, the hollow ten-mile-high mountain that sheltered Tronjheim from the rest of the world.

Only a scant amount of daylight filtered down to the base of Tronjheim. The City of Eternal Twilight, the
elves called it. Since so little of the sun’s radiance entered the city-mountain—except for a dazzling half
hour before and after noon during the height of summer—the dwarves illuminated the interior with
uncounted numbers of their flameless lanterns. Thousands of them were on glorious display in the
chamber. A bright lantern hung from the outside of every other pillar of the curved arcades that lined each
level of the city-mountain, and even more lanterns were mounted within the arcades, marking the
entrances to strange and unknown rooms, as well as the path of Vol Turin, the Endless Staircase, which
spiraled around the chamber from top to bottom. The effect was both moody and spectacular. The
lanterns were of many different colors, making it appear as if the interior of the chamber were dotted with
glowing jewels.

Their glory, however, paled beside the splendor of a real jewel, the greatest jewel of them all: Isidar
Mithrim. On the floor of the chamber, the dwarves had built a wooden scaffold sixty feet in diameter, and
within the enclosure of fitted oak beams, they were, piece by precious piece, reassembling the shattered
star sapphire with the utmost care and delicacy. The shards they had yet to place they had stored in
open-topped boxes padded with nests of raw wool, each box labeled with a line of spidery runes. The
boxes were spread out across a large portion of the western side of the vast room. Perhaps three


hundred dwarves sat hunched over them, intent on their work as they strove to fit the shards together into
a cohesive whole. Another group bustled about the scaffolding, tending to the fragmented gem within, as
well as building additional structures.

Eragon watched them at their labor for several minutes, then wandered over to the section of the floor
Durza had broken when he and his Urgal warriors had entered Tronjheim from the tunnels below. With
the tip of his boot, Eragon tapped the polished stone in front of him. No trace of the damage Durza had
wrought remained. The dwarves had done a marvelous job of erasing the marks left by the Battle of
Farthen Dûr, although Eragon hoped they would commemorate the battle with a memorial of some sort,
for he felt it was important that future generations not forget the cost in blood the dwarves and the
Varden had paid during the course of their struggle against Galbatorix.

As Eragon walked toward the scaffolding, he nodded at Skeg, who was standing on a platform
overlooking the star sapphire. Eragon had met the thin, quick-fingered dwarf before. Skeg was of
Dûrgrimst Gedthrall, and it was to him King Hrothgar had entrusted the restoration of the dwarves’ most
valuable treasure.

Skeg gestured for Eragon to climb up onto the platform. A sparkling vista of slanting, needle-sharp
spires, glittering, paperthin edges, and rippling surfaces confronted Eragon as he heaved himself onto the
rough-hewn planks. The top of the star sapphire reminded him of the ice on the Anora River in Palancar
Valley at the end of winter, when the ice had melted and refrozen multiple times and was treacherous to
walk over, on account of the bumps and ridges the swings in temperature had cast up. Only instead of
blue, white, or clear, the remnants of the star sapphire were a soft, rosy pink, shot through with traces of
dusky orange.

“How goes it?” asked Eragon.

Skeg shrugged and fluttered his hands in the air like a pair of butterflies. “It goes as it does, Argetlam.
You cannot hurry perfection.”

“It looks to me as if you are making quick progress.”

With a bony forefinger, Skeg tapped the side of his broad, flat nose. “The top of Isidar Mithrim, what is
now the bottom, Arya broke it into large pieces, which are easy to fit together. The bottom of Isidar
Mithrim, though, what is now the top . . .” Skeg shook his head, his lined face doleful. “The force of the
break, all the pieces pushing against the face of the gem, pushing away from Arya and the dragon
Saphira, pushing down toward you and that blackhearted Shade . . . it cracked the petals of the rose into
ever-smaller fragments. And the rose, Argetlam, the rose is the key to the gem. It is the most complex,
the most beautiful part of Isidar Mithrim. And it is in the most pieces. Unless we can reassemble it, every
last speck where it ought to be, we might as well give the gem to our jewelers and have them grind it into
rings for our mothers.” The words spilled out of Skeg like water from an overflowing beaker. He shouted
in Dwarvish at a dwarf carrying a box across the chamber, then tugged at his white beard and asked,
“Have you ever heard recounted, Argetlam, the tale of how Isidar Mithrim was carved, in the Age of
Herran?”

Eragon hesitated, thinking back to his history lessons in Ellesméra. “I know it was Dûrok who carved it.”

“Aye,” said Skeg, “it was Dûrok Ornthrond—Eagle-eye, as you say in this tongue. It was not he who
discovered Isidar Mithrim, but it was he alone who extracted it from the surrounding stone, he who
carved it, and he who polished it. Fifty-seven years he spent working on the Star Rose. The gem
enthralled him as nothing else. Every night he sat crouched over Isidar Mithrim until the wee hours of the


morning, as he was determined that the Star Rose should be not just art but something that would touch
the hearts of all who gazed upon it and would earn him a seat of honor at the table of the gods. His
devotion was such that, in the thirty-second year of his labors, when his wife told him that either he had to
share the burden of the project with his apprentices or she would leave his hall, Dûrok said not a word
but turned his shoulder to her and continued grinding the contours of the petal he had begun earlier that
year.

“Dûrok worked on Isidar Mithrim until he was pleased with its every line and curve. Then he dropped
his polishing cloth, took one step back from the Star Rose, said, ‘Gûntera, protect me; it is done,’ and
fell dead on the floor.” Skeg tapped his chest, producing a hollow thump. “His heart gave out, for what
else did he have to live for? . . . That is what we are trying to reconstruct, Argetlam: fifty-seven years of
ceaseless concentration by one of the finest artists our race has known. Unless we can put Isidar Mithrim
back togetherexactly the way it was, we shall diminish Dûrok’s accomplishment for all who have yet to
see the Star Rose.” Knotting his right hand into a fist, Skeg bounced it off his thigh to emphasize his
words.

Eragon leaned against the hip-high railing in front of him and watched as five dwarves on the opposite
side of the gem lowered a sixth dwarf, who was bound in a rope harness, until he hung inches above the
sharp edges of the fractured sapphire. Reaching inside his tunic, the suspended dwarf removed a sliver of
Isidar Mithrim from a leather wallet and, grasping the sliver with a minuscule set of pincers, fit it into a
small gap in the gem below.

“If the coronation were held three days from now,” said Eragon, “could you have Isidar Mithrim ready
by then?”

Skeg drummed the railing with all ten of his fingers, tapping out a melody Eragon failed to recognize. The
dwarf said, “We would not rush so with Isidar Mithrim if not for the offer of your dragon. This haste is
foreign to us, Argetlam. It is not our nature, as it is humans’, to rush about like agitated ants. Still, we shall
do our best to have Isidar Mithrim ready in time for the coronation. If that should be three days from now
. . . well, I should not be too hopeful of our prospects. But if it were later in the week, I think we might
be finished.”

Eragon thanked Skeg for his prediction, then took his leave. With his guards trailing after him, Eragon
walked to one of the many common eating halls in the city-mountain, a long, low room with stone tables
arranged in rows on one side and dwarves busying themselves about soapstone ovens on the other.

There Eragon dined on sourdough bread, fish with white meat that the dwarves caught in underground
lakes, mushrooms, and some sort of mashed tuber that he had eaten before in Tronjheim but whose
provenance he had yet to learn. Before he began eating, though, he was careful to test the food for
poison, using the spells Oromis had taught him.

As Eragon washed down the last crust of bread with a sip of thin, watered-down breakfast beer, Orik
and his contingent of ten warriors entered the hall. The warriors sat at their own tables, positioning
themselves where they could watch both entrances, while Orik joined Eragon, lowering himself onto the
stone bench opposite him with a weary sigh. He placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with
his hands.

Eragon cast several spells to prevent anyone from eavesdropping, then asked, “Did we suffer another
setback?”

“No, no setback. Only, these deliberations are trying in the extreme.”


“I noticed.”

“And everyone noticed your frustration,” said Orik. “You must control yourself better hereafter, Eragon.
Revealing weakness of any sort to our opponents does nothing but further their cause. I—”Orik fell silent
as a portly dwarf waddled up and deposited a plate of steaming food in front of him.

Eragon scowled at the edge of the table. “But are you any closer to the throne? Have we gained any
ground with all of this long-winded prattle?”

Orik raised a finger while he chewed on a mouthful of bread. “We have gained a great deal. Do not be
so gloomy! After you left, Havard agreed to lower the tax on the salt Dûrgrimst Fanghur sells to the
Ingeitum, in exchange for summer access to our tunnel to Nalsvrid-mérna, so they may hunt the red deer
that gather around the lake during the warm months of the year. You should have seen how Nado gritted
his teeth when Havard accepted my offer!”

“Bah,” spat Eragon. “Taxes, deer—what does any of it have to do with who succeeds Hrothgar as
ruler? Be honest with me, Orik. What is your position compared with the other clan chiefs? And how
much longer is this likely to drag on? With every day that passes, it becomes more likely that the Empire
will discover our ruse and Galbatorix will strike at the Varden when I am not there to fend off Murtagh
and Thorn.”

Orik wiped his mouth on the corner of the tablecloth. “My position is sound enough. None of the
grimstborithn have the support to call a vote, but Nado and I command the greatest followings. If either
of us can win over, say, another two or three clans, the balance will quickly tip in that person’s favor.
Havard is already wavering. It won’t take too much more encouragement, I think, to convince him to
defect to our camp. Tonight we will break bread with him, and I will see what I can do toward providing
that encouragement.” Orik devoured a piece of roast mushroom, then said, “As for when the clanmeet
will end, maybe after another week if we are lucky, and maybe two if we’re not.”

Eragon cursed in an undertone. He was so tense, his stomach churned and rumbled and threatened to
reject the meal he had just eaten.

Reaching across the table, Orik caught Eragon by the wrist. “There is nothing you or I can do to further
hasten the clanmeet’s decision, so do not let it upset you overmuch. Worry about what you can change,
and leave the rest to sort itself out, eh?” He released Eragon.

Eragon slowly exhaled and leaned on his forearms against the table. “I know. It’s only that we have so
little time, and if we fail . . .”

“What will be will be,” said Orik. He smiled, but his eyes were sad and hollow. “No one can escape
fate’s design.”

“Couldn’t you seize the throne by force? I know you don’t have that many troops in Tronjheim, but with
my support, who could stand against you?”

Orik paused with his knife halfway between his plate and his mouth, then shook his head and resumed
eating. Between mouthfuls, he said, “Such a ploy would prove disastrous.”

“Why?”


“Must I explain? Our entire race would turn against us, and instead of seizing control of our nation, I
would inherit an empty title. If that came to pass, I would not bet a broken sword we would live to see
out the year.”

“Ah.”

Orik said nothing more until the food on his plate was gone. Then he downed a mouthful of beer,
belched, and resumed the conversation: “We are balanced upon a windy mountain path with a mile-high
drop on either side. So many of my race hate and fear Dragon Riders because of the crimes Galbatorix,
the Forsworn, and now Murtagh have committed against us. And so many of them fear the world beyond
the mountains and the tunnels and caverns wherein we hide.” He turned his mug around on the table.
“Nado and Az Sweldn rak Anhûin are only worsening the situation. They play upon people’s fears and
poison their minds against you, the Varden, and King Orrin. . . . Az Sweldn rak Anhûin is the epitome of
what we must overcome if I am to be king. Somehow we must needs find a way to allay their concerns
and the concerns of those like them, for even if I am king, I will have to give them a fair hearing if I am to
retain the support of the clans. A dwarf king or queen is always at the mercy of the clans, no matter how
strong a ruler they may be, just as the grimstborithn are at the mercy of the families of their clan.” Tilting
back his head, Orik drained the last of the beer from his mug, then set it down with a sharp clack.

“Is there anything I could do, any custom or ceremony of yours I could perform, that would appease
Vermûnd and his followers?” asked Eragon, naming the current grimstborith of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.
“There must besomething I can do to put their suspicions to rest and bring this feud to an end.”

Orik laughed and stood from the table. “You could die.”

Early the next morning, Eragon sat with his back against the curved wall of the round room set deep
below the center of Tronjheim, along with a select group of warriors, advisers, servants, and family
members of the clan chiefs who were privileged enough to attend the clanmeet. The clan chiefs
themselves were seated in heavy, carved chairs arranged around the edge of a circular table, which like
most objects of note in the lower levels of the city-mountain bore the crest of Korgan and the Ingeitum.

At the moment, Gáldhiem, grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Feldûnost, was speaking. He was short, even for a
dwarf—hardly more than two feet in height—and wore patterned robes of gold, russet, and midnight
blue. Unlike the dwarves of the Ingeitum, he did not trim or braid his beard, and it tumbled across his
chest like a tangled bramble. Standing on the seat of his chair, he pounded the polished table with his
gloved fist and roared, “. . . Eta! Narho ûdim etal os isû vond! Narho ûdim etal os formvn mendûnost
brakn, az Varden, hrestvog dûr grimstnzhadn! Az Jurgenvren qathrid né dômar oen etal—”

“. . . No,” Eragon’s translator, a dwarf named Hûndfast, whispered in his ear. “I will not let that happen.
I will not let these beardless fools, the Varden, destroy our country. The Dragon War left us weak and
not—”

Eragon stifled a yawn, bored. He allowed his gaze to drift around the granite table, from Gáldhiem to
Nado, a round-faced dwarf with flaxen hair who was nodding with approval at Gáldhiem’s thundering
speech; to Havard, who was using a dagger to clean under the fingernails of the two remaining fingers on
his right hand; to Vermûnd, heavy-browed but otherwise inscrutable behind his purple veil; to Gannel andÛndin, who sat leaning toward each other, whispering, while Hadfala, an elderly dwarf woman who was
the clan chief of Dûrgrimst Ebardac and the third member of Gannel’s alliance, frowned at the sheaf of
rune-covered parchment she brought with her to every meeting; and then to the chief of Dûr grimst
Ledwonnû, Manndrâth, who sat in profile to Eragon, displaying his long, drooping nose to good effect; to


Thordris, grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Nagra, of whom he could see little but her wavy auburn hair, which
fell past her shoulders and lay coiled on the floor in a braid twice as long as she was tall; to the back of
Orik’s head as he slouched to one side in his chair; to Freowin, grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Gedthrall, an
immensely corpulent dwarf who kept his eyes fixed upon the block of wood he was busy carving into the
likeness of a hunched raven; and then to Hreidamar, grimstborith of Dûrgrimst Urzhad, who, in contrast
with Freowin, was fit and compact, with corded forearms, and who wore a mail hauberk and helm toevery gathering; and finally to Íorûnn, she of the nut-brown skin marred only by a thin, crescent-shaped
scar high upon her left cheekbone, she of the satin-bright hair bound underneath a silver helm wrought in
the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, she of the vermilion dress and the necklace of flashing emeralds set in
squares of gold carved with lines of arcane runes.

Íorûnn noticed Eragon looking at her. A lazy smile appeared on her lips. With voluptuous ease, she
winked at Eragon, obscuring one of her almond-shaped eyes for a pair of heartbeats.

Eragon’s cheeks stung as blood suffused them, and the tips of his ears burned. He shifted his gaze and
returned it to Gáldhiem, who was still busy pontificating, his chest puffed out like that of a strutting
pigeon.

As Orik had asked, Eragon remained impassive throughout the meeting, concealing his reactions from
those who were watching. When the clanmeet broke for their midday meal, he hastened over to Orik
and, bending so that no one else could hear, said, “Do not look for me at your table. I have had my fill of
sitting and talking. I am going to explore the tunnels for a bit.”

Orik nodded, appearing distracted, and murmured in reply, “Do as you wish, only be sure you are here
when we resume; it would not be meet for you to play truant, no matter how tedious these talks be.”

“As you say.”

Eragon edged out of the conference room, along with the press of dwarves eager to have their lunches,
and rejoined his four guards in the hallway outside, where they had been playing dice with idle warriors
from other clans. With his guards in tow, Eragon struck out in a random direction, allowing his feet to
carry him where they would while he pondered methods of welding the dwarves’ contentious factions
into a whole united against Galbatorix. To his exasperation, the only methods he could envision were so
far-fetched, it was absurd to imagine they might succeed.

Eragon paid little attention to the dwarves he met in the tunnels—aside from mumbled greetings that
courtesy occasionally demanded—nor even to his exact surroundings, trusting that Kvîstor could guide
him back to the conference room. Although Eragon did not study his surroundings in any great detail
visually, he kept track of the minds of every living creature he was able to sense within a radius of several
hundred feet, even down to the smallest spider crouched behind its web in the corner of a room, for
Eragon had no desire to be surprised by anyone who might have cause to seek him out.

When at last he stopped, he was surprised to find himself in the same dusty room he had discovered
during his wanderings the previous day. There to his left were the same five black arches that led to
caverns unknown, while there to his right was the same bas-relief carving of the head and shoulders of a
snarling bear. Bemused by the coincidence, Eragon sauntered over to the bronze sculpture and gazed up
at the bear’s gleaming fangs, wondering what had drawn him back.

After a moment, he went to the middle of the five archways and gazed through it. The narrow hallway
beyond was devoid of lanterns and soon faded into the soft oblivion of shadow. Reaching out with his
consciousness, Eragon probed the length of the tunnel and several of the abandoned chambers it opened


to. A half-dozen spiders and a sparse collection of moths, millipedes, and blind crickets were the only
inhabitants. “Hello!” called Eragon, and listened as the hall returned his voice to him with ever-decreasing
volume. “Kvîstor,” said Eragon, looking at him, “does no one at all live in these ancient parts?”

The fresh-faced dwarf answered, “Some do. A few strange knurlan, those to whom empty solitude is
more pleasing than the touch of their wife’s hand or the sound of their friends’ voices. It was one such
knurlag who warned us of the approach of the Urgal army, if you remember, Argetlam. Also, although
we do not speak of it often, there are those who have broken the laws of our land and whom their clan
chiefs have banished on pain of death for a term of years or, if the offense is severe, for the remainder of
their lives. All such are as the walking dead to us; we shun them if we meet them outside of our lands and
hang them if we catch them within our borders.”

When Kvîstor had finished speaking, Eragon indicated that he was ready to leave. Kvîstor took the lead,
and Eragon followed him out the doorway through which they had entered, the three other dwarves close
behind. They had gone no more than twenty feet when Eragon heard a faint scuffing from the rear, so
faint Kvîstor did not seem to notice.

Eragon glanced back. By the amber light cast by the flameless lanterns mounted on either side of the
passageway, he saw seven dwarves garbed entirely in black, their faces masked with dark cloth and their
feet muffled with rags, running toward his group with a speed that Eragon had assumed was the sole
province of elves, Shades, and other creatures whose blood hummed with magic. In their right hands, the
dwarves held long, sharp daggers with pale blades that flickered with prismatic colors, while in their left,
each carried a metal buckler with a sharpened spike protruding from the boss. Their minds, like those of
the Ra’zac, were hidden from Eragon.

Saphira!was Eragon’s first thought. Then he remembered he was alone.

Twisting to face the black-garbed dwarves, Eragon reached for the hilt of his falchion while opening his
mouth to shout a warning.

He was too late.

As the first word rang in his throat, three of the strange dwarves grabbed the hindmost of Eragon’s
guards and lifted their glimmering daggers to stab him. Faster than speech or conscious thought, Eragon
plunged his whole being into the flow of magic and, without relying upon the ancient language to structure
his spell, rewove the fabric of the world into a pattern more pleasing to him. The three guards who stood
between him and the attackers flew toward him, as if yanked by invisible strings, and landed upon their
feet beside him, unharmed but disoriented.

Eragon winced at the sudden decrease in his strength.

Two of the black-garbed dwarves rushed him, stabbing at his belly with their blood-hungry daggers.
Sword in hand, Eragon parried both blows, stunned by the dwarves’ speed and ferocity. One of his
guards leaped forward, shouting and swinging his ax at the would-be assassins. Before Eragon could
grab the dwarf’s hauberk and yank him back to safety, a white blade, writhing as with spectral flame,
pierced the dwarf’s corded neck. As the dwarf fell, Eragon glimpsed his contorted face and was
shocked to see Kvîstor—and that his throat was glowing molten red as it disintegrated around the
dagger.

I can’t let them so much as scratch me,Eragon thought.


Enraged by Kvîstor’s death, Eragon stabbed at his killer so quickly, the black-garbed dwarf had no
opportunity to evade the blow and dropped lifeless at Eragon’s feet.

With all his strength, Eragon shouted, “Stay behind me!”

Thin cracks split the floors and walls, and flakes of stone fell from the ceiling as his voice reverberated
through the corridor. The attacking dwarves faltered at the unbridled power of his voice, then resumed
their offensive.

Eragon retreated several yards to give himself room to maneuver free of the corpses and settled into a
low crouch, waving the falchion to and fro, like a snake preparing to strike. His heart was racing at twice
its normal rate, and although the fight had just begun, he was already gasping for breath.

The hallway was eight feet wide, which was wide enough for three of his six remaining enemies to attack
him at once. They spread out, two attempting to flank him on the right and the left, while the third charged
straight at him, slashing with frenzied speed at Eragon’s arms and legs.

Afraid to duel with the dwarves as he would have if they wielded normal blades, Eragon drove his legs
against the floor and jumped up and forward. He spun halfway around and struck the ceiling feetfirst. He
pushed off, spun halfway around again, and landed on his hands and feet a yard behind the three
dwarves. Even as they whirled toward him, he stepped forward and beheaded the lot of them with a
single backhand blow.

Their daggers clattered against the floor an instant before their heads.

Leaping over their truncated bodies, Eragon twisted in midair and landed on the spot he had started
from.

He was not a moment too soon.

A breath of wind tickled his neck as the tip of a dagger whipped past his throat. Another blade tugged at
the cuff of his leggings, cutting them open. He flinched and swung the falchion, trying to gain space to
fight.My wards should have turned their blades away! he thought, bewildered.

An involuntary cry escaped his throat as his foot struck a patch of slick blood and he lost his balance
and toppled over backward. With a sickening crunch, his head collided with the stone floor. Blue lights
flashed before his eyes. He gasped.

His three remaining guards sprang over him and swung their axes in unison, clearing the air above Eragon
and saving him from the bite of the flashing daggers.

That was all the time Eragon needed to recover. He flipped upright and, berating himself for not trying
this sooner, shouted a spell laced with nine of the twelve death-words Oromis had taught him. However,
the moment after he loosed his magic he abandoned the spell, for the black-garbed dwarves were
protected by numerous wards. Given a few minutes, he might have been able to evade or defeat the
wards, but minutes might as well have been days in a battle such as theirs, where every second was as
long as an hour. Having failed with magic, Eragon hardened his thoughts into an iron-hard spear and
launched it at where the consciousness of one of the black-garbed dwarves ought to be. The spear
skated off mental armor of a sort Eragon had not encountered before: smooth and seamless, seemingly
unbroken by the concerns natural to mortal creatures engaged in a struggle to the death.


Someone else is protecting them,Eragon realized.There are more behind this attack than just these
seven .

Pivoting on one foot, Eragon lunged forward and with his falchion impaled his leftmost attacker in a
knee, drawing blood. The dwarf stumbled, and Eragon’s guards converged upon him, grasping the
dwarf’s arms so he could not swing his dire blade and hacking at him with their curved axes.

The nearest of the last two attackers raised his shield in anticipation of the blow Eragon was about to
direct at him. Summoning the full measure of his might, Eragon cut at the shield, intending to shear it and
the arm underneath in half, as he had often done with Zar’roc. In the fever of battle, though, he forgot to
account for the dwarf’s inexplicable speed. As the falchion neared its target, the dwarf tilted his shield, so
as to deflect the blow to the side.

Two plumes of sparks erupted from the surface of the shield as the falchion glanced off the upper part
and then the steel spike mounted in the center. Momentum carried the falchion farther than Eragon had
intended, and it continued flying through the air until it struck edge-first against a wall, jarring Eragon’s
arm. With a crystalline sound, the blade of the falchion shattered into a dozen pieces, leaving him with a
six-inch spike of jagged metal protruding from the hilt.

Dismayed, Eragon dropped the broken sword and gripped the rim of the dwarf’s buckler, wresting with
him back and forth and struggling to keep the shield between him and the dagger graced with a halo of
translucent colors. The dwarf was incredibly tough; he matched Eragon’s efforts and even succeeded in
pushing him back a step. Releasing the buckler with his right hand but still holding on with his left, Eragon
drew back his arm and struck the shield as hard as he could, punching through the tempered steel as
easily as if it were made of rotten wood. Because of the calluses on his knuckles, he felt no pain from the
impact.

The force of the blow threw the dwarf against the opposite wall. His head lolling upon a boneless neck,
the dwarf dropped to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

Eragon pulled his hand back through the jagged hole in the shield, scratching himself on the torn metal,
and drew his hunting knife.

Then the last of the black-garbed dwarves was upon him. Eragon parried his dagger twice . . . thrice . . .
and then cut through the dwarf’s padded sleeve and scored his dagger arm from the elbow to the wrist.
The dwarf hissed with pain, blue eyes furious above his cloth mask. He initiated a series of blows, the
dagger whistling through the air faster than the eye could follow, which forced Eragon to hop away to
avoid the deadly edge. The dwarf pressed the attack. For several yards, Eragon succeeded in evading
him, until his heel struck a body and, in attempting to step around it, he stumbled and fell against a wall,
bruising his shoulder.

With an evil laugh, the dwarf pounced, stabbing downward toward Eragon’s exposed chest. Throwing
up an arm in a futile attempt to protect himself, Eragon rolled farther down the hallway, knowing that this
time his luck had run out and he would not be able to escape.

As he completed a revolution and his face was momentarily turned toward the dwarf again, Eragon
glimpsed the pale dagger descending toward his flesh, like a bolt of lightning from on high. Then, to his
astonishment, the tip of the dagger caught on one of the flameless lanterns mounted on the wall. Eragon
whirled away before he could see more, but an instant later, a burning hot hand seemed to strike him
from behind, throwing him a good twenty feet through the hall, until he fetched up against the edge of an
open archway, instantly accumulating a new collection of scrapes and bruises. A booming report


deafened him. Feeling as if someone were driving splinters into his eardrums, Eragon clapped his hands
over his ears and curled into a ball, howling.

When the noise and the pain had subsided, he lowered his hands and staggered to his feet, clenching his
teeth as his injuries announced their presence with a myriad of unpleasant sensations. Groggy and
confused, he gazed upon the site of the explosion.

The blast had blackened a ten-foot length of the hallway with soot. Soft flakes of ash tumbled through
the air, which was as hot as the air from a heated forge. The dwarf who had been about to strike Eragon
lay on the ground, thrashing, his body covered with burns. After a few more convulsions, he grew still.
Eragon’s three remaining guards lay at the edge of the soot, where the explosion had thrown them. Even
as he watched, they staggered upright, blood dripping from their ears and gaping mouths, their beards
singed and in disarray. The links along the fringe of their hauberks glowed red, but their leather
under-armor seemed to have protected them from the worst of the heat.

Eragon took a single step forward, then stopped and groaned as a patch of agony bloomed between his
shoulder blades. He tried to twist his arm around to feel the extent of the wound, but as his skin
stretched, the pain became too great to continue. Nearly losing consciousness, he leaned against the wall
for support. He glanced at the burnt dwarf again.I must have suffered similar injuries on my back .

Forcing himself to concentrate, he recited two of the spells designed to heal burns that Brom had taught
him during their travels. As they took effect, it felt as if cool, soothing water were flowing across his back.
He sighed with relief and straightened.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as his guards hobbled over.

The lead dwarf frowned, tapped his right ear, and shook his head.

Eragon muttered a curse and only then did he notice he could not hear his own voice. Again drawing
upon the reserves of energy within his body, he cast a spell to repair the inner mechanisms of his ears and
of theirs. As the incantation concluded, an irritating itch squirmed inside his ears, then faded along with
the spell.

“Are you hurt?”

The dwarf on the right, a burly fellow with a forked beard, coughed and spat out a glob of congealed
blood, then growled, “Nothing that time won’t mend. What of you, Shadeslayer?”

“I’ll live.”

Testing the floor with every step, Eragon entered the soot-blackened area and knelt beside Kvîstor,
hoping that he might still save the dwarf from the clutches of death. As soon as he beheld Kvîstor’s
wound again, he knew it was not to be.

Eragon bowed his head, the memory of recent and former bloodshed bitter to his soul. He stood. “Why
did the lantern explode?”

“They are filled with heat and light, Argetlam,” one of his guards replied. “If they are broken, all of it
escapes at once and then it is better to be far away.”

Gesturing at the crumpled corpses of their attackers, Eragon asked, “Do you know of which clan they


are?”

The dwarf with the forked beard rifled through the clothes of several of the black-garbed dwarves, then
said, “Barzûl! They carry no marks upon them such as you would recognize, Argetlam, but they carry
this.” He held up a bracelet made of braided horsehair set with polished cabochons of amethyst.

“What does it mean?”

“This amethyst,” said the dwarf, and tapped one of the cabochons with a soot-streaked fingernail, “this
particular variety of amethyst, it grows in only four parts of the Beor Mountains, and three of them belong
to Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

Eragon frowned. “Grimstborith Vermûnd ordered this attack?”

“I cannot say for sure, Argetlam. Another clan might have left the bracelet for us to find. They might
want us to think it was Az Sweldn rak Anhûin so we do not realize who our foes really are. But . . . if I
had to wager, Argetlam, I would wager a cartload of gold that it is Az Sweldn rak Anhûin who is
responsible.”

“Blast them,” Eragon murmured. “Whoever it was, blast them.” He clenched his fists to stop them from
shaking. With the side of his boot, he nudged one of the prismatic daggers the assassins had wielded.
“The spells on these weapons and on the . . . on the men”—he motioned with his chin—“men, dwarves,
be as it may, they must have required an incredible amount of energy, and I cannot even imagine how
complex their wording was. Casting them would have been hard and dangerous. . . .” Eragon looked at
each of his guards in turn and said, “As you are my witnesses, I swear I shall not let this attack, nor
Kvîstor’s death, go unpunished. Whichever clan or clans sent these dung-faced killers, when I learn their
names, they will wish they had never thought to strike at me and, by striking at me, strike at Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum. This I swear to you, as a Dragon Rider and as a fellow member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, and if
any ask you of it, repeat my promise to them as I have given it to you.”

The dwarves bowed before him, and he with the forked beard replied, “As you command, so we shall
obey, Argetlam. You honor Hrothgar’s memory by your words.”

Then another of the dwarves said, “Whichever clan it was, they have violated the law of hospitality; they
have attacked a guest. They are not even so high as rats; they aremenknurlan .” He spat on the floor,
and the other dwarves spat with him.

Eragon walked to where the remains of his falchion lay. He knelt in the soot and, with the tip of a finger,
touched one of the pieces of metal, tracing its ragged edges.I must have hit the shield and the wall so
hard, I overwhelmed the spells I used to reinforce the steel, he thought.

Then he thought,I need a sword .

I need a Rider’s sword.


A MATTER OFPERSPECTIVE

The wind-of-morning-heat-above-flat-land, which was different from the
wind-of-morning-heat-above-hills, shifted. Saphira adjusted the angle of her wings to compensate for the
changes in the speed and pressure of the air that supported her weight thousands of feet above the
sun-bathed land below. She closed her double eyelids for a moment, luxuriating in the soft bed of the
wind, as well as the warmth of the morning rays beating down upon her sinewy length. She imagined how
the light must make her scales sparkle and how those who saw her circling in the sky must marvel at the
sight, and she hummed with pleasure, content in the knowledge that she was the most beautiful creature in
Alagaësia, for who could hope to match the glory of her scales; and her long, tapering tail; and her wings,
so fair and well formed; and her curved claws; and her long white fangs, with which she could sever the
neck of a wild ox with a single bite? Not Glaedr-of-the-gold-scales, who had lost a leg during the fall of
the Riders. Nor could Thorn or Shruikan, for they were both slaves to Galbatorix, and their forced
servitude had twisted their minds. A dragon who was not free to do as he or she wished was not a
dragon at all. Besides, they were males, and while males might appear majestic, they could not embody
the beauty she did. No, she was the most stunning creature in Alagaësia, and that was as it should be.

Saphira wriggled with satisfaction all the way from the base of her head to the tip of her tail. Today was
a perfect day. The heat of the sun made her feel as if she were lying in a nest of coals. Her belly was full,
the sky was clear, and there was nothing she needed to attend to, besides watching for foes who might
wish to fight, which she did anyway, as a matter of habit.

Her happiness had only one flaw, but it was a profound flaw, and the longer she considered it, the more
discontented she grew, until she realized she was no longer satisfied; she wished Eragon were there to
share the day with her. She growled and loosed a brief jet of blue flame from between her jaws, searing
the air in front of her, then constricted her throat, cutting off the stream of liquid fire. Her tongue tingled
from the flames that had run over it. When was Eragon, partner-of-her-mind-and-heart-Eragon, going to
contact Nasuada from Tronjheim and ask for her, Saphira, to join him? She had urged him to obey
Nasuada and travel to the mountains-higher-than-she-could-fly, but now too long had passed, and
Saphira felt cold and empty in her gut.

There is a shadow in the world,she thought.That is what has upset me. Something is wrong with
Eragon. He is in danger, or he was in danger recently. And I cannot help him . She was not a wild
dragon. Since she had hatched, she had shared her entire life with Eragon, and without him, she was only
half herself. If he died because she was not there to protect him, she would have no reason to continue
living, save for revenge. She knew she would tear his killers apart and then she would fly on the black
city of the egg-breaker-traitor who had kept her imprisoned for so many decades, and she would do her
best to slay him, no matter that it would mean certain death for her.

Saphira growled again and snapped at a tiny sparrow that was foolish enough to fly within range of her
teeth. She missed, and the sparrow darted past and continued on its way unmolested, which only
exacerbated her foul mood. For a moment, she considered chasing the sparrow but then decided it was
not worth bothering herself over such an inconsequential speck of bones and feathers. It would not even
make a good snack.

Tilting on the wind and swinging her tail in the opposite direction to facilitate her turn, she wheeled
around, studying the ground far below and all the small scurrying things that strove to hide from her
hunter’s eyes. Even from her height of thousands of feet, she could count the number of feathers on the
back of a chicken hawk that was skimming the fields of planted wheat west of the Jiet River. She could
see the blur of brown fur as a rabbit dashed to the safety of its warren. She could pick out the small herd


of deer cowering underneath the branches of the currant bushes clustered along a tributary of the Jiet
River. And she could hear the high-pitched squeaks of frightened animals warning their brethren of her
presence. Their wavering cries gratified her; it was only right that her food should fear her. If ever she
should fear it, she would know it was her time to die.

A league farther upstream, the Varden were packed against the Jiet River like a herd of red deer against
the edge of a cliff. The Varden had arrived at the crossing yesterday, and since then, perhaps a third of
the men-who-were-friends and the Urgals-who-were-friends and the horses-she-must-not-eat had
forded the river. The army moved so slowly, she sometimes wondered how humans ever had time to do
anything other than travel, considering how short their lives were.It would be much more convenient if
they could fly, she thought, and wondered why they did not choose to. Flying was so easy, it never
ceased to puzzle her why any creature would remain earthbound. Even Eragon retained his attachment to
the soft-hard-ground, when she knew he could join her in the sky at any time merely by uttering a few
words in the ancient language. But then, she did not always understand the actions of those who tottered
about on two legs, whether they had round ears, pointed ears, or horns or were so short she could
squash them under her feet.

A flicker of movement to the northeast caught her attention, and she angled toward it, curious. She saw
a line of five-and-forty weary horses trudging toward the Varden. Most of the horses were riderless;
therefore, it did not occur to her until another half hour had elapsed and she could make out the faces of
the men in the saddles that the group might be Roran’s returning from their raid. She wondered what had
happened to so reduce their numbers and felt a momentary twinge of unease. She was not bonded to
Roran, but Eragon cared for him, and that was reason enough for her to worry about his well-being.

Pushing her consciousness down toward the disorganized Varden, she searched until she found the
music of Arya’s mind, and once the elf acknowledged her and allowed access to her thoughts, Saphira
said,Roran shall be here by late afternoon. However, his company is sore diminished. Some great
evil befell them this trip .

Thank you, Saphira,said Arya.I shall inform Nasuada.

As Saphira withdrew from Arya’s mind, she felt the questing touch of black-blue-wolf-hair-Blödhgarm.I
am not a hatchling, she snapped.You need not check on my health every few minutes .

You have my most humble apologies, Bjartskular, only you have been gone for quite some time
now, and if any are watching, they will begin to wonder why you and—

Yes, I know,she growled. Shortening her wingspan, she tilted downward, the sensation of weight leaving
her, and gyrated in slow spirals as she dove toward the turgid river.I shall be there shortly .

A thousand feet above the water, she flared her wings and felt the strain in her flight membranes as the
wind pressed against them with immense force. She slowed to a near standstill, then spilled air from her
wings and accelerated once more, gliding to within a hundred feet of the brown
not-good-to-drink-water. With an occasional flap to maintain her altitude, she flew up the Jiet River, alert
for the sudden changes of pressure that plagued cool-air-above-flowing-water and that could push her in
an unexpected direction or, worse, into sharp-pointy-trees or the break-bone-ground.

She swept high above the Varden gathered next to the river, high enough that her arrival would not
unduly frighten the silly horses. Then, drifting downward upon still wings, she landed in a clearing among
the tents—a clearing Nasuada had ordered set aside just for her—and crawled through the camp to
Eragon’s empty tent, where Blödhgarm and the eleven other elves he commanded were waiting for her.


She greeted them with a blink of her eyes and a flick of her tongue and then curled up in front of
Eragon’s tent, resigned to dozing and waiting for dark as she would if Eragon were actually in the tent
and he and she were flying missions at night. It was dull, tedious work, lying there day after day, but it
was necessary in order to maintain the deception that Eragon was still with the Varden, so Saphira did
not complain, even if after twelve or more hours spent on the rough-hard-ground dirtying her scales, she
felt like fighting a thousand soldiers, or razing a forest with tooth and claw and fire, or leaping up and
flying until she could fly no more or until she reached the end of earth, water, and air.

Growling to herself, she kneaded the ground with her claws, softening it, then lay her head across her
forelegs and closed her inner eyelids so she could rest and still watch those who walked by. A dragonfly
buzzed over her head, and not for the first time she wondered what could have possibly inspired some
feebleminded runtling to name the insect after her race.It looks nothing like a dragon, she grumbled,
then drifted off into a light sleep.

The big-round-fire-in-the-sky was close to the horizon when Saphira heard the shouts and cries of
welcome that meant Roran and his fellow warriors had reached the camp. She roused herself. As he had
before, Blödhgarm half sang, half whispered a spell that created an insubstantial likeness of Eragon,
which the elf caused to walk out of the tent and climb onto Saphira’s back, where it sat looking around in
a perfect imitation of independent life. Visually, the apparition was flawless, but it had no mind of its own,
and if any of Galbatorix’s agents tried to eavesdrop upon Eragon’s thoughts, they would discover the
deceit forthwith. Therefore, the success of the ploy depended upon Saphira ferrying the apparition
through the camp and out of sight as quickly as possible, and upon the hope that Eragon’s reputation was
so formidable, it would discourage clandestine observers from attempting to glean information about the
Varden from his consciousness, for fear of his vengeance.

Saphira started up and bounded through the camp, the twelve elves running in formation around her.
Men leaped out of their path, shouting, “Hail, Shadeslayer!” and “Hail, Saphira!” which kindled a warm
glow in her belly.

When she arrived at Nasuada’s folded-wing-red-butterfly-chrysalis-tent, she crouched and stuck her
head inside the dark gap along one wall, where Nasuada’s guards had pulled aside a panel of fabric to
allow her access. Blödhgarm resumed his soft singing then, and the Eragon-wraith climbed down off
Saphira, entered the crimson tent, and, once it was out of sight of the gawking onlookers outside,
dissolved into nothingness.

“Do you think our ruse was discovered?” Nasuada asked from her high-backed chair.

Blödhgarm bowed with an elegant gesture. “Again, Lady Nasuada, I cannot say for sure. We will have
to wait and see if the Empire moves to take advantage of Eragon’s absence before we will know the
answer to that question.”

“Thank you, Blödhgarm. That will be all.”

With another bow, the elf withdrew from the tent and took up a position several yards behind Saphira,
guarding her flank.

Saphira settled down onto her underside and began to lick clean the scales around the third claw on her
left forefoot, between which there had accumulated unsightly lines of the dry white clay she remembered
standing in when she ate her last kill.


Not a minute later, Martland Redbeard, Roran, and a man-with-round-ears, whom she did not
recognize, entered the red tent and bowed to Nasuada. Saphira paused in her cleaning to taste the air
with her tongue and discerned the tang of dried blood, the bitter-sour musk of sweat, the scent of horse
and leather intermingled, and, faint but unmistakable, the sharp spike of man-fear. She examined the trio
again and saw that the red-long-beard-man had lost his right hand, then returned to excavating the clay
from around her scales.

She continued licking her foot, restoring every scale to pristine brilliance, while first Martland, then the
man-with-round-ears-who-was-Ulhart, then Roran, told a tale of blood and fire and of laughing men who
refused to die at their allotted times but insisted upon continuing to fight long past when Angvard had
called their names. As was her wont, Saphira held her peace while others—specifically Nasuada and her
adviser, long-man-gaunt-face-Jörmundur—questioned the warriors about the details of their ill-fated
mission. Saphira knew it sometimes puzzled Eragon why she did not participate more in conversations.
Her reasons for silence were simple: save for Arya or Glaedr, she felt most comfortable communicating
only with Eragon, and in her opinion, most conversations were nothing more than pointless dithering.
Whether round-ear, pointed-ear, horned, or short, two-legs seemed addicted to dithering. Brom had not
dithered, which was something Saphira had liked about him. For her, choices were simple; either there
was an action she could take to improve the situation, in which case she took it, or there was not, and
everything else said on the subject was so much meaningless noise. In any event, she did not worry
herself about the future, except where Eragon was concerned. Him, she always worried about.

When the questions were finished, Nasuada expressed her condolences to Martland for his lost hand,
then dismissed Martland and Ulhart, but not Roran, to whom she said, “You have demonstrated your
prowess once again, Stronghammer. I am well pleased with your abilities.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

“Our best healers will attend to him, but Martland will still need time to recover from his injury. Even
once he does, he cannot lead raids such as these with only one hand. From now on, he will have to serve
the Varden from the back of the army, not the front. I think, perhaps, that I shall promote him and make
him one of my battle advisers. Jörmundur, what think you of that idea?”

“I think it an excellent idea, my Lady.”

Nasuada nodded, appearing satisfied. “This means, however, that I must find another captain for you to
serve under, Roran.”

Then Roran said, “My Lady, what of my own command? Have I not proven myself to your satisfaction
with these two raids, as well as with my past accomplishments?”

“If you continue to distinguish yourself as you have, Strong hammer, you will win your command soon
enough. However, you must be patient and abide awhile longer. Two missions alone, however
impressive, may not reveal the full scope of a man’s character. I am a cautious person when it comes to
entrusting my people to others, Stronghammer. In this, you must humor me.”

Roran gripped the head of the hammer stuck through his belt, veins and tendons standing out on his
hand, but his tone remained polite. “Of course, Lady Nasuada.”

“Very good. A page will bring you your new assignment later today. Oh, and see to it that you have a
large meal once you and Katrina finish celebrating your reunion. That’s an order, Strong hammer. You
look as if you’re about to fall over.”


“My Lady.”

As Roran started to leave, Nasuada raised a hand and said, “Roran.” He paused. “Now that you have
fought these men who feel no pain, do you believe that having similar protection from the agonies of the
flesh would make it easier to defeat them?”

Roran hesitated, then shook his head. “Their strength is their weakness. They do not shield themselves
as they would if they feared the bite of a sword or the stab of an arrow, and thus they are careless with
their lives. It is true they can continue fighting long past when an ordinary man would have dropped dead,
and that is no small advantage in battle, but they also die in greater numbers, because they do not protect
their bodies as they ought. In their numb confidence, they will walk into traps and peril we would go to
great lengths to avoid. As long as the Varden’s spirits remain high, I believe that with the right tactics we
can prevail against these laughing monsters. If we were like them, though, we would hack each other into
oblivion, and neither of us would care, since we would have no thought for self-preservation. Those are
my thoughts.”

“Thank you, Roran.”

When Roran had gone, Saphira said,Nothing yet from Eragon?

Nasuada shook her head. “No, nothing yet from him, and his silence is beginning to concern me. If he
has not contacted us by the day after tomorrow, I will have Arya send a message to one of Orik’s
spellcasters demanding a report from him. If Eragon is unable to hasten the end of the dwarves’
clanmeet, then I fear we will no longer be able to count on the dwarves as allies during the battles to
come. The only good of such a disastrous outcome would be that Eragon could return to us without
further delay.”

When Saphira was ready to leave the red-chrysalis-tent, Blödhgarm again summoned up the apparition
of Eragon and placed it on Saphira’s back. Then Saphira withdrew her head from the confines of the tent
and, as she had before, bounded through the camp, the lithe elves keeping step with her the entire way.

Once she reached Eragon’s tent and the colored-shadow-Eragon disappeared inside it, Saphira lowered
herself to the ground and resigned herself to waiting out the remainder of the day in unrelieved monotony.
Before she resumed her reluctant nap, however, she extended her mind toward Roran and Katrina’s tent
and pressed against Roran’s mind until he lowered the barriers around his consciousness.

Saphira?he asked.

Do you know another such as me?

Of course not. You just surprised me. I am . . . ah, somewhat occupied at the moment.

She studied the color of his emotions, as well as those of Katrina, and was amused by her findings.I only
wished to welcome you back. I am glad you were not injured .

Roran’s thoughts flashed quick-hot-muddled-cold, and he seemed to have difficulty forming a coherent
answer. Eventually, he said,That’s very kind of you, Saphira .

If you can, come visit me tomorrow, when we may speak at greater length. I grow restless sitting
here day after day. Perhaps you could tell me more about how Eragon was before I hatched for


him.

It . . . it would be my honor.

Satisfied she had fulfilled the demands of round-ears-two-legs courtesy by welcoming Roran, and
heartened by the knowledge that the following day would not be as boring—for it was unthinkable
anyone would dare ignore her request for an audience—Saphira made herself as comfortable as she
could on the bare earth, wishing as she often did for the soft nest that was hers in Eragon’s
wind-rocked-tree-house in Ellesméra. A puff of smoke escaped her as she sighed and fell asleep and
dreamed that she flew higher than she ever had before.

She flapped and she flapped until she rose above the unreachable peaks of the Beor Mountains.
There she circled for a time, gazing down at the whole of Alagaësia laid out before her. Then an
uncontrollable desire entered her to climb even higher and see what she might, and so she began
flapping again, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, she soared past the glaring moon,
until only she and the silver stars hung in the black sky. She drifted among the heavens for an
indeterminate period, queen of the bright, jewel-like world below, but then disquiet entered her
soul, and she cried out with her thoughts:

Eragon, where are you!

KISSMESWEET

Waking, Roran extricated himself from Katrina’s smooth arms and sat bare-chested on the edge of the
cot they shared. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then gazed at the pale strip of firelight that glowed
between the two entrance flaps, feeling dull and stupid with accumulated exhaustion. A chill crept over
him, but he remained where he was, motionless.

“Roran?” Katrina asked in a sleep-smeared voice. She propped herself up on one arm and reached for
him with the other. He did not react as she touched him, sliding her hand across his upper back and
rubbing his neck. “Sleep. You need your rest. You’ll be gone again before long.”

He shook his head, not looking at her.

“What is it?” she asked. Sitting upright, she pulled a blanket over his shoulders, then leaned against him,
her cheek warm against his arm. “Are you worried about your new captain or where Nasuada may send
you next?”

“No.”

She was silent for a while. “Every time you leave, I feel as if less of you returns to me. You have become
so grim and quiet. . . . If you want to tell me about what is troubling you, you can, you know, no matter
how terrible it is. I am the daughter of a butcher, and I have seen my share of men fall in battle.”


“Want!” Roran exclaimed, choking on the word. “I don’t ever want to think about it again.” He clenched
his fists, his breathing uncertain. “A true warrior would not feel as I do.”

“A true warrior,” she said, “does not fight because he wishes to but because he has to. A man who
yearns for war, a man whoenjoys his killing, he is a brute and a monster. No matter how much glory he
wins on the battlefield, that cannot erase the fact that he is no better than a rabid wolf who will turn on his
friends and family as soon as his foes.” She brushed his hair away from his brow and stroked the top of
his head, light and slow. “You once told me that ‘The Song of Gerand’ was your favorite of Brom’s
stories, that it was why you fight with a hammer instead of a blade. Remember how Gerand disliked
killing and how reluctant he was to take up arms again?”

“Aye.”

“And yet he was considered the greatest warrior of his age.” She cupped his cheek in her hand and
turned his face toward her so that he was forced to gaze into her solemn eyes. “And you are the greatest
warrior I know of, Roran, here or anywhere.”

With a dry mouth, he said, “What of Eragon or—”

“They are not half so valorous as you. Eragon, Murtagh, Galbatorix, the elves . . . all of them march into
battle with spells upon their lips and might that far exceeds ours. But you”—she kissed him on the
nose—“you are no more than a man. You face your foes on your own two feet. You are not a magician,
and yet you slew the Twins. You are only as fast and as strong as a human may be, and yet you did not
shirk from attacking the Ra’zac in their lair and freeing me from their dungeon.”

He swallowed. “I had wards from Eragon to protect me.”

“But no longer. Besides, you did not have any wards in Carvahall either, and did you flee from the
Ra’zac then?” When he was unresponsive, she said, “You are no more than a man, but you have done
things not even Eragon or Murtagh could have. To me, that makes you the greatest warrior in Alagaësia.
. . . I cannot think of anyone else in Carvahall who would have gone to the lengths you did to rescue me.”

“Your father would have,” he said.

He felt her shiver against him. “Yes, he would have,” she whispered. “But he never would have been
able to convince others to follow him, as you did.” She tightened her arm around him. “What ever you
have seen or done, you will always have me.”

“That is all I will ever need,” he said, and clasped her in his arms and held her for a span. Then he
sighed. “Still, I wish this war were at an end. I wish I could till a field again and sow my crops and
harvest them when they ripened. Farming is backbreaking work, but at least it is honest labor. This killing
isn’t honest. It is thievery . . . the thievery of men’s lives, and no right-minded person should aspire to it.”

“As I said.”

“As you said.” Difficult as it was, he made himself smile. “I have forgotten myself. Here I am burdening
you with my troubles when you have worries enough of your own.” And he placed a hand over her
rounding womb.

“Your troubles shall always be my troubles, so long as we are married,” she murmured, and nuzzled his
arm.


“Some troubles,” he said, “no one else should have to endure, especially not those you love.”

She withdrew an inch or two from him, and he saw her eyes become bleak and listless, as they did
whenever she fell to brooding over the time she had spent imprisoned in Helgrind. “No,” she whispered,
“some troubles no one else should have to endure.”

“Ah, do not be sad.” He pulled her closer and rocked back and forth with her and wished with all his
might that Eragon had not found Saphira’s egg in the Spine. After a while, when Katrina had grown soft
in his arms again, and even he no longer felt quite so tense, he caressed the curve of her neck. “Come,
kiss me sweet, and then let us return to bed, for I am tired, and I would sleep.”

She laughed at him then, and kissed him most sweetly, and then they lay upon the cot as they had
before, and outside the tent all was still and quiet except for the Jiet River, which flowed past the camp,
never pausing, never stopping, and poured itself into Roran’s dreams, where he imagined himself standing
at the prow of a ship, Katrina by his side, and gazing into the maw of the giant whirlpool, the Boar’s Eye.

And he thought,How can we hope to escape?

GLÛMRA

Hundreds of feet below Tronjheim, the stone opened up into a cavern thousands of feet long with a still
black lake of unknown depth along one side and a marble shore on the other. Brown and ivory stalactites
dripped from the ceiling, while stalagmites stabbed upward from the ground, and in places the two joined
to form bulging pillars thicker around than even the largest trees in Du Weldenvarden. Scattered among
the pillars were mounds of compost studded with mushrooms, as well as three-and-twenty low stone
huts. A flameless lantern glowed iron red next to each of their doors. Beyond the reach of the lanterns,
shadows abounded.

Inside one of the huts, Eragon sat in a chair that was too small for him, at a granite table no higher than
his knees. The smell of soft goat cheese, sliced mushrooms, yeast, stew, pigeon eggs, and coal dust
pervaded the air. Across from him, Glûmra, a dwarf woman of the Family of Mord, she who was the
mother of Kvîstor, Eragon’s slain guard, wailed and tore at her hair and beat at her breast with her fists.
Glistening tracks marked where her tears had rolled down her plump face.

The two of them were alone in the hut. Eragon’s four guards—their numbers replenished by Thrand, a
warrior from Orik’s retinue—were waiting outside, along with Hûndfast, Eragon’s translator, whom
Eragon had dismissed from the hut once he learned that Glûmra could speak his language.

After the attempt on his life, Eragon had contacted Orik with his mind, whereupon Orik insisted Eragon
run as fast as he could to the chambers of the Ingeitum, where he would be safe from any more assassins.
Eragon had obeyed, and there he had remained while Orik forced the clanmeet to adjourn until the
following morning, on the grounds that an emergency had arisen within his clan that required his
immediate attention. Then Orik marched with his stoutest warriors and most adept spellcaster to the site


of the ambush, which they studied and recorded with means both magical and mundane. Once Orik was
satisfied they had learned all they could, he had hurried back to his chambers, where he said to Eragon,
“We have much to do and little time in which to do it. Before the clanmeet resumes upon the third
morning hour of tomorrow, we must attempt to establish beyond all doubt who ordered the attack. If we
can, then we will have leverage to use against them. If not, then we will be flailing in the dark, uncertain of
our enemies. We can keep the attack a secret until the clanmeet, but no longer. Knurlan will have heard
echoes of your fight throughout the tunnels under Tronjheim, and even now, I know they will be searching
for the source of the disturbance, for fear there may have been a cave-in or similar catastrophe that might
undermine the city above.” Orik stamped his feet and cursed the ancestors of whoever had sent the
assassins, then planted his fists on his hips and said, “A clan war was already threatening us, but now it
stands upon our very threshold. We must move quickly if we are to avert that dread fate. There are
knurlan to find, questions to ask, threats to make, bribes to offer, and scrolls to steal—and all before
morn.”

“What of me?” Eragon asked.

“You should remain here until we know if Az Sweldn rak Anhûin or some other clan has a larger force
massed elsewhere to kill you. Also, as long as we can hide from your attackers whether you are alive,
dead, or wounded, the longer we may keep them uncertain as to the safety of the rock beneath their
feet.”

At first Eragon agreed with Orik’s proposal, but as he watched the dwarf bustle about issuing orders, he
felt increasingly uneasy and helpless. Finally, he caught Orik by the arm and said, “If I have to sit here
and stare at the wall while you search for the villains who did this, I’ll grind my teeth down to nubs. There
must be something I can do to help. . . . What of Kvîstor? Do any of his family live in Tronjheim? Has
anyone told them of his death yet? Because if not, I would be the one to bring them the tidings, for it was
me he died defending.”

Orik inquired of his guards, and from them they learned that Kvîstor did indeed have family in
Tronjheim, or more accurately, underneath Tronjheim. When he heard, Orik frowned and muttered a
strange word in Dwarvish. “They are deep dwellers,” he said, “knurlan who have forsaken the surface of
the land for the world below, except for occasional forays above. More of them live here, below
Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr, than anywhere else, because they can come out in Farthen Dûr and not feel
as if they are actually outside, which most of them cannot bear, they are so accustomed to closed-in
spaces. I had not known Kvîstor was of their number.”

“Would you mind if I go to visit his family?” Eragon asked. “Among these rooms, there are stairs that
lead below, am I right? We could leave without anyone being the wiser.”

Orik thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. The path is safe enough, and no one would
think to look for you among the deep dwellers. They would come here first, and here they would
otherwise find you. . . . Go, and do not return until I send a messenger for you, even if the Family of
Mord turns you away and you must sit on a stalagmite until morn. But, Eragon, be you careful; the deep
dwellers keep to themselves for the most part, and they are prickly to an extreme about their honor, and
they have strange customs of their own. Tread carefully, as if you were on rotten shale, eh?”

And so, with Thrand added to his guards, and Hûndfast accompanying them—and with a short dwarf
sword belted around his waist—Eragon went to the nearest staircase leading downward, and following it,
he descended farther into the bowels of the earth than ever he had before. And in due time, he found
Glûmra and informed her of Kvîstor’s demise, and now he sat listening as she grieved for her slain child,
alternating between wordless howls and scraps of Dwarvish sung in a haunting, dissonant key.


Discomfited by the strength of her sorrow, Eragon glanced away from her face. He looked at the green
soapstone stove that stood against one wall and the worn carvings of geometric design that adorned its
edges. He studied the green and brown rug that lay before the hearth, and the churn in the corner, and
the provisions hanging from the beams of the ceiling. He gazed at the heavy-timbered loom that stood
underneath a round window with panes of lavender glass.

Then, at the height of her wailing, Glûmra caught Eragon’s eye as she rose from the table, went to the
counter, and placed her left hand on the cutting board. Before Eragon could stop her, she took a carving
knife and cut off the first joint of her little finger. She groaned and doubled over.

Eragon sprang halfway up with an involuntary exclamation. He wondered what madness had overcome
the dwarf woman and whether he should attempt to restrain her, lest she should do herself additional
harm. He opened his mouth to ask if she wanted him to heal the wound, but then he thought better of it,
remembering Orik’s admonishments about the deep dwellers’ strange customs and strong sense of
honor.She might consider the offer an insult, he realized. Closing his mouth, he sank back into his
too-small chair.

After a minute, Glûmra straightened out of her hunched position, took a deep breath, and then quietly
and calmly washed the raw end of her finger with brandy, smeared it with a yellow salve, and bandaged
the wound. Her moon-face still pale from the shock, she lowered herself into the chair opposite Eragon.
“I thank you, Shadeslayer, for bringing me news of mine son’s fate yourself. I am glad to know that he
died proudly, as a warrior ought to.”

“He was most brave,” Eragon said. “He could see that our enemies were as fast as elves, and yet he still
leaped forward to protect me. His sacrifice bought me time to escape their blades and also revealed the
danger of the enchantments they had placed on their weapons. If not for his actions, I doubt I would be
here now.”

Glûmra nodded slowly, eyes downcast, and smoothed the front of her dress. “Do you know who was
responsible for this attack on our clan, Shadeslayer?”

“We have only suspicions. Grimstborith Orik is trying to determine the truth of the matter even as we
speak.”

“Was it Az Sweldn rak Anhûin?” Glûmra asked, surprising Eragon with the astuteness of her guess. He
did his best to conceal his reaction. When he remained silent, she said, “We all know of their blood feud
with you, Argetlam; every knurla within these mountains knows. Some of us have looked with favor upon
their opposition of you, but if they thought to actually kill you, then they have misjudged the lay of the
rock and doomed themselves because of it.”

Eragon raised an eyebrow, interested. “Doomed? How?”

“It was you, Shadeslayer, who slew Durza and so allowed us to save Tronjheim and the dwellings below
from the clutches of Galbatorix. Our race shall never forget that so long as Tronjheim remains standing.
And then there is word come by the tunnels that your dragon shall make whole again Isidar Mithrim?”

Eragon nodded.

“That is good of you, Shadeslayer. You have done much for our race, and whichever clan it was
attacked you, we shall turn against them and have our vengeance.”


“I swore before witnesses,” Eragon said, “and I swear to you as well, that I will punish whoever sent
those backstabbing murderers and that I’ll make them wish they had never thought of such a foul deed.
However—”

“Thank you, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon hesitated, then inclined his head. “However, we must not do anything that would ignite a clan
war. Not now. If force is to be used, it should be Grimstborith Orik who decides when and where we
draw our swords, don’t you agree?”

“I will think upon what you have said, Shadeslayer,” Glûmra replied. “Orik is . . .” Whatever she was
going to say next caught in her mouth. Her thick eyelids drooped and she sagged forward for a moment,
pressing her maimed hand against her abdomen. When the bout passed, she pushed herself upright and
held the back of the hand against her opposite cheek and swayed from side to side, moaning, “Oh, mine
son . . . mine beautiful son.”

Standing, she staggered around the table, heading toward a small collection of swords and axes mounted
on the wall behind Eragon, next to an alcove covered by a curtain of red silk. Afraid that she intended to
cause herself further injury, Eragon leaped to his feet, knocking over the oak chair in his haste. He
reached for her and then saw that she was walking toward the curtained alcove, not the weapons, and he
snatched his arm back before he caused offense.

The brass rings sewn on top of the silk drapery clattered against one another as Glûmra swept aside the
cloth to expose a deep, shadowed shelf carved with runes and shapes of such fantastic detail, Eragon
thought he could stare at them for hours and still not grasp them in their entirety. On the low shelf rested
statues of the six major dwarf gods, as well as nine other entities Eragon was unfamiliar with, all carved
with exaggerated features and postures to better convey the character of the being portrayed.

Glûmra removed an amulet of gold and silver from within her bodice, which she kissed and then held
against the hollow of her throat as she knelt before the alcove. Her voice rising and falling in the strange
patterns of dwarf music, she began to croon a dirge in her native language. The melody brought tears to
Eragon’s eyes. For several minutes, Glûmra sang, and then she fell silent and continued to gaze at the
figurines, and as she gazed, the lines of her grief-ravaged face softened, and where before Eragon had
perceived only anger, distress, and hopelessness, her countenance assumed an air of calm acceptance, of
peacefulness, and of sublime transcendence. A soft glow seemed to emanate from her features. So
complete was Glûmra’s transformation, Eragon almost did not recognize her.

She said, “Tonight Kvîstor will dine in Morgothal’s hall. That I know.” She kissed her amulet again. “I
wish I might break bread with him, along with mine husband, Bauden, but it is not mine time to sleep in
the catacombs of Tronjheim, and Morgothal refuses entry to his hall to those who quicken their arrival.
But in time, our family shall be reunited, including all of our ancestors since Gûntera created the world
from darkness. That I know.”

Eragon knelt next to her, and in a hoarse voice, he asked, “How do you know this?”

“I know because it is so.” Her movements slow and respectful, Glûmra touched the chiseled feet of each
of the gods with the tips of her fingers. “How could it be otherwise? Since the world could not have
created itself any more than a sword or a helm might, and since the only beings with the wherewithal to
forge the earth and the heavens into shape are those with divine power, it is to the gods we must look for
our answers. Them I trust to ensure the rightness of the world, and by mine trust, I free myself of the


burdens of mine flesh.”

She spoke with such conviction, Eragon felt a sudden desire to share in her belief. He longed to toss
aside his doubts and fears and to know that, however horrible the world might seem at times, life was not
mere confusion. He wished to know for certain that who he was would not end if a sword should shear
off his head and that one day he would meet again with Brom, Garrow, and everyone else he had cared
for and lost. A desperate yearning for hope and comfort filled him, confused him, left him unsteady upon
the face of the earth.

And yet.

Part of himself held back and would not allow him to commit to the dwarf gods and bind his identity and
his sense of well-being to something he did not understand. He also had difficulty accepting that if gods
did exist, the dwarf gods were the only ones. Eragon was certain that if he asked Nar Garzhvog or a
member of the nomad tribes, or even the black priests of Helgrind, if their gods were real, they would
uphold the supremacy of their deities just as vigorously as Glûmra would uphold hers.How am I
supposed to know which religion is the true religion? he wondered.Just because someone follows a
certain faith does not necessarily mean it is the right path. . . . Perhapsno one religion contains all
of the truth of the world. Perhaps every religion contains fragments of the truth and it is our
responsibility to identify those fragments and piece them together. Or perhaps the elves are right
and there are no gods. But how can I know for sure?

With a long sigh, Glûmra murmured a phrase in Dwarvish, then rose from her knees and drew closed the
silk curtain over the alcove. Eragon likewise stood, wincing as his battle-sore muscles stretched, and
followed her to the table, where he returned to his chair. From a stone cupboard set into the wall, the
dwarf woman took two pewter mugs, then retrieved a bladder full of wine from where it hung from the
ceiling and poured a drink for both her and Eragon. She raised her mug and uttered a toast in Dwarvish,
which Eragon struggled to imitate, and then they drank.

“It is good,” said Glûmra, “to know that Kvîstor still lives on, to know that even now he is garbed in
robes fit for a king while he enjoys the evening feast in Morgothal’s hall. May he win much honor in the
service of the gods!” And she drank again.

Once he had emptied his mug, Eragon began to bid farewell to Glûmra, but she forestalled him with a
motion of her hand. “Have you a place to stay, Shadeslayer, safe from those who wish you dead?”
Whereupon Eragon told her how he was supposed to remain hidden underneath Tronjheim until Orik
sent a messenger for him. Glûmra nodded with a short, definitive jerk of her chin and said, “Then you and
your companions must wait here until the messenger arrives, Shadeslayer. I insist upon it.” Eragon started
to protest, but she shook her head. “I could not allow the men who fought with mine son to languish in
the damp and the dark of the caves while I yet have life in mine bones. Summon your companions, and
we shall eat and be merry this gloomy night.”

Eragon realized that he could not leave without upsetting Glûmra, so he called to his guards and his
translator. Together, they helped Glûmra to prepare a dinner of bread, meat, and pie, and when it was
ready, the lot of them ate and drank and talked late into the night. Glûmra was particularly lively; she
drank the most, laughed the loudest, and was always the first to make a witty remark. At first Eragon
was shocked by her behavior, but then he noticed how her smiles never reached her eyes and how, if she
thought no one was looking, the mirth would drain from her face and her expression would become one
of somber quietude. Entertaining them, he concluded, was her way of celebrating her son’s memory, as
well as fending off her grief at Kvîstor’s death.


I have never met anyone like you before,he thought as he watched her.

Long after midnight, someone knocked on the door of the hut. Hûndfast ushered in a dwarf who was
garbed in full armor and who seemed edgy and ill at ease; he kept glancing at the doors and windows
and shadowed corners. With a series of phrases in the ancient language, he convinced Eragon that he
was Orik’s messenger, and then he said, “I am Farn, son of Flosi. . . . Argetlam, Orik bids you return
with all possible haste. He has most important tidings concerning the events of today.”

At the doorway, Glûmra grasped Eragon’s left forearm with fingers like steel, and as he gazed down into
her flinty eyes, she said, “Remember your oath, Shadeslayer, and do not let the killers of mine son escape
without retribution!”

“That I shall not,” he promised.

CLANMEET

The dwarves standing watch outside of Orik’s chambers threw open the double doors that led inside as
Eragon strode toward them.

The entryway beyond was long and ornate, furnished with three circular seats upholstered with red
fabric set in a line down the middle of the room. Embroidered hangings decorated the walls, along with
the dwarves’ ubiquitous flameless lanterns, while the ceiling had been carved to depict a famous battle
from dwarven history.

Orik stood consulting with a group of his warriors and several gray-bearded dwarves of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum. As Eragon approached, Orik turned toward him, his face grim. “Good, you did not delay!
Hûndfast, you may retire to your quarters now. We must needs speak in private.”

Eragon’s translator bowed and disappeared through an archway to the left, his footsteps echoing on the
polished agate floor. Once he was out of hearing, Eragon said, “You don’t trust him?”

Orik shrugged. “I do not know whom to trust at the moment; the fewer people who know what we have
discovered, the better. We cannot risk the news escaping to another clan before tomorrow. If it does, it
will certainly mean a clan war.” The dwarves behind him muttered among themselves, appearing
disconcerted.

“What is your news, though?” asked Eragon, worried.

The warriors gathered behind Orik moved aside as he gestured at them, revealing as they did so three
bound and bloodied dwarves stacked on top of one another in the corner. The dwarf on the bottom
groaned and kicked his feet in the air but was unable to extricate himself from under his fellow prisoners.

“Who are they?” asked Eragon.

Orik replied, “I had several of our smiths examine the daggers your attackers carried. They identified the
craftsmanship as that of one Kiefna Long-nose, a bladesmith of our clan who has achieved great renown


among our people.”

“So he can tell us who bought the daggers and thus who our enemies are?”

A brusque laugh shook Orik’s chest. “Hardly, but we were able to track the daggers from Kiefna to an
armorer in Dalgon, many leagues from here, who sold them to a knurlaf with—”

“A knurlaf?” Eragon asked.

Orik scowled. “A woman. A woman with seven fingers on each hand bought the daggers two months
ago.”

“And did you find her? There can’t be very many women with that number of fingers.”

“Actually, the condition is fairly common among our people,” said Orik. “Be that as it may, after quite a
bit of difficulty, we managed to locate the woman in Dalgon. My warriors there questioned her most
closely. She is of Dûrgrimst Nagra, but so far as we can determine, she was acting of her own accord,
and not under orders from the leaders of her clan. From her, we learned that a dwarf had engaged her to
buy the daggers and then to deliver them to a wine merchant who would take them with him from
Dalgon. The woman’s employer did not tell her where the daggers were destined, but by asking among
the merchants of the city, we discovered that he traveled directly from Dalgon to one of the cities held by
Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

“So itwas them!” Eragon exclaimed.

“That or it could have been someone who wished us to think it was them. We needed more evidence
before we could establish Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s guilt for certain.” A twinkle appeared in Orik’s eyes,
and he raised a finger. “So, by means of a very, very clever spell, we retraced the path of the assassins
back through the tunnels and caves and up to a deserted area on the twelfth level of Tronjheim, off the
subadjunct auxiliary hall of the southern spoke in the western quadrant, along the . . . ah, well, it does not
matter. But someday I will have to teach you how the rooms are arranged in Tronjheim, so that if ever
you need to find a place within the city by yourself, you can. In any event, the trail led us to an
abandoned storeroom where those three”—he gestured toward the bound dwarves—“had been staying.
They were not expecting us, and so we were able to capture them alive, although they tried to kill
themselves. It was not easy, but we broke the minds of two of them—leaving the third for the other
grimstborithn to interrogate at their pleasure—and we took from them everything they knew about this
matter.” Orik pointed at the prisoners again. “It was they who equipped the assassins for the attack, gave
them the daggers and their black clothes, and fed and sheltered them last night.”

“Who are they?” asked Eragon.

“Bah!” exclaimed Orik, and spat on the floor. “They are Vargrimstn, warriors who have disgraced
themselves and are now clanless. No one deals with such filth unless they are engaged in villainy
themselves and do not wish others to know of it. And so it was with those three. They took their orders
directly from Grimstborith Vermûnd of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

“There is no doubt?”

Orik shook his head. “There is no doubt; it is Az Sweldn rak Anhûin who tried to kill you, Eragon. We
will probably never know if any other clans joined them in the attempt, but if we expose Az Sweldn rak
Anhûin’s treachery, it will force everyone else who might have been involved in the plot to disparage their


former confederates; to abandon, or at least delay, further attacks on Dûrgrimst Ingeitum; and, if this is
handled properly, to give me their vote for king.”

An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of the prismatic blade emerging from the back of Kvîstor’s neck and
of the dwarf’s agonized expression as he had fallen to the floor, dying. “How will we punish Az Sweldn
rak Anhûin for this crime? Should we kill Vermûnd?”

“Ah, leave that to me,” said Orik, and tapped the side of his nose. “I have a plan. But we must tread
carefully, for this is a situation of the utmost delicacy. Such a betrayal has not occurred in many long
years. As an outsider, you cannot know how abhorrent we find it that one of our own should attack a
guest. You being the only free Rider left to oppose Galbatorix only worsens the offense. Further
bloodshed may yet be necessary, but at the moment, it would only bring about another clan war.”

“A clan war might be the only way to deal with Az Sweldn rak Anhûin,” Eragon pointed out.

“I think not, but if I am mistaken and war is unavoidable, we must ensure it is a war between the rest of
the clans and Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. That would not be so bad. Together, we could crush them inside of
a week. A war with the clans split into two or three factions, however, would destroy our country. It is
crucial, then, that before we draw our swords, we convince the other clans of what Az Sweldn rak
Anhûin has done. Toward that end, will you allow magicians from different clans to examine your
memories of the attack so they may see it happened as we shall say it did and that we did not stage it for
our own benefit?”

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to open his mind to strangers, then nodded toward the three dwarves
stacked on top of one another. “What about them? Won’t their memories be enough to convince the
clans of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s guilt?”

Orik grimaced. “They ought to be, but in order to be thorough, the clan chiefs will insist upon verifying
their memories against yours, and if you refuse, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will claim we are hiding something
from the clanmeet and that our accusations are nothing more than slanderous fiction.”

“Very well,” said Eragon. “If I must, I must. But if any of the magicians stray where they are not
supposed to, even if by accident, I will have no choice but to burn what they have seen out of their
minds. There are some things I cannot allow to become common knowledge.”

Nodding, Orik said, “Aye, I can think of at least one three-legged piece of information that would cause
us some consternation if it were to be trumpeted throughout the land, eh? I am sure the clan chiefs will
accept your conditions—for they all have secrets of their own they would not want bandied about—just
as I am sure they will order their magicians to proceed, regardless of the danger. This attack has the
potential to incite such turmoil among our race, the grimstborithn will feel compelled to determine the truth
about it, though it may cost them their most skilled spellcasters.”

Drawing himself upright then, to the full extent of his limited height, Orik ordered the prisoners removed
from the ornate entryway and dismissed all of his vassals, save for Eragon and a contingent of twenty-six
of his finest warriors. With a graceful flourish, Orik grasped Eragon’s left elbow and conducted him
toward the inner rooms of his chambers. “Tonight you must remain here, with me, where Az Sweldn rak
Anhûin will not dare to strike.”

“If you intend to sleep,” said Eragon, “I must warn you, I cannot rest, not tonight. My blood still churns
from the tumult of the fight, and my thoughts are likewise uneasy.”


Orik replied, “Rest or not as you will; you shall not disturb my slumber, for I shall pull a thick woolen
cap low over my eyes. I urge you to try and calm yourself, however—perhaps with some of the
techniques the elves taught you—and recover what strength you may. The new day is already upon us,
and but a few hours remain until the clanmeet shall be assembled. We should both be as fresh as possible
for what is to come. What we do and say today shall determine the ultimate fate of mine people, mine
country, and the rest of Alagaësia. . . . Ah, do not look so grim about the mouth! Think of this instead:
whether success or failure awaits us, and I surely hope we prevail, our names shall be remembered until
the end of time for how we comport ourselves at this clanmeet. That at least is an accomplishment to fill
your belly with pride! The gods are fickle, and the only immortality we can count on is that which we win
through our deeds. Fame or infamy, either one is preferable to being forgotten when you have passed
from this realm.”

Later that night, in the dead hours before morning, Eragon’s thoughts wandered as he sat slumped within
the embrace of the padded arms of a dwarf couch, and the frame of his consciousness dissolved into the
disordered fantasy of his waking dreams. Yet conscious of the mosaic of colored stones mounted upon
the wall opposite him, he also beheld, as if a glowing scrim draped over the mosaic, scenes of his life in
Palancar Valley before momentous and bloody fate had intervened in his existence. The scenes diverged
from established fact, however, and immersed him in imaginary situations constructed piecemeal from
fragments of what had actually been. In the last few moments before he roused himself from his stupor,
his vision flickered and the images acquired a sense of heightened reality.

He was standing in Horst’s workshop, the doors of which hung open, loose upon their hinges, like
an idiot’s slackjaw grin. Outside was a starless night, and the all-consuming darkness seemed to
press against the edges of the dull red light cast by the coals, as if eager to devour everything
within the scope of that ruddy sphere. Next to the forge, Horst loomed like a giant, the shifting
shadows upon his face and beard fearsome to behold. His burly arm rose and fell, and a bell-like
clang shivered the air as the hammer he wielded struck the end of a yellow-glowing bar of steel. A
burst of sparks extinguished itself on the ground. Four more times the smith smote the metal; then
he lifted the bar from his anvil and plunged it into a barrel of oil. Wraithlike flames, blue and
gossamer, flickered across the surface of the oil and then vanished with small shrieks of fury.
Removing the bar from the barrel, Horst turned toward Eragon and frowned at him. He said,
“Why have you come here, Eragon?”

“I need a Dragon Rider’s sword.”

“Begone with you. I have no time to forge you a Rider’s sword.Cannot you see I am working on a
pothook for Elain? She must have it for the battle. Are you alone?”

“I do not know.”

“Where is your father? Where is your mother?”

“I do not know.”

Then a new voice sounded, a well-polished voice of strength and power, and it said, “Good
smith, he is not alone. He came with me.”

“And who might you be?” demanded Horst.

“I am his father.”


Between the gaping doors, a huge figure rimmed with pale light emerged from the clotted
darkness and stood upon the threshold of the workshop. A red cape billowed from shoulders wider
than a Kull’s. In the man’s left hand gleamed Zar’roc, sharp as pain. Through the slits of his
brightly polished helm, his blue eyes bored into Eragon, pinning him into place, like an arrow
through a rabbit. He lifted his free hand and held it out toward Eragon. “My son, come with me.
Together, we can destroy the Varden, kill Galbatorix, and conquer all of Alagaësia. But give me
your heart, and we shall be invincible.

“Give me your heart, my son.”

With a strangled exclamation, Eragon leaped out of the couch and stood staring at the floor, his fists
clenched, his chest heaving. Orik’s guards gave him inquisitive glances, but he ignored them, too upset to
explain his outburst.

The hour was still early, so after a time, Eragon settled back onto the couch, but thereafter, he remained
alert and did not allow himself to sink into the land of dreams, for fear of what manifestations might
torment him.

Eragon stood with his back to the wall, his hand on the pommel of his dwarf sword, as he watched the
various clan chiefs file into the round conference room buried beneath Tronjheim. He kept an especially
close eye on Vermûnd, the grimstborith of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, but if the purple-veiled dwarf was
surprised to see Eragon alive and well, he did not show it.

Eragon felt Orik’s boot nudge his own. Without looking away from Vermûnd, Eragon leaned over
toward Orik and heard him whisper, “Remember, to the left and three doorways down,” referring to the
place where Orik had stationed a hundred of his warriors without the other clan chiefs knowing.

Whispering as well, Eragon said, “If blood is shed, should I seize the opportunity to kill that snake,
Vermûnd?”

“Unless he is attempting the same with you or me, please do not.” A low chuckle emanated from Orik.
“It would hardlyendear you to the other grimstborithn. . . . Ah, I must go now. Pray to Sindri for luck,
would you? We are about to venture into a lava field none have dared cross before.”

And Eragon prayed.

When all of the clan chiefs were seated around the table in the center of the room, those watching from
the perimeter, including Eragon, took their own seats from among the ring of chairs set against the curving
wall. Eragon did not relax into his, however, as many of the dwarves did, but sat upon the edge, ready to
fight at the slightest hint of danger.

As Gannel, the black-eyed warrior-priest of Dûrgrimst Quan, rose from the table and began to speak in
Dwarvish, Hûndfast sidled closer to Eragon’s right side and murmured a continuous translation. The
dwarf said, “Greetings again, mine fellow clan chiefs. But whether ’tis well met or not, I am undecided,
for certain disturbing rumors—rumors of rumors, if truth be told—have reached mine ears. I have no
information beyond these vague and worrisome mutterings, nor proof upon which to found an accusation
of misdeeds. However, as today is mine day to preside over this, our congregation, I propose that we
delay our most serious debates for the moment, and if you are agreeable, allow me to pose a few
questions to the meet.”


The clan chiefs muttered among themselves, and then Íorûnn, bright, dimpling Íorûnn, said, “I have no
objection, Grimstborith Gannel. You have aroused mine curiosity with these cryptic insinuations. Let us
hear what questions you have.”

“Aye, let us hear them,” said Nado.

“Let us hear them,” agreed Manndrâth and all the rest of the clan chiefs, including Vermûnd.

Having received the permission he sought, Gannel rested his knuckles upon the table and was silent for a
span, garnering the attention of everyone in the room. Then he spoke. “Yesterday, while we were
lunching in our chosen places of repast, knurlan throughout the tunnels underneath the southern quadrant
of Tronjheim heard a noise. Reports of its loudness differ, but that so many noticed it over so large an
area proves that it was no small disturbance. Like you, I received the usual warnings of a possible
cave-in. What you may not be aware of, however, is that just two hours past—”

Hûndfast hesitated, and quickly whispered, “The word is difficult to render in this tongue.
Runners-of-the-tunnels, I think.” And then he resumed translating as before:

“—runners-of-the-tunnels discovered evidence of a mighty fight within one of the ancient tunnels that our
famed forefather, Korgan Longbeard, excavated. The floor was painted with blood, the walls were dark
with soot from a lantern a warrior of careless blade did breach, cracks split the surrounding stone, and
sprawled throughout were seven charred and mangled bodies, with signs that others may have been
removed. Nor were these the remnants of some obscure skirmish from the Battle of Farthen Dûr. No!
For the blood had yet to dry, the soot was soft, the cracks were most obviously freshly broken, and, I
am told, the residue of powerful magics could still be detected within the area. Even now, several of our
most accomplished spellcasters are attempting to reconstruct a pictorial facsimile of what occurred, but
they have little hope of success, as those involved were wrapped about with such devious enchantments.
So my first question for the meet is this: do any of you possess further knowledge of this mysterious
action?”

As Gannel concluded his speech, Eragon tensed his legs, ready to spring up if the purple-veiled dwarves
of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin should reach for their blades.

Orik cleared his throat and said, “I believe that I can satisfy some of your curiosity upon that point,
Gannel. However, since my answer must of necessity be a lengthy one, I suggest you ask your other
questions before I begin.”

A frown darkened Gannel’s brow. Rapping his knuckles against the table, he said, “Very well. . . . In
what is undoubtedly related to the clash of arms in Korgan’s tunnels, I have had reports of numerous
knurlan moving through Tronjheim and, with furtive intent, gathering here and there into large bands of
armed men. My agents were unable to ascertain the clan of the warriors, but that any of this council
should attempt to surreptitiously marshal their forces whilst we are engaged in a meet to decide who
should succeed King Hrothgar suggests motives of the darkest kind. So my second question for the meet
is this: who is responsible for this ill-thought-of maneuvering? And if none are willing to admit their
misconduct, I move most strongly that we order all warriors, regardless of their clan, expelled from
Tronjheim for the duration of the meet and that we immediately appoint a reader-of-law to investigate
these doings and determine whom we should censure.”

Gannel’s revelation, question, and subsequent proposal aroused a flurry of heated conversation among
the clan chiefs, with the dwarves hurling accusations, denials, and counteraccusations at each other with


increasing vitriol, until, at last, when an infuriated Thordris was shouting at a red-faced Gáldhiem, Orik
cleared his throat again, causing everyone to stop and stare at him.

In a mild tone, Orik said, “This too I believe I can explain to you, Gannel, at least in part. I cannot speak
to the activities of the other clans, but several hundred of the warriors who have been hurrying through
the servants’ halls in Tronjheim have been of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. This I freely admit.”

All was silent until Íorûnn said, “And what explanation have you for this belligerent behavior, Orik,
Thrifk’s son?”

“As I said before, fair Íorûnn, my answer must of necessity be a lengthy one, so if you, Gannel, have any
other questions to ask, I suggest you proceed forthwith.”

Gannel’s frown deepened until his projecting eyebrows nearly touched. He said, “I will withhold mine
other questions for the time being, for they all pertain to those I have already put to the meet, and it
seems we must wait upon your pleasure to learn any more of those subjects. However, since you are
involved fist and foot with these doubtful activities, a new question has occurred to me that I would ask
of you specifically, Grimstborith Orik. For what reason did you desert yesterday’s meet? And let me
warn you, I will brook no evasions. You have already intimated you have knowledge of these affairs.
Well, time is for you to provide a full accounting of yourself, Grimstborith Orik.”

Orik stood even as Gannel sat, and he said, “It shall be mine pleasure.”

Lowering his bearded chin until it rested upon his chest, Orik paused for a brief span and then began to
speak in a sonorous voice, but he did not begin as Eragon had expected, nor, Eragon surmised, as the
rest of the congregation had expected. Instead of describing the attempt on Eragon’s life, and thus
explaining why he had terminated the previous clanmeet prematurely, Orik commenced by recounting
how, at the dawn of history, the race of dwarves had migrated from the once-verdant fields of the
Hadarac Desert to the Beor Mountains, where they had excavated their uncounted miles of tunnels, built
their magnificent cities both above and below the ground, and waged lusty war between their various
factions, as well as with the dragons, whom, for thousands of years, the dwarves had regarded with a
combination of hate, fear, and reluctant awe.

Then Orik spoke of the elves’ arrival in Alagaësia and of how the elves had fought with the dragons until
they nearly destroyed each other and of how, as a result, the two races had agreed to create the Dragon
Riders to maintain the peace thereafter.

“And what was our response when we learned of their intentions?” demanded Orik, his voice ringing
loud in the chamber. “Did we ask to be included in their pact? Did we aspire to share in the power that
would be the Dragon Riders’? No! We clung to our old ways, our old hatreds, and we rejected the very
thought of bonding with the dragons or allowing anyone outside our realm to police us. To preserve our
authority, we sacrificed our future, for I am convinced that if some of the Dragon Riders had been
knurlan, Galbatorix might have never risen to power. Even if I am wrong—and I mean not to belittle
Eragon, who has proven himself a fine Rider—the dragon Saphira might have hatched for one of our race
and not a human. And then what glory might have been ours?

“Instead, our importance in Alagaësia has diminished ever since Queen Tarmunora and Eragon’s
namesake made peace with the dragons. At first our lessened status was not so bitter a draught to
swallow, and often it was easier to deny than to accept. But then came the Urgals, and then the humans,
and the elves amended their spells so humans might be Riders as well. And then did we seek to be
included in their accord, as well we might have . . . as was our right?” Orik shook his head. “Our pride


would not allow it. Why should we, the oldest race in the land, beg the elves for the favor of their magic?
We did not need to chain our fate to the dragons’ in order to save our race from destruction, as had the
elves and humans. We ignored, of course, the battles we waged among ourselves. Those, we reasoned,
were private affairs and of no concern to anyone else.”

The listening clan chiefs stirred. Many of them bore expressions of dissatisfaction at Orik’s criticism,
whereas the rest seemed more receptive to his comments and were thoughtful of countenance.

Orik continued: “While the Riders watched over Alagaësia, we enjoyed the greatest period of prosperity
ever recorded in the annals of our realm. We flourished as never before, and yet we had no share in the
cause of it: the Dragon Riders. When the Riders fell, our fortunes faltered, but again we had no share in
the cause of it: the Riders. Neither state of affairs is, I deem, fitting for a race of our stature. We are not a
country of vassals subject to the whims of foreign masters. Nor should those who are not the
descendants of Odgar and Hlordis dictate our fate.”

This line of reasoning was more to the liking of the clan chiefs; they nodded and smiled, and Havard
even clapped a few times at the final line.

“Consider now our present era,” said Orik. “Galbatorix is ascendant, and every race fights to remain
free of his rule. He has grown so powerful, the only reason we are not already his slaves is that, so far, he
has not chosen to fly out upon his black dragon and attack us directly. If he did, we would fall before him
like saplings before an avalanche. Fortunately, he seems content to wait for us to slaughter our way to the
gates of his citadel in Urû’baen. Now, I remind you that before Eragon and Saphira turned up wet and
bedraggled on our front doorstep, with a hundred yammering Kull hard upon their heels, our only hope of
defeating Galbatorix was that someday, somewhere, Saphira would hatch for her chosen Rider and that
this unknown person would, perhaps, perchance, if we were luckier than every gambler who has ever
won a toss of dice, be able to overthrow Galbatorix. Hope? Ha! We did not even have hope; we had a
hope of a hope. When Eragon first presented himself, many of us were dismayed by his appearance,
myself included. ‘He is but a boy,’ we said. ‘It would have been better if he had been an elf,’ we said.
But lo, he has shown himself to be the embodiment of our every hope! He slew Durza, and so allowed us
to save our most beloved city, Tronjheim. His dragon, Saphira, has promised to restore the Star Rose to
its former glory. During the Battle of the Burning Plains, he drove off Murtagh and Thorn, and so allowed
us to win the day. And look! He even now wears the semblance of an elf, and through their strange
magics, he has acquired their speed and their strength.”

Orik raised a finger for emphasis. “Moreover, King Hrothgar, in his wisdom, did what no other king or
grimstborith has ever done; he offered to adopt Eragon into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum and to make him a
member of his own family. Eragon was under no obligation to accept this offer. Indeed, he was aware
that many of the families of the Ingeitum objected to it and that, in general, many knurlan would not
regard it with favor. Yet in spite of that discouragement, and in spite of the fact that he was already
bound in fealty to Nasuada, Eragon accepted Hrothgar’s gift, knowing full well that it would only make
his life harder. As he has told me himself, Eragon swore the hall-oath upon the Heart of Stone because of
the sense of obligation he feels toward all the races of Alagaësia, and especially toward us, since we, by
the actions of Hrothgar, showed him and Saphira such kindness. Because of Hrothgar’s genius, the last
free Rider of Alagaësia, and our one and only hope against Galbatorix, freely chose to become a knurla
in all but blood. Since then, Eragon has abided by our laws and traditions to the best of his knowledge,
and he has sought to learn ever more about our culture so that he may honor the true meaning of his oath.
When Hrothgar fell, struck down by the traitor Murtagh, Eragon swore to me upon every stone in
Alagaësia, and also as a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, that he would strive to avenge Hrothgar’s death.
He has given me the respect and obedience I am due as grimstborith, and I am proud to regard him as
mine foster brother.”


Eragon glanced downward, his cheeks and the tips of his ears burning. He wished Orik were not so free
with his praise; it would only make his position harder to maintain in the future.

Sweeping his arms out to include the other clan chiefs, Orik exclaimed, “Everything we could have ever
wished for in a Dragon Rider we have received in Eragon! He exists! He is powerful! And he has
embraced our people as no other Dragon Rider ever has!” Then Orik lowered his arms and, with them,
the volume of his voice, until Eragon had to strain to hear his words. “How have we responded to his
friendship, though? In the main, with sneers and slights and surly resentment. We are an ungrateful race, I
say, and our memories are too long for our own good. . . . There are even those who have become so
filled with festering hatred, they have turned to violence to slake the thirst of their anger. Perhaps they still
believe they are doing what is best for our people, but if so, then their minds are as moldy as a lump of
year-old cheese. Otherwise, why would they try to kill Eragon?”

The listening clan chiefs became perfectly still, their eyes riveted to Orik’s face. So intense was their
concentration, the corpulent grimstborith, Freowin, had set aside his carving of a raven and folded his
hands on top of his ample belly, appearing for all the world like one of the dwarves’ statues.

As they gazed at him with unblinking eyes, Orik related to the clanmeet how the seven black-clad
dwarves had attacked Eragon and his guards while they were meandering among the tunnels underneath
Tronjheim. Then Orik told them of the braided horsehair bracelet set with amethyst cabochons that
Eragon’s guards had found upon one of the corpses.

“Do not think to blame this attack upon mine clan based upon such paltry evidence!” exclaimed
Vermûnd, bolting upright. “One can buy similar trinkets in most every market of our realm!”

“Quite so,” said Orik, and inclined his head toward Vermûnd. In a dispassionate voice, and with a quick
pace, Orik proceeded to tell his audience, as he had told Eragon the previous night, how his subjects in
Dalgon had confirmed for him that the strange flickering daggers the assassins had wielded had been
forged by the smith Kiefna, and also how his subjects had discovered that the dwarf who had bought the
weapons had arranged for them to be transported from Dalgon to one of the cities held by Az Sweldn
rak Anhûin.

Uttering a low, growling oath, Vermûnd leaped to his feet again. “Those daggers might never have
reached our city, and even if they did, you can draw no conclusions from that fact! Knurlan of many clans
stay within our walls, as they do within the walls of Bregan Hold, for example. It signifiesnothing . Be
careful what you say next, Grimstborith Orik, for you have no grounds upon which to level accusations
against mine clan.”

“I was of the same opinion as you, Grimstborith Vermûnd,” Orik replied. “Therefore, last night, my
spellcasters and I retraced the assassins’ path back to their place of origin, and on the twelfth level of
Tronjheim, we captured three knurlan who were hiding in a dusty storeroom. We broke the minds of two
of them and, from them, we learned they provisioned the assassins for their attack. And,” said Orik, his
voice growing harsh and terrible, “from them we learned the identity of their master. I name you,
Grimstborith Vermûnd! I name you Murderer and Oath-breaker. I name you an enemy of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum, and I name you a traitor to your kind, for it was you and your clan who attempted to kill
Eragon!”

The clanmeet erupted into chaos as every clan chief except Orik and Vermûnd began to shout and wave
their hands and otherwise attempt to dominate the conversation. Eragon stood and loosened his
borrowed sword in its sheath, drawing it out a half inch, so he could respond with all possible speed if


Vermûnd or one of his dwarves chose that moment to attack. Vermûnd did not move, however, nor did
Orik; they stared at each other like rival wolves and paid no attention to the commotion around them.

When at last Gannel succeeded in restoring order, he said, “Grimstborith Vermûnd, can you refute these
charges?”

In a flat, emotionless voice, Vermûnd replied, “I deny them with every bone in my body, and I challenge
anyone to prove them to the satisfaction of a reader-of-law.”

Gannel turned toward Orik. “Present your evidence, then, Grimstborith Orik, that we may judge
whether it is valid or not. There are five readers-of-law here today, if I am not mistaken.” He motioned
toward the wall, where five white-bearded dwarves stood and bowed. “They will ensure that we do not
stray beyond the boundaries of the law in our investigation. Are we agreed?”

“I am agreed,” said Ûndin.

“I am agreed,” said Hadfala and all the rest of the clan chiefs after her save Vermûnd.

First, Orik placed the amethyst bracelet upon the table. Every clan chief had one of their magicians
examine it, and all agreed that as evidence it was inconclusive.

Then Orik had an aide bring in a mirror mounted on a bronze tripod. One of the magicians within his
retinue cast a spell, and upon the glossy surface of the mirror there appeared the image of a small,
book-filled room. A moment passed, and then a dwarf rushed into the room and bowed toward the
clanmeet from within the mirror. In a breathless voice, he introduced himself as Rimmar, and after
swearing oaths in the ancient language to ensure his honesty, he told the clanmeet how he and his
assistants had made their discoveries concerning the daggers Eragon’s attackers had wielded.

When the clan chiefs finished questioning Rimmar, Orik had his warriors bring in the three dwarves the
Ingeitum had captured. Gannel ordered them to swear the oaths of truthfulness in the ancient language,
but they cursed at him and spat on the floor and refused. Then magicians from all of the different clans
joined their thoughts, invaded the prisoners’ minds, and wrested from them the information the clanmeet
desired. Without exception, the magicians confirmed what Orik had already said.

Lastly, Orik called upon Eragon to testify. Eragon felt nervous as he walked over to the table and the
thirteen grim clan chiefs stared at him. He gazed across the room at a small whorl of color on a marble
pillar and tried to ignore his discomfort. He repeated the oaths of truthfulness as one of the dwarf
magicians gave them to him, and then, speaking no more than was necessary, Eragon told the clan chiefs
how he and his guards had been attacked. Afterward, he answered the dwarves’ inevitable questions and
then allowed two of the magicians—whom Gannel chose at random from among those assembled—to
examine his memories of the event. As Eragon lowered the barriers around his mind, he noted that the
two magicians appeared apprehensive, and he drew some comfort from the observation.Good, he
thought.They will be less likely to wander where they should not if they fear me.

To Eragon’s relief, the inspection went without incident, and the magicians corroborated his account to
the clan chiefs.

Gannel rose from his chair and addressed the readers-of-law, asking them: “Are you satisfied with the
quality of the evidence Grimstborith Orik and Eragon Shadeslayer have shown us?”

The five white-bearded dwarves bowed, and the middle dwarf said, “We are, Grimstborith Gannel.”


Gannel grunted, seeming unsurprised. “Grimstborith Vermûnd, you are responsible for the death of
Kvîstor, son of Bauden, and you attempted to kill a guest. By doing so, you have brought shame upon
our entire race. What say you to this?”

The clan chief of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin pressed his hands flat against the table, veins bulging underneath
his tanned skin. “If thisDragon Rider is a knurla in all but blood, then he is no guest and we may treat him
as we would any of our enemies from a different clan.”

“Why, that’s preposterous!” exclaimed Orik, almost sputtering with outrage. “You can’t say he—”

“Still your tongue, if you please, Orik,” said Gannel. “Shouting will not settle this point. Orik, Nado,
Íorûnn, if you will come with me.”

Worry began to gnaw at Eragon as the four dwarves went and conferred with the readers-of-law for
several minutes.Surely they won’t let Vermûnd escape punishment just because of some verbal
trickery! he thought.

Returning to the table, Íorûnn said, “The readers-of-law are unanimous. Even though Eragon is a sworn
member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, he also holds positions of importance beyond our realm: namely, that of
Dragon Rider, but also that of an official envoy of the Varden, sent by Nasuada to witness the coronation
of our next ruler, and also that of a friend of high influence with Queen Islanzadí and her race as a whole.
For those reasons, Eragon is due the same hospitality we would extend to any visiting ambassador,
prince, monarch, or other person of significance.” The dwarf woman glanced sidelong at Eragon, her
dark, flashing eyes bold upon his limbs. “In short, he is our honored guest, and we should treat him as
such . . . which every knurla who is not cave-mad ought to know.”

“Aye, he is our guest,” concurred Nado. His lips were pinched and white and his cheeks drawn, as if he
had just bitten into an apple only to discover it was not yet ripe.

“What say you now, Vermûnd?” demanded Gannel.

Rising from his seat, the purple-veiled dwarf looked around the table, gazing at each of the clan chiefs in
turn. “I say this, and hear me well, grimstborithn: if any clan turns their ax against Az Sweldn rak Anhûin
because of these false accusations, we shall consider it an act of war, and we shall respond
appropriately. If you imprison me, that too we shall consider an act of war, and we shall respond
appropriately.” Eragon saw Vermûnd’s veil twitch, and he thought the dwarf might have smiled
underneath. “If you strike at us in any possible way, whether with steel or with words, no matter how
mild your rebuke, we shall consider it an act of war, and we shall respond appropriately. Unless you are
eager to rend our country into a thousand bloody scraps, I suggest you let the wind waft away this
morning’s discussion and, in its place, fill your minds with thoughts of who should next rule from upon the
granite throne.”

The clan chiefs sat in silence for a long while.

Eragon had to bite his tongue to keep from jumping onto the table and railing against Vermûnd until the
dwarves agreed to hang him for his crimes. He reminded himself that he had promised Orik that he would
follow Orik’s lead when dealing with the clanmeet.Orik is my clan chief, and I must let him respond to
this as he sees fit .

Freowin unfolded his hands and slapped the table with a meaty palm. With his hoarse baritone voice,


which carried throughout the room, although it seemed no louder than a whisper, the corpulent dwarf
said, “You have shamed our race, Vermûnd. We cannot retain our honor as knurlan and ignore your
trespass.”

The elderly dwarf woman, Hadfala, shuffled her sheaf of rune-covered pages and said, “What did you
think to accomplish, besides our doom, by killing Eragon? Even if the Varden could unseat Galbatorix
without him, what of the sorrow the dragon Saphira would rain down upon us if we slew her Rider? She
would fill Farthen Dûr with a sea of our own blood.”

Not a word came from Vermûnd.

Laughter broke the quiet. The sound was so unexpected, at first Eragon did not realize it was coming
from Orik. His mirth subsiding, Orik said, “If we move against you or Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, you will
consider it an act of war, Vermûnd? Very well, then we shall not move against you, not at all.”

Vermûnd’s brow beetled. “How can this provide you with a source of amusement?”

Orik chuckled again. “Because I have thought of something you have not, Vermûnd. You wish us to
leave you and your clan alone? Then I propose to the clanmeet that we do as Vermûnd wishes. If
Vermûnd had acted upon his own and not as a grimstborith, he would be banished for his offenses upon
pain of death. Therefore, let us treat the clan as we would treat the person; let us banish Az Sweldn rak
Anhûin from our hearts and minds until they choose to replace Vermûnd with a grimstborith of a more
moderate temperament and until they acknowledge their villainy and repent of it to the clanmeet, even if
we must wait a thousand years.”

The wrinkled skin around Vermûnd’s eyes went pale. “You would not dare.”

Orik smiled. “Ah, but we would not lay a finger upon you or your kind. We will simply ignore you and
refuse to trade with Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. Will you declare war upon us for doing nothing, Vermûnd?
For if the meet agrees with me, that is exactly what we shall do:nothing . Will you force us at swordpoint
to buy your honey and your cloth and your amethyst jewelry? You have not the warriors to compel us
so.” Turning to the rest of the table, Orik asked, “What say the rest of you?”

The clanmeet did not take long to decide. One by one, the clan chiefs stood and voted to banish Az
Sweldn rak Anhûin. Even Nado, Gáldhiem, and Havard—Vermûnd’s erstwhile allies—supported Orik’s
proposal. With every vote of affirmation, what skin was visible of Vermûnd’s face grew ever whiter, until
he appeared like a ghost dressed in the clothes of his former life.

When the vote was finished, Gannel pointed toward the door and said, “Begone, Vargrimstn Vermûnd.
Leave Tronjheim this very day and may none of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin trouble the clanmeet until they
have fulfilled the conditions we have set forth. Until such time as that happens, we shall shun every
member of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. Know this, however: while your clan may absolve themselves of their
dishonor, you, Vermûnd, shall always remain Vargrimstn, even unto your dying day. Such is the will of
the clan-meet.” His declaration concluded, Gannel sat.

Vermûnd remained where he was, his shoulders quivering with an emotion Eragon could not identify. “It
is you who have shamed and betrayed our race,” he growled. “The Dragon Riders killed all of our clan,
save Anhûin and her guards. You expect us to forget this? You expect us to forgive this? Bah! I spit on
the graves of your ancestors. We at least have not lost our beards. We shall not cavort with this puppet
of the elves while our dead family members still cry out for vengeance.”


Outrage gripped Eragon when none of the other clan chiefs replied, and he was about to answer
Vermûnd’s tirade with harsh words of his own when Orik glanced over at him and shook his head ever
so slightly. Difficult as it was, Eragon kept his anger in check, although he wondered why Orik would
allow such dire insults to pass uncontested.

It is almost as if . . . Oh.

Pushing himself away from the table, Vermûnd stood, his hands balled into fists and his shoulders
hunched high. He resumed speaking, berating and disparaging the clan chiefs with increasing passion until
he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

No matter how vile Vermûnd’s imprecations were, however, the clan chiefs did not respond. They
gazed into the distance, as if pondering complex dilemmas, and their eyes slid over Vermûnd without
pause. When, in his fury, Vermûnd grasped Hreidamar by the front of his mail hauberk, three of
Hreidamar’s guards jumped forward and pulled Vermûnd away, but as they did, Eragon noticed their
expressions remained bland and unchanging, as if they were merely helping Hreidamar to straighten his
hauberk. Once they released Vermûnd, the guards did not look at him again.

A chill crept up Eragon’s spine. The dwarves acted as if Vermûnd had ceased to exist.So this is what it
means to be banished among the dwarves . Eragon thought he would rather be killed than suffer such
a fate, and for a moment, he felt a stir of pity for Vermûnd, but his pity vanished an instant later as he
remembered Kvîstor’s dying expression.

With a final oath, Vermûnd strode out of the room, followed by those of his clan who had accompanied
him to the meet.

The mood among the remaining clan chiefs eased as the doors swung shut behind Vermûnd. Once again
the dwarves gazed around without restriction, and they resumed talking in loud voices, discussing what
else they would need to do with regard to Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.

Then Orik rapped the pommel of his dagger against the table, and everyone turned to hear what he had
to say. “Now that we have dealt with Vermûnd, there is another issue I wish the meet to consider. Our
purpose in assembling here is to elect Hrothgar’s successor. We have all had much to say upon the topic,
but now I believe the time is ripe to put words behind us and allow our actions to speak for us. So I call
upon the meet to decide whether we are ready—and we are more than ready, in mine opinion—to
proceed to the final vote three days hence, as is our law. My vote, as I cast it, is aye.”

Freowin looked at Hadfala, who looked at Gannel, who looked at Manndrâth, who tugged on his
drooping nose and looked at Nado, sunk low in his chair and biting the inside of his cheek.

“Aye,” said Íorûnn.

“Aye,” said Ûndin.

“. . . Aye,” said Nado, and so did the eight other clan chiefs.

Hours later, when the clanmeet broke for lunch, Orik and Eragon returned to Orik’s chambers to eat.
Neither of them spoke until they entered his rooms, which were proofed against eavesdroppers. There
Eragon allowed himself to smile. “You planned all along to banish Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, didn’t you?”


A satisfied expression on his face, Orik smiled as well and slapped his stomach. “That I did. It was the
only action I could take that would not inevitably lead to a clan war. We may still have a clan war, but it
shall not be of our making. I doubt such a calamity will come to pass, though. As much as they hate you,
most of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will be appalled by what Vermûnd has done in their name. He will not
remain grimstborith for long, I think.”

“And now you have ensured that the vote for the new king—”

“Or queen.”

“—or queen shall take place.” Eragon hesitated, reluctant to tarnish Orik’s enjoyment of his triumph, but
then he asked, “Do you really have the support you need to win the throne?”

Orik shrugged. “Before this morning, no one had the support they needed. Now the balance has shifted,
and for the time being, sympathies lie with us. We might as well strike while the iron is hot; we shall never
have a better opportunity than this. In any case, we cannot allow the clanmeet to drag on any longer. If
you do not return to the Varden soon, all may be lost.”

“What shall we do while we wait for the vote?”

“First, we shall celebrate our success with a feast,” Orik declared. “Then, when we are sated, we shall
continue as before: attempting to gather additional votes while defending those we have already won.”
Orik’s teeth flashed white underneath the fringe of his beard as he smiled again. “But before we consume
so much as a single sip of mead, there is something you must attend to, which you have forgotten.”

“What?” asked Eragon, puzzled by Orik’s obvious delight.

“Why, you must summon Saphira to Tronjheim, of course! Whether I become king or not, we shall
crown a new monarch in three days’ time. If Saphira is to attend the ceremony, she will need to fly
quickly in order to arrive here before then.”

With a wordless exclamation, Eragon ran to find a mirror.

INSUBORDINATION

The rich black soil was cool against Roran’s hand. He picked up a loose clod and crumbled it between
his fingers, noting with approval that it was moist and full of decomposing leaves, stems, moss, and other
organic matter that would provide excellent food for crops. He pressed it to his lips and tongue. The soil
tasted alive, full of hundreds of flavors, from pulverized mountains to beetles and punky wood and the
tender tips of grass roots.

This is good farmland,thought Roran. He cast his mind back to Palancar Valley, and again he saw the
autumn sun streaming through the field of barley outside his family’s house—neat rows of golden stalks
shifting in the breeze—with the Anora River to the west and the snowcapped mountains rising high on


either side of the valley.That is where I should be, plowing the earth and raising a family with
Katrina, not watering the ground with the sap of men’s limbs.

“Ho there!” cried Captain Edric, pointing toward Roran from on his horse. “Have an end to your
dawdling, Stronghammer, lest I change my mind about you and leave you to stand guard with the
archers!”

Dusting his hands on his leggings, Roran rose from a kneeling position. “Yes, sir! As you wish, sir!” he
said, suppressing his dislike for Edric. Since he had joined Edric’s company, Roran had attempted to
learn what he could of the man’s history. From what he heard, Roran had concluded Edric was a
competent commander—Nasuada never would have put him in charge of such an important mission
otherwise—but he had an abrasive personality, and he disciplined his warriors for even the slightest
deviation from established practice, as Roran had learned to his chagrin upon three separate occasions
during his first day with Edric’s company. It was, Roran believed, a style of command that undermined a
man’s morale, as well as discouraged creativity and invention from those underneath you.Perhaps
Nasuada gave me to him for those very reasons, thought Roran.Or perhaps this is another test of
hers. Perhaps she wants to know whether I can swallow my pride long enough to work with a
man like Edric .

Getting back onto Snowfire, Roran rode to the front of the column of two hundred and fifty men. Their
mission was simple; since Nasuada and King Orrin had withdrawn the bulk of their forces from Surda,
Galbatorix had apparently decided to take advantage of their absence and wreak havoc throughout the
defenseless country, sacking towns and villages and burning the crops needed to sustain the invasion of
the Empire. The easiest way to eliminate the soldiers would have been for Saphira to fly out and tear
them to pieces, but unless she was winging her way toward Eragon, everyone agreed it would be too
dangerous for the Varden to be without her for so long. So Nasuada had sent Edric’s company to repel
the soldiers, whose number her spies had initially estimated to be around three hundred. However, two
days ago, Roran and the rest of the warriors had been dismayed when they came across tracks that
indicated the size of Galbatorix’s force was closer to seven hundred.

Roran reined in Snowfire next to Carn on his dappled mare and scratched his chin while he studied the
lay of the land. Before them was a vast expanse of undulating grass, dotted with occasional stands of
willow and cottonwood trees. Hawks hunted above, while below, the grass was full of squeaking mice,
rabbits, burrowing rodents, and other wildlife. The only evidence that men had ever visited the place
before was the swath of trampled vegetation that led toward the eastern horizon, marking the soldiers’
trail.

Carn glanced up at the noonday sun, the skin pulling tight around his drooping eyes as he squinted. “We
should overtake them before our shadows are longer than we are tall.”

“And then we’ll discover whether there are enough of us to drive them away,” muttered Roran, “or
whether they will just massacre us. For once I’d like to outnumber our enemies.”

A grim smile appeared on Carn’s face. “It is always thus with the Varden.”

“Form up!” shouted Edric, and spurred his horse down the trail trampled through the grass. Roran
clamped his jaw shut and touched his heels to Snowfire’s flanks as the company followed their captain.

Six hours later, Roran sat on Snowfire, hidden within a cluster of beech trees that grew along the edge of
a small, flat stream clotted with rushes and strands of floating algae. Through the net of branches that


hung before him, Roran gazed upon a crumbling, gray-sided village of no more than twenty houses.
Roran had watched with ever-increasing fury as the villagers had spotted the soldiers advancing from the
west and then had gathered up a few bundles of possessions and fled south, toward the heart of Surda. If
it had been up to him, Roran would have revealed their presence to the villagers and assured them they
were not about to lose their houses, not if he and the rest of his companions could prevent it, for he well
remembered the pain and desperation and sense of hopelessness that abandoning Carvahall had caused
him, and he would have spared them that if he could. Also, he would have asked the men of the village to
fight with them. Another ten or twenty sets of arms might mean the difference between victory or defeat,
and Roran knew better than most the fervor with which people would fight to defend their homes.
However, Edric had rejected the idea and insisted that the Varden remain concealed in the hills southeast
of the village.

“We’re lucky they’re on foot,” murmured Carn, indicating the red column of soldiers marching toward
the village. “We would not have been able to get here first otherwise.”

Roran glanced back at the men gathered behind them. Edric had given him temporary command over
eighty-one warriors. They consisted of swordsmen, spearmen, and a half-dozen archers. One of Edric’s
familiars, Sand, led another eighty-one of the company, while Edric headed the rest himself. All three
groups were pressed against one another among the beech trees, which Roran thought was a mistake;
the time it took to organize themselves once they broke from cover would be extra time the soldiers
would have to marshal their defenses.

Leaning over toward Carn, Roran said, “I don’t see any of them with missing hands or legs or other
injuries of note, but that proves nothing one way or another. Can you tell if any of them are men who
cannot feel pain?”

Carn sighed. “I wish I could. Your cousin might be able to, for Murtagh and Galbatorix are the only
spellcasters Eragon need fear, but I am a poor magician, and I dare not test the soldiers. If there are any
magicians disguised among the soldiers, they would know of my spying, and there is every chance I
would not be able to break their minds before they alerted their companions we are here.”

“We seem to have this discussion every time we are about to fight,” Roran observed, studying the
soldiers’ armaments and trying to decide how best to deploy his men.

With a laugh, Carn said, “That’s all right. I only hope we keep having it, because if not—”

“One or both of us will be dead—”

“Or Nasuada will have reassigned us to different captains—”

“And then we might as well be dead, because no one else will guard our backs as well,” Roran
concluded. A smile touched his lips. It had become an old joke between them. He drew his hammer from
his belt and then winced as his right leg twinged where the ox had ripped his flesh with its horn. Scowling,
he reached down and massaged the location of the wound.

Carn saw and asked, “Are you well?”

“It won’t kill me,” said Roran, then reconsidered his words. “Well, maybe it will, but I’ll be blasted if I’m
going to wait here while you go off and cut those bumbling oafs to pieces.”

When the soldiers reached the village, they marched straight through it, pausing only to break down the


door to each house and tramp through the rooms to see if anyone was hiding inside. A dog ran out from
behind a rain barrel, his ruff standing on end, and began barking at the soldiers. One of the men stepped
forward and threw his spear at the dog, killing it.

As the first of the soldiers reached the far side of the village, Roran tightened his hand around the haft of
his hammer in preparation for the charge, but then he heard a series of high-pitched screams, and a sense
of dread gripped him. A squad of soldiers emerged from the second-to-last house, dragging three
struggling people: a lanky, white-haired man, a young woman with a torn blouse, and a boy no older than
eleven.

Sweat sprang up on Roran’s brow. In a low, slow monotone, he began to swear, cursing the three
captives for not having fled with their neighbors, cursing the soldiers for what they had done and might yet
do, cursing Galbatorix, and cursing whatever whim of fate had resulted in the situation as it was. Behind
him, he was aware of his men shifting and muttering with anger, eager to punish the soldiers for their
brutality.

Having searched all of the houses, the mass of soldiers retraced their steps to the center of the village
and formed a rough semicircle around their prisoners.

Yes!crowed Roran to himself as the soldiers turned their backs to the Varden. Edric’s plan had been to
wait for them to do just that. In anticipation of the order to charge, Roran rose up several inches above
his saddle, his entire body tense. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

The officer in charge of the soldiers, who was the only man among them on a horse, dismounted his
steed and exchanged a few inaudible words with the white-haired villager. Without warning, the officer
drew his saber and decapitated the man, then hopped backward to avoid the resulting spray of blood.
The young woman screamed even louder than before.

“Charge,” said Edric.

It took Roran a half second to comprehend that the word Edric had uttered so calmly was the command
he had been waiting for.

“Charge!” shouted Sand on the other side of Edric, and galloped out of the copse of beech trees along
with his men.

“Charge!” shouted Roran, and dug his heels into Snowfire’s sides. He ducked behind his shield as
Snowfire carried him through the net of branches, then lowered it again when they were in the open,
flying down the side of the hill, with the thunder of hoofbeats surrounding them. Desperate to save the
woman and the boy, Roran urged Snowfire to the limit of his speed. Looking back, he was heartened to
see that his contingent of men had separated from the rest of the Varden without too much trouble; aside
from a few stragglers, the majority were in a single bunch not thirty feet behind him.

Roran glimpsed Carn riding at the vanguard of Edric’s men, his gray cloak flapping in the wind. Once
again, Roran wished Edric had allowed them to remain in the same group.

As were his orders, Roran did not enter the village head-on, but rather veered to the left and rode
around the buildings, so as to flank the soldiers and attack them from another direction. Sand did the
same on the right, while Edric and his warriors drove straight into the village.

A line of houses concealed the initial clash from Roran, but he heard a chorus of frantic shouts, then a


series of strange, metallic twangs, and then the screams of men and horses.

Worry knotted Roran’s gut.What was that noise? Could it be metal bows? Do they exist?
Regardless of the cause, he knew there should not have been so many horses crying out in agony.
Roran’s limbs went cold as he realized with utter certainty that the attack had somehow gone wrong and
that the battle might already be lost.

He pulled hard on Snowfire’s reins as they passed the last house, steering him toward the center of the
village. Behind him, his men did the same. Two hundred yards ahead, Roran saw a triple line of soldiers
positioned between two houses, so as to block their way. The soldiers seemed unafraid of the horses
racing toward them.

Roran hesitated. His orders were clear: he and his men were to charge the western flank and cut their
way through Galbatorix’s troops until they rejoined Sand and Edric. However, Edric had not told Roran
what he should do if riding straight up to the soldiers no longer seemed a good idea once he and his men
were in position. And Roran knew that if he deviated from his orders, even if it was to prevent his men
from being massacred, he would be guilty of insubordination and Edric could punish him accordingly.

Then the soldiers swept aside their voluminous cloaks and raised drawn crossbows to their shoulders.

In that instant, Roran decided that he would do whatever was necessary in order to ensure the Varden
won the battle. He was not about to let the soldiers destroy his force with a single volley of arrows just
because he wished to avoid the unpleasant consequences of defying his captain.

“Take cover!” shouted Roran, and wrenched Snowfire’s head to the right, forcing the animal to swerve
behind a house. A dozen quarrels buried themselves in the side of the building a second later. Turning
around, Roran saw that all but one of his warriors had managed to duck behind nearby houses before the
soldiers fired. The man who had been too slow lay bleeding in the dirt, a pair of quarrels projecting from
his chest. The bolts had torn through his mail hauberk as if it were no thicker than a sheet of tissue.
Frightened by the smell of blood, his horse kicked up its heels and fled the village, leaving a plume of dust
rising in its wake.

Roran reached over and grasped the edge of a beam in the side of the house, holding Snowfire in place
while he desperately tried to figure out how to proceed. The soldiers had him and his men pinned down;
they could not step back out into the open without being shot so full of quarrels, they would resemble
hedgehogs.

A group of Roran’s warriors rode up to him from a house that his own building partially shielded from
the soldiers’ line of sight. “What should we do, Stronghammer?” they asked him. They did not seem
bothered by the fact that he had disobeyed his orders; to the contrary, they looked at him with
expressions of newfound trust.

Thinking as fast as he could, Roran cast his gaze around. By chance, his eyes alighted upon the bow and
quiver strapped behind one of the men’s saddles. Roran smiled. Only a few of the warriors fought as
archers, but they all carried a bow and arrows so they could hunt for food and help feed the company
when they were alone in the wilderness, without support from the rest of the Varden.

Roran pointed toward the house he was leaning against and said, “Take your bows and climb onto the
roof, as many of you as will fit, but if you value your lives, stay out of sight until I say otherwise. When I
tell you to, start shooting and keep shooting until you run out of arrows or until every last soldier is dead.
Understood?”


“Yes, sir!”

“Get going, then. The rest of you, find buildings of your own where you can pick off the soldiers. Harald,
spread the word to everyone else, and find ten of our best spearmen and ten of our best swordsmen and
bring them here as fast as you can.”

“Yes, sir!”

With a flurry of motion, the warriors hurried to obey. Those who were closest to Roran retrieved their
bows and quivers from behind their saddles and then, standing upon the backs of their horses, pulled
themselves onto the thatched roof of the house. Four minutes later, the majority of Roran’s men were in
place on the roofs of seven different houses—with about eight men per roof—and Harald had returned
with the requested swordsmen and spearmen in tow.

To the warriors gathered around him, Roran said, “Right, now listen. When I give the order, the men up
there will start shooting. As soon as the first flight of arrows strikes the soldiers, we’re going to ride out
and attempt to rescue Captain Edric. If we can’t, we’ll have to settle for giving the red-tunics a taste of
good cold steel. The archers should provide enough confusion for us to close with the soldiers before
they can use their crossbows. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then fire!” Roran shouted.

With full-throated yells, the men stationed on the houses rose up above the ridges of the roofs and, as
one, fired their bows at the soldiers below. The swarm of arrows whistled through the air like
bloodthirsty shrikes diving toward their prey.

An instant later, when soldiers began to howl with agony at their wounds, Roran said, “Nowride !” and
jabbed his heels into Snowfire.

Together, he and his men galloped around the side of the house, pulling their steeds into such a tight turn
that they nearly fell over. Relying on his speed and the skill of the archers for protection, Roran skirted
the soldiers, who were flailing in disarray, until he came upon the site of Edric’s disastrous charge. There
the ground was slick with blood, and the corpses of many good men and fine horses littered the space
between the houses. Edric’s remaining forces were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the soldiers.
To Roran’s surprise, Edric was still alive, fighting back to back with five of his men.

“Stay with me!” Roran shouted to his companions as they raced into the battle.

Lashing out with his hooves, Snowfire knocked two soldiers to the ground, breaking their sword arms
and staving in their rib cages. Pleased with the stallion, Roran laid about himself with his hammer, snarling
with the fierce joy of battle as he felled soldier after soldier, none of whom could withstand the ferocity of
his assault. “To me!” he shouted as he drew abreast of Edric and the other survivors. “To me!” In front
of him, arrows continued to rain down upon the mass of soldiers, forcing them to cover themselves with
their shields while at the same time trying to fend off the Varden’s swords and spears.

Once he and his warriors had surrounded the Varden who were on foot, Roran shouted, “Back! Back!
To the houses!” Step by step, the lot of them withdrew until they were out of reach of the soldiers’
blades, and then they turned and ran toward the nearest house. The soldiers shot and killed three of the


Varden along the way, but the rest arrived at the building unharmed.

Edric slumped against the side of the house, gasping for breath. When again he was able to speak, he
gestured at Roran’s men and said, “Your intervention is most timely and welcome, Stronghammer, but
why do I see you here, and not riding out from among the soldiers, as I expected?”

Then Roran explained what he had done and pointed out the archers on the roofs.

A dark scowl appeared on Edric’s brow as he listened to Roran’s account. However, he did not
chastise Roran for his disobedience but merely said, “Have those men come down at once. They have
succeeded in breaking the soldiers’ discipline. Now we must rely upon honest blade-work to dispose of
them.”

“There are too few of us left to attack the soldiers directly!” protested Roran. “They outnumber us better
than three to one.”

“Then we shall make up in valor what we lack in numbers!” Edric bellowed. “I was told you had
courage, Stronghammer, but obviously rumor is mistaken and you are as timid as a frightened rabbit.
Now do as you’re told, and do not question me again!” The captain indicated one of Roran’s warriors.
“You there, lend me your steed.” After the man dismounted, Edric pulled himself into the saddle and said,
“Half of you on horse, follow me; I go to reinforce Sand. Every one else, remain with Roran.” Kicking his
mount in the sides, Edric galloped away with the men who chose to follow him, racing from building to
building as they worked their way around the soldiers clumped in the center of the village.

Roran shook with fury as he watched them depart. Never before had he allowed anyone to question his
courage without answering his critic with words or blows. So long as the battle persisted, however, it
would be inappropriate for him to confront Edric.Very well, Roran thought,I shall demonstrate to
Edric the courage he thinks I lack. But that is all he shall have from me. I will not send the archers
to fight the soldiers face to face when they are safer and more effective where they are .

Roran turned and inspected the men Edric had left to him. Among those they had rescued, Roran was
delighted to see Carn, who was scratched and bloody but, on the whole, unharmed. They nodded to
each other, and then Roran addressed the group: “You have heard what Edric said. I disagree. If we do
as he wishes, all of us will end up piled in a cairn before sunset. We can still win this battle, but not by
marching to our own deaths! What we lack in numbers, we can make up with cunning. You know how I
came to join the Varden. You know I have fought and defeated the Empire before, and in just such a
village! This I can do, I swear to you. But I cannot do it alone. Will you follow me? Think carefully. I will
claim responsibility for ignoring Edric’s orders, but he and Nasuada may still punish everyone who was
involved.”

“Then they would be fools,” growled Carn. “Would they prefer that we died here? No, I think not. You
may count on me, Roran.”

As Carn made his declaration, Roran saw how the other men squared their shoulders and set their jaws
and how their eyes burned with renewed determination, and he knew they had decided to cast their lot
with him, if only because they would not want to be parted from the only magician in their company.
Many was the warrior of the Varden who owed his life to a member of Du Vrangr Gata, and the
men-at-arms Roran had met would sooner stab themselves in a foot than go into battle without a
spellcaster close at hand.

“Aye,” said Harald. “You may count on us as well, Stronghammer.”


“Then follow me!” said Roran. Reaching down, he pulled Carn up onto Snowfire behind himself, then
hurried with his group back around the village to where the bowmen on the roofs continued to fire arrows
at the soldiers. As Roran and the men with him dashed from house to house, quarrels buzzed past
them—sounding like giant, angry insects—and one even buried itself halfway through Harald’s shield.

Once they were safely behind cover, Roran had the men who were still mounted give their bows and
arrows to the men on foot, whom he then sent to climb the houses and join the other archers. As they
scrambled to obey him, Roran beckoned to Carn, who had jumped off Snowfire the moment they
ceased moving, and said, “I need a spell of you. Can you shield me and ten others from these bolts?”

Carn hesitated. “For how long?”

“A minute? An hour? Who knows?”

“Shielding that many people from more than a handful of bolts would soon exceed the bounds of my
strength. . . . Although, if you don’t care if I stop the bolts in their tracks, I could deflect them from you,
which—”

“That would be fine.”

“Who exactly do you want me to protect?”

Roran pointed at the men he had picked to join him, and Carn asked each of them their names. Standing
with his shoulders hunched inward, Carn began to mutter in the ancient language, his face pale and
strained. Three times he tried to cast the spell, and three times he failed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and
released an unsteady breath. “I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Blast it, don’t apologize,” growled Roran. “Just do it!” Leaping down from Snowfire, he grasped Carn
on either side of his head, holding him in place. “Look at me! Look into the center of my eyes. That’s it.
Keep staring at me. . . . Good. Now place the ward around us.”

Carn’s features cleared and his shoulders loosened, and then, in a confident voice, he recited the
incantation. As he uttered the last word, he sagged slightly in Roran’s grip before recovering. “It is done,”
he said.

Roran patted him on the shoulder, then clambered into Snowfire’s saddle again. Sweeping his gaze over
the ten horsemen, he said, “Guard my sides and my back, but otherwise keep behind me so long as I am
able to swing my hammer.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Remember, the bolts cannot harm you now. Carn, you stay here. Don’t move too much; conserve your
strength. If you feel like you can’t maintain the spell any longer, signal us before you end it. Agreed?”

Carn sat on the front step of the house and nodded. “Agreed.”

Renewing his grip on his shield and hammer, Roran took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself.
“Brace yourselves,” he said, and clucked his tongue to Snowfire.

With the ten horsemen following, Roran rode out into the middle of the dirt street that ran between the


houses and faced the soldiers once more. Five hundred or so of Galbatorix’s troops remained in the
center of the village, most of them crouching or kneeling behind their shields while they struggled to
reload their crossbows. Occasionally, a soldier would stand and loose a bolt at one of the archers on the
roofs before dropping back behind his shield as a flight of arrows sliced through the air where he had just
been. Throughout the corpse-strewn clearing, patches of arrows studded the ground, like reeds sprouting
from the bloody soil. Several hundred feet away, on the far side of the soldiers, Roran could see a knot
of thrashing bodies, and he assumed that was where Sand, Edric, and whatever remained of their forces
were fighting the soldiers. If the young woman and the boy were still in the clearing, he did not notice
them.

A quarrel buzzed toward Roran. When the bolt was less than a yard from his chest, it abruptly changed
direction and hurtled off at an angle, missing him and his men. Roran flinched, but the missile was already
past. His throat constricted, and his heartbeat doubled.

Glancing around, Roran spotted a broken wagon leaning against a house off to his left. He pointed at it
and said, “Pull that over here and lay it upside down. Block as much of the street as you can.” To the
archers, he shouted, “Don’t let the soldiers sneak around and attack us from the sides! When they come
at us, thin out their ranks as much as you can. And as soon as you run out of arrows, come join us.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Just be careful you don’t shoot us by accident, or I swear I’ll haunt your halls for the rest of time!”

“Yes, sir!”

More quarrels flew at Roran and the other horsemen in the street, but in every case, the bolts glanced off
Carn’s ward and veered into a wall or the ground or vanished into the sky.

Roran watched his men drag the wagon into the street. When they were nearly finished, he lifted his chin,
filled his lungs, and then, projecting his voice toward the soldiers, he roared, “Ho there, you cowering
carrion dogs! See how only eleven of us bar your way. Win past us, and you win your freedom. Try your
hand if you have the guts. What? You hesitate? Where is your manhood, you deformed maggots, you
bilious, swine-faced murderers? Your fathers were dribbling half-wits who should have been drowned at
birth! Aye, and your mothers were poxy trollops and the consorts of Urgals!” Roran smiled with
satisfaction as several of the soldiers howled with outrage and began to insult him in return. One of the
soldiers, however, seemed to lose his will to continue fighting, for he sprang to his feet and ran
northward, covering himself with his shield and darting from side to side in a desperate attempt to avoid
the archers. Despite his efforts, the Varden shot him dead before he had gone more than a hundred feet.
“Ha!” exclaimed Roran. “Cowards you are, every last one of you, you verminous river rats! If it will give
you spine, then know this: Roran Stronghammer is my name, and Eragon Shadeslayer is my cousin! Kill
me, and that foul king of yours will reward you with an earldom, or more. But you will have to kill me
with a blade; your crossbows are of no use against me. Come now, you slugs; you leeches; you starving,
white-bellied ticks! Come and best me if you can!”

With a flurry of battle-cries, a group of thirty soldiers dropped their crossbows, drew their flashing
swords, and, with shields held high, ran toward Roran and his men.

From over his right shoulder, Roran heard Harald say, “Sir, there are many more of them than us.”

“Aye,” Roran said, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching soldiers. Four of them stumbled and then
lay motionless on the ground, pierced through by numerous shafts.


“If they all charge us at once, we won’t stand a chance.”

“Yes, but they won’t. Look, they’re confused and disorganized. Their commander must have fallen. As
long as we maintain order, they cannot overwhelm us.”

“But, Stronghammer, we cannot kill that many men ourselves!”

Roran glanced back at Harald. “Of course we can! We fight to protect our families and to reclaim our
homes and our lands. They fight because Galbatorix forces them to. They have not the heart for this
battle. So think of your families, think of your homes, and remember it is they you are defending. A man
who fights for something greater than himself may kill a hundred enemies with ease!” As he spoke, Roran
saw in his mind an image of Katrina clad in her blue wedding dress, and he smelled the scent of her skin,
and he heard the muted tones of her voice from their discussions late at night.

Katrina.

Then the soldiers were upon them, and for a span Roran heard nothing but the thud of swords bouncing
off his shield and the clang of his hammer as he struck the soldiers’ helms and the cries of the soldiers as
they crumpled underneath his blows. The soldiers threw themselves against him with desperate strength,
but they were no match for him or his men. When he vanquished the last of the attacking soldiers, Roran
burst out laughing, exhilarated. What a joy it was to crush those who would harm his wife and his unborn
child!

He was pleased to see that none of his warriors had been seriously injured. He also noticed that during
the fray, several of the archers had descended from the roofs to fight on horseback with them. Roran
grinned at the newcomers and said, “Welcome to the battle!”

“A warm welcome indeed!” one of them replied.

Pointing with his gore-covered hammer toward the right side of the street, Roran said, “You, you, and
you, pile the bodies over there. Make a funnel out of them and the wagon, so that only two or three
soldiers can get to us at once.”

“Yes, sir!” the warriors answered, swinging down from their horses.

A quarrel whizzed toward Roran. He ignored it and focused on the main body of soldiers, where a
group, perhaps a hundred strong, was massing in preparation for a second onslaught. “Hurry!” he
shouted to the men shifting the corpses. “They’re almost upon us. Harald, go help.”

Roran wet his lips, nervous, as he watched his men labor while the soldiers advanced. To his relief, the
four Varden dragged the last body into place and clambered back onto their steeds moments before the
wave of soldiers struck.

The houses on either side of the street, as well as the overturned wagon and the gruesome barricade of
human remains, slowed and compressed the flow of soldiers, until they were nearly at a standstill when
they reached Roran. The soldiers were packed so tightly, they were helpless to escape the arrows that
streaked toward them from above.

The first two ranks of soldiers carried spears, with which they menaced Roran and the other Varden.
Roran parried three separate thrusts, cursing the whole while as he realized that he could not reach past


the spears with his hammer. Then a soldier stabbed Snowfire in the shoulder, and Roran leaned forward
to keep from being thrown as the stallion squealed and reared.

As Snowfire landed on all fours, Roran slid out of the saddle, keeping the stallion between him and the
hedge of spear-wielding soldiers. Snowfire bucked as another spear pierced his hide. Before the soldiers
could wound him again, Roran pulled on Snowfire’s reins and forced him to prance backward until there
was enough room among the other horses for the stallion to turn around. “Yah!” he shouted, and slapped
Snowfire on the rump, sending him galloping out of the village.

“Make way!” Roran bellowed, waving at the Varden. They cleared a path for him between their steeds,
and he bounded to the forefront of the fight again, sticking his hammer through his belt as he did.

A soldier jabbed a spear at Roran’s chest. He blocked it with his wrist, bruising himself on the hard
wooden shaft, and then yanked the spear out of the soldier’s hands. The man fell flat on his face. Twirling
the weapon, Roran stabbed the man, then lunged forward and lanced two more soldiers. Roran took a
wide stance, planting his feet firmly in the rich soil where once he would have sought to raise crops, and
shook the spear at his foes, shouting, “Come, you misbegotten bastards! Kill me if you can! I am Roran
Stronghammer, and I fear no man alive!”

The soldiers shuffled forward, three men stepping over the bodies of their former comrades to exchange
blows with Roran. Dancing to the side, Roran drove his spear into the jaw of the rightmost soldier,
shattering his teeth. A pennant of blood trailed the blade as Roran withdrew the weapon and, dropping to
one knee, impaled the central soldier through an armpit.

An impact jarred Roran’s left shoulder. His shield seemed to double in weight. Rising, he saw a spear
buried in the oak planks of his shield and the remaining soldier of the trio rushing at him with a drawn
sword. Roran lifted his spear above his head as if he were about to throw it and, when the soldier
faltered, kicked him between the fork of his legs. He dispatched the man with a single blow. During the
momentary lull in combat that followed, Roran disengaged his arm from the useless shield and cast it and
the attached spear under the feet of his enemies, hoping to tangle their legs.

More soldiers shuffled forward, quailing before Roran’s feral grin and stabbing spear. A mound of
bodies grew before him. When it reached the height of his waist, Roran bounded to the top of the
blood-soaked berm, and there he remained, despite the treacherous footing, for the height gave him an
advantage. Since the soldiers were forced to climb up a ramp of corpses to reach him, he was able to kill
many of them when they stumbled over an arm or a leg or stepped upon the soft neck of one of their
predecessors or slipped on a slanting shield.

From his elevated position, Roran could see that the rest of the soldiers had chosen to join the assault,
save for a score across the village who were still battling Sand’s and Edric’s warriors. He realized he
would have no more rest until the battle had concluded.

Roran acquired dozens of wounds as the day wore on. Many of his injuries were minor—a cut on the
inside of a forearm, a broken finger, a scratch across his ribs where a dagger had shorn through his
mail—but others were not. From where he lay on the pile of bodies, a soldier stabbed Roran through his
right calf muscle, hobbling him. Soon afterward, a heavyset man smelling of onions and cheese fell against
Roran and, with his dying breath, shoved the bolt of a crossbow into Roran’s left shoulder, which
thereafter prevented Roran from lifting his arm overhead. Roran left the bolt embedded in his flesh, for he
knew he might bleed to death if he pulled it out. Pain became Roran’s ruling sensation; every movement
caused him fresh agony, but to stand still was to die, and so he kept dealing death-blows, regardless of
his wounds and regardless of his weariness.


Roran was sometimes aware of the Varden behind or beside him, such as when they threw a spear past
him, or when the blade of a sword would dart around his shoulder to fell a soldier who was about to
brain him, but for the most part Roran faced the soldiers alone, because of the pile of bodies he stood on
and the restricted amount of space between the overturned wagon and the sides of the houses. Above,
the archers who still had arrows maintained their lethal barrage, their gray-goose shafts penetrating bone
and sinew alike.

Late in the battle, Roran thrust his spear at a soldier, and as the tip struck the man’s armor, the haft
cracked and split along its length. That he was still alive seemed to catch the soldier by surprise, for he
hesitated before swinging his sword in retaliation. His imprudent delay allowed Roran to duck underneath
the length of singing steel and seize another spear from the ground, with which he slew the soldier. To
Roran’s dismay and disgust, the second spear lasted less than a minute before it too shattered in his grip.
Throwing the splintered remains at the soldiers, Roran took a shield from a corpse and drew his hammer
from his belt. His hammer, at least, had never failed him.

Exhaustion proved to be Roran’s greatest adversary as the last of the soldiers gradually approached,
each man waiting his turn to duel him. Roran’s limbs felt heavy and lifeless, his vision flickered, and he
could not seem to get enough air, and yet he somehow always managed to summon the energy to defeat
his next opponent. As his reflexes slowed, the soldiers dealt him numerous cuts and bruises that he could
have easily avoided earlier.

When gaps appeared between the soldiers, and through them Roran could see open space, he knew his
ordeal was nearly at an end. He did not offer the final twelve men mercy, nor did they ask it of him, even
though they could not have hoped to battle their way past him as well as the Varden beyond. Nor did
they attempt to flee. Instead, they rushed at him, snarling, cursing, desiring only to kill the man who had
slain so many of their comrades before they too passed into the void.

In a way, Roran admired their courage.

Arrows sprouted from the chests of four of the men, downing them. A spear thrown from somewhere
behind Roran took a fifth man under the collarbone, and he too toppled onto a bed of corpses. Two
more spears claimed their victims, and then the men reached Roran. The lead soldier hewed at Roran
with a spiked ax. Although Roran could feel the head of the crossbow bolt grating against his bone, he
threw up his left arm and blocked the ax with his shield. Howling with pain and anger, as well as an
overwhelming desire for the battle to end, Roran whipped his hammer around and slew the soldier with a
blow to the head. Without pause, Roran hopped forward on his good leg and struck the next soldier
twice in the chest before he could defend himself, cracking his ribs. The third man parried two of Roran’s
attacks, but then Roran deceived him with a feint and slew him as well. The final two soldiers converged
on Roran from either side, swinging at his ankles as they climbed to the summit of the piled corpses. His
strength flagging, Roran sparred with them for a long and wearisome while, both giving and receiving
wounds, until at last he killed one man by caving in his helm and the other by breaking his neck with a
well-placed blow.

Roran swayed and then collapsed.

He felt himself being lifted up and opened his eyes to see Harald holding a wineskin to his lips. “Drink
this,” Harald said. “You’ll feel better.”

His chest heaving, Roran consumed several draughts between gasps. The sun-warmed wine stung the
inside of his battered mouth. He felt his legs steady and said, “It’s all right; you can let go of me now.”


Roran leaned against his hammer and surveyed the battleground. For the first time he appreciated how
high the mound of bodies had grown; he and his companions stood at least twenty feet in the air, which
was nearly level with the tops of the houses on either side. Roran saw that most of the soldiers had died
of arrows, but even so, he knew that he had slain a vast number by himself.

“How . . . how many?” he asked Harald.

The blood-spattered warrior shook his head. “I lost count after thirty-two. Perhaps another can say.
What you did, Stronghammer . . . Never have I seen such a feat before, not by a man of human abilities.
The dragon Saphira chose well; the men of your family are fighters like no others. Your prowess is
unmatched by any mortal, Stronghammer. However many you slew here today, I—”

“It was one hundred and ninety-three!” cried Carn, clambering toward them from below.

“Are you sure?” asked Roran, unbelieving.

Carn nodded as he reached them. “Aye! I watched, andI kept careful count. One hundred and
ninety-three, it was—ninety-four if you count the man you stabbed through the gut before the archers
finished him off.”

The tally astounded Roran. He had not suspected the total was quite so large. A hoarse chuckle
escaped him. “A pity there are no more of them. Another seven and I would have an even two hundred.”

The other men laughed as well.

His thin face furrowed with concern, Carn reached for the bolt sticking out of Roran’s left shoulder,
saying, “Here, let me see to your wounds.”

“No!” said Roran, and brushed him away. “There may be others who are more seriously injured than I
am. Tend to them first.”

“Roran, several of those cuts could prove fatal unless I stanch the bleeding. It won’t take but a—”

“I’m fine,” he growled. “Leave me alone.”

“Roran, just look at yourself!”

He did and averted his gaze. “Be quick about it, then.” Roran stared into the featureless sky, his mind
empty of thought while Carn pulled the bolt out of his shoulder and muttered various spells. In every spot
where the magic took effect, Roran felt his skin itch and crawl, followed by a blessed cessation of pain.
When Carn had finished, Roran still hurt, but he did not hurt quite so badly, and his mind was clearer than
before.

The healing left Carn gray-faced and shaking. He leaned against his knees until his tremors stopped. “I
will go . . .” He paused for breath. “. . . go help the rest of the wounded now.” He straightened and
picked his way down the mound, lurching from side to side as if he were drunk.

Roran watched him go, concerned. Then it occurred to him to wonder about the fate of the rest of their
expedition. He looked toward the far side of the village and saw nothing but scattered bodies, some clad
in the red of the Empire, others in the brown wool favored by the Varden. “What of Edric and Sand?” he


asked Harald.

“I’m sorry, Stronghammer, but I saw nothing beyond the reach of my sword.”

Calling to the few men who still stood on the roofs of the houses, Roran asked, “What of Edric and

Sand?”

“We do not know, Stronghammer!” they replied.

Steadying himself with his hammer, Roran slowly picked his way down the tumbled ramp of bodies and,
with Harald and three other men by his side, crossed the clearing in the center of the village, executing
every soldier they found still alive. When they arrived at the edge of the clearing, where the number of
slain Varden surpassed the number of slain soldiers, Harald banged his sword on his shield and shouted,
“Is anyone still alive?”

After a moment, a voice came back at them from among the houses: “Name yourself!”

“Harald and Roran Stronghammer and others of the Varden. If you serve the Empire, then surrender, for
your comrades are dead and you cannot defeat us!”

From somewhere between the houses came a crash of falling metal, and then in ones and twos, warriors
of the Varden emerged from hiding and limped toward the clearing, many of them supporting their
wounded comrades. They appeared dazed, and some were stained with so much blood, Roran at first

mistook them for captured soldiers. He counted four-and-twenty men. Among the final group of
stragglers was Edric, helping along a man who had lost his right arm during the fighting.

Roran motioned, and two of his men hurried to relieve Edric of his burden. The captain straightened
from under the weight. With slow steps, he walked over to Roran and looked him straight in the eye, his
expression unreadable. Neither he nor Roran moved, and Roran was aware that the clearing had grown
exceptionally quiet.

Edric was the first to speak. “How many of your men survived?”

“Most. Not all, but most.”

Edric nodded. “And Carn?”

“He lives. . . . What of Sand?”

“A soldier shot him during his charge. He died but a few minutes ago.” Edric looked past Roran, then

toward the mound of bodies. “You defied my orders, Stronghammer.”

“I did.”

Edric held out an open hand toward him.

“Captain, no!” exclaimed Harald, stepping forward. “If it weren’t for Roran, none of us would be

standing here. And you should have seen what he did; he slew nearly two hundred by himself!”

Harald’s pleas made no impression on Edric, who continued to hold out his hand. Roran remained
impassive as well.


Turning to him then, Harald said, “Roran, you know the men are yours. Just say the word, and we
will—”

Roran silenced him with a glare. “Don’t be a fool.”
Between thin lips, Edric said, “At least you are not completely devoid of sense. Harald, keep your teeth
shut unless you want to lead the packhorses the whole way back.”


Lifting his hammer, Roran handed it to Edric. Then he unbuckled his belt, upon which hung his sword


and his dagger, and those too he surrendered to Edric. “I have no other weapons,” he said.
Edric nodded, grim, and slung the sword belt over one shoulder. “Roran Stronghammer, I hereby relieve
you of command. Have I your word of honor you will not attempt to flee?”


“You do.”
“Then you will make yourself useful where you may, but in all else, you will comport yourself as a


prisoner.” Edric looked around and pointed at another warrior. “Fuller, you will assume Roran’s position
until we return to the main body of the Varden and Nasuada can decide what is to be done about this.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fuller.


For several hours, Roran bent his back alongside the other warriors as they collected their dead and
buried them on the outskirts of the village. During the process, Roran learned that only nine of his
eighty-one warriors had died in the battle, while between them, Edric and Sand had lost almost a
hundred and fifty men, and Edric would have lost more, except that a handful of his warriors had
remained with Roran after he rode to their rescue.

When they finished interring their casualties, the Varden retrieved their arrows, then built a pyre in the
center of the village, stripped the soldiers of their gear, dragged them onto the pile of wood, and set it
ablaze. The burning bodies filled the sky with a pillar of greasy black smoke that drifted upward for what
seemed like miles. Through it, the sun appeared as a flat red disk.

The young woman and the boy the soldiers had captured were nowhere to be found. Since their bodies
were not among the dead, Roran guessed the two had fled the village when the fighting broke out, which,
he thought, was probably the best thing they could have done. He wished them luck, wherever they had
gone.

To Roran’s pleased surprise, Snowfire trotted back into the village minutes before the Varden were to
depart. At first the stallion was skittish and standoffish, allowing no one to approach, but by talking to him
in a low voice, Roran managed to calm the stallion enough to clean and bandage the wounds in the
horse’s shoulder. Since it would be unwise to ride Snowfire until he was fully healed, Roran tied him to
the front of the packhorses, which the stallion took an immediate dislike to, flattening his ears, flicking his
tail from side to side, and curling his lips to bare his teeth.

“Behave yourself,” said Roran, stroking his neck. Snowfire rolled an eyeball at him and nickered, his
ears relaxing slightly.


Then Roran pulled himself onto a gelding that had belonged to one of the dead Varden and took his
place at the rear of the line of men assembled between the houses. Roran ignored the many glances they
directed at him, although it heartened him when several of the warriors murmured, “Well done.”

As he sat waiting for Edric to give the command to start forward, Roran thought of Nasuada and
Katrina and Eragon, and a cloud of dread shadowed his thoughts as he wondered how they would react
when they learned of his mutiny. Roran pushed away his worries a second later.I did what was right
and necessary, he told himself.I won’t regret it, no matter what may come of it .

“Move on out!” shouted Edric from the head of the procession.

Roran spurred his steed into a brisk walk, and as one, he and the other men rode west, away from the
village, leaving the pile of soldiers to burn itself to extinction.