Eldest Part 1

A TWIN DISASTER


The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.

So thought Eragon as he stepped over a twisted and hacked Urgal, listening
to the keening of women who removed loved ones from the
blood-muddied ground of Farthen Dûr. Behind him Saphira delicately
skirted the corpse, her glittering blue scales the only color in the gloom
that filled the hollow mountain.

It was three days since the Varden and dwarves had fought the Urgals
for possession of Tronjheim, the mile-high, conical city nestled in the
center of Farthen Dûr, but the battlefield was still strewn with carnage.
The sheer number of bodies had stymied their attempts to bury the dead.
In the distance, a mountainous fire glowed sullenly by Farthen Dûr’s wall
where the Urgals were being burned. No burial or honored resting place
for them.

Since waking to find his wound healed by Angela, Eragon had tried
three times to assist in the recovery effort. On each occasion he had been
racked by terrible pains that seemed to explode from his spine. The healers
gave him various potions to drink. Arya and Angela said that he was
perfectly sound. Nevertheless, he hurt. Nor could Saphira help, only
share his pain as it rebounded across their mental link.

Eragon ran a hand over his face and looked up at the stars showing
through Farthen Dûr’s distant top, which were smudged with sooty
smoke from the pyre. Three days. Three days since he had killed Durza;
three days since people began calling him Shadeslayer; three days since
the remnants of the sorcerer’s consciousness had ravaged his mind and he
had been saved by the mysterious Togira Ikonoka, the Cripple Who Is
Whole. He had told no one about that vision but Saphira. Fighting Durza
and the dark spirits that controlled him had transformed Eragon; although
for better or for worse he was still unsure. He felt fragile, as if a sudden
shock would shatter his reconstructed body and consciousness.

And now he had come to the site of the combat, driven by a morbid
desire to see its aftermath. Upon arriving, he found nothing but the uncomfortable
presence of death and decay, not the glory that heroic songs
had led him to expect.

Before his uncle, Garrow, was slain by the Ra’zac months earlier, the
brutality that Eragon had witnessed between the humans, dwarves, and

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Urgals would have destroyed him. Now it numbed him. He had realized,
with Saphira’s help, that the only way to stay rational amid such pain was
to do things. Beyond that, he no longer believed that life possessed inherent
meaning—not after seeing men torn apart by the Kull, a race of giant
Urgals, and the ground a bed of thrashing limbs and the dirt so wet with
blood it soaked through the soles of his boots. If any honor existed in
war, he concluded, it was in fighting to protect others from harm.

He bent and plucked a tooth, a molar, from the dirt. Bouncing it on his
palm, he and Saphira slowly made a circuit through the trampled plain.
They stopped at its edge when they noticed Jörmundur—Ajihad’s second
in command in the Varden—hurrying toward them from Tronjheim.
When he came near, Jörmundur bowed, a gesture Eragon knew he would
never have made just days before.

“I’m glad I found you in time, Eragon.” He clutched a parchment note
in one hand. “Ajihad is returning, and he wants you to be there when he
arrives. The others are already waiting for him by Tronjheim’s west gate.
We’ll have to hurry to get there in time.”

Eragon nodded and headed toward the gate, keeping a hand on Saphira.
Ajihad had been gone most of the three days, hunting down Urgals who
had managed to escape into the dwarf tunnels that honeycombed the
stone beneath the Beor Mountains. The one time Eragon had seen him
between expeditions, Ajihad was in a rage over discovering that his
daughter, Nasuada, had disobeyed his orders to leave with the other
women and children before the battle. Instead, she had secretly fought
among the Varden’s archers.

Murtagh and the Twins had accompanied Ajihad: the Twins because it
was dangerous work and the Varden’s leader needed the protection of
their magical skills, and Murtagh because he was eager to continue proving
that he bore the Varden no ill will. It surprised Eragon how much
people’s attitudes toward Murtagh had changed, considering that
Murtagh’s father was the Dragon Rider Morzan, who had betrayed the
Riders to Galbatorix. Even though Murtagh despised his father and was
loyal to Eragon, the Varden had not trusted him. But now, no one was
willing to waste energy on a petty hate when so much work remained.
Eragon missed talking with Murtagh and looked forward to discussing all
that had happened, once he returned.

As Eragon and Saphira rounded Tronjheim, a small group became visible
in the pool of lantern light before the timber gate. Among them were
Orik—the dwarf shifting impatiently on his stout legs—and Arya. The

8



white bandage around her upper arm gleamed in the darkness, reflecting
a faint highlight onto the bottom of her hair. Eragon felt a strange thrill,
as he always did when he saw the elf. She looked at him and Saphira,
green eyes flashing, then continued watching for Ajihad.

By breaking Isidar Mithrim—the great star sapphire that was sixty feet
across and carved in the shape of a rose—Arya had allowed Eragon to kill
Durza and so win the battle. Still, the dwarves were furious with her for
destroying their most prized treasure. They refused to move the sapphire’s
remains, leaving them in a massive circle inside Tronjheim’s central
chamber. Eragon had walked through the splintered wreckage and
shared the dwarves’ sorrow for all the lost beauty.

He and Saphira stopped by Orik and looked out at the empty land that
surrounded Tronjheim, extending to Farthen Dûr’s base five miles away
in each direction. “Where will Ajihad come from?” asked Eragon.

Orik pointed at a cluster of lanterns staked around a large tunnel opening
a couple of miles away. “He should be here soon.”

Eragon waited patiently with the others, answering comments directed
at him but preferring to speak with Saphira in the peace of his mind. The
quiet that filled Farthen Dûr suited him.

Half an hour passed before motion flickered in the distant tunnel. A
group of ten men climbed out onto the ground, then turned and helped
up as many dwarves. One of the men—Eragon assumed it was Ajihad—
raised a hand, and the warriors assembled behind him in two straight
lines. At a signal, the formation marched proudly toward Tronjheim.

Before they went more than five yards, the tunnel behind them
swarmed with a flurry of activity as more figures jumped out. Eragon
squinted, unable to see clearly from so far away.

Those are Urgals! exclaimed Saphira, her body tensing like a drawn
bowstring.

Eragon did not question her. “Urgals!” he cried, and leaped onto Saphira,
berating himself for leaving his sword, Zar’roc, in his room. No one had
expected an attack now that the Urgal army had been driven away.

His wound twinged as Saphira lifted her azure wings, then drove them
down and jumped forward, gaining speed and altitude each second. Below
them, Arya ran toward the tunnel, nearly keeping apace with

9



Saphira. Orik trailed her with several men, while Jörmundur sprinted
back toward the barracks.

Eragon was forced to watch helplessly as the Urgals fell on the rear of
Ajihad’s warriors; he could not work magic over such a distance. The
monsters had the advantage of surprise and quickly cut down four men,
forcing the rest of the warriors, men and dwarves alike, to cluster around
Ajihad in an attempt to protect him. Swords and axes clashed as the
groups pressed together. Light flashed from one of the Twins, and an Urgal
fell, clutching the stump of his severed arm.

For a minute, it seemed the defenders would be able to resist the Urgals,
but then a swirl of motion disturbed the air, like a faint band of mist
wrapping itself around the combatants. When it cleared, only four warriors
were standing: Ajihad, the Twins, and Murtagh. The Urgals converged
on them, blocking Eragon’s view as he stared with rising horror and fear.

No! No! No!

Before Saphira could reach the fight, the knot of Urgals streamed back
to the tunnel and scrambled underground, leaving only prone forms behind.


The moment Saphira touched down, Eragon vaulted off, then faltered,
overcome by grief and anger. I can’t do this. It reminded him too much of
when he had returned to the farm to find his uncle Garrow dying. Fighting
back his dread with every step, he began to search for survivors.

The site was eerily similar to the battlefield he had inspected earlier,
except that here the blood was fresh.

In the center of the massacre lay Ajihad, his breastplate rent with numerous
gashes, surrounded by five Urgals he had slain. His breath still
came in ragged gasps. Eragon knelt by him and lowered his face so his
tears would not land on the leader’s ruined chest. No one could heal such
wounds. Running up to them, Arya paused and stopped, her face transformed
with sorrow when she saw that Ajihad could not be saved.

“Eragon.” The name slipped from Ajihad’s lips—no more than a whisper.


“Yes, I am here.”

“Listen to me, Eragon.... I have one last command for you.” Eragon

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leaned closer to catch the dying man’s words. “You must promise me
something: promise that you... won’t let the Varden fall into chaos. They
are the only hope for resisting the Empire.... They must be kept strong.
You must promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Then peace be with you, Eragon Shadeslayer....” With his last breath,
Ajihad closed his eyes, setting his noble face in repose, and died.

Eragon bowed his head. He had trouble breathing past the lump in his
throat, which was so hard it hurt. Arya blessed Ajihad in a ripple of the
ancient language, then said in her musical voice, “Alas, his death will
cause much strife. He is right, you must do all you can to avert a struggle
for power. I will assist where possible.”

Unwilling to speak, Eragon gazed at the rest of the bodies. He would
have given anything to be elsewhere. Saphira nosed one of the Urgals and
said, This should not have happened. It is an evil doing, and all the worse
for coming when we should be safe and victorious. She examined another
body, then swung her head around. Where are the Twins and Murtagh?
They’re not among the dead.

Eragon scanned the corpses. You’re right! Elation surged within him as
he hurried to the tunnel’s mouth. There pools of thickening blood filled
the hollows in the worn marble steps like a series of black mirrors, glossy
and oval, as if several torn bodies had been dragged down them. The Urgals
must have taken them! But why? They don’t keep prisoners or hostages.
Despair instantly returned. It doesn’t matter. We can’t pursue them without
reinforcements; you wouldn’t even fit through the opening.

They may still be alive. Would you abandon them?

What do you expect me to do? The dwarf tunnels are an endless maze! I
would only get lost. And I couldn’t catch Urgals on foot, though Arya might
be able to.

Then ask her to.

Arya! Eragon hesitated, torn between his desire for action and his loathing
to put her in danger. Still, if any one person in the Varden could handle
the Urgals, it was she. With a groan, he explained what they had
found.

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Arya’s slanted eyebrows met in a frown. “It makes no sense.”

“Will you pursue them?”

She stared at him for a heavy moment. “Wiol ono.” For you. Then she
bounded forward, sword flashing in her hand as she dove into the earth’s
belly.

Burning with frustration, Eragon settled cross-legged by Ajihad, keeping
watch over the body. He could barely assimilate the fact that Ajihad was
dead and Murtagh missing. Murtagh. Son of one of the Forsworn—the
thirteen Riders who had helped Galbatorix destroy their order and anoint
himself king of Alagaësia—and Eragon’s friend. At times Eragon had
wished Murtagh gone, but now that he had been forcibly removed, the
loss left an unexpected void. He sat motionless as Orik approached with
the men.

When Orik saw Ajihad, he stamped his feet and swore in Dwarvish,
swinging his ax into the body of an Urgal. The men only stood in shock.
Rubbing a pinch of dirt between his callused hands, the dwarf growled,
“Ah, now a hornet’s nest has broken; we’ll have no peace among the
Varden after this. Barzûln, but this makes things complicated. Were you
in time to hear his last words?”

Eragon glanced at Saphira. “They must wait for the right person before
I’ll repeat them.”

“I see. And where’d be Arya?”

Eragon pointed.

Orik swore again, then shook his head and sat on his heels.

Jörmundur soon arrived with twelve ranks of six warriors each. He motioned
for them to wait outside the radius of bodies while he proceeded
onward alone. He bent and touched Ajihad on the shoulder. “How can
fate be this cruel, my old friend? I would have been here sooner if not for
the size of this cursed mountain, and then you might have been saved.
Instead, we are wounded at the height of our triumph.”

Eragon softly told him about Arya and the disappearance of the Twins
and Murtagh.

“She should not have gone,” said Jörmundur, straightening, “but we can

12



do naught about it now. Guards will be posted here, but it will be at least
an hour before dwarf guides can be found for another expedition into the
tunnels.”

“I’d be willing to lead it,” offered Orik.

Jörmundur looked back at Tronjheim, his gaze distant. “No, Hrothgar
will need you now; someone else will have to go. I’m sorry, Eragon, but
everyone important must stay here until Ajihad’s successor is chosen.
Arya will have to fend for herself.... We could not overtake her anyway.”

Eragon nodded, accepting the inevitable.

Jörmundur swept his gaze around before saying so all could hear, “Ajihad
has died a warrior’s death! Look, he slew five Urgals where a lesser
man might have been overwhelmed by one. We will give him every
honor and hope his spirit pleases the gods. Bear him and our companions
back to Tronjheim on your shields... and do not be ashamed to let your
tears be seen, for this is a day of sorrow that all will remember. May we
soon have the privilege of sheathing our blades in the monsters who have
slain our leader!”

As one, the warriors knelt, baring their heads in homage to Ajihad.
Then they stood and reverently lifted him on their shields so he lay between
their shoulders. Already many of the Varden wept, tears flowing
into beards, yet they did not disgrace their duty and allow Ajihad to fall.
With solemn steps, they marched back to Tronjheim, Saphira and Eragon
in the middle of the procession.

13



THE COUNCIL OF ELDERS


Eragon roused himself and rolled to the edge of the bed, looking about
the room, which was suffused with the dim glow of a shuttered lantern.
He sat and watched Saphira sleep. Her muscled sides expanded and contracted
as the great bellows of her lungs forced air through her scaled
nostrils. Eragon thought of the raging inferno that she could now summon
at will and send roaring out of her maw. It was an awesome sight
when flames hot enough to melt metal rushed past her tongue and ivory
teeth without harming them. Since she first breathed fire during his fight
with Durza—while plunging toward them from the top of Tronjheim—
Saphira had been insufferably proud of her new talent. She was constantly
releasing little jets of flame, and she took every opportunity to
light objects ablaze.

Because Isidar Mithrim was shattered, Eragon and Saphira had been unable
to remain in the dragonhold above it. The dwarves had given them
quarters in an old guardroom on Tronjheim’s bottom level. It was a large
room, but with a low ceiling and dark walls.

Anguish gripped Eragon as he remembered the events of the previous
day. Tears filled his eyes, spilling over, and he caught one on his hand.
They had heard nothing from Arya until late that evening, when she
emerged from the tunnel, weary and footsore. Despite her best efforts—
and all her magic—the Urgals had escaped her. “I found these,” she said.
Then she revealed one of the Twins’ purple robes, torn and bloodied, and
Murtagh’s tunic and both his leather gauntlets. “They were strewn along
the edge of a black chasm, the bottom of which no tunnel reaches. The
Urgals must have stolen their armor and weapons and thrown the bodies
into the pit. I scryed both Murtagh and the Twins, and saw naught but
the shadows of the abyss.” Her eyes met Eragon’s. “I’m sorry; they are
gone.”

Now, in the confines of his mind, Eragon mourned Murtagh. It was a
dreadful, creeping feeling of loss and horror made worse by the fact that
he had grown ever more familiar with it in past months.

As he stared at the tear in his hand—a small, glistening dome—he decided
to scry the three men himself. He knew it was a desperate and futile
prospect, but he had to try in order to convince himself that Murtagh
was really gone. Even so, he was uncertain if he wanted to succeed where
Arya had failed, if it would make him feel any better to catch a glimpse
of Murtagh lying broken at the base of a cliff deep below Farthen Dûr.

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He whispered, “Draumr kópa.” Darkness enveloped the liquid, turning
it into a small dot of night on his silver palm. Movement flickered
through it, like the swish of a bird across a clouded moon... then nothing.

Another tear joined the first.

Eragon took a deep breath, leaned back, and let calm settle over him.
Since recovering from Durza’s wound, he had realized—humbling as it
was—that he had prevailed only through sheer luck. If I ever face another
Shade, or the Ra’zac, or Galbatorix, I must be stronger if I expect to win.
Brom could have taught me more, I know he could have. But without him, I
have but one choice: the elves.

Saphira’s breathing quickened, and she opened her eyes, yawning expansively.
Good morning, little one.

Is it? He looked down and leaned on his hands, compressing the mattress.
It’s terrible... Murtagh and Ajihad... Why didn’t sentries in the tunnels
warn us of the Urgals? They shouldn’t have been able to trail Ajihad’s
group without being noticed.... Arya was right, it doesn’t make sense.

We may never know the truth, said Saphira gently. She stood, wings
brushing the ceiling. You need to eat, then we must discover what the
Varden are planning. We can’t waste time; a new leader could be chosen
within hours.

Eragon agreed, thinking of how they had left everyone yesterday: Orik
rushing off to give King Hrothgar the tidings, Jörmundur taking Ajihad’s
body to a place where it would rest until the funeral, and Arya, who
stood alone and watched the goings-on.

Eragon rose and strapped on Zar’roc and his bow, then bent and lifted
Snowfire’s saddle. A line of pain sheared through his torso, driving him to
the floor, where he writhed, scrabbling at his back. It felt like he was being
sawed in half. Saphira growled as the ripping sensation reached her.
She tried to soothe him with her own mind but was unable to alleviate
his suffering. Her tail instinctually lifted, as if to fight.

It took minutes before the fit subsided and the last throb faded away,
leaving Eragon gasping. Sweat drenched his face, making his hair stick and
his eyes sting. He reached back and gingerly fingered the top of his scar. It
was hot and inflamed and sensitive to touch. Saphira lowered her nose
and touched him on the arm. Oh, little one....

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It was worse this time, he said, staggering upright. She let him lean
against her as he wiped off the sweat with a rag, then he tentatively
stepped toward the door.

Are you strong enough to go?

We have to. We’re obliged as dragon and Rider to make a public choice
regarding the next head of the Varden, and perhaps even influence the selection.
I won’t ignore the strength of our position; we now wield great authority
within the Varden. At least the Twins aren’t here to grab the position for
themselves. That’s the only good in the situation.

Very well, but Durza should suffer a thousand years of torture for what he
did to you.

He grunted. Just stay close to me.

Together they made their way through Tronjheim, toward the nearest
kitchen. In the corridors and hallways, people stopped and bowed to
them, murmuring “Argetlam” or “Shadeslayer.” Even dwarves made the
motions, though not as often. Eragon was struck by the somber, haunted
expressions of the humans and the dark clothing they wore to display
their sadness. Many women were dressed entirely in black, lace veils covering
their faces.

In the kitchen, Eragon brought a stone platter of food to a low table.
Saphira watched him carefully in case he should have another attack.
Several people tried to approach him, but she lifted a lip and growled,
sending them scurrying away. Eragon picked at his food and pretended to
ignore the disturbances. Finally, trying to divert his thoughts from
Murtagh, he asked, Who do you think has the means to take control of the
Varden now that Ajihad and the Twins are gone?

She hesitated. It’s possible you could, if Ajihad’s last words were interpreted
as a blessing to secure the leadership. Almost no one would oppose
you. However, that does not seem a wise path to take. I see only trouble in
that direction.

I agree. Besides, Arya wouldn’t approve, and she could be a dangerous
enemy. Elves can’t lie in the ancient language, but they have no such inhibition
in ours—she could deny that Ajihad ever uttered those words if it
served her purposes. No, I don’t want the position.... What about Jörmundur?


16



Ajihad called him his right-hand man. Unfortunately, we know little
about him or the Varden’s other leaders. Such a short time has passed since
we came here. We will have to make our judgment on our feelings and impressions,
without the benefit of history.

Eragon pushed his fish around a lump of mashed tubers. Don’t forget
Hrothgar and the dwarf clans; they won’t be quiet in this. Except for Arya,
the elves have no say in the succession—a decision will be made before
word of this even reaches them. But the dwarves can’t be—won’t be—
ignored. Hrothgar favors the Varden, but if enough clans oppose him, he
might be maneuvered into backing someone unsuited for the command.

And who might that be?

A person easily manipulated. He closed his eyes and leaned back. It
could be anyone in Farthen Dûr, anyone at all.

For a long while, they both considered the issues facing them. Then
Saphira said, Eragon, there is someone here to see you. I can’t scare him
away.

Eh? He cracked his eyes open, squinting as they adjusted to the light. A
pale-looking youth stood by the table. The boy eyed Saphira like he was
afraid she would try to eat him. “What is it?” asked Eragon, not unkindly.

The boy started, flustered, then bowed. “You have been summoned,
Argetlam, to speak before the Council of Elders.”

“Who are they?”

The question confused the boy even more. “The—the council is... are...
people we—that is, the Varden—choose to speak on our behalf to Ajihad.
They were his trusted advisers, and now they wish to see you. It is a
great honor!” He finished with a quick smile.

“Are you to lead me to them?”

“Yes, I am.”

Saphira looked at Eragon questioningly. He shrugged and left the uneaten
food, motioning for the boy to show the way. As they walked, the
boy admired Zar’roc with bright eyes, then looked down shyly.

17



“What are you called?” asked Eragon.

“Jarsha, sir.”

“That’s a good name. You carried your message well; you should be
proud.” Jarsha beamed and bounced forward.

They reached a convex stone door, which Jarsha pushed open. The
room inside was circular, with a sky blue dome decorated with constellations.
A round marble table, inlaid with the crest of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum—
an upright hammer ringed by twelve stars—stood in the center of
the chamber. Seated there were Jörmundur and two other men, one tall
and one broad; a woman with pinched lips, close-set eyes, and elaborately
painted cheeks; and a second woman with an immense pile of gray hair
above a matronly face, belied by a dagger hilt peeking out of the vast hills
of her bodice.

“You may go,” said Jörmundur to Jarsha, who quickly bowed and left.

Conscious that he was being watched, Eragon surveyed the room, then
seated himself in the middle of a swath of empty chairs, so that the
council members were forced to turn in their seats in order to look at
him. Saphira hunkered directly behind him; he could feel her hot breath
on the top of his head.

Jörmundur got halfway up to make a slight bow, then reseated himself.
“Thank you for coming, Eragon, even though you have suffered your own
loss. This is Umérth,” the tall man; “Falberd,” the broad one; “and Sabrae
and Elessari,” the two women.

Eragon inclined his head, then asked, “And what of the Twins, were
they part of this council?”

Sabrae shook her head sharply and tapped a long fingernail on the table.
“They had naught to do with us. They were slime—worse than slime—
leeches that worked only for their own benefit. They had no desire to
serve the Varden. Thus, they had no place in this council.” Eragon could
smell her perfume all the way on the other side of the table; it was thick
and oily, like a rotting flower. He hid a smile at the thought.

“Enough. We’re not here to discuss the Twins,” said Jörmundur. “We
face a crisis that must be dealt with quickly and effectively. If we don’t
choose Ajihad’s successor, someone else will. Hrothgar has already contacted
us to convey his condolences. While he was more than courteous,

18



he is sure to be forming his own plans even as we speak. We must also
consider Du Vrangr Gata, the magic users. Most of them are loyal to the
Varden, but it’s difficult to predict their actions even in the best of times.
They might decide to oppose our authority for their own advantage. That
is why we need your assistance, Eragon, to provide the legitimacy required
by whoever is to take Ajihad’s place.”

Falberd heaved himself up, planting his meaty hands on the table. “The
five of us have already decided whom to support. There is no doubt
among us that it is the right person. But,” he raised a thick finger, “before
we reveal who it is, you must give us your word of honor that whether
you agree or disagree with us, nothing of our discussion will leave this
room.”

Why would they want that? Eragon asked Saphira.

I don’t know, she said, snorting. It might be a trap.... It’s a gamble you’ll
have to take. Remember, though, they haven’t asked me to pledge anything.
I can always tell Arya what they say, if needed. Silly of them, forgetting
that I’m as intelligent as any human.

Pleased with the thought, Eragon said, “Very well, you have my word.
Now, who do you want to lead the Varden?”

“Nasuada.”

Surprised, Eragon dropped his gaze, thinking quickly. He had not considered
Nasuada for the succession because of her youth—she was just a
few years older than Eragon. No real reason existed, of course, for her not
to lead, but why would the Council of Elders want her to? How would
they benefit? He remembered Brom’s advice and tried to examine the
issue from every angle, knowing that he had to decide swiftly.

Nasuada has steel in her, observed Saphira. She would be like her father.

Maybe, but what’s their reason for picking her?

To gain time, Eragon asked, “Why not you, Jörmundur? Ajihad called
you his right-hand man. Doesn’t that mean you should take his place now
that he’s gone?”

A current of unease ran through the council: Sabrae sat even straighter,
hands clasped before her; Umérth and Falberd glanced at each other
darkly, while Elessari just smiled, the dagger hilt jiggling on her chest.

19



“Because,” said Jörmundur, selecting his words with care, “Ajihad was
speaking of military matters then, nothing more. Also, I am a member of
this council, which only has power because we support one another. It
would be foolish and dangerous for one of us to raise himself above the
rest.” The council relaxed as he finished, and Elessari patted Jörmundur
on the forearm.

Ha! exclaimed Saphira. He probably would have taken power if it were
possible to force the others to back him. Just look how they eye him. He’s
like a wolf in their midst.

A wolf in a pack of jackals, perhaps.

“Does Nasuada have enough experience?” inquired Eragon.

Elessari pressed herself against the table’s edge as she leaned forward. “I
had already been here for seven years when Ajihad joined the Varden.
I’ve watched Nasuada grow up from a darling girl to the woman she is. A
trifle light-headed occasionally, but a good figure to lead the Varden. The
people will love her. Now I,” she patted herself affectionately on the
bosom, “and my friends will be here to guide her through these troubled
times. She will never be without someone to show her the way. Inexperience
should be no barrier to her taking her rightful position.”

Understanding flooded Eragon. They want a puppet!

“Ajihad’s funeral will be held in two days,” broke in Umérth. “Directly
afterward, we plan to appoint Nasuada as our new leader. We have yet
to ask her, but she will surely agree. We want you to be present at the
appointing—no one, not even Hrothgar, can complain about it then—
and to swear fealty to the Varden. That will give back the confidence
Ajihad’s death has stolen from the people, and prevent anyone from trying
to splinter this organization.”

Fealty!

Saphira quickly touched Eragon’s mind. Notice, they don’t want you to
swear to Nasuada—just to the Varden.

Yes, and they want to be the ones to appoint Nasuada, which would indicate
that the council is more powerful than she. They could have asked
Arya or us to appoint her, but that would mean acknowledging whoever did
it as above everyone in the Varden. This way, they assert their superiority

20



over Nasuada, gain control over us through fealty, and also get the benefit
of having a Rider endorse Nasuada in public.

“What happens,” he asked, “if I decide not to accept your offer?”

“Offer?” Falberd asked, seeming puzzled. “Why, nothing, of course.
Only it would be a terrible slight if you’re not present when Nasuada is
chosen. If the hero of the battle of Farthen Dûr ignores her, what can she
think but that a Rider has spited her and found the Varden unworthy to
serve? Who could bear such a shame?”

The message could have been no clearer. Eragon clenched Zar’roc’s
pommel under the table, yearning to scream that it was unnecessary to
force him to support the Varden, that he would have done it anyway.
Now, however, he instinctively wanted to rebel, to elude the shackles
they were trying to place on him. “Since Riders are so highly thought of, I
could decide that my efforts would be best spent guiding the Varden
myself.”

The mood in the room hardened. “That would be unwise,” stated Sabrae.


Eragon combed his mind for a way to escape the situation. With Ajihad
gone, said Saphira, it may be impossible to remain independent of every
group, as he wanted us to. We cannot anger the Varden, and if this council
is to control it once Nasuada is in place, then we must appease them. Remember,
they act as much out of self-preservation as we do.

But what will they want us to do once we are in their grasp? Will they respect
the Varden’s pact with the elves and send us to Ellesméra for training,
or command otherwise? Jörmundur strikes me as an honorable man, but the
rest of the council? I can’t tell.

Saphira brushed the top of his head with her jaw. Agree to be at this
ceremony with Nasuada; that much I think we must do. As for swearing fealty,
see if you can avoid acquiescing. Perhaps something will occur between
now and then that will change our position... Arya may have a solution.

Without warning, Eragon nodded and said, “As you wish; I shall attend
Nasuada’s appointment.”

Jörmundur looked relieved. “Good, good. Then we have only one more
matter to deal with before you go: Nasuada’s acceptance. There’s no reason
to delay, with all of us here. I’ll send for her immediately. And Arya

21



too—we need the elves’ approval before making this decision public. It
shouldn’t be difficult to procure; Arya cannot go against our council and
you, Eragon. She will have to agree with our judgment.”

“Wait,” commanded Elessari, a steely glint in her eyes. “Your word,
though, Rider. Will you give it in fealty at the ceremony?”

“Yes, you must do that,” agreed Falberd. “The Varden would be disgraced
if we couldn’t provide you every protection.”

A nice way to put it!

It was worth a try, said Saphira. I fear you have no choice now.

They wouldn’t dare harm us if I refused.

No, but they could cause us no end of grief. It is not for my own sake that
I say accept, but for yours. Many dangers exist that I cannot protect you
from, Eragon. With Galbatorix set against us, you need allies, not enemies,
around you. We cannot afford to contend with both the Empire and the
Varden.

Finally, “I’ll give it.” All around the table were signs of relaxation—even
a poorly concealed sigh from Umérth. They’re afraid of us!

As well they should be, sniped Saphira.

Jörmundur called for Jarsha, and with a few words sent the boy scampering
off for Nasuada and Arya. While he was gone, the conversation
fell into an uncomfortable silence. Eragon ignored the council, focusing
instead on working a way out of his dilemma. None sprang to mind.

When the door opened again, everyone turned expectantly. First came
Nasuada, chin held high and eyes steady. Her embroidered gown was the
deepest shade of black, deeper even than her skin, broken only by a slash
of royal purple that stretched from shoulder to hip. Behind her was Arya,
her stride as lithe and smooth as a cat’s, and an openly awestruck Jarsha.

The boy was dismissed, then Jörmundur helped Nasuada into a seat.
Eragon hastened to do the same for Arya, but she ignored the proffered
chair and stood at a distance from the table. Saphira, he said, let her know
all that’s happened. I have a feeling the council won’t inform her that
they’ve compelled me to give the Varden my loyalty.

22



“Arya,” acknowledged Jörmundur with a nod, then concentrated on
Nasuada. “Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad, the Council of Elders wishes to
formally extend its deepest condolences for the loss you, more than anyone
else, have suffered....” In a lower voice, he added, “You have our personal
sympathies as well. We all know what it is like to have a family
member killed by the Empire.”

“Thank you,” murmured Nasuada, lowering her almond eyes. She sat,
shy and demure, and with an air of vulnerability that made Eragon want
to comfort her. Her demeanor was tragically different from that of the
energetic young woman who had visited him and Saphira in the dragon-
hold before the battle.

“Although this is your time of mourning, a quandary exists that you
must resolve. This council cannot lead the Varden. And someone must
replace your father after the funeral. We ask that you receive the position.
As his heir, it is rightfully yours—the Varden expect it of you.”

Nasuada bowed her head with shining eyes. Grief was plain in her
voice when she said, “I never thought I would be called upon to take my
father’s place so young. Yet... if you insist it is my duty... I will embrace
the office.”

23



TRUTH AMONG FRIENDS


The Council of Elders beamed with triumph, pleased that Nasuada had
done what they wanted. “We do insist,” said Jörmundur, “for your own
good and the good of the Varden.” The rest of the elders added their expressions
of support, which Nasuada accepted with sad smiles. Sabrae
threw an angry glance at Eragon when he did not join in.

Throughout the exchange, Eragon watched Arya for any reaction to either
his news or the council’s announcement. Neither revelation caused
her inscrutable expression to change. However, Saphira told him, She
wishes to talk with us afterward.

Before Eragon could reply, Falberd turned to Arya. “Will the elves find
this agreeable?”

She stared at Falberd until the man fidgeted under her piercing gaze,
then lifted an eyebrow. “I cannot speak for my queen, but I find nothing
objectionable to it. Nasuada has my blessing.”

How could she find it otherwise, knowing what we’ve told her? thought
Eragon bitterly. We’re all backed into corners.

Arya’s remark obviously pleased the council. Nasuada thanked her and
asked Jörmundur, “Is there anything else that must be discussed? For I am
weary.”

Jörmundur shook his head. “We will make all the arrangements. I
promise you won’t be troubled until the funeral.”

“Again, thank you. Would you leave me now? I need time to consider
how best to honor my father and serve the Varden. You have given me
much to ponder.” Nasuada splayed her delicate fingers on the dark cloth
on her lap.

Umérth looked like he was going to protest at the council being dismissed,
but Falberd waved a hand, silencing him. “Of course, whatever
will give you peace. If you need help, we are ready and willing to serve.”
Gesturing for the rest of them to follow, he swept past Arya to the door.

“Eragon, will you please stay?”

Startled, Eragon lowered himself back into his chair, ignoring alert looks

24



from the councilors. Falberd lingered by the door, suddenly reluctant to
depart, then slowly went out. Arya was the last to go. Before she closed
the door, she looked at Eragon, her eyes revealing worry and apprehension
that had been concealed before.

Nasuada sat partially turned away from Eragon and Saphira. “So we
meet again, Rider. You haven’t greeted me. Have I offended you?”

“No, Nasuada; I was reluctant to speak for fear of being rude or foolish.
Current circumstances are unkind to hasty statements.” Paranoia that
they might be eavesdropped on gripped him. Reaching through the barrier
in his mind, he delved into the magic and intoned: “Atra nosu waíse
vardo fra eld hórnya.... There, now we may speak without being overheard
by man, dwarf, or elf.”

Nasuada’s posture softened. “Thank you, Eragon. You don’t know what
a gift that is.” Her words were stronger and more self-assured than before.

Behind Eragon’s chair, Saphira stirred, then carefully made her way
around the table to stand before Nasuada. She lowered her great head until
one sapphire eye met Nasuada’s black ones. The dragon stared at her
for a full minute before snorting softly and straightening. Tell her, said
Saphira, that I grieve for her and her loss. Also that her strength must become
the Varden’s when she assumes Ajihad’s mantle. They will need a
sure guide.

Eragon repeated the words, adding, “Ajihad was a great man—his name
will always be remembered.... There is something I must tell you. Before
Ajihad died, he charged me, commanded me, to keep the Varden from
falling into chaos. Those were his last words. Arya heard them as well.

“I was going to keep what he said a secret because of the implications,
but you have a right to know. I’m not sure what Ajihad meant, nor exactly
what he wanted, but I am certain of this: I will always defend the
Varden with my powers. I wanted you to understand that, and that I’ve
no desire to usurp the Varden’s leadership.”

Nasuada laughed brittlely. “But that leadership isn’t to be me, is it?” Her
reserve had vanished, leaving behind only composure and determination.
“I know why you were here before me and what the council is trying to
do. Do you think that in the years I served my father, we never planned
for this eventuality? I expected the council to do exactly what it did.
And now everything is in place for me to take command of the Varden.”

25



“You have no intention of letting them rule you,” said Eragon with
wonder.

“No. Continue to keep Ajihad’s instruction secret. It would be unwise
to bandy it about, as people might take it to mean that he wanted you to
succeed him, and that would undermine my authority and destabilize the
Varden. He said what he thought he had to in order to protect the
Varden. I would have done the same. My father...” She faltered briefly.
“My father’s work will not go unfinished, even if it takes me to the grave.
That is what I want you, as a Rider, to understand. All of Ajihad’s plans,
all his strategies and goals, they are mine now. I will not fail him by being
weak. The Empire will be brought down, Galbatorix will be dethroned,
and the rightful government will be raised.”

By the time she finished, a tear ran down her cheek. Eragon stared, appreciating
how difficult her position was and recognizing a depth of character
he had not perceived before. “And what of me, Nasuada? What
shall I do in the Varden?”

She looked directly into his eyes. “You can do whatever you want. The
council members are fools if they think to control you. You are a hero to
the Varden and the dwarves, and even the elves will hail your victory
over Durza when they hear of it. If you go against the council or me, we
will be forced to yield, for the people will support you wholeheartedly.
Right now, you are the most powerful person in the Varden. However, if
you accept my leadership, I will continue the path laid down by Ajihad:
you will go with Arya to the elves, be instructed there, then return to the
Varden.”

Why is she so honest with us? wondered Eragon. If she’s right, could we
have refused the council’s demands?

Saphira took a moment to answer. Either way, it’s too late. You have already
agreed to their requests. I think Nasuada is honest because your spell
lets her be, and also because she hopes to win our loyalty from the elders.

An idea suddenly came to Eragon, but before sharing it, he asked, Can
we trust her to hold to what she’s said? This is very important.

Yes, said Saphira. She spoke with her heart.

Then Eragon shared his proposal with Saphira. She consented, so he
drew Zar’roc and walked to Nasuada. He saw a flash of fear as he approached;
her gaze darted toward the door, and she slipped a hand into a

26



fold in her dress and grasped something. Eragon stopped before her, then
knelt, Zar’roc flat in his hands.

“Nasuada, Saphira and I have been here for only a short while. But in
that time we came to respect Ajihad, and now, in turn, you. You fought
under Farthen Dûr when others fled, including the two women of the
council, and have treated us openly instead of with deception. Therefore,
I offer you my blade... and my fealty as a Rider.”

Eragon uttered the pronouncement with a sense of finality, knowing he
would never have mouthed it before the battle. Seeing so many men fall
and die around him had altered his perspective. Resisting the Empire was
no longer something he did for himself, but for the Varden and all the
people still trapped under Galbatorix’s rule. However long it would take,
he had dedicated himself to that task. For the time being, the best thing
he could do was serve.

Still, he and Saphira were taking a terrible risk in pledging themselves
to Nasuada. The council could not object because all Eragon had said was
that he would swear fealty, but not to whom. Even so, he and Saphira
had no guarantee that Nasuada would make a good leader. It’s better to be
sworn to an honest fool than to a lying scholar, decided Eragon.

Surprise flitted across Nasuada’s face. She grasped Zar’roc’s hilt and
lifted it—staring at its crimson blade—then placed the tip on Eragon’s
head. “I do accept your fealty with honor, Rider, as you accept all the responsibilities
accompanying the station. Rise as my vassal and take your
sword.”

Eragon did as he was bidden. He said, “Now I can tell you openly as my
master, the council made me agree to swear to the Varden once you
were appointed. This was the only way Saphira and I could circumvent
them.”

Nasuada laughed with genuine delight. “Ah, I see you have already
learned how to play our game. Very well, as my newest and only vassal,
will you agree to give your fealty to me again—in public, when the council
expects your vow?”

“Of course.”

“Good, that will take care of the council. Now, until then, leave me. I
have much planning to do, and I must prepare for the funeral.... Remember,
Eragon, the bond we have just created is equally binding; I am as re


27



sponsible for your actions as you are required to serve me. Do not dishonor
me.”

“Nor you I.”

Nasuada paused, then gazed into his eyes and added in a gentler tone:
“You have my condolences, Eragon. I realize that others beside myself
have cause for sorrow; while I have lost my father, you have also lost a
friend. I liked Murtagh a great deal and it saddens me that he is gone....
Goodbye, Eragon.”

Eragon nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth, and left the room with
Saphira. The hallway outside was empty along its gray length. Eragon put
his hands on his hips, tilted back his head, and exhaled. The day had
barely begun, yet he was already exhausted by all the emotions that had
flooded through him.

Saphira nosed him and said, This way. Without further explanation,
she headed down the right side of the tunnel. Her polished claws clicked
on the hard floor.

Eragon frowned, but followed her. Where are we going? No answer.
Saphira, please. She just flicked her tail. Resigned to wait, he said instead,
Things have certainly changed for us. I never know what to expect from one
day to the next—except sorrow and bloodshed.

All is not bad, she reproached. We have won a great victory. It should be
celebrated, not mourned.

It doesn’t help, having to deal with this other nonsense.

She snorted angrily. A thin line of fire shot from her nostrils, singeing
Eragon’s shoulder. He jumped back with a yelp, biting back a string of
curses. Oops, said Saphira, shaking her head to clear the smoke.

Oops! You nearly roasted my side!

I didn’t expect it to happen. I keep forgetting that fire will come out if I’m
not careful. Imagine that every time you raised your arm, lightning struck
the ground. It would be easy to make a careless motion and destroy something
unintentionally.

You’re right.... Sorry I growled at you.

28



Her bony eyelid clicked as she winked at him. No matter. The point I
was trying to make is that even Nasuada can’t force you to do anything.

But I gave my word as a Rider!

Maybe so, but if I must break it to keep you safe, or to do the right thing, I
will not hesitate. It is a burden I could easily carry. Because I’m joined to
you, my honor is inherent in your pledge, but as an individual, I’m not
bound by it. If I must, I will kidnap you. Any disobedience then would be
no fault of your own.

It should never come to that. If we have to use such tricks to do what’s
right, then Nasuada and the Varden will have lost all integrity.

Saphira stopped. They stood before the carved archway of Tronjheim’s
library. The vast, silent room seemed empty, though the ranks of backto-
back bookshelves interspersed with columns could conceal many people.
Lanterns poured soft light across the scroll-covered walls, illuminating
the reading alcoves along their bases.

Weaving through the shelves, Saphira led him to one alcove, where
Arya sat. Eragon paused as he studied her. She seemed more agitated than
he had ever seen her, though it manifested itself only in the tension of her
movements. Unlike before, she wore her sword with the graceful cross-
guard. One hand rested on the hilt.

Eragon sat at the opposite side of the marble table. Saphira positioned
herself between them, where neither could escape her gaze.

“What have you done?” asked Arya with unexpected hostility.

“How so?”

She lifted her chin. “What have you promised the Varden? What have
you done? ”

The last part even reached Eragon mentally. He realized just how close
the elf was to losing control. A bit of fear touched him. “We only did
what we had to. I’m ignorant of elves’ customs, so if our actions upset
you, I apologize. There’s no cause to be angry.”

“Fool! You know nothing about me. I have spent seven decades representing
my queen here—fifteen years of which I bore Saphira’s egg between
the Varden and the elves. In all that time, I struggled to ensure the

29



Varden had wise, strong leaders who could resist Galbatorix and respect
our wishes. Brom helped me by forging the agreement concerning the
new Rider—you. Ajihad was committed to your remaining independent
so that the balance of power would not be upset. Now I see you siding
with the Council of Elders, willingly or not, to control Nasuada! You
have overturned a lifetime of work! What have you done? ”

Dismayed, Eragon dropped all pretenses. With short, clear words, he
explained why he had agreed to the council’s demands and how he and
Saphira had attempted to undermine them.

When he finished, Arya stated, “So.”

“So.” Seventy years. Though he knew elves’ lives were extraordinarily
long, he had never suspected that Arya was that old, and older, for she
appeared to be a woman in her early twenties. The only sign of age on
her unlined face was her emerald eyes—deep, knowing, and most often
solemn.

Arya leaned back, studying him. “Your position is not what I would
wish, but better than I had hoped. I was impolite; Saphira... and you...
understand more than I thought. Your compromise will be accepted by
the elves, though you must never forget your debt to us for Saphira.
There would be no Riders without our efforts.”

“The debt is burned into my blood and my palm,” said Eragon. In the silence
that followed, he cast about for a new topic, eager to prolong their
conversation and perhaps learn more about her. “You have been gone for
such a long time; do you miss Ellesméra? Or did you live elsewhere?”

“Ellesméra was, and always shall be, my home,” she said, looking beyond
him. “I have not lived in my family’s house since I left for the
Varden, when the walls and windows were draped with spring’s first
flowers. The times I’ve returned were only fleeting stays, vanishing flecks
of memory by our measurement.”

He noticed, once again, that she smelled like crushed pine needles. It
was a faint, spicy odor that opened his senses and refreshed his mind. “It
must be hard to live among all these dwarves and humans without any of
your kind.”

She cocked her head. “You speak of humans as if you weren’t one.”

“Perhaps...,” he hesitated, “perhaps I am something else—a mixture of

30



two races. Saphira lives inside me as much as I live in her. We share feelings,
senses, thoughts, even to the point where we are more one mind
than two.” Saphira dipped her head in agreement, nearly bumping the table
with her snout.

“That is how it should be,” said Arya. “A pact more ancient and powerful
than you can imagine links you. You won’t truly understand what it
means to be a Rider until your training is completed. But that must wait
until after the funeral. In the meantime, may the stars watch over you.”

With that she departed, slipping into the library’s shadowed depths. Eragon
blinked. Is it me, or is everyone on edge today? Like Arya—one moment
she’s angry, the next she’s giving me a blessing!

No one will be comfortable until things return to normal.

Define normal.

31



RORAN


Roran trudged up the hill.

He stopped and squinted at the sun through his shaggy hair. Five hours
till sunset. I won’t be able to stay long. With a sigh, he continued along the
row of elm trees, each of which stood in a pool of uncut grass.

This was his first visit to the farm since he, Horst, and six other men
from Carvahall had removed everything worth salvaging from the destroyed
house and burned barn. It had been nearly five months before he
could consider returning.

Once on the hilltop, Roran halted and crossed his arms. Before him lay
the remains of his childhood home. A corner of the house still stood—
crumbling and charred—but the rest had been flattened and was already
covered with grass and weeds. Nothing could be seen of the barn. The
few acres they had managed to cultivate each year were now filled with
dandelions, wild mustard, and more grass. Here and there, stray beets or
turnips had survived, but that was all. Just beyond the farm, a thick belt
of trees obscured the Anora River.

Roran clenched a fist, jaw muscles knotting painfully as he fought back
a combination of rage and grief. He stayed rooted to the spot for many
long minutes, trembling whenever a pleasant memory rushed through
him. This place had been his entire life and more. It had been his past...
and his future. His father, Garrow, once said, “The land is a special thing.
Care for it, and it’ll care for you. Not many things will do that.” Roran
had intended to do exactly that up until the moment his world was ruptured
by a quiet message from Baldor.

With a groan, he spun away and stalked back toward the road. The
shock of that moment still resonated within him. Having everyone he
loved torn away in an instant was a soul-changing event from which he
would never recover. It had seeped into every aspect of his behavior and
outlook.

It also forced Roran to think more than ever before. It was as if bands
had been cinched around his mind, and those bands had snapped, allowing
him to ponder ideas that were previously unimaginable. Such as the
fact that he might not become a farmer, or that justice—the greatest
standby in songs and legends—had little hold in reality. At times these
thoughts filled his consciousness to the point where he could barely rise

32



in the morning, feeling bloated with their heaviness.

Turning on the road, he headed north through Palancar Valley, back to
Carvahall. The notched mountains on either side were laden with snow,
despite the spring greenery that had crept over the valley floor in past
weeks. Overhead, a single gray cloud drifted toward the peaks.

Roran ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble. Eragon caused all
this—him and his blasted curiosity—by bringing that stone out of the Spine.
It had taken Roran weeks to reach that conclusion. He had listened to
everyone’s accounts. Several times he had Gertrude, the town healer,
read aloud the letter Brom had left him. And there was no other explanation.
Whatever that stone was, it must have attracted the strangers. For that
alone, he blamed Garrow’s death on Eragon, though not in anger; he
knew that Eragon had intended no harm. No, what roused his fury was
that Eragon had left Garrow unburied and fled Palancar Valley, abandoning
his responsibilities to gallop off with the old storyteller on some harebrained
journey. How could Eragon have so little regard for those left behind?
Did he run because he felt guilty? Afraid? Did Brom mislead him
with wild tales of adventure? And why would Eragon listen to such things at
a time like that?... I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive right now.

Roran scowled and rolled his shoulders, trying to clear his mind. Brom’s
letter... Bah! He had never heard a more ridiculous collection of insinuations
and ominous hints. The only thing it made clear was to avoid the
strangers, which was common sense to begin with. The old man was
crazy, he decided.

A flicker of movement caused Roran to turn, and he saw twelve deer—
including a young buck with velvet horns—trotting back into the trees.
He made sure to note their location so he could find them tomorrow. He
was proud that he could hunt well enough to support himself in Horst’s
house, though he had never been as skilled as Eragon.

As he walked, he continued to order his thoughts. After Garrow’s
death, Roran had abandoned his job at Dempton’s mill in Therinsford and
returned to Carvahall. Horst had agreed to house him and, in the following
months, had provided him with work in the forge. Grief had delayed
Roran’s decisions about the future until two days ago, when he finally
settled upon a course of action.

He wanted to marry Katrina, the butcher’s daughter. The reason he
went to Therinsford in the first place was to earn money to ensure a
smooth beginning to their life together. But now, without a farm, a home,

33



or means to support her, Roran could not in good conscience ask for
Katrina’s hand. His pride would not allow it. Nor did Roran think Sloan,
her father, would tolerate a suitor with such poor prospects. Even under
the best of circumstances, Roran had expected to have a hard time convincing
Sloan to give up Katrina; the two of them had never been
friendly. And it was impossible for Roran to wed Katrina without her father’s
consent, not unless they wished to divide her family, anger the village
by defying tradition, and, most likely, start a blood feud with Sloan.

Considering the situation, it seemed to Roran that the only option
available to him was to rebuild his farm, even if he had to raise the house
and barn himself. It would be hard, starting from nothing, but once his
position was secured, he could approach Sloan with his head held high.
Next spring is the soonest we might talk, thought Roran, grimacing.

He knew Katrina would wait—for a time, at least.

He continued at a steady pace until evening, when the village came
into view. Within the small huddle of buildings, wash hung on lines
strung from window to window. Men filed back toward the houses from
surrounding fields thick with winter wheat. Behind Carvahall, the half-
mile-high Igualda Falls gleamed in the sunset as it tumbled down the
Spine into the Anora. The sight warmed Roran because it was so ordinary.
Nothing was more comforting than having everything where it
should be.

Leaving the road, he made his way up the rise to where Horst’s house
sat with a view of the Spine. The door was already open. Roran tromped
inside, following the sounds of conversation into the kitchen.

Horst was there, leaning on the rough table pushed into one corner of
the room, his arms bare to the elbow. Next to him was his wife, Elain,
who was nearly five months pregnant and smiling with quiet contentment.
Their sons, Albriech and Baldor, faced them.

As Roran entered, Albriech said, “... and I still hadn’t left the forge yet!
Thane swears he saw me, but I was on the other side of town.”

“What’s going on?” asked Roran, slipping off his pack.

Elain exchanged a glance with Horst. “Here, let me get you something
to eat.” She set bread and a bowl of cold stew before him. Then she
looked him in the eye, as if searching for a particular expression. “How
was it?”

34



Roran shrugged. “All of the wood is either burnt or rotting—nothing
worth using. The well is still intact, and that’s something to be grateful
for, I suppose. I’ll have to cut timber for the house as soon as possible if
I’m going to have a roof over my head by planting season. Now tell me,
what’s happened?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Horst. “There’s been quite a row, there has. Thane is
missing a scythe and he thinks Albriech took it.”

“He probably dropped it in the grass and forgot where he left it,”
snorted Albriech.

“Probably,” agreed Horst, smiling.

Roran bit into the bread. “It doesn’t make much sense, accusing you. If
you needed a scythe, you could just forge one.”

“I know,” said Albriech, dropping into a chair, “but instead of looking
for his, he starts grousing that he saw someone leaving his field and that it
looked a bit like me... and since no one else looks like me, I must have
stolen the scythe.”

It was true that no one looked like him. Albriech had inherited both
his father’s size and Elain’s honey-blond hair, which made him an oddity
in Carvahall, where brown was the predominant hair color. In contrast,
Baldor was both thinner and dark-haired.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” said Baldor quietly. “Try not to get too angry
over it in the meantime.”

“Easy for you to say.”

As Roran finished the last of the bread and started on the stew, he
asked Horst, “Do you need me for anything tomorrow?”

“Not especially. I’ll just be working on Quimby’s wagon. The blasted
frame still won’t sit square.”

Roran nodded, pleased. “Good. Then I’ll take the day and go hunting.
There are a few deer farther down the valley that don’t look too scrawny.
Their ribs weren’t showing, at least.”

Baldor suddenly brightened. “Do you want some company?”

35



“Sure. We can leave at dawn.”

When he finished eating, Roran scrubbed his face and hands clean, then
wandered outside to clear his head. Stretching leisurely, he strolled toward
the center of town.

Halfway there, the chatter of excited voices outside the Seven Sheaves
caught his attention. He turned, curious, and made his way to the tavern,
where an odd sight met him. Sitting on the porch was a middle-aged man
draped in a patchwork leather coat. Beside him was a pack festooned
with the steel jaws of the trappers’ trade. Several dozen villagers listened
as he gestured expansively and said, “So when I arrived at Therinsford, I
went to this man, Neil. Good, honest man; I help in his fields during the
spring and summer.”

Roran nodded. Trappers spent the winter squirreled away in the mountains,
returning in the spring to sell their skins to tanners like Gedric and
then to take up work, usually as farmhands. Since Carvahall was the
northernmost village in the Spine, many trappers passed through it,
which was one of the reasons Carvahall had its own tavern, blacksmith,
and tanner.

“After a few steins of ale—to lubricate my speaking, you understand,
after a ’alf year with nary a word uttered, except perhaps for blaspheming
the world and all beyond when losing a bear-biter—I come to Neil, the
froth still fresh on my beard, and start exchanging gossip. As our transaction
proceeds, I ask him all gregarious-like, what news of the Empire or
the king—may he rot with gangrene and trench mouth. Was anyone born
or died or banished that I should know of? And then guess what? Neil
leaned forward, going all serious ’bout the mouth, and said that word is
going around, there is, from Dras-Leona and Gil’ead of strange happenings
here, there, and everywhere in Alagaësia. The Urgals have fair disappeared
from civilized lands, and good riddance, but not one man can tell
why or where. ’Alf the trade in the Empire has dried up as a result of
raids and attacks and, from what I heard, it isn’t the work of mere brigands,
for the attacks are too widespread, too calculated. No goods are stolen,
only burned or soiled. But that’s not the end of it, oh no, not by the
tip of your blessed grandmother’s whiskers.”

The trapper shook his head and took a sip from his wineskin before
continuing: “There be mutterings of a Shade haunting the northern terri


36



tories. He’s been seen along the edge of Du Weldenvarden and near
Gil’ead. They say his teeth are filed to points, his eyes are as red as wine,
and his hair is as red as the blood he drinks. Worse, something seems to
have gotten our fine, mad monarch’s dander up, so it has. Five days past,
a juggler from the south stopped in Therinsford on his lonesome way to
Ceunon, and he said that troops have been moving and gathering, though
for what was beyond him.” He shrugged. “As my pap taught me when I
was a suckling babe, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Perhaps it’s the
Varden. They’ve caused old Iron Bones enough pain in the arse over the
years. Or perhaps Galbatorix finally decided he’s had enough of tolerating
Surda. At least he knows where to find it, unlike those rebels. He’ll crush
Surda like a bear crushes an ant, he will.”

Roran blinked as a babble of questions exploded around the trapper.
He was inclined to doubt the report of a Shade—it sounded too much
like a story a drunk woodsman might invent—but the rest of it all
sounded bad enough to be true. Surda... Little information reached Carvahall
about that distant country, but Roran at least knew that, although
Surda and the Empire were ostensibly at peace, Surdans lived in constant
fear that their more powerful neighbor to the north would invade them.
For that reason, it was said that Orrin, their king, supported the Varden.

If the trapper was right about Galbatorix, then it could mean ugly war
crouched in the future, accompanied by the hardships of increased taxes
and forced conscription. I would rather live in an age devoid of momentous
events. Upheaval makes already difficult lives, such as ours, nigh impossible.


“What’s more, there have even been tales of...” Here the trapper paused
and, with a knowing expression, tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.
“Tales of a new Rider in Alagaësia.” He laughed then, a big, hearty
laugh, slapping his belly as he rocked back on the porch.

Roran laughed as well. Stories of Riders appeared every few years. They
had excited his interest the first two or three times, but he soon learned
not to trust such accounts, for they all came to naught. The rumors were
nothing more than wishful thinking on the part of those who longed for a
brighter future.

He was about to head off when he noticed Katrina standing by the corner
of the tavern, garbed in a long russet dress decorated with green ribbon.
She gazed at him with the same intensity with which he gazed at
her. Going over, he touched her on the shoulder and, together, they
slipped away.

37



They walked to the edge of Carvahall, where they stood looking at the
stars. The heavens were brilliant, shimmering with thousands of celestial
fires. And arching above them, from north to south, was the glorious
pearly band that streamed from horizon to horizon, like diamond dust
tossed from a pitcher.

Without looking at him, Katrina rested her head on Roran’s shoulder
and asked, “How was your day?”

“I returned home.” He felt her stiffen against him.

“What was it like?”

“Terrible.” His voice caught and he fell silent, holding her tightly. The
scent of her copper hair on his cheek was like an elixir of wine and spice
and perfume. It seeped deep inside him, warm and comforting. “The
house, the barn, the fields, they’re all being overrun.... I wouldn’t have
found them if I didn’t know where to look.”

She finally turned to face him, stars flashing in her eyes, sorrow on her
face. “Oh, Roran.” She kissed him, lips brushing his for a brief moment.
“You have endured so much loss, and yet your strength has never failed
you. Will you return to your farm now?”

“Aye. Farming is all I know.”

“And what shall become of me?”

He hesitated. From the moment he began to court her, an unspoken assumption
that they would marry had existed between them. There had
been no need to discuss his intentions; they were as plain as the day was
long, and so her question unsettled him. It also felt improper to address
the issue in such an open manner when he was not ready to tender an offer.
It was his place to make the overtures—first to Sloan and then to
Katrina—not hers. Still, he had to deal with her concern now that it had
been expressed. “Katrina... I cannot approach your father as I had planned.
He would laugh at me, and rightly so. We have to wait. Once I have a
place for us to live and I’ve collected my first harvest, then he will listen
to me.”

She faced the sky once more and whispered something so faint, he
could not make it out. “What?”

38



“I said, are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not! I—”

“Then you must get his permission, tomorrow, and set the engagement.
Make him understand that, though you have nothing now, you will give
me a good home and be a son-in-law he can be proud of. There’s no reason
we should waste our years living apart when we feel like this.”

“I can’t do that,” he said with a note of despair, willing her to understand.
“I can’t provide for you, I can’t—”

“Don’t you understand ?” She stepped away, her voice strained with urgency.
“I love you, Roran, and I want to be with you, but Father has other
plans for me. There are far more eligible men than you, and the longer
you delay, the more he presses me to consent to a match of which he approves.
He fears I will become an old maid, and I fear that too. I have
only so much time or choice in Carvahall.... If I must take another, I will.”
Tears glistened in her eyes as she gave him a searching glance, waiting for
his response, then gathered up her dress and rushed back to the houses.

Roran stood there, motionless with shock. Her absence was as acute for
him as losing the farm—the world suddenly gone cold and unfriendly. It
was as if part of himself had been torn away.

It was hours before he could return to Horst’s and slip into bed.

39



THE HUNTED HUNTERS


Dirt crunched under Roran’s boots as he led the way down the valley,
which was cool and pale in the early hours of the overcast morning. Baldor
followed close behind, both of them carrying strung bows. Neither
spoke as they studied their surroundings for signs of the deer.

“There,” said Baldor in a low voice, pointing at a set of tracks leading
toward a bramble on the edge of the Anora.

Roran nodded and started after the spoor. It looked about a day old, so
he risked speaking. “Could I have your advice, Baldor? You seem to have
a good understanding of people.”

“Of course. What is it?”

For a long time, the pad of their feet was the only noise. “Sloan wants
to marry off Katrina, and not to me. Every day that passes increases the
chance he will arrange a union to his liking.”

“What does Katrina say of this?”

Roran shrugged. “He is her father. She cannot continue to defy his will
when no one she does want has stepped forward to claim her.”

“That is, you.”

“Aye.”

“And that’s why you were up so early.” It was no question.

In fact, Roran had been too worried to sleep at all. He had spent the
entire night thinking about Katrina, trying to find a solution to their predicament.
“I can’t bear to lose her. But I don’t think Sloan will give us his
blessing, what with my position and all.”

“No, I don’t think he would,” agreed Baldor. He glanced at Roran out of
the corner of his eye. “What is it you want my advice on, though?”

A snort of laughter escaped Roran. “How can I convince Sloan otherwise?
How can I resolve this dilemma without starting a blood feud?” He
threw his hands up. “What should I do?”

40



“Have you no ideas?”

“I do, but not of a sort I find pleasing. It occurred to me that Katrina
and I could simply announce we were engaged—not that we are yet—
and hang the consequences. That would force Sloan to accept our betrothal.”


A frown creased Baldor’s brow. He said carefully, “Maybe, but it would
also create a slew of bad feelings throughout Carvahall. Few would approve
of your actions. Nor would it be wise to force Katrina to choose
between you or her family; she might resent you for it in years to come.”

“I know, but what alternative do I have?”

“Before you take such a drastic step, I recommend you try to win Sloan
over as an ally. There’s a chance you might succeed, after all, if it’s made
clear to him that no one else will want to marry an angry Katrina. Especially
when you’re around to cuckold the husband.” Roran grimaced and
kept his gaze on the ground. Baldor laughed. “If you fail, well then, you
can proceed with confidence, knowing that you have indeed exhausted
all other routes. And people will be less likely to spit upon you for breaking
tradition and more likely to say Sloan’s bullheaded ways brought it
upon himself.”

“Neither course is easy.”

“You knew that to begin with.” Baldor grew somber again. “No doubt
there’ll be harsh words if you challenge Sloan, but things will settle down
in the end—perhaps not comfortably, but at least bearably. Aside from
Sloan, the only people you’ll really offend are prudes like Quimby,
though how Quimby can brew such a hale drink yet be so starched and
bitter himself is beyond me.”

Roran nodded, understanding. Grudges could simmer for years in Carvahall.
“I’m glad we could talk. It’s been...” He faltered, thinking of all the
discussions he and Eragon used to share. They had been, as Eragon once
said, brothers in all but blood. It had been deeply comforting to know
that someone existed who would listen to him, no matter the time or
circumstances. And to know that person would always help him, no matter
the cost.

The absence of such a bond left Roran feeling empty.

Baldor did not press him to finish his sentence, but instead stopped to

41



drink from his waterskin. Roran continued for a few yards, then halted as
a scent intruded on his thoughts.

It was the heavy odor of seared meat and charred pine boughs. Who
would be here besides us? Breathing deeply, he turned in a circle, trying to
determine the source of the fire. A slight gust brushed past him from farther
down the road, carrying a hot, smoky wave. The aroma of food was
intense enough to make his mouth water.

He beckoned to Baldor, who hurried to his side. “Smell that?”

Baldor nodded. Together they returned to the road and followed it
south. About a hundred feet away, it bent around a copse of cottonwoods
and curved out of view. As they approached the turn, the rise and
fall of voices reached them, muffled by the thick layer of morning fog
over the valley.

At the copse’s fringe, Roran slowed to a stop. It was foolish to surprise
people when they too might be out hunting. Still, something bothered
him. Perhaps it was the number of voices; the group seemed bigger than
any family in the valley. Without thinking, he stepped off the road and
slipped behind the underbrush lining the copse.

“What are you doing?” whispered Baldor.

Roran put a finger to his lips, then crept along, parallel to the road,
keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. As they rounded the bend, he
froze.

On the grass by the road was a camp of soldiers. Thirty helmets
gleamed in a shaft of morning light as their owners devoured fowl and
stew cooked over several fires. The men were mud splattered and travel
stained, but Galbatorix’s symbol was still visible on their red tunics, a
twisting flame outlined in gold thread. Underneath the tunics, they wore
leather brigandines—heavy with riveted squares of steel—mail shirts, and
then padded gambesons. Most of the soldiers bore broadswords, though
half a dozen were archers and another half-dozen carried wicked-looking
halberds.

And hunched in their midst were two twisted black forms that Roran
recognized from the numerous descriptions the villagers provided upon
his return from Therinsford: the strangers who had destroyed his farm.
His blood chilled. They’re servants of the Empire! He began to step forward,
fingers already reaching for an arrow, when Baldor grabbed his jer


42



kin and dragged him to the ground.

“Don’t. You’ll get us both killed.”

Roran glared at him, then snarled. “That’s... they’re the bastards...” He
stopped, noticing that his hands were shaking. “They’ve returned!”

“Roran,” whispered Baldor intently, “you can’t do anything. Look, they
work for the king. Even if you managed to escape, you’d be an outlaw
everywhere, and you’d bring disaster on Carvahall.”

“What do they want? What can they want?” The king. Why did Galbatorix
countenance my father’s torture?

“If they didn’t get what they needed from Garrow, and Eragon fled
with Brom, then they must want you.” Baldor paused, letting the words
sink in. “We have to get back and warn everyone. Then you have to hide.
The strangers are the only ones with horses. We can get there first if we
run.”

Roran stared through the brush at the oblivious soldiers. His heart
pounded fiercely for revenge, clamoring to attack and fight, to see those
two agents of misfortune pierced with arrows and brought to their own
justice. It mattered not that he would die as long as he could wash clean
his pain and sorrow in one fell moment. All he had to do was break
cover. The rest would take care of itself.

Just one small step.

With a choked sob, he clenched his fist and dropped his head. I can’t
leave Katrina. He remained rigid—eyes squeezed shut—then with agonizing
slowness dragged himself back. “Home then.”

Without waiting for Baldor’s reaction, Roran slipped through the trees
as fast as he dared. Once the camp was out of sight, he broke out onto
the road and ran down the dirt track, channeling his frustration, anger,
and even fear into speed.

Baldor scrambled behind him, gaining on the open stretches. Roran
slowed to a comfortable trot and waited for him to draw level before
saying, “You spread the word. I’ll talk with Horst.” Baldor nodded, and
they pushed on.

After two miles, they stopped to drink and rest briefly. When their

43



panting subsided, they continued through the low hills preceding Carvahall.
The rolling ground slowed them considerably, but even so, the village
soon burst into view.

Roran immediately broke for the forge, leaving Baldor to make his way
to the center of town. As he pounded past the houses, Roran wildly considered
schemes to evade or kill the strangers without incurring the
wrath of the Empire.

He burst into the forge to catch Horst tapping a peg into the side of
Quimby’s wagon, singing:

... hey O!

And a ringing and a dinging

Rang from old iron! Wily old iron.

With a beat and a bang on the bones of the land,

I conquered wily old iron!

Horst stopped his mallet in midblow when he saw Roran. “What’s the
matter, lad? Is Baldor hurt?”

Roran shook his head and leaned over, gasping for air. In short bursts,
he reiterated all they had seen and its possible implications, most importantly
that it was now clear the strangers were agents of the Empire.

Horst fingered his beard. “You have to leave Carvahall. Fetch some
food from the house, then take my mare—Ivor’s pulling stumps with
her—and ride into the foothills. Once we know what the soldiers want,
I’ll send Albriech or Baldor with word.”

“What will you say if they ask for me?”

“That you’re out hunting and we don’t know when you’ll return. It’s
true enough, and I doubt they’ll chance blundering around in the trees for
fear of missing you. Assuming it’s you they’re really after.”

Roran nodded, then turned and ran to Horst’s house. Inside, he grabbed
the mare’s tack and bags from the wall, quickly tied turnips, beets, jerky,

44



and a loaf of bread in a knot of blankets, snatched up a tin pot, and
dashed out, pausing only long enough to explain the situation to Elain.

The supplies were an awkward bundle in his arms as he jogged east
from Carvahall to Ivor’s farm. Ivor himself stood behind the farmhouse,
flicking the mare with a willow wand as she strained to tear the hairy
roots of an elm tree from the ground.

“Come on now!” shouted the farmer. “Put your back into it!” The horse
shuddered with effort, her bit lathered, then with a final surge tilted the
stump on its side so the roots reached toward the sky like a cluster of
gnarled fingers. Ivor stopped her exertion with a twitch of the reins and
patted her good-naturedly. “All right.... There we go.”

Roran hailed him from a distance and, when they were close, pointed
to the horse. “I need to borrow her.” He gave his reasons.

Ivor swore and began unhitching the mare, grumbling, “Always the
moment I get a bit of work done, that’s when the interruption comes.
Never before.” He crossed his arms and frowned as Roran cinched the
saddle, intent on his work.

When he was ready, Roran swung onto the horse, bow in hand. “I am
sorry for the trouble, but it can’t be helped.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. Just make sure you aren’t caught.”

“I’ll do that.”

As he set heels to the mare’s sides, Roran heard Ivor call, “And don’t be
hiding up my creek!”

Roran grinned and shook his head, bending low over the horse’s neck.
He soon reached the foothills of the Spine and worked his way up to the
mountains that formed the north end of Palancar Valley. From there he
climbed to a point on the mountainside where he could observe Carvahall
without being seen. Then he picketed his steed and settled down to
wait.

Roran shivered, eyeing the dark pines. He disliked being this close to
the Spine. Hardly anyone from Carvahall dared set foot in the mountain
range, and those who did often failed to return.

Before long Roran saw the soldiers march up the road in a double line,

45



two ominous black figures at their head. They were stopped at the edge
of Carvahall by a ragged group of men, some of them with picks in hand.
The two sides spoke, then simply faced each other, like growling dogs
waiting to see who would strike first. After a long moment, the men of
Carvahall moved aside and let the intruders pass.

What happens now? wondered Roran, rocking back on his heels.

By evening the soldiers had set up camp in a field adjacent to the village.
Their tents formed a low gray block that flickered with weird shadows
as sentries patrolled the perimeter. In the center of the block, a large
fire sent billows of smoke into the air.

Roran had made his own camp, and now he simply watched and
thought. He always assumed that when the strangers destroyed his home,
they got what they wanted, which was the stone Eragon brought from
the Spine. They must not have found it, he decided. Perhaps Eragon managed
to escape with the stone.... Perhaps he felt that he had to leave in order
to protect it. He frowned. That would go a long way toward explaining
why Eragon fled, but it still seemed far-fetched to Roran. Whatever the
reason, that stone must be a fantastic treasure for the king to send so many
men to retrieve it. I can’t understand what would make it so valuable.
Maybe it’s magic.

He breathed deeply of the cool air, listening to the hoot of an owl. A
flicker of movement caught his attention. Glancing down the mountain,
he saw a man approaching in the forest below. Roran ducked behind a
boulder, bow drawn. He waited until he was sure it was Albriech, then
whistled softly.

Albriech soon arrived at the boulder. On his back was an overfull pack,
which he dropped to the ground with a grunt. “I thought I’d never find
you.”

“I’m surprised you did.”

“Can’t say I enjoyed wandering through the forest after sundown. I kept
expecting to walk into a bear, or worse. The Spine isn’t a fit place for
men, if you ask me.”

Roran looked back out at Carvahall. “So why are they here?”

46



“To take you into custody. They’re willing to wait as long as they have
to for you to return from ‘hunting.’ ”

Roran sat with a hard thump, his gut clenched with cold anticipation.
“Did they give a reason? Did they mention the stone?”

Albriech shook his head. “All they would say is that it’s the king’s business.
The whole day they’ve been asking questions about you and Eragon—
it’s all they’re interested in.” He hesitated. “I’d stay, but they’ll notice
if I am missing tomorrow. I brought plenty of food and blankets, plus
some of Gertrude’s salves in case you injure yourself. You should be fine
up here.”

Summoning his energy, Roran smiled. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anyone would do it,” said Albriech with an embarrassed shrug. He
started to leave, then tossed over his shoulder, “By the way, the two
strangers... they’re called the Ra’zac.”

47



SAPHIRA’S PROMISE


The morning after meeting with the Council of Elders, Eragon was
cleaning and oiling Saphira’s saddle—careful not to overexert himself—
when Orik came to visit. The dwarf waited until Eragon finished with a
strap, then asked, “Are you better today?”

“A little.”

“Good, we all need our strength. I came partly to see to your health and
also because Hrothgar wishes to speak with you, if you are free.”

Eragon gave the dwarf a wry smile. “I’m always free for him. He must
know that.”

Orik laughed. “Ah, but it’s polite to ask nicely.” As Eragon put down
the saddle, Saphira uncoiled from her padded corner and greeted Orik
with a friendly growl. “Morning to you as well,” he said with a bow.

Orik led them through one of Tronjheim’s four main corridors, toward
its central chamber and the two mirroring staircases that curved underground
to the dwarf king’s throne room. Before they reached the chamber,
however, he turned down a small flight of stairs. It took Eragon a
moment to realize that Orik had taken a side passageway to avoid seeing
the wreckage of Isidar Mithrim.

They came to a stop before the granite doors engraved with a seven-
pointed crown. Seven armored dwarves on each side of the entrance
pounded the floor simultaneously with the hafts of their mattocks. With
the echoing thud of wood on stone, the doors swung inward.

Eragon nodded to Orik, then entered the dim room with Saphira. They
advanced toward the distant throne, passing the rigid statues, hírna, of
past dwarf kings. At the foot of the heavy black throne, Eragon bowed.
The dwarf king inclined his silver-maned head in return, the rubies
wrought into his golden helm glowing dully in the light like flecks of hot
iron. Volund, the war hammer, lay across his mail-sheathed legs.

Hrothgar spoke: “Shadeslayer, welcome to my hall. You have done
much since last we met. And, so it seems, I have been proved wrong
about Zar’roc. Morzan’s blade will be welcome in Tronjheim so long as
you bear it.”

48



“Thank you,” said Eragon, rising.

“Also,” rumbled the dwarf, “we wish you to keep the armor you wore
in the battle of Farthen Dûr. Even now our most skilled smiths are repairing
it. The dragon armor is being treated likewise, and when it is restored,
Saphira may use it as long as she wishes, or until she outgrows it.
This is the least we can do to show our gratitude. If it weren’t for the war
with Galbatorix, there would be feasts and celebrations in your name...
but those must wait until a more appropriate time.”

Voicing both his and Saphira’s sentiment, Eragon said, “You are generous
beyond all expectations. We will cherish such noble gifts.”

Clearly pleased, Hrothgar nevertheless scowled, bringing his snarled
eyebrows together. “We cannot linger on pleasantries, though. I am besieged
by the clans with demands that I do one thing or another about
Ajihad’s successor. When the Council of Elders proclaimed yesterday that
they would support Nasuada, it created an uproar the likes of which I
haven’t seen since I ascended to the throne. The chiefs had to decide
whether to accept Nasuada or look for another candidate. Most have
concluded that Nasuada should lead the Varden, but I wish to know
where you stand on this, Eragon, before I lend my word to either side.
The worst thing a king can do is look foolish.”

How much can we tell him? Eragon asked Saphira, thinking quickly.

He’s always treated us fairly, but we can’t know what he may have promised
other people. We’d best be cautious until Nasuada actually takes
power.

Very well.

“Saphira and I have agreed to help her. We won’t oppose her ascension.
And”—Eragon wondered if he was going too far—“I plead that you do
the same; the Varden can’t afford to fight among themselves. They need
unity.”

“Oeí,” said Hrothgar, leaning back, “you speak with new authority.
Your suggestion is a good one, but it will cost a question: Do you think
Nasuada will be a wise leader, or are there other motives in choosing
her?”

It’s a test, warned Saphira. He wants to know why we’ve backed her.

49



Eragon felt his lips twitch in a half-smile. “I think her wise and canny
beyond her years. She will be good for the Varden.”

“And that is why you support her?”

“Yes.”

Hrothgar nodded, dipping his long, snowy beard. “That relieves me.
There has been too little concern lately with what is right and good, and
more about what will bring individual power. It is hard to watch such
idiocy and not be angry.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, stifling in the long throne
room. To break it, Eragon asked, “What will be done with the dragon-
hold? Will a new floor be laid down?”

For the first time, the king’s eyes grew mournful, deepening the surrounding
lines that splayed like spokes on a wagon wheel. It was the
closest Eragon had ever seen a dwarf come to weeping. “Much talk is
needed before that step can be taken. It was a terrible deed, what Saphira
and Arya did. Maybe necessary, but terrible. Ah, it might have been better
if the Urgals had overrun us before Isidar Mithrim was ever broken.
The heart of Tronjheim has been shattered, and so has ours.” Hrothgar
placed his fist over his breast, then slowly unclenched his hand and
reached down to grasp Volund’s leather-wrapped handle.

Saphira touched Eragon’s mind. He sensed several emotions in her, but
what surprised him the most was her remorse and guilt. She truly regretted
the Star Rose’s demise, despite the fact that it had been required. Little
one, she said, help me. I need to speak with Hrothgar. Ask him: Do the
dwarves have the ability to reconstruct Isidar Mithrim out of the shards?

As he repeated the words, Hrothgar muttered something in his own
language, then said, “The skill we have, but what of it? The task would
take months or years, and the end result would be a ruined mockery of
the beauty that once graced Tronjheim! It is an abomination I will not
sanction.”

Saphira continued to stare unblinkingly at the king. Now tell him: If Isidar
Mithrim were put together again, with not one piece missing, I believe I
could make it whole once more.

Eragon gaped at her, forgetting Hrothgar in his astonishment. Saphira!
The energy that would require! You told me yourself that you can’t use

50



magic at will, so what makes you sure you can do this?

I can do it if the need is great enough. It will be my gift to the dwarves.
Remember Brom’s tomb; let that wash your doubt away. And close your
mouth—it’s unbecoming and the king is watching.

When Eragon conveyed Saphira’s offer, Hrothgar straightened with an
exclamation. “Is it possible? Not even the elves might attempt such a
feat.”

“She is confident in her abilities.”

“Then we will rebuild Isidar Mithrim, no matter if it takes a hundred
years. We will assemble a frame for the gem and set each piece into its
original place. Not a single chip will be forgotten. Even if we must break
the larger pieces to move them, it will be done with all our skill in working
stone, so that no dust or flecks are lost. You will come then, when we
are finished, and heal the Star Rose.”

“We will come,” agreed Eragon, bowing.

Hrothgar smiled, and it was like the cracking of a granite wall. “Such
joy you have given me, Saphira. I feel once more a reason to rule and live.
If you do this, dwarves everywhere will honor your name for uncounted
generations. Go now with my blessings while I spread the tidings among
the clans. And do not feel bound to wait upon my announcement, for no
dwarf should be denied this news; convey it to all whom you meet. May
the halls echo with the jubilation of our race.”

With one more bow, Eragon and Saphira departed, leaving the dwarf
king still smiling on his throne. Out of the hall, Eragon told Orik what
had transpired. The dwarf immediately bent and kissed the floor before
Saphira. He rose with a grin and clasped Eragon’s arm, saying, “A wonder
indeed. You have given us exactly the hope we needed to combat recent
events. There will be drinking tonight, I wager!”

“And tomorrow is the funeral.”

Orik sobered for a moment. “Tomorrow, yes. But until then we shall
not let unhappy thoughts disturb us! Come!”

Taking Eragon’s hand, the dwarf pulled him through Tronjheim to a
great feast hall where many dwarves sat at stone tables. Orik leaped onto
one, scattering dishes across the floor, and in a booming voice proclaimed

51



the news of Isidar Mithrim. Eragon was nearly deafened by the cheers
and shouts that followed. Each of the dwarves insisted on coming to
Saphira and kissing the floor as Orik had. When that was finished, they
abandoned their food and filled their stone tankards with beer and mead.

Eragon joined the revelry with an abandon that surprised him. It helped
to ease the melancholy gathered in his heart. However, he did try to resist
complete debauchery, for he was conscious of the duties that awaited
them the following day and he wanted to have a clear head.

Even Saphira took a sip of mead, and finding that she liked it, the
dwarves rolled out a whole barrel for her. Delicately lowering her mighty
jaws through the cask’s open end, she drained it with three long draughts,
then tilted her head toward the ceiling and belched a giant tongue of
flame. It took several minutes for Eragon to convince the dwarves that it
was safe to approach her again, but once he did, they brought her another
barrel—overriding the cook’s protests—and watched with amazement as
she emptied it as well.

As Saphira became increasingly inebriated, her emotions and thoughts
washed through Eragon with more and more force. It became difficult for
him to rely upon the input of his own senses: her vision began to slip
over his own, blurring movement and changing colors. Even the odors he
smelled shifted at times, becoming sharper, more pungent.

The dwarves began to sing together. Weaving as she stood, Saphira
hummed along, punctuating each line with a roar. Eragon opened his
mouth to join in and was shocked when, instead of words, out came the
snarling rasp of a dragon’s voice. That, he thought, shaking his head, is going
too far.... Or am I just drunk? He decided it did not matter and proceeded
to sing boisterously, dragon’s voice or not.

Dwarves continued to stream into the hall as word of Isidar Mithrim
spread. Hundreds soon packed the tables, with a thick ring around Eragon
and Saphira. Orik called in musicians who arranged themselves in a corner,
where they pulled slipcovers of green velvet off their instruments.
Soon harps, lutes, and silver flutes floated their gilded melodies over the
throng.

Many hours passed before the noise and excitement began to calm.
When it did, Orik once more climbed onto the table. He stood there, legs
spread wide for balance, tankard in hand, iron-bound cap awry, and cried,
“Hear, hear! At last we have celebrated as is proper. The Urgals are gone,
the Shade is dead, and we have won!” The dwarves all pounded their ta


52



bles in approval. It was a good speech—short and to the point. But Orik
was not finished. “To Eragon and Saphira!” he roared, lifting the tankard.
This too was well received.

Eragon stood and bowed, which brought more cheers. Beside him,
Saphira reared and swung a foreleg across her chest, attempting to duplicate
his move. She tottered, and the dwarves, realizing their danger,
scrambled away from her. They were barely in time. With a loud
whoosh, Saphira fell backward, landing flat on a banquet table.

Pain shot through Eragon’s back and he collapsed insensate by her tail.

53



REQUIEM


“Wake, Knurlhiem! You cannot sleep now. We are needed at the
gate—they won’t start without us.”

Eragon forced his eyes open, conscious of an aching head and sore body.
He was lying on a cold stone table. “What?” He grimaced at the sick taste
on his tongue.

Orik tugged on his brown beard. “Ajihad’s procession. We must be present
for it!”

“No, what did you call me?” They were still in the banquet hall, but it
was empty except for him, Orik, and Saphira, who lay on her side between
two tables. She stirred and lifted her head, looking around with
bleary eyes.

“Stonehead! I called you Stonehead because I’ve been trying to wake
you for almost an hour.”

Eragon pushed himself upright and slid off the table. Flashes of memory
from the night before jumped through his mind. Saphira, how are you? he
asked, stumbling to her.

She swiveled her head, running her crimson tongue in and out over her
teeth, like a cat that ate something unpleasant. Whole... I think. My left
wing feels a bit strange; I think it’s the one I landed on. And my head is
filled with a thousand hot arrows.

“Was anyone hurt when she fell?” asked Eragon, concerned.

A hearty chuckle exploded from the dwarf’s thick chest. “Only those
who dropped off their seats from laughing so hard. A dragon getting
drunk and bowing at that! I’m sure lays will be sung about it for decades.”
Saphira shuffled her wings and looked away primly. “We thought it best
to leave you here, since we couldn’t move you, Saphira. It upset the head
cook terribly—he feared you would drink more of his best stock than the
four barrels you already did.”

And you chastised me once for drinking! If I consumed four barrels, it
would kill me!

That’s why you’re not a dragon.

54



Orik thrust a bundle of clothes into Eragon’s arms. “Here, put these on.
They are more appropriate for a funeral than your own attire. But hurry,
we have little time.” Eragon struggled into the items—a billowy white
shirt with ties at the cuffs, a red vest decorated with gold braiding and
embroidery, dark pants, shiny black boots that clacked on the floor, and a
swirling cape that fastened under his throat with a studded brooch. In
place of the usual plain leather band, Zar’roc was fastened to an ornate
belt.

Eragon splashed his face with water and tried to arrange his hair neatly.
Then Orik rushed him and Saphira out of the hall and toward Tronjheim’s
south gate. “We must start from there,” he explained, moving
with surprising speed on his stocky legs, “because that is where the procession
with Ajihad’s body stopped three days ago. His journey to the
grave cannot be interrupted, or else his spirit will find no rest.”

An odd custom, remarked Saphira.

Eragon agreed, noting a slight unsteadiness in her gait. In Carvahall,
people were usually buried on their farm, or if they lived in the village, in
a small graveyard. The only rituals that accompanied the process were
lines recited from certain ballads and a death feast held afterward for relatives
and friends. Can you make it through the whole funeral? he asked as
Saphira staggered again.

She grimaced briefly. That and Nasuada’s appointment, but then I’ll
need to sleep. A pox on all mead!

Returning to his conversation with Orik, Eragon asked, “Where will
Ajihad be buried?”

Orik slowed and glanced at Eragon with caution. “That has been a matter
of contention among the clans. When a dwarf dies, we believe he
must be sealed in stone or else he will never join his ancestors.... It is
complex and I cannot say more to an outsider... but we go to great
lengths to assure such a burial. Shame falls on a family or clan if they allow
any of their own to lie in a lesser element.

“Under Farthen Dûr exists a chamber that is the home of all knurlan,
all dwarves, who have died here. It is there Ajihad will be taken. He cannot
be entombed with us, as he is human, but a hallowed alcove has been
set aside for him. There the Varden may visit him without disturbing our
sacred grottos, and Ajihad will receive the respect he is due.”

55



“Your king has done much for the Varden,” commented Eragon.

“Some think too much.”

Before the thick gate—drawn up on its hidden chains to reveal faint
daylight drifting into Farthen Dûr—they found a carefully arranged column.
Ajihad lay at the front, cold and pale on a white marble bier borne
by six men in black armor. Upon his head was a helm strewn with precious
stones. His hands were clasped beneath his collarbone, over the
ivory hilt of his bare sword, which extended from underneath the shield
covering his chest and legs. Silver mail, like circlets of moonbeams,
weighed down his limbs and fell onto the bier.

Close behind the body stood Nasuada—grave, sable-cloaked, and strong
in stature, though tears adorned her countenance. To the side was Hrothgar
in dark robes; then Arya; the Council of Elders, all with suitably remorseful
expressions; and finally a stream of mourners that extended a
mile from Tronjheim.

Every door and archway of the four-story-high hall that led to the central
chamber of Tronjheim, half a mile away, was thrown open and
crowded with humans and dwarves alike. Between the gray bands of
faces, the long tapestries swayed as they were brushed with hundreds of
sighs and whispers when Saphira and Eragon came into view.

Jörmundur beckoned for them to join him. Trying not to disturb the
formation, Eragon and Saphira picked through the column to the space
by his side, earning a disapproving glare from Sabrae. Orik went to stand
behind Hrothgar.

Together they waited, though for what, Eragon knew not.

All the lanterns were shuttered halfway so that a cool twilight suffused
the air, lending an ethereal feel to the event. No one seemed to move or
breathe: for a brief moment, Eragon fancied that they were all statues
frozen for eternity. A single plume of incense drifted from the bier, winding
toward the hazy ceiling as it spread the scent of cedar and juniper. It
was the only motion in the hall, a whiplash line undulating sinuously
from side to side.

Deep in Tronjheim, a drum gonged. Boom. The sonorous bass note

56



resonated through their bones, vibrating the city-mountain and causing it
to echo like a great stone bell.

They stepped forward.

Boom. On the second note, another, lower drum melded with the first,
each beat rolling inexorably through the hall. The force of the sound
propelled them along at a majestic pace. It gave each step significance, a
purpose and gravity suited to the occasion. No thought could exist in the
throbbing that surrounded them, only an upwelling of emotion that the
drums expertly beguiled, summoning tears and bittersweet joy at the
same time.

Boom.

When the tunnel ended, Ajihad’s bearers paused between the onyx pillars
before gliding into the central chamber. There Eragon saw the
dwarves grow even more solemn upon beholding Isidar Mithrim.

Boom.

They walked through a crystal graveyard. A circle of towering shards
lay in the center of the great chamber, surrounding the inlaid hammer
and pentacles. Many pieces were larger than Saphira. The rays of the star
sapphire still shimmered in the fragments, and on some, petals of the
carved rose were visible.

Boom.

The bearers continued forward, between the countless razor edges.
Then the procession turned and descended broad flights of stairs to the
tunnels below. Through many caverns they marched, passing stone huts
where dwarven children clutched their mothers and stared with wide
eyes.

Boom.

And with that final crescendo, they halted under ribbed stalactites that
branched over a great catacomb lined with alcoves. In each alcove lay a
tomb carved with a name and clan crest. Thousands—hundreds of thou-
sands—were buried here. The only light came from sparsely placed red
lanterns, pale in the shadows.

After a moment, the bearers strode to a small room annexed to the

57



main chamber. In the center, on a raised platform, was a great crypt open
to waiting darkness. On the top was carved in runes:

May all, Knurlan, Humans, and Elves,

Remember

This Man.

For he was Noble, Strong, and Wise.

Gûntera Arûna

When the mourners were gathered around, Ajihad was lowered into
the crypt, and those who had known him personally were allowed to approach.
Eragon and Saphira were fifth in line, behind Arya. As they ascended
the marble steps to view the body, Eragon was gripped by an
overwhelming sense of sorrow, his anguish compounded by the fact that
he considered this as much Murtagh’s funeral as Ajihad’s.

Stopping alongside the tomb, Eragon gazed down at Ajihad. He appeared
far more calm and tranquil than he ever did in life, as if death had
recognized his greatness and honored him by removing all traces of his
worldly cares. Eragon had known Ajihad only a short while, but in that
time he had come to respect him both as a person and for what he represented:
freedom from tyranny. Also, Ajihad was the first person to grant
safe haven to Eragon and Saphira since they left Palancar Valley.

Stricken, Eragon tried to think of the greatest praise he could give. In
the end, he whispered past the lump in his throat, “You will be remembered,
Ajihad. I swear it. Rest easy knowing that Nasuada shall continue
your work and the Empire will be overthrown because of what you accomplished.”
Conscious of Saphira’s touch on his arm, Eragon stepped off
the platform with her and allowed Jörmundur to take his place.

When at last everyone had paid their respects, Nasuada bowed over
Ajihad and touched her father’s hand, holding it with gentle urgency. Uttering
a pained groan, she began to sing in a strange, wailing language, filling
the cavern with her lamentations.

Then came twelve dwarves, who slid a marble slab over Ajihad’s up


58



turned face. And he was no more.



FEALTY


Eragon yawned and covered his mouth as people filed into the underground
amphitheater. The spacious arena echoed with a babble of voices
discussing the funeral that had just concluded.

Eragon sat on the lowest tier, level with the podium. With him were
Orik, Arya, Hrothgar, Nasuada, and the Council of Elders. Saphira stood
on the row of stairs that cut upward through the tiers. Leaning over, Orik
said, “Ever since Korgan, each of our kings has been chosen here. It’s fitting
that the Varden should do likewise.”

It’s yet to be seen, thought Eragon, if this transfer of power will remain
peaceful. He rubbed an eye, brushing away fresh tears; the funeral ceremony
had left him shaken.

Lathered over the remnants of his grief, anxiety now twisted his gut.
He worried about his own role in the upcoming events. Even if all went
well, he and Saphira were about to make potent enemies. His hand
dropped to Zar’roc and tightened on the pommel.

It took several minutes for the amphitheater to fill. Then Jörmundur
stepped up to the podium. “People of the Varden, we last stood here fifteen
years ago, at Deynor’s death. His successor, Ajihad, did more to oppose
the Empire and Galbatorix than any before. He won countless battles
against superior forces. He nearly killed Durza, putting a scratch on
the Shade’s blade. And greatest of all, he welcomed Rider Eragon and
Saphira into Tronjheim. However, a new leader must be chosen, one
who will win us even more glory.”

Someone high above shouted, “Shadeslayer!”

Eragon tried not to react—he was pleased to see that Jörmundur did
not even blink. He said, “Perhaps in years to come, but he has other duties
and responsibilities now. No, the Council of Elders has thought long
on this: we need one who understands our needs and wants, one who has
lived and suffered alongside us. One who refused to flee, even when battle
was imminent.”

At that moment, Eragon sensed comprehension rush through the listeners.
The name came as a whisper from a thousand throats and was uttered
by Jörmundur himself: “Nasuada.” With a bow, Jörmundur stepped
aside.

60



Next was Arya. She surveyed the waiting audience, then said, “The
elves honor Ajihad tonight.... And on behalf of Queen Islanzadí, I recognize
Nasuada’s ascension and offer her the same support and friendship
we extended to her father. May the stars watch over her.”

Hrothgar took the podium and stated gruffly, “I too support Nasuada,
as do the clans.” He moved aside.

Then it was Eragon’s turn. Standing before the crowd, with all eyes
upon him and Saphira, he said, “We support Nasuada as well.” Saphira
growled in affirmation.

Pledges spoken, the Council of Elders lined themselves on either side of
the podium, Jörmundur at their head. Bearing herself proudly, Nasuada
approached and knelt before him, her dress splayed in raven billows.
Raising his voice, Jörmundur said, “By the right of inheritance and succession,
we have chosen Nasuada. By merit of her father’s achievements and
the blessings of her peers, we have chosen Nasuada. I now ask you: Have
we chosen well?”

The roar was overwhelming. “Yes!”

Jörmundur nodded. “Then by the power granted to this council, we
pass the privileges and responsibilities accorded to Ajihad to his only descendant,
Nasuada.” He gently placed a circlet of silver on Nasuada’s
brow. Taking her hand, he lifted her upright and pronounced, “I give you
our new leader!”

For ten minutes, the Varden and dwarves cheered, thundering their
approbation until the hall rang with the clamor. Once their cries subsided,
Sabrae motioned to Eragon, whispering, “Now is the time to fulfill
your promise.”

At that moment, all noise seemed to cease for Eragon. His nervousness
disappeared too, swallowed in the tide of the moment. Steeling himself
with a breath, he and Saphira started toward Jörmundur and Nasuada,
each step an eternity. As they walked, he stared at Sabrae, Elessari,
Umérth, and Falberd—noting their half-smiles, smugness, and on Sabrae’s
part, outright disdain. Behind the council members stood Arya. She nodded
in support.

We are about to change history, said Saphira.

61



We’re throwing ourselves off a cliff without knowing how deep the water
below is.

Ah, but what a glorious flight!

With a brief look at Nasuada’s serene face, Eragon bowed and kneeled.
Slipping Zar’roc from its sheath, he placed the sword flat on his palms,
then lifted it, as if to proffer it to Jörmundur. For a moment, the sword
hovered between Jörmundur and Nasuada, teetering on the wire edge of
two different destinies. Eragon felt his breath catch—such a simple
choice to balance a life on. And more than a life—a dragon, a king, an
Empire!

Then his breath rushed in, filling his lungs with time once again, and he
swung to face Nasuada. “Out of deep respect... and appreciation of the
difficulties facing you... I, Eragon, first Rider of the Varden, Shadeslayer
and Argetlam, give you my blade and my fealty, Nasuada.”

The Varden and dwarves stared, dumbstruck. In that same instant, the
Council of Elders flashed from triumphant gloating to enraged impotence.
Their glares burned with the strength and venom of those betrayed.
Even Elessari let outrage burst through her pleasant demeanor.
Only Jörmundur—after a brief jolt of surprise—seemed to accept the
announcement with equanimity.

Nasuada smiled and grasped Zar’roc, placing the sword’s tip on Eragon’s
forehead, just as before. “I am honored that you choose to serve me,
Rider Eragon. I accept, as you accept all the responsibilities accompanying
the station. Rise as my vassal and take your sword.”

Eragon did so, then stepped back with Saphira. With shouts of approval,
the crowd rose to their feet, the dwarves stamping in rhythm
with their hobnail boots while human warriors banged swords across
shields.

Turning to the podium, Nasuada gripped it on either side and looked
up at all the people in the amphitheater. She beamed at them, pure joy
shining from her face. “People of the Varden!”

Silence.

“As my father did before me, I give my life to you and our cause. I will
never cease fighting until the Urgals are vanquished, Galbatorix is dead,
and Alagaësia is free once more!”

62



More cheering and applause.

“Therefore, I say to you, now is the time to prepare. Here in Farthen
Dûr—after endless skirmishes—we won our greatest battle. It is our turn
to strike back. Galbatorix is weak after losing so many forces, and there
will never again be such an opportunity.

“Therefore, I say again, now is the time to prepare so that we may once
more stand victorious!”

After more speeches by various personages—including a still-glowering
Falberd—the amphitheater began to empty. As Eragon stood to leave,
Orik grasped his arm, stopping him. The dwarf was wide-eyed. “Eragon,
did you plan all that beforehand?”

Eragon briefly considered the wisdom of telling him, then nodded.
“Yes.”

Orik exhaled, shaking his head. “That was a bold stroke, it was. You’ve
given Nasuada a strong position to begin with. It was dangerous, though,
if the reactions of the Council of Elders are anything to judge by. Did
Arya approve of this?”

“She agreed it was necessary.”

The dwarf studied him thoughtfully. “I’m sure it was. You just altered
the balance of power, Eragon. No one will underestimate you again because
of it.... Beware the rotten stone. You have earned some powerful
enemies today.” He slapped Eragon on the side and continued past.

Saphira watched him go, then said, We should prepare to leave Farthen
Dûr. The council will be thirsty for revenge. The sooner we’re out of their
reach, the better.

63



A SORCERESS, A SNAKE, AND A SCROLL


That evening, as Eragon returned to his quarters from bathing, he was
surprised to find a tall woman waiting for him in the hall. She had dark
hair, startling blue eyes, and a wry mouth. Wound around her wrist was a
gold bracelet shaped like a hissing snake. Eragon hoped that she wasn’t
there to ask him for advice, like so many of the Varden.

“Argetlam.” She curtsied gracefully.

He inclined his head in return. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m Trianna, sorceress of Du Vrangr Gata.”

“Really? A sorceress?” he asked, intrigued.

“And battle mage and spy and anything else the Varden deem necessary.
There aren’t enough magic users, so we each end up with a half-
dozen tasks.” She smiled, displaying even, white teeth. “That’s why I came
today. We would be honored to have you take charge of our group.
You’re the only one who can replace the Twins.”

Almost without realizing it, he smiled back. She was so friendly and
charming, he hated to say no. “I’m afraid I can’t; Saphira and I are leaving
Tronjheim soon. Besides, I’d have to consult with Nasuada first anyway.”

And I don’t want to be entangled in any more politics... especially not where
the Twins used to lead.

Trianna bit her lip. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She moved a step closer.
“Perhaps we can spend some time together before you have to go. I could
show you how to summon and control spirits.... It would be educational
for both of us.”

Eragon felt a hot flush warm his face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m
really too busy at the moment.”

A spark of anger flared within Trianna’s eyes, then vanished so quickly,
he wondered whether he had seen it at all. She sighed delicately. “I understand.”


She sounded so disappointed—and looked so forlorn—Eragon felt
guilty for rebuffing her. It can’t hurt to talk with her for a few minutes, he
told himself. “I’m curious; how did you learn magic?”

64



Trianna brightened. “My mother was a healer in Surda. She had a bit of
power and was able to instruct me in the old ways. Of course, I’m nowhere
near as powerful as a Rider. None of Du Vrangr Gata could have
defeated Durza alone, like you did. That was a heroic deed.”

Embarrassed, Eragon scuffed his boots against the ground. “I wouldn’t
have survived if not for Arya.”

“You are too modest, Argetlam,” she admonished. “It was you who
struck the final blow. You should be proud of your accomplishment. It’s
a feat worthy of Vrael himself.” She leaned toward him. His heart quickened
as he smelled her perfume, which was rich and musky, with a hint
of an exotic spice. “Have you heard the songs composed about you? The
Varden sing them every night around their fires. They say you’ve come to
take the throne from Galbatorix!”

“No,” said Eragon, quick and sharp. That was one rumor he would not
tolerate. “They might, but I don’t. Whatever my fate may be, I don’t aspire
to rule.”

“And it’s wise of you not to. What is a king, after all, but a man imprisoned
by his duties? That would be a poor reward indeed for the last free
Rider and his dragon. No, for you the ability to go and do what you will
and, by extension, to shape the future of Alagaësia.” She paused. “Do you
have any family left in the Empire?”

What?“ Only a cousin.”

“Then you’re not betrothed?”

The question caught him off guard. He had never been asked that before.
“No, I’m not betrothed.”

“Surely there must be someone you care about.” She came another step
closer, and her ribboned sleeve brushed his arm.

“I wasn’t close to anyone in Carvahall,” he faltered, “and I’ve been traveling
since then.”

Trianna drew back slightly, then lifted her wrist so the serpent bracelet
was at eye level. “Do you like him?” she inquired. Eragon blinked and
nodded, though it was actually rather disconcerting. “I call him Lorga.
He’s my familiar and protector.” Bending forward, she blew upon the

65



bracelet, then murmured, “Sé orúm thornessa hávr sharjalví lífs.”

With a dry rustle, the snake stirred to life. Eragon watched, fascinated,
as the creature writhed around Trianna’s pale arm, then lifted itself and
fixed its whirling ruby eyes upon him, wire tongue whipping in and out.
Its eyes seemed to expand until they were each as large as Eragon’s fist.
He felt as if he were tumbling into their fiery depths; he could not look
away no matter how hard he tried.

Then at a short command, the serpent stiffened and resumed its former
position. With a tired sigh, Trianna leaned against the wall. “Not many
people understand what we magic users do. But I wanted you to know
that there are others like you, and we will help if we can.”

Impulsively, Eragon put his hand on hers. He had never attempted to
approach a woman this way before, but instinct urged him onward, daring
him to take the chance. It was frightening, exhilarating. “If you want,
we could go and eat. There’s a kitchen not far from here.”

She slipped her other hand over his, fingers smooth and cool, so different
from the rough grips he was accustomed to. “I’d like that. Shall we—”
Trianna stumbled forward as the door burst open behind her. The sorceress
whirled around, only to yelp as she found herself face to face with
Saphira.

Saphira remained motionless, except for one lip that slowly lifted to
reveal a line of jagged teeth. Then she growled. It was a marvelous
growl—richly layered with scorn and menace—that rose and fell through
the hall for more than a minute. Listening to it was like enduring a blistering,
hackle-raising tirade.

Eragon glared at her the whole time.

When it was over, Trianna was clenching her dress with both fists,
twisting the fabric. Her face was white and scared. She quickly curtsied
to Saphira, then, with a barely controlled motion, turned and fled. Acting
as if nothing had happened, Saphira lifted a leg and licked a claw. It was
nearly impossible to get the door open, she sniffed.

Eragon could not contain himself any longer. Why did you do that? he
exploded. You had no reason to interfere!

You needed my help, she continued, unperturbed.

66



If I’d needed your help, I would have called!

Don’t yell at me, she snapped, letting her jaws click together. He could
sense her emotions boiling with as much turmoil as his. I’ll not have you
run around with a slattern who cares more for Eragon as Rider than you as
a person.

She wasn’t a slattern, roared Eragon. He pounded the wall in frustration.
I’m a man now, Saphira, not a hermit. You can’t expect me to ignore...
ignore women just because of who I am. And it’s certainly not your decision
to make. At the very least, I might have enjoyed a conversation with her,
anything other than the tragedies we’ve dealt with lately. You’re in my head
enough to know how I feel. Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Where was
the harm?

You don’t understand. She refused to meet his eyes.

Don’t understand! Will you prevent me from ever having a wife and children?
What of a family?

Eragon. She finally fixed one great eye on him. We are intimately
linked.

Obviously!

And if you pursue a relationship, with or without my blessing, and become...
attached... to someone, my feelings will become engaged as well.
You should know that. Therefore—and I warn you only once—be careful
who you choose, because it will involve both of us.

He briefly considered her words. Our bond works both ways, however. If
you hate someone, I will be influenced likewise.... I understand your concern.
So you weren’t just jealous?

She licked the claw once more. Perhaps a little.

Eragon was the one who growled this time. He brushed past her into
the room, grabbed Zar’roc, then stalked away, belting on the sword.

He wandered through Tronjheim for hours, avoiding contact with everyone.
What had occurred pained him, though he could not deny the
truth of Saphira’s words. Of all the matters they shared, this was the most
delicate and the one they agreed upon least. That night—for the first
time since he was captured at Gil’ead—he slept away from Saphira, in

67



one of the dwarves’ barracks.

Eragon returned to their quarters the following morning. By unspoken
consent, he and Saphira avoided discussing what had transpired; further
argument was pointless when neither party was willing to yield ground.
Besides, they were both so relieved to be reunited, they did not want to
risk endangering their friendship again.

They were eating lunch—Saphira tearing at a bloody haunch—when
Jarsha trotted up. Like before, he stared wide-eyed at Saphira, following
her movements as she nibbled off the end of a leg bone. “Yes?” asked Eragon,
wiping his chin and wondering if the Council of Elders had sent for
them. He had heard nothing from them since the funeral.

Jarsha turned away from Saphira long enough to say, “Nasuada would
like to see you, sir. She’s waiting in her father’s study.”

Sir! Eragon almost laughed. Only a little while ago, he would have been
calling people sir, not the other way around. He glanced at Saphira. “Are
you done, or should we wait a few minutes?”

Rolling her eyes, she fit the rest of the meat into her mouth and split
the bone with a loud crack. I’m done.

“All right,” said Eragon, standing, “you can go, Jarsha. We know the
way.”

It took almost half an hour to reach the study because of the citymountain’s
size. As during Ajihad’s rule, the door was guarded, but instead
of two men, an entire squad of battle-hardened warriors now stood
before it, alert for the slightest hint of danger. They would clearly sacrifice
themselves to protect their new leader from ambush or attack.
Though the men could not have failed to recognize Eragon and Saphira,
they barred the way while Nasuada was alerted of her visitors. Only then
were the two allowed to enter.

Eragon immediately noticed a change: a vase of flowers in the study.
The small purple blossoms were unobtrusive, but they suffused the air
with a warm fragrance that—for Eragon—evoked summers of fresh-
picked raspberries and scythed fields turning bronze under the sun. He
inhaled, appreciating the skill with which Nasuada had asserted her individuality
without obliterating Ajihad’s memory.

She sat behind the broad desk, still cloaked in the black of mourning.

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As Eragon seated himself, Saphira beside him, she said, “Eragon.” It was a
simple statement, neither friendly nor hostile. She turned away briefly,
then focused on him, her gaze steely and intent. “I have spent the last few
days reviewing the Varden’s affairs, such as they are. It was a dismal exercise.
We are poor, overextended, and low on supplies, and few recruits
are joining us from the Empire. I mean to change that.

“The dwarves cannot support us much longer, as it’s been a lean year
for farming and they’ve suffered losses of their own. Considering this, I
have decided to move the Varden to Surda. It’s a difficult proposition,
but one I believe necessary to keep us safe. Once in Surda, we will finally
be close enough to engage the Empire directly.”

Even Saphira stirred with surprise. The work that would involve! said Eragon.
It could take months to get everyone’s belongings to Surda, not to mention
all the people. And they’d probably be attacked along the way. “I
thought King Orrin didn’t dare openly oppose Galbatorix,” he protested.

Nasuada smiled grimly. “His stance has changed since we defeated the
Urgals. He will shelter and feed us and fight by our side. Many Varden
are already in Surda, mainly women and children who couldn’t or
wouldn’t fight. They will also support us, else I will strip our name from
them.”

“How,” asked Eragon, “did you communicate with King Orrin so
quickly?”

“The dwarves use a system of mirrors and lanterns to relay messages
through their tunnels. They can send a dispatch from here to the western
edge of the Beor Mountains in less than a day. Couriers then transport it
to Aberon, capital of Surda. Fast as it is, that method is still too slow
when Galbatorix can surprise us with an Urgal army and give us less than
a day’s notice. I intend to arrange something far more expedient between
Du Vrangr Gata and Hrothgar’s magicians before we go.”

Opening the desk drawer, Nasuada removed a thick scroll. “The
Varden will depart Farthen Dûr within the month. Hrothgar has agreed
to provide us with safe passage through the tunnels. Moreover, he sent a
force to Orthíad to remove the last vestiges of Urgals and seal the tunnels
so no one can invade the dwarves by that route again. As this may not be
enough to guarantee the Varden’s survival, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Eragon nodded. He had expected a request or order. That was the only
reason for her to have summoned them. “I am yours to command.”

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“Perhaps.” Her eyes flicked to Saphira for a second. “In any case, this is
not a command, and I want you to think carefully before replying. To
help rally support for the Varden, I wish to spread word throughout the
Empire that a new Rider—named Eragon Shadeslayer—and his dragon,
Saphira, have joined our cause. I would like your permission before doing
so, however.”

It’s too dangerous, objected Saphira.

Word of our presence here will reach the Empire anyway, pointed out Eragon.
The Varden will want to brag about their victory and Durza’s death.
Since it’ll happen with or without our approval, we should agree to help.

She snorted softly. I’m worried about Galbatorix. Until now we haven’t
made it public where our sympathies lie.

Our actions have been clear enough.

Yes, but even when Durza fought you in Tronjheim, he wasn’t trying to
kill you. If we become outspoken in our opposition to the Empire, Galbatorix
won’t be so lenient again. Who knows what forces or plots he may have kept
in abeyance while he tried to gain hold of us? As long as we remain ambiguous,
he won’t know what to do.

The time for ambiguity has passed, asserted Eragon. We fought the Urgals,
killed Durza, and I have sworn fealty to the leader of the Varden. No
ambiguity exists. No, with your permission, I will agree to her proposal.

She was silent for a long while, then dipped her head. As you wish.

He put a hand on her side before returning his attention to Nasuada
and saying, “Do what you see fit. If this is how we can best assist the
Varden, so be it.”

“Thank you. I know it is a lot to ask. Now, as we discussed before the
funeral, I expect you to travel to Ellesméra and complete your training.”

“With Arya?”

“Of course. The elves have refused contact with both humans and
dwarves ever since she was captured. Arya is the only being who can
convince them to emerge from seclusion.”

70



“Couldn’t she use magic to tell them of her rescue?”

“Unfortunately not. When the elves retreated into Du Weldenvarden
after the fall of the Riders, they placed wards around the forest that prevent
any thought, item, or being from entering it through arcane means,
though not from exiting it, if I understood Arya’s explanation. Thus, Arya
must physically visit Du Weldenvarden before Queen Islanzadí will
know that she is alive, that you and Saphira exist, and of the numerous
events that have befallen the Varden these past months.” Nasuada
handed him the scroll. It was stamped with a wax sigil. “This is a missive
for Queen Islanzadí, telling her about the Varden’s situation and my own
plans. Guard it with your life; it would cause a great deal of harm in the
wrong hands. I hope that after all that’s happened, Islanzadí will feel
kindly enough toward us to reinitiate diplomatic ties. Her assistance
could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Arya knows this
and has agreed to press our case, but I wanted you aware of the situation
too, so you could take advantage of any opportunities that might arise.”

Eragon tucked the scroll into his jerkin. “When will we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning... unless you have something already planned?”

“No.”

“Good.” She clasped her hands. “You should know, one other person
will be traveling with you.” He looked at her quizzically. “King Hrothgar
insisted that in the interest of fairness there should be a dwarf representative
present at your training, since it affects their race as well. So he’s
sending Orik along.”

Eragon’s first reaction was irritation. Saphira could have flown Arya and
him to Du Weldenvarden, thereby eliminating weeks of unnecessary
travel. Three passengers, however, were too many to fit on Saphira’s
shoulders. Orik’s presence would confine them to the ground.

Upon further reflection, Eragon acknowledged the wisdom of Hrothgar’s
request. It was important for Eragon and Saphira to maintain a semblance
of equality in their dealings with the different races. He smiled.
“Ah, well, it’ll slow us down, but I suppose we have to placate Hrothgar.
To tell the truth, I’m glad Orik is coming. Crossing Alagaësia with only
Arya was a rather daunting prospect. She’s...”

Nasuada smiled too. “She’s different.”

71



“Aye.” He grew serious again. “Do you really mean to attack the Empire?
You said yourself that the Varden are weak. It doesn’t seem like the
wisest course. If we wait—”

“If we wait,” she said sternly, “Galbatorix will only get stronger. This is
the first time since Morzan was slain that we have even the slightest opportunity
of catching him unprepared. He had no reason to suspect we
could defeat the Urgals—which we did thanks to you—so he won’t have
readied the Empire for invasion.”

Invasion! exclaimed Saphira. And how does she plan to kill Galbatorix
when he flies out to obliterate their army with magic?

Nasuada shook her head in response when Eragon restated the objection.
“From what we know of him, he won’t fight until Urû’baen itself is
threatened. It doesn’t matter to Galbatorix if we destroy half the Empire,
so long as we come to him, not the other way around. Why should he
bother anyway? If we do manage to reach him, our troops will be battered
and depleted, making it all the easier for him to destroy us.”

“You still haven’t answered Saphira,” protested Eragon.

“That’s because I can’t yet. This will be a long campaign. By its end you
might be powerful enough to defeat Galbatorix, or the elves may have
joined us... and their spellcasters are the strongest in Alagaësia. No matter
what happens, we cannot afford to delay. Now is the time to gamble and
dare what no one thinks we can accomplish. The Varden have lived in
the shadows for too long—we must either challenge Galbatorix or submit
and pass away.”

The scope of what Nasuada was suggesting disturbed Eragon. So many
risks and unknown dangers were involved, it was almost absurd to consider
such a venture. However, it was not his place to make the decision,
and he accepted that. Nor would he dispute it further. We have to trust in
her judgment now.

“But what of you, Nasuada? Will you be safe while we’re gone? I must
think of my vow. It’s become my responsibility to ensure that you won’t
have your own funeral soon.”

Her jaw tightened as she gestured at the door and the warriors beyond.
“You needn’t fear, I am well defended.” She looked down. “I will admit...
one reason for going to Surda is that Orrin knows me of old and will offer
his protection. I cannot tarry here with you and Arya gone and the Coun


72



cil of Elders still with power. They won’t accept me as their leader until I
prove beyond doubt that the Varden are under my control, not theirs.”

Then she seemed to draw on some inner strength, squaring her shoulders
and lifting her chin so she was distant and aloof. “Go now, Eragon.
Ready your horse, gather supplies, and be at the north gate by dawn.”

He bowed low, respecting her return to formality, then left with
Saphira.

After dinner, Eragon and Saphira flew together. They sailed high above
Tronjheim, where crenulated icicles hung from the sides of Farthen Dûr,
forming a great white band around them. Though it was still hours until
night, it was already nearly dark within the mountain.

Eragon threw back his head, savoring the air on his face. He missed the
wind—wind that would rush through the grass and stir the clouds until
everything was tousled and fresh. Wind that would bring rain and storms
and lash the trees so they bent. For that matter, I miss trees as well, he
thought. Farthen Dûr is an incredible place, but it’s as empty of plants and
animals as Ajihad’s tomb.

Saphira agreed. The dwarves seem to think that gems take the place of
flowers. She was silent as the light continued to fade. When it was too
dark for Eragon to see comfortably, she said, It’s late. We should return.

All right.

She drifted toward the ground in great, lazy spirals, drawing nearer to
Tronjheim—which glowed like a beacon in the center of Farthen Dûr.
They were still far from the city-mountain when she swung her head,
saying, Look.

He followed her gaze, but all he could see was the gray, featureless
plain below them. What?

Instead of answering, she tilted her wings and glided to their left, slipping
down to one of the four roads that radiated from Tronjheim along
the cardinal compass points. As they landed, he noticed a patch of white
on a small hill nearby. The patch wavered strangely in the dusk, like a
floating candle, then resolved into Angela, who was wearing a pale wool
tunic.

73



The witch carried a wicker basket nearly four feet across and filled
with a wild assortment of mushrooms, most of which Eragon did not
recognize. As she approached, he gestured at them and said, “You’ve been
gathering toadstools?”

“Hello,” laughed Angela, putting her load down. “Oh no, toadstool is far
too general a term. And anyway, they really ought to be called frogstools,
not toadstools.” She spread them with her hand. “This one is sulphur tuft,
and this is an inkcap, and here’s navelcap, and dwarf shield, russet tough-
shank, blood ring, and that is a spotted deceiver. Delightful, isn’t it!” She
pointed to each in turn, ending on a mushroom with pink, lavender, and
yellow splashed in rivulets across its cap.

“And that one?” he asked, indicating a mushroom with a lightning-blue
stem, molten-orange gills, and a glossy black two-tiered cap.

She looked at it fondly. “Fricai Andlát, as the elves might say. The stalk
is instant death, while the cap can cure most poisons. It’s what Tunivor’s
Nectar is extracted from. Fricai Andlát only grows in caves in Du Weldenvarden
and Farthen Dûr, and it would die out here if the dwarves
started carting their dung elsewhere.”

Eragon looked back at the hill and realized that was exactly what it
was, a dung heap.

“Hello, Saphira,” said Angela, reaching past him to pat Saphira on the
nose. Saphira blinked and looked pleased, tail twitching. At the same
time, Solembum padded into sight, his mouth clamped firmly around a
limp rat. Without so much as a flick of his whiskers, the werecat settled
on the ground and began to nibble on the rodent, studiously ignoring the
three of them.

“So,” said Angela, tucking back a curl of her enormous hair, “off to
Ellesméra?” Eragon nodded. He did not bother asking how she had found
out; she always seemed to know what was going on. When he remained
silent, she scowled. “Well, don’t act so morose. It’s not as if it’s your execution!”


“I know.”

“Then smile, because if it’s not your execution, you should be happy!
You’re as flaccid as Solembum’s rat. Flaccid. What a wonderful word,
don’t you think?”

74



That wrung a grin out of him, and Saphira chortled with amusement
deep in her throat. “I’m not sure it’s quite as wonderful as you think, but
yes, I understand your point.”

“I’m glad you understand. Understanding is good.” With arched eyebrows,
she hooked a fingernail underneath a mushroom and flipped it
over, inspecting its gills as she said, “It’s fortuitous we met tonight, as you
are about to leave and I... I will accompany the Varden to Surda. As I
told you before, I like to be where things are happening, and that’s the
place.”

Eragon grinned even more. “Well then, that must mean we’ll have a
safe journey, else you’d be with us.”

Angela shrugged, then said seriously, “Be careful in Du Weldenvarden.
Just because elves do not display their emotions doesn’t mean they aren’t
subject to rage and passion like the rest of us mortals. What can make
them so deadly, though, is how they conceal it, sometimes for years.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Once upon a time.”

After a pause, he asked, “What do you think of Nasuada’s plans?”

“Mmm... she’s doomed! You’re doomed! They’re all doomed!” She
cackled, doubling over, then straightened abruptly. “Notice I didn’t specify
what kind of doom, so no matter what happens, I predicted it. How
very wise of me.” She lifted the basket again, setting it on one hip. “I suppose
I won’t see you for a while, so farewell, best of luck, avoid roasted
cabbage, don’t eat earwax, and look on the bright side of life!” And with a
cheery wink, she strolled off, leaving Eragon blinking and nonplussed.

After an appropriate pause, Solembum picked up his dinner and followed,
ever so dignified.

75



HROTHGAR’S GIFT


Dawn was a half hour away when Eragon and Saphira arrived at Tronjheim’s
north gate. The gate was raised just enough to let Saphira pass, so
they hurried underneath it, then waited in the recessed area beyond,
where red jasper pillars loomed above and carved beasts snarled between
the bloody piers. Past those, at the very edge of Tronjheim, sat two
thirty-foot-high gold griffins. Identical pairs guarded each of the citymountain’s
gates. No one was in sight.

Eragon held Snowfire’s reins. The stallion was brushed, reshoed, and
saddled, his saddlebags bulging with goods. He pawed the floor impatiently;
Eragon had not ridden him for over a week.

Before long Orik ambled up, bearing a large pack on his back and a
bundle in his arms. “No horse?” asked Eragon, somewhat surprised. Are
we supposed to walk all the way to Du Weldenvarden?

Orik grunted. “We’ll be stopping at Tarnag, just north of here. From
there we take rafts along the Az Ragni to Hedarth, an outpost for trading
with the elves. We won’t need steeds before Hedarth, so I’ll use my own
feet till then.”

He set the bundle down with a clang, then unwrapped it, revealing Eragon’s
armor. The shield had been repainted—so the oak tree stood
clearly in the center—and all the dings and scrapes removed. Beneath it
was the long mail shirt, burnished and oiled until the steel gleamed brilliantly.
No sign existed of where it had been rent when Durza cut Eragon’s
back. The coif, gloves, bracers, greaves, and helmet were likewise
repaired.

“Our greatest smiths worked on these,” said Orik, “as well as your armor,
Saphira. However, since we can’t take dragon armor with us, it was
given to the Varden, who will guard it against our return.”

Please thank him for me, said Saphira.

Eragon obliged, then laced on the greaves and bracers, storing the other
items in his bags. Last of all, he reached for his helm, only to find Orik
holding it. The dwarf rolled the piece between his hands, then said, “Do
not be so quick to don this, Eragon. There is a choice you must make
first.”

76



“What choice is that?”

Raising the helmet, Orik uncovered its polished brow, which, Eragon
now saw, had been altered: etched in the steel were the hammer and
stars of Hrothgar and Orik’s clan, the Ingeitum. Orik scowled, looking
both pleased and troubled, and said in a formal voice, “Mine king, Hrothgar,
desires that I present this helm as a symbol of the friendship he bears
for you. And with it Hrothgar extends an offer to adopt you as one of
Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, as a member of his own family.”

Eragon stared at the helm, amazed that Hrothgar would make such a
gesture. Does this mean I’d be subjected to his rule?... If I continue to accrue
loyalties and allegiances at this pace, I’ll be incapacitated before long—
unable to do anything without breaking some oath!

You don’t have to put it on, pointed out Saphira.

And risk insulting Hrothgar? Once again, we’re trapped.

It may be intended as a gift, though, another sign of otho, not a trap. I
would guess he’s thanking us for my offer to repair Isidar Mithrim.

That had not occurred to Eragon, for he had been too busy trying to
figure out how the dwarf king might gain advantage over them. True. But
I think it’s also an attempt to correct the imbalance of power created when I
swore fealty to Nasuada. The dwarves couldn’t have been pleased with that
turn of events. He looked back at Orik, who was waiting anxiously. “How
often has this been done?”

“For a human? Never. Hrothgar argued with the Ingeitum families for a
day and a night before they agreed to accept you. If you consent to bear
our crest, you will have full rights as clan member. You may attend our
councils and give voice on every issue. And,” he grew very somber, “if
you so wish, you will have the right to be buried with our dead.”

For the first time, the enormity of Hrothgar’s action struck Eragon. The
dwarves could offer no higher honor. With a swift motion, he took the
helm from Orik and pressed it down upon his head. “I am privileged to
join Dûrgrimst Ingeitum.”

Orik nodded with approval and said, “Then take this Knurlnien, this
Heart of Stone, and cup it between your hands—yes, like so. You must
steel yourself now and prick open a vein to wet the stone. A few drops
will suffice.... To finish, repeat after me: Os il dom qirânû carn dûr thar


77



gen, zeitmen, oen grimst vor formv edaris rak skilfz. Narho is belgond...”
It was a lengthy recitation and all the longer because Orik stopped to
translate every few sentences. Afterward, Eragon healed his wrist with a
quick spell.

“Whatever else the clans may say about this business,” observed Orik,
“you have behaved with integrity and respect. They cannot ignore that.”
He grinned. “We are of the same clan now, eh? You are my foster
brother! Under more normal circumstances, Hrothgar would have presented
your helm himself and we would have held a lengthy ceremony to
commemorate your induction into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, but events move
too swiftly for us to tarry. Fear not that you are being slighted, though!
Your adoption shall be celebrated with the proper rituals when you and
Saphira next return to Farthen Dûr. You shall feast and dance and have
many pieces of paper to sign in order to formalize your new position.”

“I look forward to the day,” said Eragon. He was still preoccupied with
sifting through the numerous possible ramifications of belonging to Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum.

Sitting against a pillar, Orik shrugged off his pack and drew his ax,
which he proceeded to twirl between his palms. After several minutes,
he leaned forward, glaring back into Tronjheim. “Barzûl knurlar! Where
are they? Arya said she would be right here. Ha! Elves’ only concept of
time is late and even later.”

“Have you dealt with them much?” asked Eragon, crouching. Saphira
watched with interest.

The dwarf laughed suddenly. “Eta. Only Arya, and then sporadically because
she traveled so often. In seven decades, I’ve learned but one thing
about her: You can’t rush an elf. Trying is like hammering a file—it might
break, but it’ll never bend.”

“Aren’t dwarves the same?”

“Ah, but stone will shift, given enough time.” Orik sighed and shook his
head. “Of all the races, elves change the least, which is one reason I’m reluctant
to go.”

“But we’ll get to meet Queen Islanzadí and see Ellesméra and who
knows what else? When was the last time a dwarf was invited into Du
Weldenvarden?”

78



Orik frowned at him. “Scenery means nothing. Urgent tasks remain in
Tronjheim and our other cities, yet I must tramp across Alagaësia to exchange
pleasantries and sit and grow fat as you are tutored. It could take
years!”

Years!... Still, if that’s what is required to defeat Shades and the Ra’zac,
I’ll do it.

Saphira touched his mind: I doubt Nasuada will let us stay in Ellesméra
for more than a few months. With what she told us, we’ll be needed fairly
soon.

“At last!” said Orik, pushing himself upright.

Approaching were Nasuada—slippers flashing beneath her dress, like
mice darting from a hole—Jörmundur, and Arya, who bore a pack like
Orik’s. She wore the same black leather outfit Eragon had first seen her
in, as well as her sword.

At that moment, it struck Eragon that Arya and Nasuada might not
approve of him joining the Ingeitum. Guilt and trepidation shot through
him as he realized that it had been his duty to consult Nasuada first. And
Arya! He cringed, remembering how angry she had been after his first
meeting with the Council of Elders.

Thus, when Nasuada stopped before him, he averted his eyes, ashamed.
But she only said, “You accepted.” Her voice was gentle, restrained.

He nodded, still looking down.

“I wondered if you would. Now once again, all three races have a hold
on you. The dwarves can claim your allegiance as a member of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum, the elves will train and shape you—and their influence may be
the strongest, for you and Saphira are bound by their magic—and you
have sworn fealty to me, a human.... Perhaps it is best that we share your
loyalty.” She met his surprise with an odd smile, then pressed a small bag
of coins into his palm and stepped away.

Jörmundur extended a hand, which Eragon shook, feeling a bit dazed.
“Have a good trip, Eragon. Guard yourself well.”

“Come,” said Arya, gliding past them into the darkness of Farthen Dûr.
“It is time to leave. Aiedail has set, and we have far to go.”

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“Aye,” Orik agreed. He pulled out a red lantern from the side of his
pack.

Nasuada looked them over once more. “Very well. Eragon and Saphira,
you have the Varden’s blessings, as well as mine. May your journey be
safe. Remember, you carry the weight of our hopes and expectations, so
acquit yourselves honorably.”

“We will do our best,” promised Eragon.

Gripping Snowfire’s reins firmly, he started after Arya, who was already
several yards away. Orik followed, then Saphira. As Saphira passed
Nasuada, Eragon saw her pause and lightly lick Nasuada on the cheek.
Then she lengthened her stride, catching up with him.

As they continued north along the road, the gate behind them shrank
smaller and smaller until it was reduced to a pinprick of light—with two
lonely silhouettes where Nasuada and Jörmundur remained watching.

When they finally reached Farthen Dûr’s base, they found a pair of gigantic
doors—thirty feet tall—open and waiting. Three dwarf guards
bowed and moved away from the aperture. Through the doors was a
tunnel of matching proportions, lined with columns and lanterns for the
first fifty feet. After that it was as empty and silent as a mausoleum.

It looked exactly like Farthen Dûr’s western entrance, but Eragon knew
that this tunnel was different. Instead of burrowing through the mile-
thick base to emerge outside, it proceeded underneath mountain after
mountain, all the way to the dwarf city Tarnag.

“Here is our path,” said Orik, lifting the lantern.

He and Arya crossed over the threshold, but Eragon held back, suddenly
uncertain. While he did not fear the dark, neither did he welcome
being surrounded by eternal night until they arrived at Tarnag. And once
he entered the barren tunnel, he would again be hurling himself into the
unknown, abandoning the few things he had grown accustomed to
among the Varden in exchange for an uncertain destiny.

What is it? asked Saphira.

Nothing.

He took a breath, then strode forward, allowing the mountain to swal


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low him in its depths.



HAMMER AND TONGS


Three days after the Ra’zac’s arrival, Roran found himself pacing uncontrollably
along the edge of his camp in the Spine. He had heard nothing
since Albriech’s visit, nor was it possible to glean information by observing
Carvahall. He glared at the distant tents where the soldiers slept, then
continued pacing.

At midday Roran had a small, dry lunch. Wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand, he wondered, How long are the Ra’zac willing to wait? If
it was a test of patience, he was determined to win.

To pass the time, he practiced his archery on a rotting log, stopping
only when an arrow shattered on a rock embedded in the trunk. After
that nothing else remained to do, except to resume striding back and
forth along the bare track that stretched from a boulder to where he
slept.

He was still pacing when footsteps sounded in the forest below. Grabbing
his bow, Roran hid and waited. Relief rushed through him when
Baldor’s face bobbed into view. Roran waved him over.

As they sat, Roran asked, “Why hasn’t anyone come?”

“We couldn’t,” said Baldor, wiping sweat off his brow. “The soldiers
have been watching us too closely. This was the first opportunity we had
to get away. I can’t stay long either.” He turned his face toward the peak
above them and shuddered. “You’re braver than I, staying here. Have you
had any trouble with wolves, bears, mountain cats?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Did the soldiers say anything new?”

“One of them bragged to Morn last night that their squad was handpicked
for this mission.” Roran frowned. “They haven’t been too quiet....
At least two or three of them get drunk each night. A group of them tore
up Morn’s common room the first day.”

“Did they pay for the damage?”

“’Course not.”

Roran shifted, staring down at the village. “I still have trouble believing
that the Empire would go to these lengths to capture me. What could I

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give them? What do they think I can give them?”

Baldor followed his gaze. “The Ra’zac questioned Katrina today. Someone
mentioned that the two of you are close, and the Ra’zac were curious
if she knew where you’d gone.”

Roran refocused on Baldor’s open face. “Is she all right?”

“It would take more than those two to scare her,” reassured Baldor. His
next sentence was cautious and probing. “Perhaps you should consider
turning yourself in.”

“I’d sooner hang myself and them with me!” Roran started up and
stalked over his usual route, still tapping his leg. “How can you say that,
knowing how they tortured my father?”

Catching his arm, Baldor said, “What happens if you remain in hiding
and the soldiers don’t give up and leave? They’ll assume we lied to help
you escape. The Empire doesn’t forgive traitors.”

Roran shrugged off Baldor. He spun around, tapping his leg, then
abruptly sat. If don’t show myself, the Ra’zac will blame the people at
hand. If I attempt to lead the Ra’zac away... Roran was not a skilled
enough woodsman to evade thirty men and the Ra’zac. Eragon could do it,
but not me. Still, unless the situation changed, it might be the only choice
available to him.

He looked at Baldor. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt on my behalf. I’ll
wait for now, and if the Ra’zac grow impatient and threaten someone...
Well then, I’ll think of something else to do.”

“It’s a nasty situation all around,” offered Baldor.

“One I intend to survive.”

Baldor departed soon afterward, leaving Roran alone with his thoughts
on his endless path. He covered mile after mile, grinding a rut into the
earth under the weight of his ruminations. When chill dusk arrived, he
removed his boots—for fear of wearing them out—and proceeded to pad
barefoot.

Just as the waxing moon rose and subsumed the night shadows in
beams of marble light, Roran noticed a disturbance in Carvahall. Scores of
lanterns bobbed through the darkened village, winking in and out as they

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floated behind houses. The yellow specks clustered in the center of Carvahall,
like a cloud of fireflies, then streamed haphazardly toward the
edge of town, where they were met by a hard line of torches from the
soldiers’ camp.

For two hours, Roran watched the opposing sides face each other—the
agitated lanterns milling helplessly against the stolid torches. Finally, the
lambent groups dispersed and filtered back into the tents and houses.

When nothing else of interest occurred, Roran untied his bedroll and
slipped under the blankets.

Throughout the next day, Carvahall was consumed with unusual activity.
Figures strode between houses and even, Roran was surprised to see,
rode out into Palancar Valley toward various farms. At noon he saw two
men enter the soldiers’ camp and disappear into the Ra’zac’s tent for almost
an hour.

So involved was he with the proceedings, Roran barely moved the entire
day.

He was in the middle of dinner when, as he had hoped, Baldor reappeared.
“Hungry?” asked Roran, gesturing.

Baldor shook his head and sat with an air of exhaustion. Dark lines under
his eyes made his skin look thin and bruised. “Quimby’s dead.”

Roran’s bowl clattered as it struck the ground. He cursed, wiping cold
stew off his leg, then asked, “How?”

“A couple of soldiers started bothering Tara last night.” Tara was
Morn’s wife. “She didn’t really mind, except the men got in a fight over
who she was supposed to serve next. Quimby was there—checking a
cask Morn said had turned—and he tried to break them up.” Roran nodded.
That was Quimby, always interfering to make sure others behaved
properly. “Only thing is, a soldier threw a pitcher and hit him on the
temple. Killed him instantly.”

Roran stared at the ground with his hands on his hips, struggling to regain
control over his ragged breathing. He felt as if Baldor had knocked
the wind out of him. It doesn’t seem possible.... Quimby, gone? The farmer
and part-time brewer was as much a part of the landscape as the moun


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tains surrounding Carvahall, an unquestioned presence that shaped the
fabric of the village. “Will the men be punished?”

Baldor held up his hand. “Right after Quimby died, the Ra’zac stole his
body from the tavern and hauled it out to their tents. We tried to get it
back last night, but they wouldn’t talk with us.”

“I saw.”

Baldor grunted, rubbing his face. “Dad and Loring met with the Ra’zac
today and managed to convince them to release the body. The soldiers,
however, won’t face any consequences.” He paused. “I was about to leave
when Quimby was handed over. You know what his wife got? Bones.”

“Bones!”

“Every one of them was nibbled clean—you could see the bite marks—
and most had been cracked open for the marrow.”

Disgust gripped Roran, as well as profound horror for Quimby’s fate. It
was well known that a person’s spirit could never rest until his body was
given a proper burial. Revolted by the desecration, he asked, “What, who,
ate him then?”

“The soldiers were just as appalled. It must have been the Ra’zac.”

“Why? To what end?”

“I don’t think,” said Baldor, “that the Ra’zac are human. You’ve never
seen them up close, but their breath is foul, and they always cover their
faces with black scarves. Their backs are humped and twisted, and they
speak to each other with clicks. Even their men seem to fear them.”

“If they aren’t human, then what kind of creatures can they be?” demanded
Roran. “They’re not Urgals.”

“Who knows?”

Fear now joined Roran’s revulsion—fear of the supernatural. He saw it
echoed on Baldor’s face as the young man clasped his hands. For all the
stories of Galbatorix’s misdeeds, it was still a shock to have the king’s evil
roosted among their homes. A sense of history settled on Roran as he realized
he was involved with forces he had previously been acquainted
with only through songs and stories. “Something should be done,” he

85



muttered.

The air grew warmer through the night, until by afternoon Palancar
Valley shimmered and sweltered with the unexpected spring heat. Carvahall
looked peaceful under the bald blue sky, yet Roran could feel the
sour resentment that clenched its inhabitants with malicious intensity.
The calm was like a sheet stretched taut in the wind.

Despite the aura of expectation, the day proved to be utterly boring;
Roran spent most of his time brushing Horst’s mare. At last he lay to
sleep, looking up past the towering pines at the haze of stars that adorned
the night sky. They seemed so close, it felt as if he hurtled among them,
falling toward the blackest void.

The moon was setting when Roran woke, his throat raw from smoke.
He coughed and rolled upright, blinking as his eyes burned and watered.
The noxious fumes made it difficult to breathe.

Roran grabbed his blankets and saddled the frightened mare, then
spurred her farther up the mountain, hoping to find clear air. It quickly
became apparent that the smoke was ascending with him, so he turned
and cut sideways through the forest.

After several minutes spent maneuvering in the dark, they finally broke
free and rode onto a ledge swept clean by a breeze. Purging his lungs with
long breaths, Roran scanned the valley for the fire. He spotted it in an instant.


Carvahall’s hay barn glowed white in a cyclone of flames, transforming
its precious contents into a fountain of amber motes. Roran trembled as
he watched the destruction of the town’s feed. He wanted to scream and
run through the forest to help with the bucket brigade, yet he could not
force himself to abandon his own safety.

Now a molten spark landed on Delwin’s house. Within seconds, the
thatched roof exploded in a wave of fire.

Roran cursed and tore his hair, tears streaming down his face. This was
why mishandling fire was a hanging offense in Carvahall. Was it an accident?
Was it the soldiers? Are the Ra’zac punishing the villagers for shield


86



ing me?... Am I somehow responsible for this?

Fisk’s house joined the conflagration next. Aghast, Roran could only
avert his face, hating himself for his cowardice.

By dawn all the fires had been extinguished or burned out on their
own. Only sheer luck and a calm night saved the rest of Carvahall from
being consumed.

Roran waited until he was sure of the outcome, then retreated to his
old camp and threw himself down to rest. From morning through evening,
he was oblivious to the world, except through the lens of his troubled
dreams.

Upon his return to awareness, Roran simply waited for the visitor he
was sure would appear. This time it was Albriech. He arrived at dusk
with a grim, worn expression. “Come with me,” he said.

Roran tensed. “Why?” Have they decided to give me up? If he was the
cause of the fire, he could understand the villagers wanting him gone. He
might even agree it was necessary. It was unreasonable to expect everyone
in Carvahall to sacrifice themselves for him. Still, that did not mean
he would allow them to just hand him over to the Ra’zac. After what the
two monsters had done to Quimby, Roran would fight to the death to
avoid being their prisoner.

“Because,” said Albriech, clenching his jaw muscles, “it was the soldiers
who started the fire. Morn banned them from the Seven Sheaves, but
they still got drunk on their own beer. One of them dropped a torch
against the hay barn on his way to bed.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Roran.

“A few burns. Gertrude was able to handle them. We tried to negotiate
with the Ra’zac. They spat on our requests that the Empire replace our
losses and the guilty face justice. They even refused to confine the soldiers
to the tents.”

“So why should I return?”

Albriech chuckled hollowly. “For hammer and tongs. We need your
help to...remove the Ra’zac.”

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“You would do that for me?”

“We’re not risking ourselves for your sake alone. This concerns the entire
village now. At least come talk to Father and the others and hear
their thoughts... I’d think you would be glad to get out of these cursed
mountains.”

Roran considered Albriech’s proposition long and hard before deciding
to accompany him. It’s this or run for it, and I can always run later. He
fetched the mare, tied his bags to the saddle, then followed Albriech toward
the valley floor.

Their progress slowed as they neared Carvahall, using trees and brush
for cover. Slipping behind a rain barrel, Albriech checked to see if the
streets were clear, then signaled to Roran. Together they crept from
shadow to shade, constantly on guard for the Empire’s servants. At
Horst’s forge, Albriech opened one of the double doors just far enough
for Roran and the mare to quietly enter.

Inside, the workshop was lit by a single candle, which cast a trembling
glow over the ring of faces that hovered about it in the surrounding
darkness. Horst was there—his thick beard protruded like a shelf into the
light—flanked by the hard visages of Delwin, Gedric, and then Loring.
The rest of the group was composed of younger men: Baldor, Loring’s
three sons, Parr, and Quimby’s boy, Nolfavrell, who was only thirteen.

They all turned to look as Roran entered the assembly. Horst said, “Ah,
you made it. You escaped misfortune while in the Spine?”

“I was lucky.”

“Then we can proceed.”

“With what, exactly?” Roran hitched the mare to an anvil as he spoke.

Loring answered, the shoemaker’s parchment face a mass of contorting
lines and grooves. “We have attempted reason with these Ra’zac... these
invaders. ” He stopped, his thin frame racked with an unpleasant, metallic
wheeze deep in his chest. “They have refused reason. They have endangered
us all with no sign of remorse or contrition. ” He made a noise in
his throat, then said with pronounced deliberation, “They... must... go.
Such creatures—”

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“No,” said Roran. “Not creatures. Desecrators.”

The faces scowled and bobbed in agreement. Delwin picked up the
thread of conversation: “The point is, everyone’s life is at stake. If that fire
had spread any farther, dozens of people would have been killed and
those who escaped would have lost everything they own. As a result,
we’ve agreed to drive the Ra’zac away from Carvahall. Will you join us?”

Roran hesitated. “What if they return or send for reinforcements? We
can’t defeat the entire Empire.”

“No,” said Horst, grave and solemn, “but neither can we stand silent and
allow the soldiers to kill us and to destroy our property. A man can endure
only so much abuse before he must strike back.”

Loring laughed, throwing back his head so the flame gilded the stumps
of his teeth. “First we fortify,” he whispered with glee, “then we fight.
We’ll make them regret they ever clapped their festering eyes on Carvahall!
Ha ha!”

89



RETALIATION


After Roran agreed to their plan, Horst began distributing shovels,
pitchforks, flails—anything that could be used to beat the soldiers and
the Ra’zac away.

Roran hefted a pick, then set it aside. Though he had never cared for
Brom’s stories, one of them, the “Song of Gerand,” resonated with him
whenever he heard it. It told of Gerand, the greatest warrior of his time,
who relinquished his sword for a wife and farm. He found no peace,
however, as a jealous lord initiated a blood feud against Gerand’s family,
which forced Gerand to kill once more. Yet he did not fight with his
blade, but with a simple hammer.

Going to the wall, Roran removed a medium-sized hammer with a long
handle and a rounded blade on one side of the head. He tossed it from
hand to hand, then went to Horst and asked, “May I have this?”

Horst eyed the tool and Roran. “Use it wisely.” Then he said to the rest
of the group, “Listen. We want to scare, not kill. Break a few bones if you
want, but don’t get carried away. And whatever you do, don’t stand and
fight. No matter how brave or heroic you feel, remember that they are
trained soldiers.”

When everyone was equipped, they left the forge and wound their way
through Carvahall to the edge of the Ra’zac’s camp. The soldiers had already
gone to bed, except for four sentries who patrolled the perimeter
of the gray tents. The Ra’zac’s two horses were picketed by a smoldering
fire.

Horst quietly issued orders, sending Albriech and Delwin to ambush
two of the sentries, and Parr and Roran to ambush the other two.

Roran held his breath as he stalked the oblivious soldier. His heart began
to shudder as energy spiked through his limbs. He hid behind the
corner of a house, quivering, and waited for Horst’s signal. Wait.

Wait.

With a roar, Horst burst from hiding, leading the charge into the tents.
Roran darted forward and swung his hammer, catching the sentry on the
shoulder with a grisly crunch.

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The man howled and dropped his halberd. He staggered as Roran
struck his ribs and back. Roran raised the hammer again and the man retreated,
screaming for help.

Roran ran after him, shouting incoherently. He knocked in the side of a
wool tent, trampling whatever was inside, then smashed the top of a
helmet he saw emerging from another tent. The metal rang like a bell.
Roran barely noticed as Loring danced past—the old man cackled and
hooted in the night as he jabbed the soldiers with a pitchfork. Everywhere
was a confusion of struggling bodies.

Whirling around, Roran saw a soldier attempting to string his bow. He
rushed forward and hit the back of the bow with his steel mallet, breaking
the wood in two. The soldier fled.

The Ra’zac scrambled free of their tent with terrible screeches, swords
in hand. Before they could attack, Baldor untethered the horses and sent
them galloping toward the two scarecrow figures. The Ra’zac separated,
then regrouped, only to be swept away as the soldiers’ morale broke and
they ran.

Then it was over.

Roran panted in the silence, his hand cramped around the hammer’s
handle. After a moment, he picked his way through the crumpled
mounds of tents and blankets to Horst. The smith was grinning under his
beard. “That’s the best brawl I’ve had in years.”

Behind them, Carvahall jumped to life as people tried to discover the
source of the commotion. Roran watched lamps flare up behind shuttered
windows, then turned as he heard soft sobbing.

The boy, Nolfavrell, was kneeling by the body of a soldier, methodically
stabbing him in the chest as tears slid down his chin. Gedric and Albriech
hurried over and pulled Nolfavrell away from the corpse.

“He shouldn’t have come,” said Roran.

Horst shrugged. “It was his right.”

All the same, killing one of the Ra’zac’s men will only make it harder to
rid ourselves of the desecrators.“ We should barricade the road and between
the houses so they won’t catch us by surprise.” Studying the men
for any injuries, Roran saw that Delwin had received a long cut on his

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forearm, which the farmer bandaged with a strip torn from his ruined
shirt.

With a few shouts, Horst organized their group. He dispatched Albriech
and Baldor to retrieve Quimby’s wagon from the forge and had
Loring’s sons and Parr scour Carvahall for items that could be used to secure
the village.

Even as he spoke, people congregated on the edge of the field, staring at
what was left of the Ra’zac’s camp and the dead soldier. “What happened?”
cried Fisk.

Loring scuttled forward and stared the carpenter in the eye. “What
happened? I’ll tell you what happened. We routed the dung-beardlings...
caught them with their boots off and whipped them like dogs!”

“I am glad.” The strong voice came from Birgit, an auburn-haired
woman who clasped Nolfavrell against her bosom, ignoring the blood
smeared across his face. “They deserve to die like cowards for my husband’s
death.”

The villagers murmured in agreement, but then Thane spoke: “Have
you gone mad, Horst? Even if you frightened off the Ra’zac and their soldiers,
Galbatorix will just send more men. The Empire will never give up
until they get Roran.”

“We should hand him over,” snarled Sloan.

Horst raised his hands. “I agree; no one is worth more than all of Carvahall.
But if we surrender Roran, do you really think Galbatorix will let us
escape punishment for our resistance? In his eyes, we’re no better than
the Varden.”

“Then why did you attack?” demanded Thane. “Who gave you the authority
to make this decision? You’ve doomed us all!”

This time Birgit answered. “Would you let them kill your wife?” She
pressed her hands on either side of her son’s face, then showed Thane her
bloody palms, like an accusation. “Would you let them burn us?... Where
is your manhood, loam breaker?”

He lowered his gaze, unable to face her stark expression.

“They burned my farm,” said Roran, “devoured Quimby, and nearly de


92



stroyed Carvahall. Such crimes cannot go unpunished. Are we frightened
rabbits to cower down and accept our fate? No! We have a right to defend
ourselves.” He stopped as Albriech and Baldor trudged up the street,
dragging the wagon. “We can debate later. Now we have to prepare.
Who will help us?”

Forty or more men volunteered. Together they set about the difficult
task of making Carvahall impenetrable. Roran worked incessantly, nailing
fence slats between houses, piling barrels full of rocks for makeshift
walls, and dragging logs across the main road, which they blocked with
two wagons tipped on their sides.

As Roran hurried from one chore to another, Katrina waylaid him in an
alley. She hugged him, then said, “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re
safe.”

He kissed her lightly. “Katrina... I have to speak with you as soon as
we’re finished.” She smiled uncertainly, but with a spark of hope. “You
were right; it was foolish of me to delay. Every moment we spend together
is precious, and I have no desire to squander what time we have
when a whim of fate could tear us apart.”

Roran was tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt’s house—so it could
not catch fire—when Parr shouted, “Ra’zac!”

Dropping the bucket, Roran ran to the wagons, where he had left his
hammer. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw a single Ra’zac sitting on a
horse far down the road, almost out of bowshot. The creature was illuminated
by a torch in its left hand, while its right was drawn back, as if to
throw something.

Roran laughed. “Is he going to toss rocks at us? He’s too far away to
even hit—” He was cut off as the Ra’zac whipped down its arm and a
glass vial arched across the distance between them and shattered against
the wagon to his right. An instant later, a fireball launched the wagon
into the air while a fist of burning air flung Roran against a wall.

Dazed, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Through the
roaring in his ears came the tattoo of galloping horses. He forced himself
upright and faced the sound, only to dive aside as the Ra’zac raced into
Carvahall through the burning gap in the wagons.

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The Ra’zac reined in their steeds, blades flashing as they hacked at the
people strewn around them. Roran saw three men die, then Horst and
Loring reached the Ra’zac and began pressing them back with pitchforks.
Before the villagers could rally, soldiers poured through the breach, killing
indiscriminately in the darkness.

Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He
jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face
with the hammer’s blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the
man’s compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse’s shield
off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the
first strike.

Backstepping toward the Ra’zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then
swung his hammer up under the man’s chin, sending him to the ground.
“To me!” shouted Roran. “Defend your homes!” He sidestepped a jab as
five men attempted to encircle him. “To me!”

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Loring’s
sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets,
women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks. “Stay together,” ordered
Roran, standing his ground. “There are more of us.”

The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to
thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly advanced.


“Attack, you foolsss,” screamed a Ra’zac, dodging Loring’s pitchfork.

A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and
laughed. The Ra’zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frustration.
They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Suddenly
Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was
hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place.

Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A
second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead
Ra’zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The
distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran’s mind from the soporific
influence. Was that magic? he wondered.

He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised
it far above his head—just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran
went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his

94



arms down with a huh! The hammer cartwheeled through the air and
bounced off the Ra’zac’s shield, leaving a formidable dent.

The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra’zac’s strange
power. They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and
marched forward, then the Ra’zac yanked on their reins, wheeling
around.

“Retreat,” they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson-clad warriors
sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too
close. Only when they were a good distance from the burning wagons did
they dare turn their backs.

Roran sighed and retrieved his hammer, feeling the bruises on his side
and back where he had hit the wall. He bowed his head as he saw that
the explosion had killed Parr. Nine other men had died. Already wives
and mothers rent the night with their wails of grief.

How could this happen here?

“Everyone, come!” called Baldor.

Roran blinked and stumbled to the middle of the road, where Baldor
stood. A Ra’zac sat beetle-like on a horse only twenty yards away. The
creature crooked a finger at Roran and said, “You... you sssmell like your
cousin. We never forget a sssmell.”

“What do you want?” he shouted. “Why are you here?”

The Ra’zac chuckled in a horrible, insectile way. “We
want...information. ” It glanced over its shoulder, where its companions
had disappeared, then cried, “Release Roran and you ssshall be sold as
ssslaves. Protect him, and we will eat you all. We ssshall have your answer
when next we come. Be sssure it is the right one.”

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AZ SWELDN RAK ANHÛIN


Light burst into the tunnel as the doors dragged open. Eragon winced,
his eyes sorely unaccustomed to daylight after so long underground. Beside
him, Saphira hissed and arched her neck to get a better view of their
surroundings.

It had taken them two days to traverse the subterranean passage from
Farthen Dûr, though it felt longer to Eragon, due to the never-ending
dusk that surrounded them and the silence it had imposed upon their
group. In all, he could recall only a handful of words being exchanged
during their journey.

Eragon had hoped to learn more about Arya while they traveled together,
but the only information he had gleaned came simply as a result
of observation. He had not supped with her before and was startled to
see that she brought her own food and ate no meat. When he asked her
why, she said, “You will never again consume an animal’s flesh after you
have been trained, or if you do, it will be only on the rarest of occasions.”

“Why should I give up meat?” he scoffed.

“I cannot explain with words, but you will understand once we reach
Ellesméra.”

All that was forgotten now as he hurried to the threshold, eager to see
their destination. He found himself standing on a granite outcropping,
more than a hundred feet above a purple-hued lake, brilliant under the
eastern sun. Like Kóstha-mérna, the water reached from mountain to
mountain, filling the valley’s end. From the lake’s far side, the Az Ragni
flowed north, winding between the peaks until—in the far distance—it
rushed out onto the eastern plains.

To his right, the mountains were bare, save for a few trails, but to his
left... to his left was the dwarf city Tarnag. Here the dwarves had reworked
the seemingly immutable Beors into a series of terraces. The
lower terraces were mainly farms—dark curves of land waiting to be
planted—dotted with squat halls, which as best he could tell were built
entirely of stone. Above those empty levels rose tier upon tier of interlocking
buildings until they culminated in a giant dome of gold and
white. It was as if the entire city was nothing more than a line of steps
leading to the dome. The cupola glistened like polished moonstone, a
milky bead floating atop a pyramid of gray slate.

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Orik anticipated Eragon’s question, saying, “That is Celbedeil, the greatest
temple of dwarfdom and home of Dûrgrimst Quan—the Quan clan—
who act as servants and messengers to the gods.”

Do they rule Tarnag? asked Saphira. Eragon repeated the query.

“Nay,” said Arya, stepping past them. “Though the Quan are strong,
they are small in numbers, despite their power over the afterlife... and
gold. It is the Ragni Hefthyn—the River Guard—who control Tarnag.
We will stay with their clan chief, Ûndin, while here.”

As they followed the elf off the outcropping and through the gnarled
forest that blanketed the mountain, Orik whispered to Eragon, “Mind her
not. She has been arguing with the Quan for many a year. Every time she
visits Tarnag and speaks with a priest, it produces a quarrel fierce enough
to scare a Kull.”

“Arya?”

Orik nodded grimly. “I know little of it, but I’ve heard she disagrees
strongly with much that the Quan practice. It seems that elves do not
hold with ‘muttering into the air for help.’ ”

Eragon stared at Arya’s back as they descended, wondering if Orik’s
words were true, and if so, what Arya herself believed. He took a deep
breath, pushing the matter from his mind. It felt wonderful to be back in
the open, where he could smell the moss and ferns and trees of the forest,
where the sun was warm on his face and bees and other insects swarmed
pleasantly.

The path took them down to the edge of the lake before rising back
toward Tarnag and its open gates. “How have you hidden Tarnag from
Galbatorix?” asked Eragon. “Farthen Dûr I understand, but this... I’ve
never seen anything like it.”

Orik laughed softly. “Hide it? That would be impossible. No, after the
Riders fell, we were forced to abandon all our cities aboveground and retreat
into our tunnels in order to escape Galbatorix and the Forsworn.
They would often fly through the Beors, killing anyone who they encountered.”


“I thought that dwarves always lived underground.”

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Orik’s thick eyebrows met in a frown. “Why should we? We may have
an affinity for stone, but we like the open air as much as elves or humans.
However, it has only been in the last decade and a half, ever since Morzan
died, that we have dared return to Tarnag and other of our ancient
dwellings. Galbatorix may be unnaturally powerful, but even he would
not attack an entire city alone. Of course, he and his dragon could cause
us no end of trouble if they wanted, but these days they rarely leave
Urû’baen, even for short trips. Nor could Galbatorix bring an army here
without first defeating Buragh or Farthen Dûr.”

Which he nearly did, commented Saphira.

Cresting a small mound, Eragon jolted with surprise as an animal
crashed through the underbrush and onto the path. The scraggly creature
looked like a mountain goat from the Spine, except that it was a third
larger and had giant ribbed horns that curled around its cheeks, making
an Urgal’s seem no bigger than a swallow nest. Odder still was the saddle
lashed across the goat’s back and the dwarf seated firmly on it, aiming a
half-drawn bow into the air.

“Hert dûrgrimst? Fild rastn?” shouted the strange dwarf.

“Orik Thrifkz menthiv oen Hrethcarach Eragon rak Dûrgrimst Ingeitum,”
answered Orik. “Wharn, az vanyali-carharûg Arya. Né oc Ûndinz
grimstbelardn.” The goat stared warily at Saphira. Eragon noted how
bright and intelligent its eyes were, though its face was rather droll with
its frosty beard and somber expression. It reminded him of Hrothgar, and
he almost laughed, thinking how very dwarfish the animal was.

“Azt jok jordn rast,” came the reply.

With no discernible command on the dwarf’s part, the goat leaped
forward, covering such an extraordinary distance it seemed to take flight
for a moment. Then rider and steed vanished between the trees.

“What was that?” asked Eragon, amazed.

Orik resumed walking. “A Feldûnost, one of the five animals unique to
these mountains. A clan is named after each one. However, Dûrgrimst
Feldûnost is perhaps the bravest and most revered of the clans.”

“Why so?”

“We depend upon Feldûnost for milk, wool, and meat. Without their

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sustenance, we could not live in the Beors. When Galbatorix and his traitorous
Riders were terrorizing us, it was Dûrgrimst Feldûnost who risked
themselves—and still do—to tend the herds and fields. As such, we are
all in their debt.”

“Do all dwarves ride Feldûnost?” He stumbled slightly over the unusual
word.

“Only in the mountains. Feldûnost are hardy and sure-footed, but they
are better suited for cliffs than open plains.”

Saphira nudged Eragon with her nose, causing Snowfire to shy away.
Now those would be good hunting, better than any I had in the Spine or
hence! If I have time in Tarnag—

No, he said. We can’t afford to offend the dwarves.

She snorted, irritated. I could ask permission first.

Now the path that had concealed them for so long under dark boughs
entered the great clearing that surrounded Tarnag. Groups of observers
had already begun to gather in the fields when seven Feldûnost with jeweled
harnesses bounded out from the city. Their riders bore lances tipped
with pennants that snapped like whips in the air. Reining in his strange
beast, the lead dwarf said, “Thou art well-come to this city of Tarnag. By
otho of Ûndin and Gannel, I, Thorv, son of Brokk, offer in peace the
shelter of our halls.” His accent grumbled and rasped with a rough burr
quite unlike Orik’s.

“And by Hrothgar’s otho, we of the Ingeitum accept your hospitality,”
responded Orik.

“As do I, in Islanzadí’s stead,” added Arya.

Appearing satisfied, Thorv motioned to his fellow riders, who spurred
their Feldûnost into formation around the four of them. With a flourish,
the dwarves rode off, guiding them to Tarnag and through the city gates.

The outer wall was forty feet thick and formed a shadowed tunnel to
the first of the many farms that belted Tarnag. Five more tiers—each of
which was defended by a fortified gate—carried them past the fields and
into the city proper.

In contrast to Tarnag’s thickly built ramparts, the buildings within,

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though of stone, were shaped with such cunning as to give the impression
of grace and lightness. Strong, bold carvings, usually of animals,
adorned the houses and shops. But even more striking was the stone itself:
vibrant hues, from bright scarlet to the subtlest of greens, glazed the
rock in translucent layers.

And hung throughout the city were the dwarves’ flameless lanterns,
their multicolored sparks harbingers of the Beors’ long dusk and night.

Unlike Tronjheim, Tarnag had been constructed in proportion to the
dwarves, with no concession for human, elf, or dragon visitors. At the
most, doorways were five feet high, and they were often only four and a
half. Eragon was of middling height, but now he felt like a giant transported
onto a puppet stage.

The streets were wide and crammed. Dwarves of various clans hurried
about their business or stood haggling in and around shops. Many were
garbed in strange, exotic costumes, such as a block of fierce black-haired
dwarves who wore silver helmets forged in the likeness of wolf heads.

Eragon stared at the dwarf women the most, as he had only caught
brief glimpses of them while in Tronjheim. They were broader than the
men, and their faces were heavyset, yet their eyes sparkled and their hair
was lustrous and their hands were gentle on their diminutive children.
They eschewed frippery, except for small, intricate brooches of iron and
stone.

At the Feldûnost’s piercing footsteps, the dwarves turned to look at the
new arrivals. They did not cheer as Eragon had expected, but rather
bowed and murmured, “Shadeslayer.” As they saw the hammer and stars
upon Eragon’s helm, admiration was replaced by shock and, in many
cases, outrage. A number of the angrier dwarves contracted around the
Feldûnost, glaring between the animals at Eragon and shouting imprecations.


The back of Eragon’s neck prickled. It seems that adopting me wasn’t the
most popular decision Hrothgar could make.

Aye, agreed Saphira. He may have strengthened his hold on you, but at
the cost of alienating many of the dwarves.... We’d better get out of sight before
blood is shed.

Thorv and the other guards rode forward as if the crowd was nonexistent,
clearing the way through seven additional tiers until only a single

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gate separated them from the mass of Celbedeil. Then Thorv turned left,
toward a great hall pressed against the side of the mountain and protected
in fore by a barbican with two machicolated towers.

As they neared the hall, a group of armed dwarves streamed out from
between the houses and formed a thick line, blocking the street. Long
purple veils covered their faces and draped over their shoulders, like mail
coifs.

The guards immediately reined in their Feldûnost, faces hard. “What is
it?” Eragon asked Orik, but the dwarf only shook his head and strode
forward, a hand on his ax.

“Etzil nithgech!” cried a veiled dwarf, raising a fist. “Formv Hrethcarach...
formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tarnag, dûr encesti
rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzûlegûr dûr dûrgrimst, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin,
môgh tor rak Jurgenvren? Né ûdim etal os rast knurlag. Knurlag
ana...” For a long minute, he continued to rant with growing spleen.

“Vrron!” barked Thorv, cutting him off, then the two dwarves began
arguing. Despite the harsh exchange, Eragon saw that Thorv seemed to
respect the other dwarf.

Eragon shifted to the side—trying to get a better view past Thorv’s
Feldûnost—and the veiled dwarf abruptly fell silent, jabbing at Eragon’s
helm with an expression of horror.

“Knurlag qana qirânû Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!” he screamed. “Qarzûl ana
Hrothgar oen volfild—”

“Jok is frekk dûrgrimstvren?” interrupted Orik quietly, drawing his ax.
Worried, Eragon glanced at Arya, but she was too intent on the confrontation
to notice him. He surreptitiously slid his hand down and around
Zar’roc’s wire-wrapped hilt.

The strange dwarf stared hard at Orik, then removed an iron ring from
his pocket, plucked three hairs from his beard, twined them around the
ring, and threw it onto the street with an impervious clink, spitting after
it. Without a word, the purple-shrouded dwarves filed away.

Thorv, Orik, and the other warriors flinched as the ring bounced across
the granite pavement. Even Arya seemed taken aback. Two of the
younger dwarves blanched and reached for their blades, then dropped
their hands as Thorv barked, “Eta!”

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Their reactions unsettled Eragon far more than the raucous exchange
had. As Orik strode forward alone and deposited the ring in a pouch, Eragon
asked, “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Thorv, “that you have enemies.”

They hurried through the barbican to a wide courtyard arrayed with
three banquet tables, decorated with lanterns and banners. Before the tables
stood a group of dwarves, foremost among them a gray-bearded
dwarf swathed in wolfskin. He spread his arms, saying, “Welcome to
Tarnag, home of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. We have heard much praise
of you, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Ûndin, son of Derûnd and clan chief.”

Another dwarf stepped forward. He had the shoulders and chest of a
warrior, topped with hooded black eyes that never left Eragon’s face.
“And I, Gannel, son of Orm Blood-ax and clan chief of Dûrgrimst Quan.”

“It is an honor to be your guests,” said Eragon, inclining his head. He felt
Saphira’s irritation at being ignored. Patience, he murmured, forcing a
smile.

She snorted.

The clan chiefs greeted Arya and Orik in turn, but their hospitality was
lost on Orik, whose only response was to extend his hand, the iron ring
on his palm.

Ûndin’s eyes widened, and he gingerly lifted the ring, pinching it between
his thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake. “Who
gave this to you?”

“It was Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. And not to me, but to Eragon.”

As alarm spread across their faces, Eragon’s earlier apprehension returned.
He had seen lone dwarves face an entire group of Kull without
shirking. The ring must symbolize something dreadful indeed if it could
undermine their courage.

Ûndin frowned as he listened to the muttering of his advisers, then said,
“We must consult on this issue. Shadeslayer, a feast is prepared in your
honor. If you would allow my servants to guide you to your quarters, you
can refresh yourself, and then we might begin.”

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“Of course.” Eragon handed Snowfire’s reins to a waiting dwarf and followed
a guide into the hall. As he passed through the doorway, he
glanced back and saw Arya and Orik bustling away with the clan chiefs,
their heads pressed close together. I won’t be long, he promised Saphira.

After crouching through dwarf-sized corridors, he was relieved that the
room assigned to him was spacious enough to stand freely. The servant
bowed and said, “I will return when Grimstborith Ûndin is ready.”

Once the dwarf was gone, Eragon paused and took a deep breath, grateful
for the silence. The encounter with the veiled dwarves hovered in his
mind, making it difficult for him to relax. At least we won’t be in Tarnag
long. That should prevent them from hindering us.

Peeling off his gloves, Eragon went to a marble basin set on the floor
next to the low bed. He put his hands in the water, then jerked them out
with an involuntary yelp. The water was almost boiling. It mustbea
dwarf custom, he realized. He waited until it cooled a bit, then doused his
face and neck, rubbing them clean as steam swirled off his skin.

Rejuvenated, he stripped out of his breeches and tunic and outfitted
himself in the clothes he had worn to Ajihad’s funeral. He touched
Zar’roc, but decided it would only insult Ûndin’s table and instead belted
on his hunting knife.

Then, from his pack, he took the scroll Nasuada had charged him with
delivering to Islanzadí and weighed it in his hand, wondering where to
hide it. The missive was too important to leave out in the open, where it
could be read or stolen. Unable to think of a better place, he slipped the
scroll up his sleeve. It’ll be safe there unless I get into a fight, in which case
I’ll have bigger problems to worry about.

When at last the servant returned for Eragon, it was only an hour or so
past noon, but the sun had already vanished behind the looming mountains,
plunging Tarnag into dusk. Exiting the hall, Eragon was struck by
the city’s transformation. With the premature advent of night, the
dwarves’ lanterns revealed their true strength, flooding the streets with
pure, unwavering light that made the entire valley glow.

Ûndin and the other dwarves were gathered in the courtyard, along
with Saphira, who had situated herself at the head of a table. No one appeared
interested in disputing her choice.

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Has anything happened? asked Eragon, hurrying toward her.

Ûndin summoned extra warriors, then had the gates barred.

Does he expect an attack?

At the very least, he’s concerned about the possibility.

“Eragon, please join me,” said Ûndin, gesturing at the chair to his right.
The clan chief seated himself as Eragon did, and the rest of the company
hurriedly followed suit.

Eragon was happy when Orik ended up beside him with Arya directly
across the table, although both looked grim. Before he could ask Orik
about the ring, Ûndin slapped the table and roared, “Ignh az voth!”

Servants streamed out of the hall, bearing platters of beaten gold piled
high with meats, pies, and fruit. They divided into three columns—one
for each table—and deposited the dishes with a flourish.

Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted
venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes
dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout garnished
with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn
of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat
on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and
ducks.

Mushrooms were everywhere: broiled in juicy strips, placed atop a
bird’s head like a bonnet, or carved in the shape of castles amid moats of
gravy. An incredible variety was on display, from puffy white mushrooms
the size of Eragon’s fist, to ones he could have mistaken for gnarled bark,
to delicate toadstools sliced neatly in half to showcase their blue flesh.

Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar,
glistening with sauce. At least Eragon thought it was a boar, for the carcass
was as large as Snowfire and took six dwarves to carry. The tusks
were longer than his forearms, the snout as wide as his head. And the
smell, it overwhelmed all others in pungent waves that made his eyes
water from their strength.

“Nagra,” whispered Orik. “Giant boar. Ûndin truly honors you tonight,
Eragon. Only the bravest dwarves dare hunt Nagran, and it is only served

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to those who have great valor. Also, I think he makes a gesture that he
will support you over Dûrgrimst Nagra.”

Eragon leaned toward him so no one else could hear. “Then this is another
animal native to the Beors? What are the rest?”

“Forest wolves big enough to prey on a Nagra and nimble enough to
catch Feldûnost. Cave bears, which we call Urzhadn and the elves call
Beorn and for which they dubbed these peaks, though we do not call
them such ourselves. The mountains’ name is a secret that we share with
no race. And—”

“Smer voth,” commanded Ûndin, smiling at his guests. The servants
immediately drew small curved knives and cut portions of the Nagra,
which they set on everyone’s plates—except for Arya’s— including a
weighty piece for Saphira. Ûndin smiled again, took a dagger, and sliced
off a bit of his meat.

Eragon reached for his own knife, but Orik grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

Ûndin chewed slowly, rolling his eyes and nodding in an exaggerated
fashion, then swallowed and proclaimed, “Ilf gauhnith!”

“Now,” said Orik, turning to the meal as conversation erupted along the
tables.

Eragon had never tasted anything like the boar. It was juicy, soft, and
oddly spicy—as if the meat had been soaked in honey and cider—which
was enhanced by the mint used to flavor the pork. I wonder how they
managed to cook something so large.

Very slowly, commented Saphira, nibbling on her Nagra.

Between bites, Orik explained, “It is custom, from days when poisoning
was rampant among clans, for the host to taste the food first and declare
it safe for his guests.”

During the banquet, Eragon divided his time between sampling the
multitude of dishes and conversing with Orik, Arya, and dwarves farther
down the table. In that manner, the hours hastened by, for the feast was
so large, it was late afternoon before the last course had been served, the
last bite consumed, and the last chalice drained. As servants removed the
tableware, Ûndin turned to Eragon and said, “The meal pleased you, yes?”

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“It was delicious.”

Ûndin nodded. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I had the tables moved outside
yesterday so the dragon might dine with us.” He remained intently focused
on Eragon all the while he spoke.

Eragon went cold inside. Intentionally or not, Ûndin had treated
Saphira as no more than a beast. Eragon had intended to ask about the
veiled dwarves in private, but now—out of a desire to unsettle Ûndin—
he said, “Saphira and I thank you.” Then, “Sir, why was the ring thrown at
us?”

A painful silence crept over the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye,
Eragon saw Orik wince. Arya, however, smiled as if she understood what
he was doing.

Ûndin put down his dagger, scowling thickly. “The knurlagn you met
are of a tragic clan. Before the Riders’ fall, they were among the oldest,
richest families of our kingdom. Their doom was sealed, though, by two
mistakes: they lived on the western edge of the Beor Mountains, and they
volunteered their greatest warriors in Vrael’s service.”

Anger broke through his voice with sharp cracks. “Galbatorix and his
ever-cursed Forsworn slaughtered them in your city of Urû’baen. Then
they flew on us, killing many. Of that clan, only Grimstcarvlorss Anhûin
and her guards survived. Anhûin soon died of grief, and her men took the
name Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, The Tears of Anhûin, covering their faces
to remind themselves of their loss and their desire for revenge.”

Eragon’s cheeks stung with shame as he fought to keep his face expressionless.
“So,” said Ûndin, glowering at a pastry, “they rebuilt the clan over
the decades, waiting and hunting for recompense. And now you come,
bearing Hrothgar’s mark. It is the ultimate insult to them, no matter your
service in Farthen Dûr. Thus the ring, the ultimate challenge. It means
Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will oppose you with all their resources,
in every matter, big or small. They have set themselves against
you utterly, declared themselves blood enemies.”

“Do they mean me bodily harm?” asked Eragon stiffly.

Ûndin’s gaze faltered for a moment as he cast a look at Gannel, then he
shook his head and uttered a gruff laugh that was, perhaps, louder than
the occasion warranted. “No, Shadeslayer! Not even they would dare hurt
a guest. It is forbidden. They only want you gone, gone, gone.” Yet Eragon

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still wondered. Then Ûndin said, “Please, let us talk no more of these unpleasant
matters. Gannel and I have offered our food and mead in friendship;
is that not what matters?” The priest murmured in concordance.

“It is appreciated,” Eragon finally relented.

Saphira looked at him with solemn eyes and said, They are afraid, Eragon.
Afraid and resentful because they have been forced to accept a Rider’s
assistance.

Aye. They may fight with us, but they don’t fight for us.

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CELBEDEIL


The dawnless morning found Eragon in Ûndin’s main hall, listening as
the clan chief spoke to Orik in Dwarvish. Ûndin broke off as Eragon approached,
then said, “Ah, Shadeslayer. You slept well?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He gestured at Orik. “We have been considering your departure.
I had hoped you’d be able to spend some time with us. But under
the circumstances, it seems best if you resume your journey early tomorrow
morning, when few are in the streets who might trouble you. Supplies
and transportation are being readied even as I speak. It was Hrothgar’s
orders that guards should accompany you as far as Ceris. I have increased
their numbers from three to seven.”

“And in the meantime?”

Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. “I had intended to show you
the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander
mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil
for the day. Accept if you wish. You’ll be safe with him.” The clan chief
seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin
would not harm a guest.

“Thank you, I might at that.” As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik
aside and asked, “How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the
truth.”

Orik answered with obvious reluctance: “In the past, it was not uncommon
for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were
driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to
invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the
clan wars.... Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their
treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I’m sorry that your
friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are
not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this.”

Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night
coiled in the courtyard. Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?

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Go if you must. But take Zar’roc. He followed her advice, also tucking
Nasuada’s scroll into his tunic.

When Eragon approached the gates to the hall’s enclosure, five dwarves
pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands
on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards remained
as Eragon retraced yesterday’s path to the barred entrance of Tarnag’s
foremost tier.

Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were
closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence
averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him.
They’re scared to be seen near me, he realized. Perhaps because they know
Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to
escape the open street, Eragon raised his hand to knock, but before he
could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from
within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards outside.


His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed
around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the
symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building’s ancient
walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the
pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great
white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.

His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their perfumes
into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the
scent alone.

Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic
pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was
the soft thump of a rook flying overhead.

The dwarf beckoned again and strode down the main avenue toward
Celbedeil. As they passed under its eaves, Eragon could only marvel at
the wealth and craftsmanship displayed around him. The walls were
spotted with gems of every color and cut—though all flawless—and red
gold had been hammered into the veins lacing the stone ceilings, walls,
and floor. Pearls and silver provided accents. Occasionally, they passed a
screen partition carved entirely of jade.

The temple was devoid of cloth decorations. In their absence, the
dwarves had carved a profusion of statues, many depicting monsters and

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deities locked in epic battles.

After climbing several floors, they passed through a copper door waxy
with verdigris and embossed with intricate, patterned knots into a bare
room floored with wood. Armor hung thickly on the walls, along with
racks of staff-swords identical to the one Angela had fought with in Far-
then Dûr.

Gannel was there, sparring with three younger dwarves. The clan
chief’s robe was rucked up over his thighs so he could move freely, his
face a fierce scowl as the wood shaft spun in his hands, unsharpened
blades darting like riled hornets.

Two dwarves lunged at Gannel, only to be stymied in a clatter of wood
and metal as he spun past them, rapping their knees and heads and sending
them to the floor. Eragon grinned as he watched Gannel disarm his
last opponent in a brilliant flurry of blows.

At last the clan chief noticed Eragon and dismissed the other dwarves.
As Gannel set his weapon on a rack, Eragon said, “Are all Quan so proficient
with the blade? It seems an odd skill for priests.”

Gannel faced him. “We must be able to defend ourselves, no? Many
enemies stalk this land.”

Eragon nodded. “Those are unique swords. I’ve never seen their like,
except for one an herbalist used in the battle of Farthen Dûr.”

The dwarf sucked in his breath, then let it hiss out between his teeth.
“Angela.” His expression soured. “She won her staff from a priest in a
game of riddles. It was a nasty trick, as we are the only ones allowed to
use hûthvírn. She and Arya...” He shrugged and went to a small table,
where he filled two mugs with ale. Handing one to Eragon, he said, “I invited
you here today at Hrothgar’s request. He told me that if you accepted
his offer to become Ingeitum, I was to acquaint you with dwarf
traditions.”

Eragon sipped the ale and kept silent, eyeing how Gannel’s thick brow
caught the light, shadows dripping down his cheeks from the bony ridge.

The clan chief continued: “Never before has an outsider been taught
our secret beliefs, nor may you speak of them to human or elf. Yet without
this knowledge, you cannot uphold what it means to be knurla. You
are Ingeitum now: our blood, our flesh, our honor. You understand?”

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“I do.”

“Come.” Keeping his ale in hand, Gannel took Eragon from the sparring
room and conveyed him through five grand corridors, stopping in the
archway to a dim chamber hazy with incense. Facing them, the squat
outline of a statue swelled ponderously from floor to ceiling, a faint light
cast across the brooding dwarf face hacked with uncharacteristic crudeness
from brown granite.

“Who is he?” asked Eragon, intimidated.

“Gûntera, King of the Gods. He is a warrior and a scholar, though fickle
in his moods, so we burn offerings to assure his affection at the solstices,
before sowing, and at deaths and births.” Gannel twisted his hand in a
strange gesture and bowed to the statue. “It is to him we pray before battles,
for he molded this land from the bones of a giant and gives the
world its order. All realms are Gûntera’s.”

Then Gannel instructed Eragon how to properly venerate the god, explaining
the signs and words that were used for homage. He elucidated
the meaning of the incense—how it symbolized life and happiness—and
spent long minutes recounting legends about Gûntera, how the god was
born fully formed to a she-wolf at the dawn of stars, how he had battled
monsters and giants to win a place for his kin in Alagaësia, and how he
had taken Kílf, the goddess of rivers and the sea, as his mate.

Next they went to Kílf’s statue, which was carved with exquisite delicacy
out of pale blue stone. Her hair flew back in liquid ripples, rolling
down her neck and framing merry amethyst eyes. In her hands, she
cupped a water lily and a chunk of porous red rock that Eragon did not
recognize.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing.

“Coral taken from deep within the sea that borders the Beors.”

“Coral?”

Gannel took a draught of ale, then said, “Our divers found it while
searching for pearls. It seems that, in brine, certain stones grow like
plants.”

Eragon stared with wonder. He had never thought of pebbles or boul


111



ders as alive, yet here was proof that all they needed was water and salt
to flourish. It finally explained how rocks had continued to appear in
their fields in Palancar Valley, even after the soil had been combed clean
each spring. They grew!

They proceeded to Urûr, master of the air and heavens, and his brother
Morgothal, god of fire. At the carmine statue of Morgothal, the priest
told how the brothers loved each other so much, neither could exist independently.
Thus, Morgothal’s burning palace in the sky during the day,
and the sparks from his forge that appeared overhead every night. And
also thus, how Urûr constantly fed his sibling so he would not die.

Only two more gods were left after that: Sindri—mother of the earth—
and Helzvog.

Helzvog’s statue was different from the rest. The nude god was bowed
in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of
his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhuman
strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child
lay before him.

Gannel’s voice dropped to a low rasp: “Gûntera may be King of the
Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the
land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods
disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first
dwarf from the roots of a mountain.

“When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Gûntera
created elves to control Alagaësia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth
humans from the soil, and Urûr and Morgothal combined their knowledge
and released dragons into the land. Only Kílf restrained herself. So
the first races entered this world.”

Eragon absorbed Gannel’s words, accepting the clan chief’s sincerity but
unable to quell a simple question: How does he know? Eragon sensed that
it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he listened.


“This,” said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, “leads to our most important
rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you.... All dwarves
must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his
hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but of stone. And as Ingeitum, it is
your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who
may die in your company. If you fail—in the absence of injury or ene


112



mies—Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your
presence until after your death.” He straightened his shoulders, staring
hard at Eragon. “You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I
outlined today and you will do well.”

“I won’t forget,” said Eragon.

Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding staircase.
As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and
withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a
miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.

“This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me,” Gannel explained. “He
worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the
minds of Durza, the Ra’zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you
throughout the Empire.”

“Why should I fear that?”

“Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has.”

A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon’s side, like an icy
snake. I should have thought of that, he berated himself.

“The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as
long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before
even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the necklace
will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the danger
has passed.”

“What if I’m asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before
I was aware of it?”

“Nay. It will wake you.”

Eragon rolled the hammer between his fingers. It was difficult to avert
another’s spells, least of all Galbatorix’s. If Gannel is so accomplished,
what other enchantments might be hidden in his gift? He noticed a line of
runes cut along the hammer’s haft. They spelled Astim Hefthyn. The
stairs ended as he asked, “Why do dwarves write with the same runes as
humans?”

For the first time since they met, Gannel laughed, his voice booming
through the temple as his large shoulders shook. “It is the other way

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around; humans write with our runes. When your ancestors landed in
Alagaësia, they were as illiterate as rabbits. However, they soon adopted
our alphabet and matched it to this language. Some of your words even
come from us, like father, which was originally farthen. ”

“So then Farthen Dûr means... ?” Eragon slipped the necklace over his
head and tucked it under his tunic.

“Our Father.”

Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery
located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil,
providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind
Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.

Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery’s inner wall was
covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that
began with a depiction of the dwarves’ creation under Helzvog’s hand.
The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the panorama
a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and
minute detail.

Captivated, Eragon asked, “How was this made?”

“Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired
with enamel, then fitted into a single piece.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use regular paint?”

“It would,” said Gannel, “but not if we wanted it to endure centuries—
millennia—without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy,
unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the discovery
of Farthen Dûr, well before elves set foot on Alagaësia.”

The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau.
Each step carried them through uncounted years of history.

Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless
plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate
south to the Beor Mountains. That was how the Hadarac Desert was
formed, he realized, amazed.

As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Celbedeil,
Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldûnost

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to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and
elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently appeared,
burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining comment
during those sections.

His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to
find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a
vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaësia by the
two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons
killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more
bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown
kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg.

“Is that... ?” whispered Eragon.

“Aye, it’s Eragon, the First Rider. It’s a good likeness too, as he agreed to
sit for our artisans.”

Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his namesake.
I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered
down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It
was an alien face, completely different from his own... and yet the set of
his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon
finding Saphira’s egg. We’re not so different, you and I, he thought, touching
the cool enamel. And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be
brothers through time.... I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He
knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the
egg.

He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching
from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank
expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Elders.
Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situation
distasteful.

Arya inclined her head. “Grimstborith.”

“Arya.”

“You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?”

Gannel smiled flatly. “One should always understand the faith of the
society that one belongs to.”

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“Yet comprehension does not imply belief.” She fingered the pillar of an
archway. “Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for
more than... material gain.”

“You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our
brethren?”

“I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your
wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even
to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you’ve piled it into a monument
to your own wishful thinking.”

“Enough!” The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. “Without us,
the crops would wither in drought. Rivers and lakes would flood. Our
flocks would give birth to one-eyed beasts. The very heavens would shatter
under the gods’ rage!” Arya smiled. “Only our prayers and service prevent
that from happening. If not for Helzvog, where—”

Eragon soon lost track of the argument. He did not understand Arya’s
vague criticisms of Dûrgrimst Quan, but he gathered from Gannel’s responses
that, in some indirect way, she had implied that the dwarf gods
did not exist, questioned the mental capacity of every dwarf who entered
a temple, and pointed out what she took to be flaws in their reasoning—
all in a pleasant and polite voice.

After a few minutes, Arya raised her hand, stopping Gannel, and said,
“That is the difference between us, Grimstborith. You devote yourself to
that which you believe to be true but cannot prove. There, we must
agree to disagree.” She turned to Eragon then. “Az Sweldn rak Anhûin has
inflamed Tarnag’s citizens against you. Ûndin believes, as do I, that it
would be best for you to remain behind his walls until we leave.”

Eragon hesitated. He wanted to see more of Celbedeil, but if there was
to be trouble, then his place was by Saphira’s side. He bowed to Gannel
and begged to be excused. “You need not apologize, Shadeslayer,” said the
clan chief. He glared at Arya. “Do what you must, and may the blessings
of Gûntera be upon you.”

Together Eragon and Arya departed the temple and, surrounded by a
dozen warriors, trotted through the city. As they did, Eragon heard
shouts from an angry mob on a lower tier. A stone skipped over a nearby
roof. The motion drew his eye to a dark plume of smoke rising from the
city’s edge.

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Once in the hall, Eragon hurried to his room. There he slipped on his
mail hauberk; strapped the greaves to his shins and the bracers to his
forearms; jammed the leather cap, coif, and then helm over his head; and
grabbed his shield. Scooping up his pack and saddlebags, he ran back to
the courtyard, where he sat against Saphira’s right foreleg.

Tarnag is like an overturned anthill, she observed.

Let’s hope we don’t get bitten.

Arya joined them before long, as did a group of fifty heavily armed
dwarves who settled in the middle of the courtyard. The dwarves waited
impassively, talking in low grunts as they eyed the barred gate and the
mountain that rose up behind them.

“They fear,” said Arya, seating herself by Eragon, “that the crowds may
prevent us from reaching the rafts.”

“Saphira can always fly us out.”

“Snowfire as well? And Ûndin’s guards? No, if we are stopped, we shall
have to wait until the dwarves’ outrage subsides.” She studied the darkening
sky. “It’s unfortunate that you managed to offend so many dwarves,
but perhaps inevitable. The clans have ever been contentious; what
pleases one infuriates another.”

He fingered the edge of his mail. “I wish now I hadn’t accepted Hrothgar’s
offer.”

“Ah, yes. As with Nasuada, I think you made the only viable choice.
You are not to blame. The fault, if any, lies with Hrothgar for making the
offer in the first place. He must have been well aware of the repercussions.”


Silence reigned for several minutes. A half-dozen dwarves marched
around the courtyard, stretching their legs. Finally, Eragon asked, “Do you
have any family in Du Weldenvarden?”

It was a long time before Arya answered. “None that I’m close to.”

“Why... why is that?”

She hesitated again. “They disliked my choice to become the Queen’s
envoy and ambassador; it seemed inappropriate. When I ignored their ob


117



jections and still had the yawë tattooed on my shoulder—which indicates
that I have devoted myself to the greater good of our race, as is the case
with your ring from Brom—my family refused to see me again.”

“But that was over seventy years ago,” he protested.

Arya looked away, concealing her face behind a veil of hair. Eragon
tried to imagine what it must have been like for her—ostracized from
her family and sent to live among two completely different races. No
wonder she’s so withdrawn, he realized. “Are there any other elves outside
of Du Weldenvarden?”

Still keeping her face covered, she said, “Three of us were sent forth
from Ellesméra. Fäolin and Glenwing always traveled with me when we
transported Saphira’s egg between Du Weldenvarden and Tronjheim.
Only I survived Durza’s ambush.”

“What were they like?”

“Proud warriors. Glenwing loved speaking to birds with his mind. He
would stand in the forest surrounded by a flock of songbirds and listen to
their music for hours. Afterward, he might sing us the prettiest melodies.”

“And Fäolin?” This time Arya refused to answer, though her hands
tightened on her bow. Undaunted, Eragon cast around for another subject.
“Why do you dislike Gannel so much?”

She faced him suddenly and touched his cheek with soft fingers. Eragon
flinched with surprise. “That,” she said, “is a discussion for another time.”
Then she stood and calmly relocated herself across the courtyard.

Confused, Eragon stared at her back. I don’t understand, he said, leaning
against Saphira’s belly. She snorted, amused, then curled her neck and tail
around him and promptly fell asleep.

As the valley darkened, Eragon struggled to stay alert. He pulled out
Gannel’s necklace and examined it several times with magic, but found
only the priest’s guarding spell. Giving up, he replaced the necklace under
his tunic, pulled his shield over him, and settled down to wait through
the night.

At the first hint of light in the sky overhead—though the valley itself

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was still in shadow and would remain so until almost midday—Eragon
roused Saphira. The dwarves were already up, busy muffling their weapons
so they could creep through Tarnag with utter secrecy. Ûndin even
had Eragon tie rags around Saphira’s claws and Snowfire’s hooves.

When all was ready, Ûndin and his warriors assembled in a large block
around Eragon, Saphira, and Arya. The gates were carefully opened—no
sound came from the oiled hinges—and then they set out for the lake.

Tarnag seemed deserted, the vacant streets lined with houses where its
inhabitants lay oblivious and dreaming. The few dwarves they encountered
gazed at them silently, then padded away like ghosts in the twilight.

At the gate to each tier, a guard waved them through without comment.
They soon left the buildings and found themselves crossing the
barren fields at Tarnag’s base. Beyond those, they reached the stone quay
that edged the still, gray water.

Waiting for them were two wide rafts tied alongside a pier. Three
dwarves squatted on the first raft, four on the second. They stood as
Ûndin came into view.

Eragon helped the dwarves hobble and blindfold Snowfire, then coax
the reluctant horse onto the second raft, where he was forced to his
knees and tied down. Meanwhile, Saphira slipped off the pier into the
lake. Only her head remained above the surface as she paddled through
the water.

Ûndin grasped Eragon’s arm. “Here is where we part. You have my best
men; they will protect you until you reach Du Weldenvarden.” Eragon
tried to thank him, but Ûndin shook his head. “No, it is not a matter for
gratitude. It is my duty. I am only shamed that your stay was darkened by
the hatred of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

Eragon bowed, then boarded the first raft with Orik and Arya. The
mooring ropes were unknotted, and the dwarves pushed away from
shore with long poles. As dawn approached, the two rafts drifted toward
the mouth of the Az Ragni, Saphira swimming between them.

119



DIAMONDS IN THE NIGHT


The Empire has violated my home.

So thought Roran as he listened to the anguished moans of the men injured
during the previous night’s battle with the Ra’zac and soldiers. Roran
shuddered with fear and rage until his whole body was consumed
with feverish chills that left his cheeks burning and his breath short. And
he was sad, so very sad... as if the Ra’zac’s deeds had destroyed the innocence
of his childhood haunts.

Leaving the healer, Gertrude, tending to the wounded, Roran continued
toward Horst’s house, noting the makeshift barriers that filled the
gaps between buildings: the boards, the barrels, the piles of rocks, and the
splintered frames of the two wagons destroyed by the Ra’zac’s explosives.
It all seemed pitifully fragile.

The few people who moved through Carvahall were glassy-eyed with
shock, grief, and exhaustion. Roran was tired too, more than he could
ever remember being. He had not slept since the night before last, and his
arms and back ached from the fighting.

He entered Horst’s house and saw Elain standing by the open doorway
to the dining room, listening to the steady burn of conversation that
emanated from within. She beckoned him over.

After they had foiled the Ra’zac’s counterattack, the prominent members
of Carvahall had sequestered themselves in an attempt to decide
what action the village should take and if Horst and his allies should be
punished for initiating the hostilities. The group had been in deliberation
most of the morning.

Roran peeked into the room. Seated around the long table were Birgit,
Loring, Sloan, Gedric, Delwin, Fisk, Morn, and a number of others. Horst
presided at the head of the table.

“... and I say that it was stupid and reckless!” exclaimed Kiselt, propping
himself upright on his bony elbows. “You had no cause to endanger—”

Morn waved a hand. “We’ve been over this before. Whether what has
been done should have been done is beside the point. I happen to agree
with it—Quimby was my friend as much as anyone’s, and I shudder to
think what those monsters would do with Roran—but... but what I want

120



to know is how we can escape this predicament.”

“Easy, kill the soldiers,” barked Sloan.

“And then what? More men will follow until we drown in a sea of
crimson tunics. Even if we surrender Roran, it’ll do no good; you heard
what the Ra’zac said—they’ll kill us if we protect Roran and enslave us if
we don’t. You may feel differently, but, as for myself, I would rather die
than spend my life as a slave.” Morn shook his head, his mouth set in a
flat grim line. “We cannot survive.”

Fisk leaned forward. “We could leave.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” retorted Kiselt. “We’re backed against the
Spine, the soldiers have blocked the road, and beyond them is the rest of
the Empire.”

“It’s all your fault,” cried Thane, stabbing a shaking finger at Horst.
“They will torch our houses and murder our children because of you.
You!”

Horst stood so quickly, his chair toppled over backward. “Where is
your honor, man? Will you let them eat us without fighting back?”

“Yes, if it means suicide otherwise.” Thane glared around the table, then
stormed out past Roran. His face was contorted by pure, unadulterated
fear.

Gedric spotted Roran then and waved him in. “Come, come, we’ve
been waiting for you.”

Roran clasped his hands in the small of his back as scores of hard eyes
inspected him. “How can I help?”

“I think,” said Gedric, “we’ve all agreed that it would accomplish nothing
to give you to the Empire at this point. Whether we would if that
wasn’t the case is neither here nor there. The only thing we can do is
prepare for another attack. Horst will make spearheads—and other
weapons if he has time—and Fisk has agreed to construct shields. Fortunately,
his carpentry shop didn’t burn. And someone needs to oversee our
defenses. We would like it to be you. You’ll have plenty of assistance.”

Roran nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

121



Beside Morn, Tara stood, towering over her husband. She was a large
woman, with gray-streaked black hair and strong hands that were just as
capable of twisting off a chicken’s head as separating a pair of brawlers.
She said, “Make sure you do, Roran, else we’ll have more funerals.” Then
she turned to Horst. “Before we go any further, there are men to bury.
And there are children who should be sent to safety, maybe to Cawley’s
farm on Nost Creek. You should go as well, Elain.”

“I won’t leave Horst,” said Elain calmly.

Tara bristled. “This is no place for a woman five months pregnant.
You’ll lose the child running around like you have.”

“It would do me far more harm to worry in ignorance than remain here.
I have borne my sons; I will stay, as I know you and every other wife in
Carvahall will.”

Horst came around the table and, with a tender expression, took Elain’s
hand. “Nor would I have you anywhere but at my side. The children
should go, though. Cawley will care for them well, but we must make
sure that the route to his farm is clear.”

“Not only that,” rasped Loring, “none of us, not one blasted man jack
can have a thing to do with the families down the valley, ’side from Caw-
ley, of course. They can’t help us, and we don’t want those desecrators to
trouble ’em.”

Everyone agreed that he was right, then the meeting ended and the attendees
dispersed throughout Carvahall. Before long, however, they recongregated—
along with most of the village—in the small cemetery behind
Gertrude’s house. Ten white-swathed corpses were arranged beside
their graves, a sprig of hemlock on each of their cold chests and a silver
amulet around each of their necks.

Gertrude stood forth and recited the men’s names: “Parr, Wyglif, Ged,
Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, and Albem.” She placed
black pebbles over their eyes, then raised her arms, lifted her face to the
sky, and began the quavering death lay. Tears seeped from the corners of
her closed eyes as her voice rose and fell with the immemorial phrases,
sighing and moaning with the village’s sorrow. She sang of the earth and
the night and of humanity’s ageless sorrow from which none escape.

After the last mournful note faded into silence, family members praised
the feats and traits of those they had lost. Then the bodies were buried.

122



As Roran listened, his gaze lit upon the anonymous mound where the
three soldiers had been interred. One killed by Nolfavrell, and two by me.
He could still feel the visceral shock of muscle and bone giving... crunching...
pulping under his hammer. His bile rose and he had to struggle not
to be sick in full view of the village. I am the one who destroyed them. Roran
had never expected or wanted to kill, and yet he had taken more
lives than anyone else in Carvahall. It felt as if his brow was marked with
blood.

He left as soon as possible—not even stopping to speak with Katrina—
and climbed to a point where he could survey Carvahall and consider
how best to protect it. Unfortunately, the houses were too far apart to
form a defensive perimeter by just fortifying the spaces between buildings.
Nor did Roran think it would be a good idea to have soldiers fighting
up against the walls of people’s houses and trampling their gardens.
The Anora River guards our western flank, he thought, but as for the rest of
Carvahall, we couldn’t even keep a child out of it.... What can we build in
a few hours that will be a strong enough barrier?

He jogged into the middle of the village and shouted, “I need everyone
who is free to help cut down trees!” After a minute, men began to trickle
out of the houses and through the streets. “Come on, more! We all have
to help!” Roran waited as the group around him continued to grow.

One of Loring’s sons, Darmmen, shouldered to his side. “What’s your
plan?”

Roran raised his voice so they could all hear. “We need a wall around
Carvahall; the thicker the better. I figure if we get some big trees, lay
them on their sides, and sharpen the branches, the Ra’zac will have a
pretty hard time getting over them.”

“How many trees do you think it’ll take?” asked Orval.

Roran hesitated, trying to gauge Carvahall’s circumference. “At least
fifty. Maybe sixty to do it properly.” The men swore and began to argue.
“Wait!” Roran counted the number of people in the crowd. He arrived at
forty-eight. “If you each fell a tree in the next hour, we’ll be almost done.
Can you do that?”

“What do you take us for?” retorted Orval. “The last time I took an
hour on a tree, I was ten!”

123



Darmmen spoke up: “What about brambles? We could drape them
over the trees. I don’t know anyone who can climb through a knot of
thorny vines.”

Roran grinned. “That’s a great idea. Also, those of you with sons, have
them harness your horses so we can drag the trees back.” The men agreed
and scattered through Carvahall to gather axes and saws for the job. Roran
stopped Darmmen and said, “Make sure that the trees have branches
all along the trunk or else they won’t work.”

“Where will you be?” asked Darmmen.

“Working on another line of defense.” Roran left him then and ran to
Quimby’s house, where he found Birgit busy boarding up the windows.

“Yes?” she said, looking at him.

He quickly explained his plan with the trees. “I want to dig a trench inside
the ring of trees, to slow down anyone who gets through. We could
even put pointed stakes in the bottom of it and—”

“What is your point, Roran?”

“I’d like you to organize every woman and child, and everyone else you
can, to dig. It’s too much for me to handle by myself, and we don’t have
long....” Roran looked her straight in the eyes. “Please.”

Birgit frowned. “Why ask me?”

“Because, like me, you hate the Ra’zac, and I know you will do everything
possible to stop them.”

“Aye,” whispered Birgit, then clapped her hands briskly. “Very well, as
you wish. But I will never forget, Roran Garrowsson, that it was you and
your family who brought about my husband’s doom.” She strode away
before Roran could respond.

He accepted her animosity with equanimity; it was to be expected,
considering her loss. He was only lucky she had not started a blood feud.
Then he shook himself and ran to where the main road entered Carvahall.
It was the weakest spot in the village and had to be doubly protected.
The Ra’zac can’t be allowed to just blast their way in again.

Roran recruited Baldor, and together they began excavating a ditch

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across the road. “I’ll have to go soon,” warned Baldor between strokes of
his pickax. “Dad needs me in the forge.”

Roran grunted an acknowledgment without looking up. As he worked,
his mind once again filled with memories of the soldiers: how they had
looked as he struck them, and the feeling, the horrible feeling of smashing
a body as if it were a rotten stump. He paused, nauseated, and noted the
commotion throughout Carvahall as people readied themselves for the
next assault.

After Baldor left, Roran completed the thigh-deep ditch himself, then
went to Fisk’s workshop. With the carpenter’s permission, he had five
logs from the stockpile of seasoned wood pulled by horses back to the
main road. There Roran tipped the logs on end into the trench so that
they formed an impenetrable barrier into Carvahall.

As he tamped down the earth around the logs, Darmmen trotted up.
“We got the trees. They’re just being put into place now.” Roran accompanied
him to Carvahall’s northern edge, where twelve men wrestled
four lush green pines into alignment while a team of draft horses under
the whip of a young boy returned to the foothills. “Most of us are helping
to retrieve the trees. The others got inspired; they seemed determined to
chop down the rest of the forest when I left.”

“Good, we can use the extra timber.”

Darmmen pointed to a pile of dense brambles that sat on the edge of
Kiselt’s fields. “I cut those along the Anora. Use them however you want.
I’m going to find more.”

Roran clapped him on the arm, then turned toward the eastern side of
Carvahall, where a long, curved line of women, children, and men labored
in the dirt. He went to them and found Birgit issuing orders like a
general and distributing water among the diggers. The trench was already
five feet wide and two feet deep. When Birgit paused for breath, he said,
“I’m impressed.”

She brushed back a lock of hair without looking at him. “We plowed
the ground to begin with. It made things easier.”

“Do you have a shovel I can use?” he asked. Birgit pointed to a mound
of tools at the other end of the trench. As Roran walked toward it, he
spied the copper gleam of Katrina’s hair in the midst of the bobbing
backs. Beside her, Sloan hacked at the soft loam with a furious, obsessive

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energy, as if he were attempting to tear open the earth’s skin, to peel
back its clay hide and expose the muscle beneath. His eyes were wild,
and his teeth were bared in a knotted grimace, despite the flecks of dirt
and filth that spotted his lips.

Roran shuddered at Sloan’s expression and hurried past, averting his
face so as to avoid meeting his bloodshot gaze. He grabbed a shovel and
immediately plunged it into the soil, doing his best to forget his worries
in the heat of physical exertion.

The day progressed in a continuous rush of activity, without breaks for
meals or rest. The trench grew longer and deeper, until it cupped two-
thirds of the village and reached the banks of the Anora River. All the
loose dirt was piled on the inside edge of the trench in an attempt to
prevent anyone from jumping over it... and to make it difficult to climb
out.

The wall of trees was finished in early afternoon. Roran stopped digging
then to help sharpen the innumerable branches—which were overlapped
and interlocked as much as possible—and affix the nets of brambles. Occasionally,
they had to pull out a tree so farmers like Ivor could drive
their livestock into the safety of Carvahall.

By evening the fortifications were stronger and more extensive than
Roran had dared hope, though they still required several more hours of
work to complete to his satisfaction.

He sat on the ground, gnawing a hunk of sourdough bread and staring
at the stars through a haze of exhaustion. A hand dropped on his shoulder,
and he looked up to see Albriech. “Here.” Albriech extended a rough
shield—made of sawed boards pegged together—and a six-foot-long
spear. Roran accepted them gratefully, then Albriech proceeded onward,
distributing spears and shields to whomever he encountered.

Roran dragged himself upright, got his hammer from Horst’s house, and
thus armed, went to the entrance to the main road, where Baldor and
two others kept watch. “Wake me when you need to rest,” Roran said,
then lay on the soft grass underneath the eaves of a nearby house. He arranged
his weapons so he could find them in the dark and closed his eyes
in eager anticipation.

“Roran.”

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The whisper came from by his right ear. “Katrina?” He struggled into a
sitting position, blinking as she unshuttered a lantern so a key of light
struck his thigh. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Her eyes, large and mysterious against her pale
face, pooled with the night’s shadows. She took his arm and led him to a
deserted porch far out of earshot of Baldor and the other guards. There
she placed her hands on his cheeks and softly kissed him, but he was too
tired and troubled to respond to her affection. She drew away and studied
him. “What is wrong, Roran?”

A bark of humorless laughter escaped him. “What’s wrong? The world
is wrong; it’s as askew as a picture frame knocked on its side.” He
jammed his fist against his gut. “And I am wrong. Every time I allow myself
to relax, I see the soldiers bleeding under my hammer. Men I killed,
Katrina. And their eyes... their eyes ! They knew they were about to die
and that they could nothing do about it.” He trembled in the darkness.
“They knew... I knew... and I still had to do it. It couldn’t—” Words failed
him as he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.

Katrina cradled his head as Roran cried from the shock of the past few
days. He wept for Garrow and Eragon; he wept for Parr, Quimby, and
the other dead; he wept for himself; and he wept for the fate of Carvahall.
He sobbed until his emotions ebbed and left him as dry and hollow
as an old barley husk.

Forcing himself to take a long breath, Roran looked at Katrina and noticed
her own tears. He brushed them away with his thumb, like diamonds
in the night. “Katrina... my love.” He said it again, tasting the
words: “My love. I have naught to give you but my love. Still... I must ask.
Will you marry me?”

In the dim lantern light, he saw pure joy and wonder leap across her
face. Then she hesitated and troubled doubt appeared. It was wrong for
him to ask, or for her to accept, without Sloan’s permission. But Roran no
longer cared; he had to know now if he and Katrina would spend their
lives together.

Then, softly: “Yes, Roran, I will.”

127



UNDER A DARKLING SKY


That night it rained.

Layer upon layer of pregnant clouds blanketed Palancar Valley, clinging
to the mountains with tenacious arms and filling the air with heavy, cold
mist. From inside, Roran watched as cords of gray water pelted the trees
with their frothing leaves, muddied the trench around Carvahall, and
scrabbled with blunt fingers against the thatched roofs and eaves as the
clouds disgorged their load. Everything was streaked, blurred, and hidden
behind the torrent’s inexorable streamers.

By midmorning the storm had abated, although a continuous drizzle
still percolated through the mist. It quickly soaked Roran’s hair and
clothes when he took his watch at the barricade to the main road. He
squatted by the upright logs, shook his cloak, then pulled the hood farther
over his face and tried to ignore the cold.

Despite the weather, Roran soared and exulted with his joy at Katrina’s
acceptance. They were engaged! In his mind, it was as if a missing piece
of the world had dropped into place, as if he had been granted the confidence
of an invulnerable warrior. What did the soldiers matter, or the
Ra’zac, or the Empire itself, before love such as theirs? They were nothing
but tinder to the blaze.

For all his new bliss, however, his mind was entirely focused on what
had become the most important conundrum of his existence: how to assure
that Katrina would survive Galbatorix’s wrath. He had thought of
nothing else since waking. The best thing would be for Katrina to go to
Cawley’s, he decided, staring down the hazy road, but she would never
agree to leave... unless Sloan told her to. I might be able to convince him;
I’m sure he wants her out of danger as much as I do.

As he considered ways to approach the butcher, the clouds thickened
again and the rain renewed its assault on the village, arching down in
stinging waves. Around Roran, the puddles jumped to life as pellets of
water drummed their surfaces, bouncing back up like startled grasshoppers.


When Roran grew hungry, he passed his watch to Larne—Loring’s
youngest son—and went to find lunch, darting from the shelter of one
eave to another. As he rounded a corner, he was surprised to see Albriech
on the house’s porch, arguing violently with a group of men.

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Ridley shouted, “... you’re blind—follow the cottonwoods and they’ll
never see! You took the addle-brain’s route.”

“Try it if you want,” retorted Albriech.

“I will!”

“Then you can tell me how you like the taste of arrows.”

“Maybe,” said Thane, “we aren’t as clubfooted as you are.”

Albriech turned on him with a snarl. “Your words are as thick as your
wits. I’m not stupid enough to risk my family on the cover of a few
leaves that I’ve never seen before.” Thane’s eyes bulged and his face
turned a deep mottled crimson. “What?” taunted Albriech. “Have you no
tongue?”

Thane roared and struck Albriech on the cheek with his fist. Albriech
laughed. “Your arm is as weak as a woman’s.” Then he grabbed Thane’s
shoulder and threw him off the porch and into the mud, where he lay on
his side, stunned.

Holding his spear like a staff, Roran jumped beside Albriech, preventing
Ridley and the others from laying hands on him. “No more,” growled
Roran, furious. “We have other enemies. An assembly can be called and
arbitrators will decide whether compensation is due to either Albriech or
Thane. But until then, we can’t fight ourselves.”

“Easy for you to say,” spat Ridley. “You have no wife or children.” Then
he helped Thane to his feet and departed with the group of men.

Roran stared hard at Albriech and the purple bruise that was spreading
beneath his right eye. “What started it?” he asked.

“I—” Albriech stopped with a grimace and felt his jaw. “I went scouting
with Darmmen. The Ra’zac have posted soldiers on several hills. They
can see across the Anora and up and down the valley. One or two of us
might, might, be able to creep past them without notice, but we’ll never
get the children to Cawley without killing the soldiers, and then we
might as well tell the Ra’zac where we’re going.”

Dread clutched at Roran, flooding like poison through his heart and
veins. What can I do? Sick with a sense of impending doom, he put an

129



arm around Albriech’s shoulders. “Come on; Gertrude should have a look
at you.”

“No,” said Albriech, shrugging him off. “She has more pressing cases
than me.” He took a preparatory breath—as if he were about to dive into
a lake—and lumbered off through the downpour in the direction of the
forge.

Roran watched him go, then shook his head and went inside. He found
Elain sitting on the floor with a row of children, sharpening a pile of
spearheads with files and whetstones. Roran gestured to Elain. Once they
were in another room, he told her what had just occurred.

Elain swore harshly—startling him, for he had never heard her use such
language—then asked, “Is there cause for Thane to declare a feud?”

“Possibly,” admitted Roran. “They both insulted each other, but Albriech’s
oaths were the strongest.... However, Thane did strike first. You
could declare a feud yourself.”

“Nonsense,” asserted Elain, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.
“This is a dispute for arbitrators to resolve. If we must pay a fine, so be it,
as long as bloodshed is avoided.” She headed out the front door, a finished
spear in hand.

Troubled, Roran located bread and meat in the kitchen, then helped
the children sharpen spearheads. Once Felda, one of the mothers, arrived,
Roran left the children in her care and slogged back through Carvahall to
the main road.

As he squatted in the mud, a shaft of sunlight burst underneath the
clouds and illuminated the folds of rain so each drop flashed with crystalline
fire. Roran stared, awestruck, ignoring the water streaming down his
face. The rift in the clouds widened until a shelf of massive thunderheads
hung over the western three-quarters of Palancar Valley, facing a strip of
pure blue sky. Because of the billowy roof above and the angle of the
sun, the rain-drenched landscape was lit brilliantly on one side and
painted with rich shadows on the other, giving the fields, bushes, trees,
river, and mountains the most extraordinary colors. It was as if the entire
world had been transformed into a sculpture of burnished metal.

Just then, movement caught Roran’s eye, and he looked down to see a
soldier standing on the road, his mail shining like ice. The man gaped
with amazement at Carvahall’s new fortifications, then turned and fled

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back into the golden mist.

“Soldiers!” shouted Roran, jolting to his feet. He wished that he had his
bow, but he had left it inside to protect it from the elements. His only
comfort was that the soldiers would have an even harder time keeping
their weapons dry.

Men and women ran from their houses, gathered along the trench, and
peered out through the wall of overlapping pines. The long branches
wept beads of moisture, translucent cabochons that reflected the rows of
anxious eyes.

Roran found himself standing beside Sloan. The butcher held one of
Fisk’s makeshift shields in his left hand, and in his right a cleaver curved
like a half-moon. His belt was festooned with at least a dozen knives, all
of them large and honed to a razor edge. He and Roran exchanged brisk
nods, then refocused on where the soldier had disappeared.

Less than a minute later, the disembodied voice of a Ra’zac slithered
out of the mist: “By continuing to defend Carvahall, you proclaim your
choice and ssseal your doom. You ssshall die!”

Loring responded: “Show your maggot-riddled faces if you dare, you
lily-livered, bandy-legged, snake-eyed wretches ! We’ll crack your skulls
open and fatten our hogs on your blood!”

A dark shape floated toward them, followed by the dull thump of a
spear embedding itself in a door an inch from Gedric’s left arm.

“Take cover!” shouted Horst from the middle of the line. Roran knelt
behind his shield and peered through a hairline gap between two of the
boards. He was just in time, for a half-dozen spears hurtled over the wall
of trees and buried themselves among the cowering villagers.

From somewhere in the mist came an agonized scream.

Roran’s heart jumped with a painful flutter. He panted for breath,
though he had not moved, and his hands were slick with sweat. He heard
the faint sound of shattering glass on the northern edge of Carvahall...
then the bellow of an explosion and crashing timbers.

Spinning around, he and Sloan sped through Carvahall, where they
found a team of six soldiers dragging away the splintered remains of several
trees. Beyond them, pale and wraithlike in the glittering shards of

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rain, sat the Ra’zac on their black horses. Without slowing, Roran fell
upon the first man, jabbing his spear. His first and second stabs were deflected
by an upraised arm, then Roran caught the soldier on the hip, and
when he stumbled, in his throat.

Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of
the men’s helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with
drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks
with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield’s
rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carving
knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his
other opponent with a maniacal grin. “Shall I gut and hamstring you?” he
demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.

Roran lost his spear to the next two men he faced. He barely managed
to drag out his hammer in time to stop a sword from shearing off his leg.
The soldier who had torn the spear from Roran’s grip now cast the
weapon at him, aiming for his breast. Roran dropped his hammer, caught
the shaft in midair—which astounded him as much as the soldiers—spun
it around, and drove the spear through the armor and ribs of the man
who had launched it. Left weaponless, Roran was forced to retreat before
the remaining soldier. He stumbled over a corpse, cutting his calf on a
sword as he fell, and rolled to avoid a two-handed blow from the soldier,
scrabbling frantically in the ankle-deep mud for something, anything he
could use for a weapon. A hilt bruised his fingers, and he ripped it from
the muck and slashed at the soldier’s sword hand, severing his thumb.

The man stared dumbly at the glistening stump, then said, “This is what
comes from not shielding myself.”

“Aye,” agreed Roran, and beheaded him.

The last soldier panicked and fled toward the impassive specters of the
Ra’zac while Sloan bombarded him with a stream of insults and foul
names. When the soldier finally pierced the shining curtain of rain, Roran
watched with a thrill of horror as the two black figures bent down from
their steeds on either side of the man and gripped the nape of his neck
with twisted hands. The cruel fingers tightened, and the man shrieked
desperately and convulsed, then went limp. The Ra’zac placed the corpse
behind one of their saddles before turning their horses and riding away.

Roran shuddered and looked at Sloan, who was cleaning his blades.
“You fought well.” He had never suspected that the butcher contained
such ferocity.

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Sloan said in a low voice, “They’ll never get Katrina. Never, even if I
must skin the lot of them, or fight a thousand Urgals and the king to
boot. I’d tear the sky itself down and let the Empire drown in its own
blood before she suffers so much as a scratch.” He clamped his mouth
shut then, jammed the last of his knives into his belt, and began dragging
the three broken trees back into position.

While he did, Roran rolled the dead soldiers through the trampled
mud, away from the fortifications. Now I have killed five. At the completion
of his labor, he straightened and glanced around, puzzled, for all he
heard was silence and the hissing rain. Why has no one come to help us?

Wondering what else might have occurred, he returned with Sloan to
the scene of the first attack. Two soldiers hung lifelessly on the slick
branches of the tree wall, but that was not what held their attention.
Horst and the other villagers knelt in a circle around a small body. Roran
caught his breath. It was Elmund, son of Delwin. The ten-year-old boy
had been struck in his side by a spear. His parents sat in the mud beside
him, their faces as blank as stone.

Something has to be done, thought Roran, dropping to his knees and
leaning against his spear. Few children survived their first five or six years.
But to lose your firstborn son now, when everything indicated that he
should grow tall and strong to take his father’s place in Carvahall—it was
enough to crush you. Katrina... the children... they all have to be protected.

But where?... Where?... Where?... Where!

133



DOWN THE RUSHING MERE-WASH


On the first day from Tarnag, Eragon made an effort to learn the names
of Ûndin’s guards. They were Ama, Tríhga, Hedin, Ekksvar, Shrrgnien—
which Eragon found unpronounceable, though he was told it meant
Wolfheart—Dûthmér, and Thorv.

Each raft had a small cabin in the center. Eragon preferred to spend his
time seated on the edge of the logs, watching the Beor Mountains scroll
by. Kingfishers and jackdaws flitted along the clear river, while blue herons
stood stiltlike on the marshy bank, which was planked with splotches
of light that fell through the boughs of hazel, beech, and willow. Occasionally,
a bullfrog would croak from a bed of ferns.

When Orik settled beside him, Eragon said, “It’s beautiful.”

“That it is.” The dwarf quietly lit his pipe, then leaned back and puffed.

Eragon listened to the creak of wood and rope as Tríhga steered the raft
with the long paddle at the aft. “Orik, can you tell me why Brom joined
the Varden? I know so little about him. For most of my life, he was just
the town storyteller.”

“He never joined the Varden; he helped found it.” Orik paused to tap
some ashes into the water. “After Galbatorix became king, Brom was the
only Rider still alive, outside of the Forsworn.”

“But he wasn’t a Rider, not then. His dragon was killed in the fighting at
Doru Araeba.”

“Well, a Rider by training. Brom was the first to organize the friends
and allies of the Riders who had been forced into exile. It was he who
convinced Hrothgar to allow the Varden to live in Farthen Dûr, and he
who obtained the elves’ assistance.”

They were silent for a while. “Why did Brom relinquish the leadership?”
asked Eragon.

Orik smiled wryly. “Perhaps he never wanted it. It was before Hrothgar
adopted me, so I saw little of Brom in Tronjheim.... He was always off
fighting the Forsworn or engaged in one plot or another.”

“Your parents are dead?”

134



“Aye. The pox took them when I was young, and Hrothgar was kind
enough to welcome me into his hall and, since he has no children of his
own, to make me his heir.”

Eragon thought of his helm, marked with the Ingeitum symbol. Hrothgar
has been kind to me as well.

When the afternoon twilight arrived, the dwarves hung a round lantern
at each corner of the rafts. The lanterns were red, which Eragon remembered
was to preserve night vision. He stood by Arya and studied the lanterns’
pure, motionless depths. “Do you know how these are made?” he
asked.

“It was a spell we gave the dwarves long ago. They use it with great
skill.”

Eragon reached up and scratched his chin and cheeks, feeling the
patches of stubble that had begun to appear. “Could you teach me more
magic while we travel?”

She looked at him, her balance perfect on the undulating logs. “It is not
my place. A teacher is waiting for you.”

“Then tell me this, at least,” he said. “What does the name of my sword
mean?”

Arya’s voice was very soft. “Misery is your sword. And so it was until
you wielded it.”

Eragon stared with aversion at Zar’roc. The more he learned about his
weapon, the more malevolent it seemed, as if the blade could cause misfortune
of its own free will. Not only did Morzan kill Riders with it, but
Zar’roc’s very name is evil. If Brom had not given it to him, and if not for
the fact that Zar’roc never dulled and could not be broken, Eragon would
have thrown it into the river at that very moment.

Before it grew any darker, Eragon swam out to Saphira. They flew together
for the first time since leaving Tronjheim and soared high above
the Az Ragni, where the air was thin and the water below was only a
purple streak.

Without the saddle, Eragon gripped Saphira tightly with his knees, feeling
her hard scales rub the scars from their first flight.

135



As Saphira tilted to the left, rising on an updraft, he saw three brown
specks launch themselves from the mountainside below and ascend rapidly.
At first Eragon took them to be falcons, but as they neared, he realized
that the animals were almost twenty feet long, with attenuated tails
and leathery wings. In fact, they looked like dragons, though their bodies
were smaller, thinner, and more serpentine than Saphira’s. Nor did their
scales glitter, but were dappled green and brown.

Excited, Eragon pointed them out to Saphira. Could they be dragons? he
asked.

I don’t know. She floated in place, inspecting the newcomers as they
spiraled around them. The creatures seemed puzzled by Saphira. They
darted toward her, only to hiss and swoop overhead at the last moment.

Eragon grinned and reached out with his mind, trying to touch their
thoughts. As he did, the three recoiled and shrieked, opening their maws
like hungry snakes. Their piercing keen was mental as well as physical. It
tore through Eragon with a savage strength, seeking to incapacitate him.
Saphira felt it too. Continuing the racking cry, the creatures attacked
with razor claws.

Hold on, warned Saphira. She folded her left wing and spun halfway
around, avoiding two of the animals, then flapped quickly, rising above
the other. At the same time, Eragon worked furiously to block the shriek.
The instant his mind was clear, he reached for the magic. Don’t kill them,
said Saphira. I want the experience.

Though the creatures were more agile than Saphira, she had the advantage
of bulk and strength. One of the creatures dove at her. She flipped
upside down—falling backward—and kicked the animal in the chest.

The shriek dropped in intensity as her injured foe retreated.

Saphira flared her wings, looping right side up so she faced the other
two as they converged on her. She arched her neck, Eragon heard a deep
rumble between her ribs, and then a jet of flame roared from her jaws. A
molten-blue halo engulfed Saphira’s head, flashing through her gemlike
scales until she sparkled gloriously and seemed to be lit from within.

The two dragon-beasts squawked in dismay and veered to either side.
The mental assault ceased as they sped away, sinking back toward the
mountainside.

136



You almost threw me off, said Eragon, loosening his cramped arms from
around her neck.

She looked at him smugly. Almost, but not quite.

That’s true, he laughed.

Flushed with the thrill of victory, they returned to the rafts. As Saphira
landed amid two great fins of water, Orik shouted, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” called Eragon. The icy water whirled around his legs as Saphira
swam to the side of the raft. “Were they another race unique to the
Beors?”

Orik pulled him onto the raft. “We call them Fanghur. They’re not as
intelligent as dragons and they can’t breathe fire, but they are still formidable
foes.”

“So we discovered.” Eragon massaged his temples in an attempt to alleviate
the headache the Fanghur’s attack had brought on. “Saphira was
more than a match for them, however.”

Of course, she said.

“It’s how they hunt,” explained Orik. “They use their minds to immobilize
their prey while they kill it.”

Saphira flicked water at Eragon with her tail. It’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll
try it next time I go hunting.

He nodded. It could come in handy in a fight too.

Arya came to the edge of the raft. “I’m glad you did not kill them.
Fanghur are rare enough that those three would have been sorely missed.”

“They still manage to eat enough of our herds,” growled Thorv from inside
the cabin. The dwarf marched out to Eragon, champing irritably under
the twisted knots of his beard. “Do not fly anymore while in these
Beor Mountains, Shadeslayer. It is difficult enough to keep you unharmed
without you and thine dragon fighting wind-vipers.”

“We’ll stay on the ground until we reach the plains,” promised Eragon.

137



“Good.”

When they stopped for the night, the dwarves moored the rafts to aspen
trees along the mouth of a small stream. Ama started a fire while Eragon
helped Ekksvar pull Snowfire onto land. They picketed the stallion
on a strip of grass.

Thorv oversaw the erection of six large tents. Hedin gathered firewood
to last until morning, and Dûthmér carried supplies off the second raft
and began making dinner. Arya took up watch on the edge of camp,
where she was soon joined by Ekksvar, Ama, and Tríhga when they finished
their tasks.

When Eragon realized he had nothing to do, he squatted by the fire
with Orik and Shrrgnien. As Shrrgnien pulled off his gloves and held his
scarred hands over the flames, Eragon noticed that a polished steel stud—
perhaps a quarter of an inch long—protruded from each of the dwarf’s
knuckles, except for on his thumbs.

“What are those?” he asked.

Shrrgnien looked at Orik and laughed. “These are mine Ascûdgamln...
mine ‘fists of steel.’ ” Without standing, he twisted and punched the bole
of an aspen, leaving four symmetrical holes in the bark. Shrrgnien laughed
again. “They are good for hitting things, eh?”

Eragon’s curiosity and envy were aroused. “How are they made? I mean,
how are the spikes attached to your hands?”

Shrrgnien hesitated, trying to find the right words. “A healer puts you
in a deep sleep, so you feel no pain. Then a hole is—is drilled, yes?—is
drilled down through the joints...” He broke off and spoke quickly to
Orik in the dwarf language.

“A metal socket is embedded in each hole,” explained Orik. “Magic is
used to seal it in place, and when the warrior has fully recovered, various-
sized spikes can be threaded into the sockets.”

“Yes, see,” said Shrrgnien, grinning. He gripped the stud above his left
index finger, carefully twisted it free of his knuckle, and then handed it
to Eragon.

Eragon smiled as he rolled the sharp lump around his palm. “I wouldn’t
mind having ‘fists of steel’ myself.” He returned the stud to Shrrgnien.

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“It’s a dangerous operation,” warned Orik. “Few knurlan get
Ascûdgamln because you can easily lose the use of your hands if the drill
goes too deep.” He raised his fist and showed it to Eragon. “Our bones are
thicker than yours. It might not work for a human.”

“I’ll remember that.” Still, Eragon could not help but imagine what it
would be like to fight with Ascûdgamln, to be able to strike anything he
wanted with impunity, including armored Urgals. He loved the idea.

After eating, Eragon retired to his tent. The fire provided enough light
that he could see the silhouette of Saphira nestled alongside the tent, like
a figure cut from black paper and pasted against the canvas wall.

Eragon sat with the blankets pulled over his legs and stared at his lap,
drowsy but unwilling to sleep quite yet. Unbidden, his mind turned to
thoughts of home. He wondered how Roran, Horst, and everyone else
from Carvahall was doing, and if the weather in Palancar Valley was
warm enough for the farmers to start planting their crops. Longing and
sadness suddenly gripped Eragon.

He removed a wood bowl from his pack and, taking his waterskin,
filled it to the brim with liquid. Then he focused on an image of Roran
and whispered, “Draumr kópa.”

As always, the water went black before brightening to reveal the object
being scryed. Eragon saw Roran sitting alone in a candlelit bedroom he
recognized from Horst’s house. Roran must have given up his job in Therinsford,
realized Eragon. His cousin leaned on his knees and clasped his
hands, staring at the far wall with an expression that Eragon knew meant
Roran was grappling with some difficult problem. Still, Roran seemed
well enough, if a bit drawn, which comforted Eragon. After a minute, he
released the magic, ending the spell and clearing the surface of the water.

Reassured, Eragon emptied the bowl, then lay down, pulling the blankets
up to his chin. He closed his eyes and sank into the warm dusk that
separates consciousness and sleep, where reality bends and sways to the
wind of thought, and where creativity blossoms in its freedom from
boundaries and all things are possible.

Slumber soon took him. Most of his rest was uneventful, but right before
he woke, the usual night phantasms were replaced with a vision as

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clear and vibrant as any waking experience.

He saw a tortured sky, black and crimson with smoke. Crows and eagles
swirled high above flights of arrows that arched from one side to another of
a great battle. A man sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and
bloody mail—his face concealed behind an upthrown arm.

An armored hand entered Eragon’s view. The gauntlet was so near it blotted
out half the world with polished steel. Like an inexorable machine, the
thumb and last three fingers curled into a fist, leaving the trunk of the index
finger to point at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself.

The vision still filled Eragon’s mind when he crawled out of the tent.
He found Saphira some distance from the camp, gnawing on a furry
lump. When he told her what he had seen, she paused in midbite, then
jerked her neck and swallowed a strip of meat.

The last time this occurred, she said, it proved to be a true prediction of
events elsewhere. Do you think a battle is in progress in Alagaësia?

He kicked a loose branch. I’m not sure.... Brom said you could only scry
people, places, and things that you had already seen. Yet I’ve never seen
this place. Nor had I seen Arya when I first dreamt about her in Teirm.

Perhaps Togira Ikonoka will be able to explain it.

As they prepared to leave, the dwarves seemed much more relaxed
now that they were a good distance from Tarnag. When they started poling
down the Az Ragni, Ekksvar—who was steering Snowfire’s raft—
began chanting in his rough bass:

Down the rushing mere-wash

Of Kílf’s welling blood,

We ride the twisting timbers,

For hearth, clan, and honor.

Under the ernes’ sky-vat,

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Through the ice-wolves’ forest bowls,

We ride the gory wood,

For iron, gold, and diamond.

Let hand-ringer and bearded gaper fill my grip

And battle-leaf guard my stone

As I leave the halls of my fathers

For the empty land beyond.

The other dwarves joined Ekksvar, slipping into Dwarvish as they continued
on to other verses. The low throb of their voices accompanied Eragon
as he carefully made his way to the head of the raft, where Arya sat
cross-legged.

“I had a... vision during my sleep,” said Eragon. Arya looked at him with
interest, and he recounted the images he had seen. “If it’s scrying, then—”

“It’s not scrying,” said Arya. She spoke with deliberate slowness, as if to
prevent any misunderstanding. “I thought for a long time about how you
saw me imprisoned in Gil’ead, and I believe that as I lay unconscious, my
spirit was searching for help, wherever I might find it.”

“But why me?”

Arya nodded toward where Saphira undulated through the water. “I
grew accustomed to Saphira’s presence during the fifteen years I guarded
her egg. I was reaching out for anything that felt familiar when I touched
your dreams.”

“Are you really strong enough to contact someone in Teirm from
Gil’ead? Especially if you were drugged.”

A ghost of a smile touched Arya’s lips. “I could stand on the very gates
of Vroengard and still speak with you as clearly as I am now.” She
paused. “If you did not scry me in Teirm, then you could not have scryed
this new dream. It must be a premonition. They have been known to oc


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cur throughout the sentient races, but especially among magic users.”

Eragon clutched the netting around a bundle of supplies as the raft
lurched. “If what I saw will come to pass, then how can we change anything
that happens? Do our choices matter? What if I threw myself off
the raft right now and drowned?”

“But you won’t.” Arya dipped her left forefinger in the river and stared
at the single drop that clung to her skin, like a quivering lens. “Once, long
ago, the elf Maerzadí had a premonition that he would accidentally kill
his son in battle. Rather than live to see it happen, he committed suicide,
saving his son, and at the same time proving that the future isn’t set.
Short of killing yourself, however, you can do little to change your destiny,
since you don’t know what choices will lead you to the particular
point of time that you saw.” She flipped her hand and the drop splattered
against the log between them. “We know that it’s possible to retrieve information
from the future—fortunetellers can often sense the paths a
person’s life may take—but we’ve been unable to refine the process to
the point where you can choose what, where, or when you want to see.”

Eragon found the entire concept of funneling knowledge through time
profoundly disturbing. It raised too many questions about the nature of
reality. Whether fate and destiny really exist, the only thing I can do is enjoy
the present and live as honorably as possible. Yet he could not help
asking, “What’s to stop me, though, from scrying one of my memories?
I’ve seen everything in them... so I should be able to view them with
magic.”

Arya’s gaze darted to meet his. “If you value your life, never attempt it.
Many years ago, several of our spellweavers devoted themselves to defeating
time’s enigmas. When they tried to summon up the past, they
only succeeded in creating a blurred image on their mirror before the
spell consumed their energy and killed them. We made no more experiments
on the subject. It is argued that the spell would work if more magicians
participated, but no one is willing to accept the risk and the theory
remains unproven. Even if one could scry the past, it would be of
limited use. And to scry the future, one would have to know exactly
what was going to happen and where and when, which defeats the purpose.


“It’s a mystery, then, how people can have premonitions while sleeping,
how they can do something unconsciously that has defeated our greatest
sages. Premonitions may be linked to the very nature and fabric of
magic... or they may function in a similar way to the dragons’ ancestral

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memories. We don’t know. Many avenues of magic have yet to be explored.”
She stood in a single fluid movement. “Take care not to lose
yourself among them.”

143



DRIFTING


The valley widened throughout the morning as the rafts swept toward
a bright gap between two mountains. They reached the opening at midday
and found themselves looking out of shadow upon a sunny prairie
that faded into the north.

Then the current pushed them beyond the frosted crags and the walls
of the world dropped away to reveal a gigantic sky and flat horizon. Almost
immediately, the air grew warmer. The Az Ragni curved to the
east, edging the foothills of the mountain range on one side and the plains
on the other.

The amount of open space seemed to unsettle the dwarves. They muttered
among themselves and glanced longingly at the cavernous rift behind
them.

Eragon found the sunlight invigorating. It was hard to ever really feel
awake when three-quarters of the day was spent in twilight. Behind his
raft, Saphira launched herself out of the water and flew up over the prairie
until she dwindled to a winking speck in the azure dome above.

What do you see? he asked.

I see vast herds of gazelles to the north and east. To the west, the Hadarac
Desert. That is all.

No one else? No Urgals, slavers, or nomads?

We are alone.

That evening, Thorv chose a small cove for their camp. While Dûthmér
fixed dinner, Eragon cleared a space beside his tent, then drew
Zar’roc and settled into the ready stance Brom had taught him when they
first sparred. Eragon knew he was at a disadvantage compared to the
elves, and he had no intention of arriving in Ellesméra out of practice.

With excruciating slowness, he looped Zar’roc over his head and
brought it back down with both hands, as if to cleave an enemy’s helm.
He held the pose for a second. Keeping his motion under complete control,
he pivoted to the right—twisting Zar’roc’s point to parry an imagi


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nary blow—then stopped with rigid arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon noticed Orik, Arya, and Thorv
watching. He ignored them and focused only on the ruby blade in his
hands; he held it as if it were a snake that could writhe out of his grip and
bite his arm.

Turning again, he commenced a series of forms, flowing from one to
another with disciplined ease as he gradually increased his speed. In his
mind, he was no longer in the shadowy cove, but surrounded by a knot
of ferocious Urgals and Kull. He ducked and slashed, parried, riposted,
jumped to the side, and stabbed in a whirl of activity. He fought with
mindless energy, as he had in Farthen Dûr, with no thought for the safety
of his own flesh, dashing and tearing aside his imagined enemies.

He spun Zar’roc around—in an attempt to flip the hilt from one palm
to another—then dropped the sword as a jagged line of pain bisected his
back. He staggered and fell. Above him, he could hear Arya and the
dwarves babbling, but all he saw was a constellation of sparkling red
haze, like a bloody veil dropped over the world. No sensation existed
other than pain. It blotted out thought and reason, leaving only a feral
animal that screamed for release.

When Eragon recovered enough to notice his whereabouts, he found
that he had been placed inside his tent and wrapped tightly with blankets.
Arya sat beside him, while Saphira’s head stuck through the entrance
flaps.

Was I out long? asked Eragon.

A while. You slept a little at the end. I tried to draw you from your body
into mine and shield you from the pain, but I could do little with you unconscious.


Eragon nodded and closed his eyes. His entire body throbbed. Taking a
deep breath, he looked up at Arya and quietly asked, “How can I train?...
How can I fight, or use magic?... I am a broken vessel.” His face felt heavy
with age as he spoke.

She answered just as softly: “You can sit and watch. You can listen. You
can read. And you can learn.”

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Despite her words, he heard a hitch of uncertainty, even fear, in her
voice. He rolled onto his side to avoid meeting her eyes. It shamed him to
appear so helpless before her. “How did the Shade do this to me?”

“I have no answers, Eragon. I am neither the wisest nor the strongest elf.
We all do our best, and you cannot be blamed for it. Perhaps time will
heal your wound.” Arya pressed her fingers to his brow and murmured,
“Sé mor’ranr ono finna,” then left the tent.

Eragon sat and winced as his cramped back muscles stretched. He
stared at his hands without seeing them. I wonder if Murtagh’s scar ever
pained him like mine does.

I don’t know, said Saphira.

A dead silence followed. Then: I’m afraid.

Why?

Because...He hesitated. Because nothing I do will prevent another attack.
I don’t know when or where it will happen, but I do know that it’s inevitable.
So I wait, and every moment I fear that if I lift something too heavy or
stretch in the wrong way, the pain will return. My own body has become the
enemy.

Saphira hummed deep in her throat. I have no answers either. Life is
both pain and pleasure. If this is the price you must pay for the hours you
enjoy, is it too much?

Yes, he snapped. He pulled off the blankets and shoved past her, stumbling
into the center of the camp, where Arya and the dwarves sat
around a fire. “Is there food left?” asked Eragon.

Dûthmér wordlessly filled a bowl and handed it to him. With a deferential
expression, Thorv asked, “Are you better now, Shadeslayer?” He
and the other dwarves seemed awed by what they had seen.

“I’m fine.”

“You bear a heavy burden, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon scowled and abruptly walked to the edge of the tents, where he
seated himself in darkness. He could sense Saphira nearby, but she left
him in peace. He swore under his breath and jabbed Dûthmér’s stew

146



with dull anger.

Just as he took a bite, Orik said from beside him, “You should not treat
them so.”

Eragon glared at Orik’s shadowed face. “What?”

“Thorv and his men were sent to protect you and Saphira. They will die
for you if need be, and trust their sacred burial to you. You should remember
that.”

Eragon bit back a sharp retort and gazed at the black surface of the
river—always moving, never stopping—in an attempt to calm his mind.
“You’re right. I let my temper get away from me.”

Orik’s teeth gleamed in the night as he smiled. “It’s a lesson that every
commander must learn. I had it beaten into me by Hrothgar after I threw
my boot at a dwarf who left his halberd where someone could step on
it.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I broke his nose,” chuckled Orik.

Despite himself, Eragon laughed as well. “I’ll remember not to do that.”
He held the bowl with both hands to keep them warm.

Eragon heard the jangle of metal as Orik extracted something from a
pouch. “Here,” said the dwarf, dropping a knot of intertwined gold rings
on Eragon’s palm. “It’s a puzzle we use to test cleverness and dexterity.
There are eight bands. If you arrange them properly, they form a single
ring. I’ve found it useful for distracting myself when I’m troubled.”

“Thank you,” murmured Eragon, already entranced by the complexity
of the gleaming nest.

“You can keep it if you can put it together.”

When he returned to his tent, Eragon lay on his stomach and inspected
the rings in the dim firelight that seeped past the entrance flaps. Four
bands looped through four bands. Each was smooth on the bottom half
and an asymmetrical wriggling mass on the top, where it would weave
through the other pieces.

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As Eragon experimented with various configurations, he quickly became
frustrated by a simple fact: it seemed impossible to get the two sets
of bands parallel so they would lie flat together.

Absorbed by the challenge, he forgot the terror he had just endured.

Eragon woke right before dawn. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he
exited the tent and stretched. His breath turned white in the brisk morning
air. He nodded to Shrrgnien, who was keeping guard by the fire, then
strolled to the edge of the river and washed his face, blinking from the
shock of the cold water.

He located Saphira with a flick of his mind, belted on Zar’roc, and
headed toward her through the beech trees that lined the Az Ragni. Before
long Eragon’s hands and face were slick with dew from a tangled
wall of chokecherry bushes that obstructed his way. With an effort, he
pushed through the net of branches and escaped onto the silent plains. A
round hill rose before him. On its crest—like two ancient statues—stood
Saphira and Arya. They faced east, where a molten glow crept into the
sky and burnished the prairie amber.

As the clear light struck the two figures, Eragon was reminded of how
Saphira had watched the sunrise from his bedpost only a few hours after
she hatched. She was like a hawk or falcon with her hard, sparkling eyes
under their bony ridges, the fierce arch of her neck, and the lean strength
etched into every line of her body. She was a huntress, and endowed with
all the savage beauty that the term implied. Arya’s angled features and
panther grace perfectly matched the dragon beside her. No discrepancy
existed between their demeanors as they stood bathed in dawn’s first
rays.

A tingle of awe and joy shuddered along Eragon’s spine. This was where
he belonged, as a Rider. Of all the things in Alagaësia, he had been lucky
enough to be joined with this. The wonder of it brought tears to his eyes
and a smile of wild exultation that dispelled all his doubts and fears in a
surge of pure emotion.

Still smiling, he mounted the hill and took his place by Saphira as they
surveyed the new day.

Arya looked at him. Eragon met her gaze, and something lurched
within him. He flushed without knowing why, feeling a sudden connec


148



tion with her, a sense that she understood him better than anyone other
than Saphira. His reaction confused him, for no one had affected him in
that manner before.

Throughout the rest of the day, all Eragon had to do was think back on
that moment to make himself smile and set his insides churning with a
mixture of odd sensations he could not identify. He spent most of his
time seated against the raft’s cabin, working on Orik’s ring and watching
the changing landscape.

Around midday they passed the mouth of a valley, and another river
melded into the Az Ragni, doubling its size and speed until the shores
were over a mile apart. It was all the dwarves could do to keep the rafts
from being tossed like flotsam before the inexorable current and to avoid
smashing into the trees that occasionally floated by.

A mile after the rivers joined, the Az Ragni turned north and flowed
past a lonely cloud-wreathed peak that stood separate from the main
body of the Beor range, like a gigantic watchtower built to keep vigil
over the plains.

The dwarves bowed to the peak when they saw it, and Orik told Eragon,
“There is Moldûn the Proud. He is the last true mountain we shall
see on this journey.”

When the rafts were moored for the evening, Eragon saw Orik unwrap
a long black box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, rubies, and curved lines of
silver. Orik flicked a clasp, then raised the lid to reveal an unstrung bow
nestled in red velvet. The bow’s reflexed limbs were ebony, which
formed the background for intricate patterns of vines, flowers, animals,
and runes, all executed in the finest gold. It was such a luxurious weapon,
Eragon wondered how anyone dared use it.

Orik strung the bow—it was nearly as tall as he was, but still no bigger
than a child’s bow by Eragon’s standards—put the box away, and said,
“I’m going to find some fresh meat. I’ll be back in an hour.” With that he
disappeared into the brush. Thorv grunted disapprovingly, but made no
move to stop him.

True to his word, Orik returned with a brace of long-necked geese. “I
found a flock of them perched in a tree,” he said, tossing the birds to
Dûthmér.

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As Orik retrieved the bejeweled case, Eragon asked, “What kind of
wood is your bow made of?”

“Wood?” Orik laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t make a bow this
short out of wood and cast an arrow more than twenty yards; it breaks,
or follows the string after a few shots. No, this is an Urgal horn bow!”

Eragon eyed him suspiciously, sure that the dwarf was trying to fool
him. “Horn isn’t flexible or springy enough to make a bow.”

“Ah,” chortled Orik, “that’s because you have to know how to treat it
right. We first learned to do it with Feldûnost horns, but it works just as
well with an Urgal’s. It’s done by cutting the horn in half lengthwise, then
trimming the outside coil until it’s the right thickness. The strip is boiled
flat and sanded into the final shape before being fixed to the belly of an
ash stave with glue made from fish scales and the skin from the roof of
trout’s mouths. Then the back of the stave is covered with multiple layers
of sinew; they give the bow its snap. The last step is decoration. The
entire process can take almost a decade.”

“I’ve never heard of a bow built like that before,” said Eragon. It made
his own weapon seem no more than a crudely hacked branch. “How far
does it shoot?”

“See for yourself,” said Orik. He let Eragon take the bow, which he held
gingerly, for fear of scuffing its finish. Orik removed an arrow from his
quiver and handed it to him. “You’ll owe me an arrow, though.”

Eragon fit shaft to string, aimed over the Az Ragni, and pulled back.
The bow’s draw length was less than two feet, but he was surprised to
find that its weight far exceeded that of his own bow; he was barely
strong enough to hold the string. He released the arrow and it vanished
with a twang, only to reappear far above the river. Eragon watched with
amazement as the arrow landed in a spray of water halfway across the Az
Ragni.

He immediately reached through the barrier in his mind so that the
magic’s power suffused him and said, “Gath sem oro un lam iet.” After a
few seconds, the arrow darted back through the air to land on his outstretched
palm. “And there,” he said, “is the arrow I owe you.”

Orik clapped his fist to his chest and then embraced the arrow and
bow with obvious delight. “Wonderful! Now I still have an even two

150



dozen. Otherwise, I would have had to wait until Hedarth to replenish
my stock.” He deftly unstrung the bow and stored it away, wrapping the
case in soft rags to protect it.

Eragon saw Arya watching. He asked her, “Do elves use horn bows as
well? You’re so strong, a wood bow would shatter if it was made heavy
enough for you.”

“We sing our bows from trees that do not grow.” And then she walked
away.

For days, they drifted through fields of spring grass while the Beor
Mountains faded into a hazy white wall behind them. The banks were
often covered with vast herds of gazelles and small red deer that watched
them with liquid eyes.

Now that the Fanghur were no longer a threat, Eragon flew almost constantly
with Saphira. It was their first opportunity since before Gil’ead to
spend so much time together in the air, and they took full advantage of it.
Also, Eragon welcomed the chance to escape the cramped deck of the
raft, where he felt awkward and unsettled with Arya so near.

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ARYA SVIT-KONA


Eragon and his company followed the Az Ragni until it joined the Edda
River, which then drifted into the unknown east. At the juncture between
the rivers, they visited the dwarves’ trading outpost, Hedarth, and
exchanged their rafts for donkeys. Dwarves never used horses on account
of their size.

Arya refused the steed offered to her, saying, “I will not return to the
land of my ancestors on the back of a donkey.”

Thorv frowned. “How will you keep pace with us?”

“I will run.” And run she did, outstripping Snowfire and the donkeys,
only to sit waiting for them at the next hill or copse. Despite her exertions,
she displayed no sign of weariness when they stopped for the night,
nor any inclination to utter more than a few words between breakfast
and supper. With every step, she seemed to grow tenser.

From Hedarth, they trekked north, going up the Edda River toward its
point of origin at Eldor Lake.

Du Weldenvarden came into view within three days. The forest first
appeared as a hazy ridge on the horizon, then quickly expanded into an
emerald sea of ancient oaks, beeches, and maples. From Saphira’s back,
Eragon saw that the woods reached unbroken to the horizon both north
and west, and he knew they extended far beyond that, stretching the entire
length of Alagaësia.

To him, the shadows underneath the trees’ arching boughs seemed
mysterious and enticing, as well as dangerous, for there lived the elves.
Hidden somewhere in the dappled heart of Du Weldenvarden lay Ellesméra—
where he would complete his training—as well as Osilon, and
other elven cities few outsiders had visited since the fall of the Riders.
The forest was a perilous place for mortals, Eragon felt, certain to be riddled
with strange magic and stranger creatures.

It’s like another world, he observed. A pair of butterflies spiraled around
each other as they rose from the dark interior of the forest.

I hope, said Saphira, there will be room for me within the trees on whatever

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path the elves use. I cannot fly the whole time.

I’m sure they found ways to accommodate dragons during the time of the
Riders.

Mmm.

That night, just as Eragon was about to seek his blankets, Arya appeared
by his shoulder, like a spirit materializing out of the air. Her
stealth made him jump; he could never understand how she moved so
quietly. Before he could ask what she wanted, her mind touched his and
she said, Follow me as silently as you can.

The contact surprised him as much as the request. They had shared
thoughts during the flight to Farthen Dûr—it had been the only way Eragon
could speak to her through her self-induced coma—but since Arya’s
recovery, he had made no attempt to touch her mind again. It was a profoundly
personal experience. Whenever he reached out to another person’s
consciousness, it felt as if a facet of his bare soul rubbed against
theirs. It seemed boorish and rude to initiate something so private without
an invitation, as well as a betrayal of Arya’s trust, slender as it was.
Also, Eragon was afraid that such a link would reveal his new and confused
feelings for Arya, and he had no desire to be ridiculed for them.

He accompanied her as she slipped out from the ring of tents, carefully
evaded Tríhga, who had taken the first watch, and passed beyond the
dwarves’ hearing. Within him, Saphira kept a close watch on his progress,
ready to leap to his side if need be.

Arya squatted on a moss-eaten log and wrapped her arms around her
knees without looking at him. “There are things you must know before
we reach Ceris and Ellesméra so that you do not shame yourself or me
through your ignorance.”

“Such as?” He crouched opposite her, curious.

Arya hesitated. “During my years as Islanzadí’s ambassador, it was my
observation that humans and dwarves are quite similar. You share many
of the same beliefs and passions. More than one human has lived comfortably
among the dwarves because he or she can understand their culture,
as they understand yours. You both love, lust, hate, fight, and create
in much the same manner. Your friendship with Orik and your acceptance
into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum are examples of this.” Eragon nodded, although
their differences seemed greater to him than that. “Elves, though,

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are not like other races.”

“You speak as though you weren’t one,” he said, echoing her words
from Farthen Dûr.

“I have lived with the Varden for enough years to become accustomed
to their traditions,” replied Arya in a brittle tone.

“Ah... So then do you mean to say that elves don’t have the same emotions
as dwarves and humans? I find that hard to believe. All living things
have the same basic needs and desires.”

“That is not what I mean to say!” Eragon recoiled, then frowned and
studied her. It was unusual for her to be so brusque. Arya closed her eyes
and placed her fingers on her temples, taking a long breath. “Because
elves live for so many years, we consider courtesy to be the highest social
virtue. You cannot afford to give offense when a grudge can be held for
decades or centuries. Courtesy is the only way to prevent such hostility
from accumulating. It doesn’t always succeed, but we adhere to our rituals
rigorously, for they protect us from extremes. Nor are elves fecund, so
it is vital that we avoid conflict among ourselves. If we shared the same
rate of crime as you or the dwarves, we would soon be extinct.

“There is a proper way to greet the sentinels in Ceris, certain patterns
and forms that you must observe when presented to Queen Islanzadí,
and a hundred different manners in which to greet those around you, if
it’s not better to just remain quiet.”

“With all your customs,” Eragon risked saying, “it seems as though
you’ve only made it easier to offend people.”

A smile flickered across her lips. “Perhaps. You know as well as I that
you will be judged by the highest standards. If you make a mistake, the
elves will think you did it on purpose. And only harm will come if they
discover that it was born of ignorance. Far better to be thought rude and
capable than rude and incapable, else you risk being manipulated like
The Serpent in a match of Runes. Our politics move in cycles that are
both subtle and lengthy. What you see or hear of an elf one day may only
be a slight move in a strategy that reaches back millennia, and may have
no bearing on how that elf will behave tomorrow. It is a game that we all
play but few control, a game that you are about to enter.

“Now perhaps you realize why I say elves are not like other races. The
dwarves are also long-lived, yet they are more prolific than us and do not

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share our restraint or our taste for intrigue. And humans...” She let her
voice fade into a tactful silence.

“Humans,” said Eragon, “do the best they can with what they are given.”

“Even so.”

“Why don’t you tell Orik all this as well? He’ll be staying in Ellesméra,
same as me.”

An edge crept into Arya’s voice. “He is already somewhat familiar with
our etiquette. However, as a Rider, you would do well to appear better
educated than him.”

Eragon accepted her rebuke without protest. “What must I learn?”

So Arya began to tutor him and, through him, Saphira in the niceties of
elven society. First she explained that when one elf meets another, they
stop and touch their first two fingers to their lips to indicate that “we
shall not distort the truth during our conversation.” This is followed by
the phrase “Atra esterní ono thelduin” to which one replies “Atra du
evarínya ono varda.”

“And,” said Arya, “if you are being especially formal, a third response is
made: ‘Un atra mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,’ which means, ‘And may
peace live in your heart.’ These lines were adopted from a blessing that
was made by a dragon when our pact with them was finalized. It goes:

Atra esterní ono thelduin,

Mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,

Un du evarínya ono varda.

“Or: ‘May good fortune rule over you, peace live in your heart, and the
stars watch over you.’”

“How do you know who is supposed to speak first?”

“If you greet someone with greater status than yourself or if you wish
to honor a subordinate, then speak first. If you greet someone with less
status than yourself, speak last. But if you are uncertain of your position,

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give your counterpart a chance to speak, and if they are silent, speak first.
Such is the rule.”

Does it apply to me as well? asked Saphira.

Arya plucked a dry leaf from the ground and crumpled it between her
fingers. Behind her, the camp faded into shadow as the dwarves banked
the fire, dampening the flames with a layer of dirt so that the coals and
embers would survive until morning. “As a dragon, none are higher than
you in our culture. Not even the queen would claim authority over you.
You may do and say as you wish. We do not expect dragons to be bound
by our laws.”

Next she showed Eragon how to twist his right hand and place it over
his sternum in a curious gesture. “This,” she said, “you will use when you
meet Islanzadí. By it you indicate that you offer her your loyalty and obedience.”


“Is it binding, like my oath of fealty to Nasuada?”

“No, only a courtesy, and a small one at that.”

Eragon struggled to remember the sundry modes of address that Arya
instructed them in. The salutations varied from man to woman, adults to
children, boys to girls, as well as by rank and prestige. It was a daunting
list, but one that Eragon knew he had to memorize perfectly.

When he had absorbed all he could, Arya stood and dusted her hands.
“So long as you do not forget, you’ll do well enough.” She turned to leave.

“Wait,” said Eragon. He reached out to stop her, then snatched back his
hand before she noticed his presumption. She looked over her shoulder
with a query in her dark eyes, and his stomach clenched as he tried to
find a way to voice his thoughts. Despite his best efforts, he ended up
just saying, “Are you well, Arya?... You’ve seemed distracted and out of
sorts ever since we left Hedarth.”

As Arya’s face hardened into a blank mask, he winced inwardly, knowing
that he had chosen the wrong approach, although he could not
fathom why the question should offend her.

“When we are in Du Weldenvarden,” she informed him, “I expect that
you will not speak to me in such a familiar way, unless you wish to cause
affront.” She stalked away.

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Run after her! exclaimed Saphira.

What?

We can’t afford to have her angry with you. Go apologize.

His pride rebelled. No! It’s her fault, not mine.

Go apologize, Eragon, or I’ll fill your tent with carrion. It was no idle
threat.

How?

Saphira thought for a second, then told him what to do. Without arguing,
he jumped to his feet and darted in front of Arya, forcing her to stop.
She regarded him with a haughty expression.

He touched his fingers to his lips and said, “Arya Svit-kona,” using the
honorific he had just learned for a woman of great wisdom. “I spoke
badly, and for that I cry your pardon. Saphira and I were concerned for
your welfare. After all you’ve done for us, it seemed the least we could
do was offer our help in return, if you need it.”

Finally, Arya relented and said, “Your concern is appreciated. And I too
spoke badly.” She looked down. In the dark, the outline of her limbs and
torso was painfully rigid. “You ask what troubles me, Eragon? Do you
truly wish to know? Then I will tell you.” Her voice was as soft as thistledown
floating on the wind. “I am afraid.”

Dumbfounded, Eragon made no response, and she stepped past, leaving
him alone in the night.

157



CERIS


On the morning of the fourth day, when Eragon rode alongside
Shrrgnien, the dwarf said, “So tell me, do men really have ten toes, as is
said? For truly I have never traveled beyond our borders before.”

“Of course we have ten toes!” said Eragon, astonished. He shifted in
Snowfire’s saddle, lifted his foot, removed his right boot and sock, and
wiggled his toes under Shrrgnien’s amazed eyes. “Don’t you?”

Shrrgnien shook his head. “Nay, we have seven on each foot. It is how
Helzvog made us. Five is too few and six is the wrong number, but
seven... seven is just right.” He glanced at Eragon’s foot again, then spurred
his donkey ahead and began speaking animatedly to Ama and Hedin, who
eventually handed him several silver coins.

I think, said Eragon as he pulled the boot back on, that I was just the
source of a bet. For some reason, Saphira found that immensely amusing.

As dusk fell and the full moon rose, the Edda River drew ever closer to
the fringe of Du Weldenvarden. They rode down a narrow trail through
tangled dogwood and rosebushes in full bloom, which filled the evening
air with the flowers’ warm scent.

Eager anticipation swelled within Eragon as he gazed into the dark forest,
knowing they had already entered the elves’ domain and were close
to Ceris. He leaned forward in Snowfire’s saddle, the reins pulled tight
between his hands. Saphira’s excitement was as great as his own; she
ranged overhead, flicking her tail back and forth with impatience.

Eragon felt as if they had wandered into a dream. It doesn’t seem real,
he said.

Aye. Here the legends of old still bestride the earth.

At last they came upon a small meadow set between the river and forest.
“Stop here,” said Arya in a low voice. She walked forward until she
stood alone in the midst of the lush grass, then cried in the ancient language,
“Come forth, my brethren! You have nothing to fear. ’Tis I, Arya
of Ellesméra. My companions are friends and allies; they mean us no
harm.” She added other words as well, ones alien to Eragon.

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For several minutes, the only sound was the river rushing behind them,
until from underneath the still leaves came a line of Elvish, so quick and
fleeting that Eragon missed the meaning. Arya responded: “I do.”

With a rustle, two elves stood on the edge of the forest and two ran
lightly out on the boughs of a gnarled oak. Those on the ground bore long
spears with white blades, while the others held bows. All were garbed in
tunics the color of moss and bark underneath flowing cloaks clasped at
the shoulder with ivory brooches. One had tresses as black as Arya’s.
Three had hair like starlight.

The elves dropped from the trees and embraced Arya, laughing in their
clear, pure voices. They joined hands and danced in a circle around her
like children, singing merrily as they spun through the grass.

Eragon watched in amazement. Arya had never given him reason to
suspect that elves liked to—or even could —laugh. It was a wondrous
sound, like flutes and harps trilling with delight at their own music. He
wished that he could listen to it forever.

Then Saphira drifted over the river and settled beside Eragon. At her
approach, the elves cried out in alarm and aimed their weapons toward
her. Arya spoke quickly in soothing tones, motioning first at Saphira, then
at Eragon. When she paused for breath, Eragon drew back the glove on
his right hand, tilted his palm so that the gedwëy ignasia caught the
moonlight, and said, as he once had to Arya so long ago, “Eka fricai un
Shur’tugal.” I am a Rider and friend. Remembering his lesson from yesterday,
he touched his lips, adding, “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

The elves lowered their weapons as their angled faces lit up with radiant
joy. They pressed their forefingers to their lips and bowed to Saphira
and him, murmuring their reply in the ancient language.

Then they rose, pointed at the dwarves, and laughed as if at a hidden
joke. Drifting back into the forest, they waved their hands and called,
“Come, come!”

Eragon followed Arya with Saphira and the dwarves, who were grumbling
among themselves. As they passed between the trees, the canopy
overhead plunged them into velvet darkness, except where fragments of
moonlight gleamed through chinks in the shell of overlapping leaves. Eragon
could hear the elves whispering and laughing all around, though he
could not see them. Occasionally, they would call directions when he or

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the dwarves blundered.

Ahead, a fire glowed through the trees, sending shadows racing like
sprites across the leafy ground. As Eragon entered the radius of light, he
saw three small huts clustered together around the base of a large oak.
High in the tree was a roofed platform where a watchman could observe
the river and forest. A pole had been lashed between two of the huts:
from it hung bundles of drying plants.

The four elves vanished into the huts, then returned with their arms
piled high with fruits and vegetables—but no meat—and began preparing
a meal for their guests. They hummed as they worked, flitting from
one tune to another as the fancy took them. When Orik asked their
names, the dark-haired elf pointed to himself and said, “I am Lifaen of
House Rílvenar. And my companions are Edurna, Celdin, and Narí.”

Eragon sat beside Saphira, happy for an opportunity to rest and to
watch the elves. Though all four were male, their faces resembled Arya’s,
with delicate lips, thin noses, and large slanted eyes that shone under
their brows. The rest of their bodies matched, with narrow shoulders and
slender arms and legs. Each was more fair and noble than any human Eragon
had seen, albeit in a rarefied, exotic manner.

Who ever thought I would get to visit the elves’ homeland? Eragon asked
himself. He grinned and leaned against the corner of a hut, drowsy with
the fire’s warmth. Above him, Saphira’s dancing blue eyes tracked the
elves with unwavering precision.

More magic is in this race, she finally remarked, than either humans or
dwarves. They do not feel as if they come from the earth or the stone, but
rather from another realm, half in, half out, like reflections seen through water.


They certainly are graceful, he said. The elves moved like dancers, their
every action smooth and lithe.

Brom had told Eragon that it was rude for someone to speak with their
mind to a Rider’s dragon without permission, and the elves adhered to
that custom, voicing aloud their comments to Saphira, who would then
answer the elves directly. Saphira usually refrained from touching the
thoughts of humans and dwarves and allowed Eragon to relay her words,
since few members of those races had the training to guard their minds if
they wished for privacy. It also seemed an imposition to use such an intimate
form of contact for casual exchanges. The elves had no such inhi


160



bitions, though; they welcomed Saphira into their minds, reveling in her
presence.

At last the food was ready and served on carved plates that felt like
dense bone, although wood grain wandered through the flowers and
vines decorating the rim. Eragon was also supplied with a flagon of
gooseberry wine—made of the same unusual material—with a sculpted
dragon wrapped around its stem.

As they ate, Lifaen produced a set of reed pipes and began to play a
flowing melody, his fingers running along the various holes. Soon the tallest
silver-haired elf, Narí, raised his voice and sang:

O!

The day is done; the stars are bright;
The leaves are still; the moon is white!
Laugh at woe and laugh at foe,
Menoa’s scion now is safe this night!


A forest child we lost to strife;
A sylvan daughter caught by life!
Freed of fear and freed of flame,
She tore a Rider from the shadows rife!


Again the dragons rise on wing,
And we avenge their suffering!
Strong of blade and strong of arm,
The time is ripe for us to kill a king!


161



O!

The wind is soft; the river deep;

The trees are tall; the birds do sleep!

Laugh at woe and laugh at foe,

The hour has arrived for joy to reap!

When Narí finished, Eragon released his pent-up breath. He had never
heard such a voice before; it felt as if the elf had revealed his essence, his
very soul. “That was beautiful, Narí-vodhr.”

“A rough composition, Argetlam,” demurred Narí. “But I thank you,
nevertheless.”

Thorv grunted. “Very pretty, Master Elf. However, there are matters
more serious than reciting verse that we must attend to. Are we to accompany
Eragon farther?”

“No,” said Arya quickly, drawing looks from the other elves. “You may
return home in the morning. We will assure that Eragon reaches Ellesméra.”


Thorv dipped his head. “Then our task is complete.”

As Eragon lay on the bedding the elves had arranged for him, he
strained his ears to catch Arya’s speech, which drifted from one of the
huts. Though she used many unfamiliar words in the ancient language, he
deduced that she was explaining to their hosts how she had lost Saphira’s
egg and the events since. A long silence followed after she stopped, then
an elf said, “It is good that you have returned, Arya Dröttningu. Islanzadí
was sorely wounded by grief when you were captured and the egg was
stolen, and by Urgals no less! She was—and is—sick at heart.”

“Hush, Edurna... hush,” chided another. “Dvergar are small, but they
have sharp ears, and I am sure these will report to Hrothgar.”

Then their voices dropped and Eragon could discern no more from the

162



murmur of voices, which melded into the whisper of leaves as he drifted
to sleep, the elf’s song repeating endlessly through his dreams.

The scent of flowers was heavy in the air when Eragon woke to behold
a sun-drenched Du Weldenvarden. Above him arched a mottled panoply
of drifting leaves, supported by the thick trunks that buried themselves
in the dry, bare ground. Only moss, lichen, and a few low shrubs survived
in the pervasive green shade. The scarcity of underbrush made it possible
to see for great distances between the knotted pillars and to walk about
freely beneath the dappled ceiling.

Rolling to his feet, Eragon found Thorv and his guards packed and
ready to leave. Orik’s donkey was tied behind Ekksvar’s steed. Eragon approached
Thorv and said, “Thank you, all of you, for protecting me and
Saphira. Please convey our gratitude to Ûndin.”

Thorv pressed his fist to his chest. “I will carry your words.” He hesitated
and looked back at the huts. “Elves are a queer race, full of light and
dark. In the morning, they drink with you; in the evening, they stab you.
Keep thine back to a wall, Shadeslayer. Capricious, they are.”

“I will remember that.”

“Mmm.” Thorv gestured toward the river. “They plan to travel up Eldor
Lake in boats. What will you do with thine horse? We could return him
to Tarnag with us, and from there, to Tronjheim.”

“Boats!” cried Eragon with dismay. He had always planned to bring
Snowfire to Ellesméra. It was convenient to have a horse whenever
Saphira was away, or in places too confined for her bulk. He fingered the
sparse bristles along his jaw. “That is a kind offer. Will you make sure
Snowfire is well cared for? I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen
to him.”

“On mine honor,” pledged Thorv, “you will return to find him fat and
sleek.”

Eragon fetched Snowfire and transferred the stallion, his saddle, and his
grooming supplies into Thorv’s care. He bade each of the warriors farewell,
then he, Saphira, and Orik watched the dwarves ride back along the
trail they had arrived on.

163



Returning to the huts, Eragon and the remainder of his party followed
the elves to a thicket on the edge of the Edda River. There, docked on
either side of a boulder, were two white canoes with vines carved along
their sides.

Eragon boarded the nearest boat and stowed his pack beneath his feet.
He was amazed by how light the craft was; he could have lifted it with a
single hand. Even more astounding, the hulls appeared to be composed of
birch-bark panels melded into a seamless whole. Curious, he touched the
side. The bark was hard and taut, like stretched parchment, and cool
from its contact with the water. He rapped it with a knuckle. The fibrous
shell reverberated like a muted drum.

“Are all your boats made this way?” he asked.

“All except the very largest,” answered Narí, seating himself at the
prow of Eragon’s vessel. “For those, we sing the finest cedar and oak into
shape.”

Before Eragon could ask what he meant, Orik joined their canoe while
Arya and Lifaen appropriated the second one. Arya turned to Edurna and
Celdin—who stood on the bank—and said, “Guard this way so that none
may follow us, and tell no one of our presence. The queen must be the
first to know. I will send reinforcements as soon as we reach Sílthrim.”

“Arya Dröttningu.”

“May the stars watch over you!” she answered.

Bending forward, Narí and Lifaen drew spiked poles ten feet long from
inside the boats and began propelling the vessels upstream. Saphira slid
into the water behind them and clawed her way along the riverbed until
they were level. When Eragon looked at her, she winked lazily, then
submerged, forcing the river to swell into a mound over her jagged back.
The elves laughed as she did so and made many compliments about her
size and strength.

After an hour, they reached Eldor Lake, which was rough with small,
jagged waves. Birds and flies swarmed by a wall of trees edging the western
shore, while the eastern shore sloped up into the plains. On that side
meandered hundreds of deer.

Once they escaped the river’s current, Narí and Lifaen stowed their
poles, then distributed leaf-bladed paddles. Orik and Arya already knew

164



how to steer a boat, but Narí had to explain the process to Eragon. “We
turn toward whichever side you paddle on,” said the elf. “So if I paddle on
the right and Orik paddles on the left, then you must paddle first on one
side, then the other, else we will drift off course.” In the daylight, Narí’s
hair shimmered like the finest wire, each strand a fiery line.

Eragon soon mastered the ability, and as the motion became habitual,
his mind was freed to daydream. Thus, he floated up the cool lake, lost in
the fantastic worlds hidden behind his eyes. When he paused to rest his
arms, he once again pulled Orik’s puzzle ring from his belt and struggled
to arrange the obstinate gold bands into the correct pattern.

Narí noticed what he was doing. “May I see that ring?”

Eragon passed it to the elf, who turned his back. For a few moments,
Eragon and Orik maneuvered the canoe alone as Narí picked at the entwined
bands. Then, with a pleased exclamation, Narí raised his hand,
and the completed ring flashed on his middle finger. “A delightful riddle,”
said Narí. He slipped off the ring and shook it, so that it was in its original
state when he returned it to Eragon.

“How did you solve it?” demanded Eragon, dismayed and envious that
Narí had been able to master the puzzle so easily. “Wait... Don’t tell me. I
want to figure it out on my own.”

“Of course,” said Narí, smiling.

165



WOUNDS OF THE PAST


For three and a half days, the citizens of Carvahall discussed the latest
attack, the tragedy of young Elmund’s death, and what could possibly be
done to escape their thrice-blasted situation. The debate raged with bitter
fury through every room of every home. In the space of a word,
friends turned against friends, husbands against wives, children against
parents, only to reconcile moments later in their frantic attempt to discover
a means of survival.

Some said that since Carvahall was doomed anyway, they might as well
kill the Ra’zac and remaining soldiers so as to at least have their vengeance.
Others said that if Carvahall really was doomed, then the only logical
course was to surrender and trust themselves to the king’s mercy,
even if it did mean torture and death for Roran and enslavement for everyone
else. And still others sided with neither opinion, but rather descended
into a sullen black anger directed at everyone who had brought
about this calamity. Many did their best to hide their panic in the depths
of a tankard.

The Ra’zac themselves had apparently realized that with eleven soldiers
dead they no longer had a large enough force to attack Carvahall, and
thus had retreated farther down the road, where they were content to
post sentinels across Palancar Valley and wait. “Wait for flea-bitten
troops from Ceunon or Gil’ead, if you ask me,” Loring said at one meeting.
Roran listened to that and more, kept his own council, and silently
judged the various schemes. They all seemed dangerously risky.

Roran still had not told Sloan that he and Katrina were engaged. He
knew it was foolish to wait, but he feared how the butcher would react
when he learned that Roran and Katrina had flouted tradition and, in doing
so, undermined Sloan’s authority. Besides, there was plenty of work to
divert Roran’s attention; he convinced himself that strengthening the fortifications
around Carvahall was his most important task at the moment.

Getting people to help was easier than Roran anticipated. After the last
fight, the villagers were more apt to listen and to obey him—that is,
those who did not blame him for causing their predicament. He was
mystified by his new authority, until he realized that it was the result of
the awe, respect, and perhaps even fear his kills had elicited. They called
him Stronghammer. Roran Stronghammer.

The name pleased him.

166



As night engulfed the valley, Roran leaned against a corner of Horst’s
dining room, his eyes closed. Conversation flowed from the men and
women seated around the candlelit table. Kiselt was in the middle of explaining
the state of Carvahall’s supplies. “We won’t starve,” he concluded,
“but if we can’t tend to our fields and our flocks soon, we might
as well cut our own throats before next winter. It would be a kinder
fate.”

Horst scowled. “Dog tripe!”

“Dog tripe or not,” said Gertrude, “I doubt we’ll have a chance to find
out. We outnumbered the soldiers ten to one when they arrived. They
lost eleven men; we lost twelve, and I’m caring for another nine
wounded. What happens, Horst, when they outnumber us ten to one?”

“We will give the bards a reason to remember our names,” retorted the
smith. Gertrude shook her head sadly.

Loring banged a fist on the table. “And I say it’s our turn to strike, before
we are outnumbered. All we need are a few men, shields, and spears,
and we can wipe out their infestation. It could be done tonight!”

Roran shifted restlessly. He had heard all this before, and like before,
Loring’s proposal ignited an argument that consumed the group. After an
hour, the debate still showed no sign of being resolved, nor had any new
ideas been presented, except for Thane’s suggestion that Gedric should
go tan his own hide, which nearly resulted in a fistfight.

Finally, when the conversation lulled, Roran limped to the table as
quickly as his injured calf would allow. “I have something to say.” For him
it was the equivalent of stepping on a long thorn and then yanking it out
without stopping to consider the pain; it had to be done, and the faster
the better.

All eyes—hard, soft, angry, kind, indifferent, and curious—turned to
him, and Roran took a deep breath. “Indecision will kill us just as surely
as a sword or an arrow.” Orval rolled his eyes, but the rest still listened. “I
don’t know if we should attack or flee—”

“Where?” snorted Kiselt.

“—but I do know one thing: our children, our mothers, and our infirm
must be protected from danger. The Ra’zac have barred us from Cawley

167



and the other farms down the valley. So what? We know this land better
than any in Alagaësia, and there is a place... there is a place where our
loved ones will be safe: the Spine.”

Roran winced as a barrage of outraged voices assaulted him. Sloan was
the loudest, shouting, “I’ll be hanged before I set foot in those cursed
mountains!”

“Roran,” said Horst, overriding the commotion. “You of all people
should know that the Spine is too dangerous—it’s where Eragon found
the stone that brought the Ra’zac! The mountains are cold, and filled
with wolves, bears, and other monsters. Why even mention them?”

To keep Katrina safe! Roran wanted to scream. Instead, he said, “Because
no matter how many soldiers the Ra’zac summon, they will never
dare enter the Spine. Not after Galbatorix lost half his army in it.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Morn doubtfully.

Roran jumped on his statement. “And the stories have grown all the
more frightening in the telling! A trail already exists to the top of Igualda
Falls. All we have to do is send the children and others up there. They’ll
only be on the fringe of the mountains, but they’ll still be safe. If Carvahall
is taken, they can wait until the soldiers leave, then find refuge in
Therinsford.”

“It is too dangerous,” growled Sloan. The butcher gripped the edge of
the table so hard that the tips of his fingers turned white. “The cold, the
beasts. No sane man would send his family among those.”

“But...” Roran faltered, put off-balance by Sloan’s response. Though he
knew the butcher hated the Spine more than most—because his wife
had plummeted to her death from the cliffs beside Igualda Falls—he had
hoped that Sloan’s rabid desire to protect Katrina would be strong
enough to overcome his aversion. Roran now understood he would have
to win over Sloan just like everyone else. Adopting a placating tone, Roran
said, “It’s not that bad. The snow is already melting off the peaks. It’s
no colder in the Spine than it was down here a few months ago. And I
doubt that wolves or bears would bother such a large group.”

Sloan grimaced, twisting his lips up over his teeth, and shook his head.
“You will find nothing but death in the Spine.”

The others seemed to agree, which only strengthened Roran’s determi


168



nation, for he was convinced that Katrina would die unless he could sway
them. He scanned the long oval of faces, searching for a sympathetic expression.
“Delwin, I know it’s cruel of me to say it, but if Elmund hadn’t
been in Carvahall, he would still be alive. Surely you must agree that this
is the right thing to do! You have an opportunity to save other parents
from your suffering.”

No one responded. “And Birgit!” Roran dragged himself toward her,
clutching the backs of chairs to keep himself from falling. “Do you want
Nolfavrell to share his father’s fate? He has to leave. Can’t you see, that is
the only way he’ll be safe....” Though Roran did his best to fight it, he
could feel tears flood his eyes. “It’s for the children!” he shouted angrily.

The room was silent as Roran stared at the wood beneath his hands,
struggling to control himself. Delwin was the first to stir. “I will never
leave Carvahall so long as my son’s killers remain here. However,” he
paused, then continued with painful slowness, “I cannot deny the truth of
your words; the children must be protected.”

“As I said from the beginning,” declared Tara.

Then Baldor spoke: “Roran is right. We can’t allow ourselves to be
blinded by fear. Most of us have climbed to the top of the falls at one
time or another. It’s safe enough.”

“I too,” Birgit finally added, “must agree.”

Horst nodded. “I would rather not do it, but considering the circumstances....
I don’t think we have any other choice.” After a minute, the
various men and women began to reluctantly acquiesce to the proposal.

“Nonsense!” exploded Sloan. He stood and stabbed an accusing finger at
Roran. “How will they get enough food to wait for weeks on end? They
can’t carry it. How will they stay warm? If they light fires, they’ll be seen!
How, how, how? If they don’t starve, they’ll freeze. If they don’t freeze,
they’ll be eaten. If they’re not eaten... Who knows? They may fall!”

Roran spread his hands. “If we all help, they will have plenty of food.
Fire won’t be a problem if they move farther back into the forest, which
they must anyway, since there isn’t room to camp right by the falls.”

“Excuses! Justifications!”

“What would you have us do, Sloan?” asked Morn, eyeing him with cu


169



riosity.

Sloan laughed bitterly. “Not this.”

“Then what?”

“It doesn’t matter. Only this is the wrong choice.”

“You don’t have to participate,” pointed out Horst.

“Nor will I,” said the butcher. “Proceed if you want, but neither I nor
my blood shall enter the Spine while I still have marrow in my bones.”
He grabbed his cap and left with a venomous glare at Roran, who returned
the scowl in kind.

As Roran saw it, Sloan was endangering Katrina through his own pigheaded
stubbornness. If he can’t bring himself to accept the Spine as a
place of refuge, decided Roran, then he’s become my enemy and I have to
take matters into my own hands.

Horst leaned forward on his elbows and interlaced his thick fingers.
“So... If we are going to use Roran’s plan, what preparations will be
needed?” The group exchanged wary glances, then gradually began to discuss
the topic.

Roran waited until he was convinced that he had achieved his goal before
slipping out of the dining room. Loping through the dusky village, he
searched for Sloan along the inner perimeter of the tree wall. Eventually,
he spotted the butcher hunched underneath a torch, his shield clasped
around his knees. Roran spun around on one foot and ran to Sloan’s shop,
where he hurried to the kitchen in the back.

Katrina paused in the middle of setting their table and stared at him
with amazement. “Roran! Why are you here? Did you tell Father?”

“No.” He came forward and took her arm, savoring the touch. Just being
in the same room with her filled him with joy. “I have a great favor to
ask of you. It’s been decided to send the children and a few others into
the Spine above Igualda Falls.” Katrina gasped. “I want you to accompany
them.”

With a shocked expression, Katrina pulled free of his grasp and turned
to the open fireplace, where she hugged herself and stared at the bed of
throbbing embers. For a long time, she said nothing. Then: “Father for


170



bade me to go near the falls after Mother died. Albem’s farm is the closest
I’ve been to the Spine in over ten years.” She shivered, and her voice
grew accusing. “How can you suggest that I abandon both you and my
father? This is my home as much as yours. And why should I leave when
Elain, Tara, and Birgit will remain?”

“Katrina, please.” He tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. “The
Ra’zac are here for me, and I would not have you harmed because of that.
As long as you’re in danger, I can’t concentrate on what has to be done:
defending Carvahall.”

“Who would respect me for fleeing like a coward?” She lifted her chin.
“I would be ashamed to stand before the women of Carvahall and call
myself your wife.”

“Coward? There is no cowardice in guarding and protecting the children
in the Spine. If anything, it requires greater courage to enter the
mountains than to stay.”

“What horror is this?” whispered Katrina. She twisted in his arms, eyes
shining and mouth set firmly. “The man who would be my husband no
longer wants me by his side.”

He shook his head. “That’s not true. I—”

“It is true! What if you are killed while I’m gone?”

“Don’t say—”

“No! Carvahall has little hope of survival, and if we must die, I would
rather die together than huddle in the Spine without life or heart. Let
those with children tend to their own. As will I.” A tear rolled down her
cheek.

Gratitude and wonder surged through Roran at the strength of her devotion.
He looked deep into her eyes. “It is for that love that I would
have you go. I know how you feel. I know that this is the hardest sacrifice
either of us could make, and I ask it of you now.”

Katrina shuddered, her entire body rigid, her white hands clenched
around her muslin sash. “If I do this,” she said with a shaking voice, “you
must promise me, here and now, that you will never make such a request
again. You must promise that even if we faced Galbatorix himself and
only one of us could escape, you would not ask me to leave.”

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Roran looked at her helplessly. “I can’t.”

“Then how can you expect me to do what you won’t!” she cried. “That
is my price, and neither gold nor jewels nor pretty words can replace
your oath. If you don’t care enough for me to make your own sacrifice,
Roran Stronghammer, then be gone and I never wish to see your face
again!”

I cannot lose her. Though it pained him almost beyond endurance, he
bowed his head and said, “You have my word.”

Katrina nodded and sank into a chair—her back stiff and upright—and
blotted her tears on the cuff of her sleeve. In a quiet voice, she said, “Father
will hate me for going.”

“How will you tell him?”

“I won’t,” she said defiantly. “He would never let me enter the Spine,
but he has to realize that this is my decision. Anyway, he won’t dare pursue
me into the mountains; he fears them more than death itself.”

“He may fear losing you even more.”

“We shall see. If—when—the time comes to return, I expect you to
have already spoken to him about our engagement. That should give him
enough time to reconcile himself to the fact.”

Roran found himself nodding in agreement, all the while thinking that
they would be lucky if events worked out so well.

172



WOUNDS OF THE PRESENT


When dawn arrived, Roran woke and lay staring at the whitewashed
ceiling while he listened to the slow rasp of his own breathing. After a
minute, he rolled off the bed, dressed, and proceeded to the kitchen,
where he procured a chunk of bread, smeared it with soft cheese, then
stepped out onto the front porch to eat and admire the sunrise.

His tranquility was soon disrupted when a herd of unruly children
dashed through the garden of a nearby house, shrieking with delight at
their game of Catch-the-Cat, followed by a number of adults intent on
snaring their respective charges. Roran watched the cacophonous parade
vanish around a corner, then placed the last of the bread in his mouth
and returned to the kitchen, which had filled with the rest of the household.


Elain greeted him. “Good morning, Roran.” She pushed open the window
shutters and gazed up at the sky. “It looks like it may rain again.”

“The more the better,” asserted Horst. “It’ll help keep us hidden while
we climb Narnmor Mountain.”

“Us?” inquired Roran. He sat at the table beside Albriech, who was
rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Horst nodded. “Sloan was right about the food and supplies; we have to
help carry them up the falls, or else there won’t be enough.”

“Will there still be men to defend Carvahall?”

“Of course, of course.”

Once they all had breakfast, Roran helped Baldor and Albriech wrap
spare food, blankets, and supplies into three large bundles that they slung
across their shoulders and hauled to the north end of the village. Roran’s
calf pained him, but not unbearably. Along the way, they met the three
brothers Darmmen, Larne, and Hamund, who were similarly burdened.

Just inside the trench that circumnavigated the houses, Roran and his
companions found a large gathering of children, parents, and grandparents

173



all busy organizing for the expedition. Several families had volunteered
their donkeys to carry goods and the younger children; the animals were
picketed in an impatient, braying line that added to the overall confusion.

Roran set his bundle on the ground and scanned the group. He saw
Svart—Ivor’s uncle and, at nearly sixty, the oldest man in Carvahall—
seated on a bale of clothes, teasing a baby with the tip of his long white
beard; Nolfavrell, who was guarded over by Birgit; Felda, Nolla, Calitha,
and a number of other mothers with worried expressions; and a great
many reluctant people, both men and women. Roran also saw Katrina
among the crowd. She glanced up from a knot she was tying on a pack
and smiled at him, then returned to her task.

Since no one seemed to be in charge, Roran did his best to sort out the
chaos by overseeing the arranging and packaging of the various supplies.
He discovered a shortage of waterskins, but when he asked for more, he
ended up with thirteen too many. Delays such as those consumed the
early-morning hours.

In the middle of discussing with Loring the possible need for extra
shoes, Roran stopped as he noticed Sloan standing at the entrance to an
alleyway.

The butcher surveyed the mass of activity before him. Contempt cut
into the lines along his downturned mouth. His sneer hardened into enraged
incredulity as he spotted Katrina, who had shouldered her pack,
removing any possibility that she was there only to help. A vein throbbed
down the middle of Sloan’s forehead.

Roran hurried toward Katrina, but Sloan reached her first. He grabbed
the top of the pack and shook it violently, shouting, “Who made you do
this?” Katrina said something about the children and tried to pull free,
but Sloan yanked at the pack—twisting her arms as the straps slid off her
shoulders—and threw it on the ground so that the contents scattered.
Still shouting, Sloan grabbed Katrina’s arm and began to drag her away.
She dug in her heels and fought, her copper hair swirling over her face
like a dust storm.

Furious, Roran threw himself at Sloan and tore him from Katrina, shoving
the butcher in the chest so that he stumbled backward several yards.
“Stop! I’m the one who wanted her to go.”

Sloan glared at Roran and snarled, “You have no right!”

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“I have every right.” Roran looked at the ring of spectators who had
gathered around and then declared so that all could hear: “Katrina and I
are engaged to be married, and I would not have my future wife treated
so!” For the first time that day, the villagers fell completely silent; even
the donkeys were quiet.

Surprise and a deep, inconsolable pain sprang onto Sloan’s vulnerable
face, along with the glimmer of tears. For a moment, Roran felt sympathy
for him, then a series of contortions distorted Sloan’s visage, each more
extreme than the last, until his skin turned beet red. He cursed and said,
“You two-faced coward! How could you look me in the eye and speak to
me like an honest man while, at the same time, courting my daughter
without permission? I dealt with you in good faith, and here I find you
plundering my house while my back is turned.”

“I had hoped to do this properly,” said Roran, “but events have conspired
against me. It was never my intention to cause you grief. Even
though this hasn’t gone the way either of us wanted, I still want your
blessing, if you are willing.”

“I would rather have a maggot-riddled pig for a son than you! You have
no farm. You have no family. And you will have naught to do with my
daughter!” The butcher cursed again. “And she’ll have naught to do with
the Spine!”

Sloan reached for Katrina, but Roran blocked the way, his face as hard
as his clenched fists. Only a handsbreadth apart, they stared directly at
each other, trembling from the strength of their emotions. Sloan’s redrimmed
eyes shone with manic intensity.

“Katrina, come here,” Sloan commanded.

Roran withdrew from Sloan—so that the three of them formed a triangle—
and looked at Katrina. Tears streamed down her face as she glanced
between him and her father. She stepped forward, hesitated, then with a
long, anguished cry, tore at her hair in a frenzy of indecision.

“Katrina!” exclaimed Sloan with a burr of fear.

“Katrina,” murmured Roran.

At the sound of his voice, Katrina’s tears ceased and she stood straight
and tall with a calm expression. She said, “I’m sorry, Father, but I have
decided to marry Roran,” and stepped to his side.

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Sloan turned bone white. He bit his lip so hard that a bead of ruby
blood appeared. “You can’t leave me! You’re my daughter!” He lunged at
her with crooked hands. In that instant, Roran bellowed and struck the
butcher with all his strength, knocking him sprawling in the dirt before
the entire village.

Sloan rose slowly, his face and neck flushed with humiliation. When he
saw Katrina again, the butcher seemed to crumple inward, losing height
and stature until Roran felt as if he were looking at a specter of the original
man. In a low whisper, he said, “It is always so; those closest to the
heart cause the most pain. Thou will have no dowry from me, snake, nor
your mother’s inheritance.” Weeping bitterly, Sloan turned and fled toward
his shop.

Katrina leaned against Roran, and he put an arm around her. Together
they clung to each other as people crowded against them offering condolences,
advice, congratulations, and disapproval. Despite the commotion,
Roran was aware of nothing but the woman whom he held, and who
held him.

Just then, Elain bustled up as fast as her pregnancy would allow. “Oh,
you poor dear!” she cried, and embraced Katrina, drawing her from Roran’s
arms. “Is it true you are engaged?” Katrina nodded and smiled, then
erupted into hysterical tears against Elain’s shoulder. “There now, there
now.” Elain cradled Katrina gently, petting her and trying to soothe her,
but without avail—every time Roran thought she was about to recover,
Katrina began to cry with renewed intensity. Finally, Elain peered over
Katrina’s quaking shoulder and said, “I’m taking her back to the house.”

“I’ll come.”

“No, you won’t,” retorted Elain. “She needs time to calm down, and you
have work to do. Do you want my advice?” Roran nodded dumbly. “Stay
away until evening. I guarantee that she will be as right as rain by then.
She can join the others tomorrow.” Without waiting for his response,
Elain escorted the sobbing Katrina away from the wall of sharpened trees.

Roran stood with his hands hanging limply by his sides, feeling dazed
and helpless. What have we done? He regretted that he had not revealed
their engagement to Sloan sooner. He regretted that he and Sloan could
not work together to shield Katrina from the Empire. And he regretted
that Katrina had been forced to relinquish her only family for him. He
was now doubly responsible for her welfare. They had no choice but to

176



get married. I’ve made a terrible mess of this. He sighed and clenched his
fist, wincing as his bruised knuckles stretched.

“How are you?” asked Baldor, coming alongside him.

Roran forced a smile. “It didn’t turn out quite how I hoped. Sloan’s beyond
reason when it comes to the Spine.”

“And Katrina.”

“That too. I—” Roran fell silent as Loring stopped before them.

“That was a blasted fool thing to do!” growled the shoemaker, wrinkling
his nose. Then he stuck out his chin, grinned, and bared his stumps of
teeth. “But I ’ope you and the girl have the best of luck.” He shook his
head. “Heh, you’re going to need it, Stronghammer!”

“We’re all going to need it,” snapped Thane as he walked past.

Loring waved a hand. “Bah, sourpuss. Listen, Roran; I’ve lived in Carvahall
for many, many years, and in my experience, it’s better that this happened
now, instead of when we’re all warm and cozy.”

Baldor nodded, but Roran asked, “Why so?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Normally, you and Katrina would be the meat of gossip
for the next nine months.” Loring put a finger on the side of his nose.
“Ah, but this way, you’ll soon be forgotten amid everything else that’s going
on, and then the two of you might even have some peace.”

Roran frowned. “I’d rather be talked about than have those desecrators
camped on the road.”

“So would we all. Still, it’s something to be grateful for, and we all need
something to be grateful for—’specially once you’re married!” Loring
cackled and pointed at Roran. “Your face just turned purple, boy!”

Roran grunted and set about gathering Katrina’s possessions off the
ground. As he did, he was interrupted by comments from whoever happened
to be nearby, none of which helped to settle his nerves. “Rotgut,”
he muttered to himself after a particularly invidious remark.

177



Although the expedition into the Spine was delayed by the unusual
scene the villagers had just witnessed, it was only slightly after midmorning
when the caravan of people and donkeys began to ascend the bare
trail scratched into the side of Narnmor Mountain to the crest of the
Igualda Falls. It was a steep climb and had to be taken slowly, on account
of the children and the size of the burdens everyone carried.

Roran spent most of his time caught behind Calitha—Thane’s wife—
and her five children. He did not mind, as it gave him an opportunity to
indulge his injured calf and to consider recent events at length. He was
disturbed by his confrontation with Sloan. At least, he consoled himself,
Katrina won’t remain in Carvahall much longer. For Roran was convinced,
in his heart of hearts, that the village would soon be defeated. It was a
sobering, yet unavoidable, realization.

He paused to rest three-quarters of the way up the mountain and
leaned against a tree as he admired the elevated view of Palancar Valley.
He tried to spot the Ra’zac’s camp—which he knew was just to the left
of the Anora River and the road south—but was unable to discern even a
wisp of smoke.

Roran heard the roar of the Igualda Falls long before they came into
sight. The falls appeared for all the world like a great snowy mane that
billowed and drifted off Narnmor’s craggy head to the valley floor a half
mile below. The massive stream curved in several directions as it fell, the
result of different layers of wind.

Past the slate ledge where the Anora River became airborne, down a
glen filled with thimbleberries, and then finally into a large clearing
guarded on one side by a pile of boulders, Roran found that those at the
head of the procession had already begun setting up camp. The forest
rang with the children’s shouts and cries.

Removing his pack, Roran untied an ax from the top, then set about
clearing the underbrush from the site along with several other men.
When they finished, they began chopping down enough trees to encircle
the camp. The aroma of pine sap filled the air. Roran worked quickly, the
wood chips flying in unison with his rhythmic swings.

By the time the fortifications were complete, the camp had already
been erected with seventeen wool tents, four small cookfires, and glum
expressions from people and donkeys alike. No one wanted to leave, and

178



no one wanted to stay.

Roran surveyed the assortment of boys and old men clutching spears,
and thought, Too much experience and too little. The grandfathers know
how to deal with bears and the like, but will the grandsons have the
strength to actually do it? Then he noticed the hard glint in the women’s
eyes and realized that while they might hold a babe or be busy tending a
scraped arm, their own shields and spears were never far from reach. Roran
smiled. Perhaps... perhaps we still have hope.

He saw Nolfavrell sitting alone on a log—staring back toward Palancar
Valley—and joined the boy, who looked at him seriously. “Are you leaving
soon?” asked Nolfavrell. Roran nodded, impressed by his poise and
determination. “You will do your best, won’t you, to kill the Ra’zac and
avenge my father? I would do it, except that Mama says I must guard my
brothers and sisters.”

“I’ll bring you their heads myself, if I can,” promised Roran.

The boy’s chin trembled. “That is good!”

“Nolfavrell...” Roran paused as he searched for the right words. “You are
the only one here, besides me, who has killed a man. It doesn’t mean that
we are better or worse than anyone else, but it means that I can trust you
to fight well if you are attacked. When Katrina comes here tomorrow,
will you make sure that she’s well protected?”

Nolfavrell’s chest swelled with pride. “I’ll guard her wherever she goes!”
Then he looked regretful. “That is... when I don’t have to look after—”

Roran understood. “Oh, your family comes first. But maybe Katrina can
stay in the tent with your brothers and sisters.”

“Yes,” said Nolfavrell slowly. “Yes, I think that would work. You can
rely on me.”

“Thank you.” Roran clapped him on the shoulder. He could have asked
an older and more capable person, but the adults were too busy with
their own responsibilities to defend Katrina as he hoped. Nolfavrell,
however, would have the opportunity and inclination to assure that she
remained safe. He can hold my place while we are apart. Roran stood as
Birgit approached.

Eyeing him flatly, she said, “Come, it is time.” Then she hugged her son

179



and continued toward the falls with Roran and the other villagers who
were returning to Carvahall. Behind them, everyone in the small camp
clustered against the felled trees and stared forlornly out through their
wooden bars.

180



HIS ENEMY’S FACE


As Roran proceeded about his work throughout the rest of the day, he
felt Carvahall’s emptiness deep inside. It was as if part of himself had
been extracted and hidden in the Spine. And with the children gone, the
village now felt like an armed camp. The change seemed to have made
everyone grim and grave.

When the sun finally sank into the waiting teeth of the Spine, Roran
climbed the hill to Horst’s house. He stopped before the front door and
placed a hand on the knob, but remained there, unable to enter. Why
does this frighten me as much as fighting?

In the end, he forsook the front door entirely and went to the side of
the house, where he slipped into the kitchen and, to his dismay, saw
Elain knitting on one side of the table, speaking to Katrina, who was opposite
her. They both turned toward him, and Roran blurted, “Are... are
you all right?”

Katrina came to his side. “I’m fine.” She smiled softly. “It just was a terrible
shock when Father... when...” She ducked her head for a moment.
“Elain has been wonderfully kind to me. She agreed to lend me Baldor’s
room for the night.”

“I’m glad you are better,” said Roran. He hugged her, trying to convey
all of his love and adoration through that simple touch.

Elain wrapped up her knitting. “Come now. The sun has set, and it’s
time you were off to bed, Katrina.”

Roran reluctantly let go of Katrina, who kissed him on the cheek and
said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He started to follow her out, but stopped when Elain said with a
barbed tone, “Roran.” Her delicate face was hard and stern.

“Yes?”

Elain waited until they heard the creak of stairs that indicated Katrina
was out of earshot. “I hope that you meant every promise you gave that
girl, because if you didn’t, I’ll call an assembly and have you exiled within
a week.”

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Roran was dumbfounded. “Of course I meant them. I love her.”

“Katrina just surrendered everything she owned or cared about for you.”
Elain stared up at him with unwavering eyes. “I’ve seen men who throw
their affection at young maids, like grain tossed at chickens. The maids
sigh and weep and believe that they are special, yet for the man, it’s only
a trifling amusement. You have always been honorable, Roran, but one’s
loins can turn even the most sensible person into a prancing booby or a
sly, wicked fox. Are you one? For Katrina requires neither a fool, a trickster,
nor even love; what she requires above all else is a man who will
provide for her. If you abandon her, she will be the meanest person in
Carvahall, forced to live off her friends, our first and only beggar. By the
blood in my veins, I won’t let that happen.”

“Nor would I,” protested Roran. “I would have to be heartless, or worse,
to do so.”

Elain jerked her chin. “Exactly. Don’t forget that you intend to marry a
woman who has lost both her dowry and her mother’s inheritance. Do
you understand what it means for Katrina to lose her inheritance? She has
no silver, no linens, no lace, nor any of the things needed for a well-run
home. Such items are all we own, passed from mother to daughter since
the day we first settled Alagaësia. They determine our worth. A woman
without her inheritance is like... is like—”

“Is like a man without a farm or a trade,” said Roran.

“Just so. It was cruel of Sloan to deny Katrina her inheritance, but that
can’t be helped now. Both you and she have no money or resources. Life
is difficult enough without that added hardship. You’ll be starting from
nothing and with nothing. Does the prospect frighten you or seem unbearable?
So I ask you once again—and don’t lie or the two of you will
regret it for the rest of your lives—will you care for her without grudge
or resentment?”

“Yes.”

Elain sighed and filled two earthen cups with cider from a jug hanging
among the rafters. She handed one to Roran as she seated herself back at
the table. “Then I suggest that you devote yourself to replacing Katrina’s
home and inheritance so that she and any daughters you may have can
stand without shame among the wives of Carvahall.”

Roran sipped the cool cider. “If we live that long.”

182



“Aye.” She brushed back a strand of her blond hair and shook her head.
“You’ve chosen a hard path, Roran.”

“I had to make sure that Katrina would leave Carvahall.”

Elain lifted an eyebrow. “So that was it. Well, I won’t argue about it,
but why on earth didn’t you speak to Sloan about your engagement before
this morning? When Horst asked my father, he gave our family
twelve sheep, a sow, and eight pairs of wrought-iron candlesticks before
he even knew if my parents would agree. That’s how it should be done.
Surely you could have thought of a better strategy than striking your father-
in-law-to-be.”

A painful laugh escaped Roran. “I could have, but it never seemed the
right time with all the attacks.”

“The Ra’zac haven’t attacked for almost six days now.”

He scowled. “No, but... it was... Oh, I don’t know!” He banged his fist
on the table with frustration.

Elain put down her cup and wrapped her tiny hands around his. “If you
can mend this rift between you and Sloan now, before years of resentment
accumulate, your life with Katrina will be much, much easier. Tomorrow
morning you should go to his house and beg his forgiveness.”

“I won’t beg! Not to him.”

“Roran, listen to me. It’s worth a month of begging to have peace in
your family. I know from experience; strife does naught but make you
miserable.”

“Sloan hates the Spine. He’ll have nothing to do with me.”

“You have to try, though,” said Elain earnestly. “Even if he spurns your
apology, at least you can’t be blamed for not making the effort. If you
love Katrina, then swallow your pride and do what’s right for her. Don’t
make her suffer for your mistake.” She finished her cider, used a tin hat to
snuff the candles, and left Roran sitting alone in the dark.

Several minutes elapsed before Roran could bring himself to stir. He
stretched out an arm and traced along the counter’s edge until he felt the
doorway, then proceeded upstairs, all the while running the tips of his

183



fingers over the carved walls to keep his balance. In his room, he disrobed
and threw himself lengthwise on the bed.

Wrapping his arms around his wool-stuffed pillow, Roran listened to
the faint sounds that drifted through the house at night: the scrabble of a
mouse in the attic and its intermittent squeaks, the groan of wood beams
cooling in the night, the whisper and caress of wind at the lintel of his
window, and... and the rustle of slippers in the hall outside his room.

He watched as the latch above the doorknob was pulled free of its
hook, then the door inched forward with a rasp of protest. It paused. A
dark form slipped inside, the door closed, and Roran felt a curtain of hair
brush his face along with lips like rose petals. He sighed.

Katrina.

A thunderclap tore Roran from sleep.

Light flared on his face as he struggled to regain awareness, like a diver
desperate to reach the surface. He opened his eyes and saw a jagged hole
blasted through his door. Six soldiers rushed through the yawning cleft,
followed by the two Ra’zac, who seemed to fill the room with their
ghastly presence. A sword was pressed against Roran’s neck. Beside him,
Katrina screamed and pulled the blankets around her.

“Up,” ordered the Ra’zac. Roran cautiously got to his feet. His heart felt
like it was about to explode in his chest. “Tie his handsss and bring him.”

As a soldier approached Roran with rope, Katrina screamed again and
jumped on the men, biting and clawing furiously. Her sharp nails furrowed
their faces, drawing streams of blood that blinded the cursing soldiers.


Roran dropped to one knee and grabbed his hammer from the floor,
then planted his feet, swinging the hammer over his head and roaring like
a bear. The soldiers threw themselves at him in an attempt to subdue
him through sheer numbers, but to no avail: Katrina was in danger, and
he was invincible. Shields crumpled beneath his blows, brigandines and
mail split under his merciless weapon, and helmets caved in. Two men
were wounded, and three fell to rise no more.

The clang and clamor had roused the household; Roran dimly heard

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Horst and his sons shouting in the hall. The Ra’zac hissed to one another,
then scuttled forward and grasped Katrina with inhuman strength, lifting
her off the floor as they fled the room.

“Roran!” she shrieked.

Summoning his energy, Roran bowled past the two remaining men. He
stumbled into the hall and saw the Ra’zac climbing out a window. Roran
dashed toward them and struck at the last Ra’zac, just as it was about to
descend below the windowsill. Jerking upward, the Ra’zac caught Roran’s
wrist in midair and chittered with delight, blowing its fetid breath onto
his face. “Yesss! You are the one we want!”

Roran tried to twist free, but the Ra’zac did not budge. With his free
hand, Roran buffeted the creature’s head and shoulders—which were as
hard as iron. Desperate and enraged, he seized the edge of the Ra’zac’s
hood and wrenched it back, exposing its features.

A hideous, tortured face screamed at him. The skin was shiny black,
like a beetle carapace. The head was bald. Each lidless eye was the size of
his fist and gleamed like an orb of polished hematite; no iris or pupil existed.
In place of a nose, mouth, and chin, a thick beak hooked to a sharp
point that clacked over a barbed purple tongue.

Roran yelled and jammed his heels against the sides of the window
frame, struggling to free himself from the monstrosity, but the Ra’zac inexorably
drew him out of the house. He could see Katrina on the ground,
still screaming and fighting.

Just as Roran’s knees buckled, Horst appeared by his side and wrapped
a knotted arm around his chest, locking him in place. “Someone get a
spear!” shouted the smith. He snarled, veins bulging on his neck from the
strain of holding Roran. “It’ll take more than this demon spawn to best
us!”

The Ra’zac gave a final yank, then, when it failed to dislodge Roran,
cocked its head and said, “You areoursss !” It lunged forward with blinding
speed, and Roran howled as he felt the Ra’zac’s beak close on his right
shoulder, snipping through the front of the muscle. His wrist cracked at
the same time. With a malicious cackle, the Ra’zac released him and fell
backward into the night.

Horst and Roran sprawled against each other in the hallway. “They
have Katrina,” groaned Roran. His vision flickered and went black around

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the edges as he pushed himself upright on his left arm—his right hung
useless. Albriech and Baldor emerged from his room, splattered with
gore. Only corpses remained behind them. Now I have killed eight. Roran
retrieved his hammer and staggered down the hall, finding his way
blocked by Elain in her white sleeping shift.

She looked at him with wide eyes, then took his arm and pushed him
down onto a wood chest set against the wall. “You have to see Gertrude.”

“But—”

“You’ll pass out if this bleeding isn’t stopped.”

He looked down at his right side; it was drenched in crimson. “We have
to rescue Katrina before”—he clenched his teeth as the pain surged—
“before they do anything to her.”

“He’s right; we can’t wait,” said Horst, looming over them. “Bind him up
as best you can, then we’ll go.” Elain pursed her lips and hurried to the
linen closet. She returned with several rags, which she wrapped tightly
around Roran’s torn shoulder and his fractured wrist. Meanwhile, Albriech
and Baldor scavenged armor and swords from the soldiers. Horst
contented himself with just a spear.

Elain put her hands on Horst’s chest and said, “Be careful.” She looked
at her sons. “All of you.”

“We’ll be fine, Mother,” promised Albriech. She forced a smile and
kissed them on the cheek.

They left the house and ran to the edge of Carvahall, where they found
that the wall of trees had been pulled open and the watchman, Byrd,
slain. Baldor knelt and examined the body, then said with a choked voice,
“He was stabbed from behind.” Roran barely heard him through the
pounding in his ears. Dizzy, he leaned against a house and panted for
breath.

“Ho! Who goes?”

From their stations along Carvahall’s perimeter, the other watchmen
congregated around their murdered compatriot, forming a huddle of
shuttered lanterns. In hushed tones, Horst described the attack and
Katrina’s plight. “Who will help us?” he asked. After a quick discussion,
five men agreed to accompany them; the rest would remain to guard the

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breach in the wall and rouse the villagers.

Pushing himself off the house, Roran trotted to the head of the group as
it slipped through the fields and down the valley toward the Ra’zac’s
camp. Every step was agony, yet it did not matter; nothing mattered except
Katrina. He stumbled once and Horst wordlessly caught him.

Half a mile from Carvahall, Ivor spotted a sentry on a hillock, which
compelled them to make a wide detour. A few hundred yards beyond,
the ruddy glow of torches became visible. Roran raised his good arm to
slow their advance, then began to dodge and crawl through the tangled
grass, startling a jackrabbit. The men followed Roran’s lead as he worked
his way to the edge of a grove of cattails, where he stopped and parted
the curtain of stalks to observe the thirteen remaining soldiers.

Where is she?

In contrast to when they had first arrived, the soldiers appeared sullen
and haggard, their weapons nicked and their armor dented. Most of them
wore bandages that were rusty with splotches of dried blood. The men
were clumped together, facing the two Ra’zac—both of whom were now
hooded—across a low fire.

One man was shouting: “... over half of us killed by a bunch of inbred,
cockle-brained woodrats that can’t tell a pike from a poleax or find the
point of a sword even if it’s lodged in their gut, because you don’t have
half the sense my banner boy does! I don’t care if Galbatorix himself licks
your boots clean, we won’t do a thing until we have a new commander.”
The men nodded. “One who’s human. ”

“Really?” demanded the Ra’zac softly.

“We’ve had enough taking orders from hunchbacks like you, with all
your clicking and teapot whistling—makes us sick! And I don’t know
what you did with Sardson, but if you stay another night, we’ll put steel
in you and find out if you bleed like us. You can leave the girl, though,
she’ll be—”

The man did not get a chance to continue, for the largest Ra’zac
jumped across the fire and landed on his shoulders, like a giant crow.
Screaming, the soldier collapsed under the weight. He tried to draw his
sword, but the Ra’zac pecked twice at his neck with its hidden beak, and
he was still.

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“We have to fight that ?” muttered Ivor behind Roran.

The soldiers remained frozen with shock as the two Ra’zac lapped from
the neck of the corpse. When the black creatures rose, they rubbed their
knobby hands together, as if they were washing, and said, “Yesss. We will
go. Stay if you wisssh; reinforsssements are only daysss away.” The Ra’zac
threw back their heads and began to shriek at the sky, the wail becoming
increasingly shrill until it passed from hearing.

Roran looked up as well. At first he saw nothing, but then a nameless
terror gripped him as two barbed shadows appeared high over the Spine,
eclipsing the stars. They advanced quickly, growing larger and larger until
they obscured half the sky with their ominous presence. A foul wind
rushed across the land, bringing with it a sulfurous miasma that made Roran
cough and gag.

The soldiers were likewise afflicted; their curses echoed as they pressed
sleeves and scarves over their noses.

Above them, the shadows paused and then began to drift downward,
enclosing the camp in a dome of menacing darkness. The sickly torches
flickered and threatened to extinguish themselves, yet they still provided
sufficient light to reveal the two beasts descending among the tents.

Their bodies were naked and hairless—like newborn mice—with
leathery gray skin pulled tight across their corded chests and bellies. In
form they resembled starved dogs, except that their hind legs bulged
with enough muscle to crush a boulder. A narrow crest extended from
the back of each of their attenuated heads, opposite a long, straight, ebony
beak made for spearing prey, and cold, bulbous eyes identical to the
Ra’zac’s. From their shoulders and backs sprang huge wings that made the
air moan under their weight.

Flinging themselves to the ground, the soldiers cowered and hid their
faces from the monsters. A terrible, alien intelligence emanated from the
creatures, bespeaking a race far older and far more powerful than humans.
Roran was suddenly afraid that his mission might fail. Behind him,
Horst whispered to the men, urging them to hold their ground and remain
hidden, else they would be slain.

The Ra’zac bowed to the beasts, then slipped into a tent and returned
carrying Katrina—who was bound with ropes—and leading Sloan. The
butcher walked freely.

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Roran stared, unable to comprehend how Sloan had been captured. His
house isn’t anywhere near Horst’s. Then it struck him. “He betrayed us,”
said Roran with wonder. His fist slowly tightened on his hammer as the
true horror of the situation exploded within him.” He killed Byrd and he
betrayed us!” Tears of rage streamed down his face.

“Roran,” murmured Horst, crouching beside him. “We can’t attack now;
they’d slaughter us. Roran... do you hear me?”

He heard but a whisper in the distance as he watched the smaller
Ra’zac jump onto one beast above the shoulders, then catch Katrina as
the other Ra’zac tossed her up. Sloan seemed upset and frightened now.
He began arguing with the Ra’zac, shaking his head and pointing at the
ground. Finally, the Ra’zac struck him across the mouth, knocking him
unconscious. Mounting the second beast, with the butcher slung over its
shoulder, the largest Ra’zac declared, “We will return once it isss sssafe
again. Kill the boy, and your livesss are forfeit.” Then the steeds flexed
their massive thighs and leaped into the sky, once again shadows upon
the field of stars.

No words or emotions were left to Roran. He was utterly destroyed.
All that remained was to kill the soldiers. He stood and raised his hammer
in preparation to charge, but as he stepped forward, his head
throbbed in unison with his wounded shoulder, the ground vanished in a
burst of light, and he toppled into oblivion.

189



ARROW TO THE HEART


Every day since leaving the outpost of Ceris was a hazy dream of warm
afternoons spent paddling up Eldor Lake and then the Gaena River. All
around them, water gurgled through the tunnel of verdant pines that
wound ever deeper into Du Weldenvarden.

Eragon found traveling with the elves delightful. Narí and Lifaen were
perpetually smiling, laughing, and singing songs, especially when Saphira
was around. They rarely looked elsewhere or spoke of another subject
but her in her presence.

However, the elves were not human, no matter the similarity of appearance.
They moved too quickly, too fluidly, for creatures born of simple
flesh and blood. And when they spoke, they often used roundabout
expressions and aphorisms that left Eragon more confused than when
they began. In between their bursts of merriment, Lifaen and Narí would
remain silent for hours, observing their surroundings with a glow of
peaceful rapture on their faces. If Eragon or Orik attempted to talk with
them during their contemplation, they would receive only a word or two
in response.

It made Eragon appreciate how direct and forthright Arya was by comparison.
In fact, she seemed uneasy around Lifaen and Narí, as if she were
no longer sure how to behave with her own kind.

From the prow of the canoe, Lifaen looked over his shoulder and said,
“Tell me, Eragon-finiarel.... What do your people sing about in these dark
days? I remember the epics and lays I heard in Ilirea—sagas of your proud
kings and earls—but it was long, long ago and the memories are like
withered flowers in my mind. What new works have your people created?”
Eragon frowned as he tried to recall the names of stories Brom had
recited. When Lifaen heard them, he shook his head sorrowfully and said,
“So much has been lost. No court ballads survive, and, if you speak truly,
nor does most of your history or art, except for fanciful tales Galbatorix
has allowed to thrive.”

“Brom once told us about the fall of the Riders,” said Eragon defensively.
An image of a deer bounding over rotting logs flashed behind his
eyes from Saphira, who was off hunting.

“Ah, a brave man.” For a minute, Lifaen paddled silently. “We too sing
about the Fall... but rarely. Most of us were alive when Vrael entered the

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void, and we still grieve for our burned cities—the red lilies of Éwayëna,
the crystals of Luthivíra—and for our slain families. Time cannot dull the
pain of those wounds, not if a thousand thousand years pass and the sun
itself dies, leaving the world to float in eternal night.”

Orik grunted in the back. “As it is with the dwarves. Remember, elf,
we lost an entire clan to Galbatorix.”

“And we lost our king, Evandar.”

“I never heard that,” said Eragon, surprised.

Lifaen nodded as he guided them around a submerged rock. “Few have.
Brom could have told you about it; he was there when the fatal blow was
struck. Before Vrael’s death, the elves faced Galbatorix on the plains of
Ilirea in our final attempt to defeat him. There Evandar—”

“Where is Ilirea?” asked Eragon.

“It’s Urû’baen, boy,” said Orik. “Used to be an elf city.”

Unperturbed by the interruption, Lifaen continued: “As you say, Ilirea
was one of our cities. We abandoned it during our war with the dragons,
and then, centuries later, humans adopted it as their capital after King
Palancar was exiled.”

Eragon said, “King Palancar? Who was he? Is that how Palancar Valley
got its name?”

This time the elf turned and looked at him with amusement. “You
have as many questions as leaves on a tree, Argetlam.”

“Brom was of the same opinion.”

Lifaen smiled, then paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “When your ancestors
arrived in Alagaësia eight hundred years ago, they roamed far
across it, seeking a suitable place to live. Eventually, they settled in Palancar
Valley—though it was not called such then—as it was one of the few
defendable locations that we or the dwarves had not claimed. There your
king, Palancar, began to build a mighty state.

“In an attempt to expand his borders, he declared war against us,
though we had offered no provocation. Three times he attacked, and
three times we prevailed. Our strength frightened Palancar’s nobles and

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they pled with their liege for peace. He ignored their counsel. Then the
lords approached us with a treaty, which we signed without the king’s
knowledge.

“With our help, Palancar was usurped and banished, but he, his family,
and their vassals refused to leave the valley. Since we had no wish to
murder them, we constructed the tower of Ristvak’baen so the Riders
could watch over Palancar and ensure he would never again rise to power
or attack anyone else in Alagaësia.

“Before long Palancar was killed by a son who did not wish to wait for
nature to take its course. Thereafter, family politics consisted of assassination,
betrayal, and other depravities, reducing Palancar’s house to a
shadow of its former grandeur. However, his descendants never left, and
the blood of kings still runs in Therinsford and Carvahall.”

“I see,” said Eragon.

Lifaen lifted one dark eyebrow. “Do you? It has more significance than
you may think. It was this event that convinced Anurin—Vrael’s predecessor
as head Rider—to allow humans to become Riders, in order to
prevent similar disputes.”

Orik emitted a bark of laughter. “That must have caused some argument.”


“It was an unpopular decision,” admitted Lifaen. “Even now some question
the wisdom of it. It caused such a disagreement between Anurin and
Queen Dellanir that Anurin seceded from our government and established
the Riders on Vroengard as an independent entity.”

“But if the Riders were separated from your government, then how
could they keep the peace, as they were supposed to?” asked Eragon.

“They couldn’t,” said Lifaen. “Not until Queen Dellanir saw the wisdom
of having the Riders free of any lord or king and restored their access to
Du Weldenvarden. Still, it never pleased her that any authority could supersede
her own.”

Eragon frowned. “Wasn’t that the whole point, though?”

“Yes... and no. The Riders were supposed to guard against the failings of
the different governments and races, yet who watched the watchers? It
was that very problem that caused the Fall. No one existed who could

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descry the flaws within the Riders’ own system, for they were above
scrutiny, and thus, they perished.”

Eragon stroked the water—first on one side and then the other—while
he considered Lifaen’s words. His paddle fluttered in his hands as it cut
diagonally across the current. “Who succeeded Dellanir as king or queen?”

“Evandar did. He took the knotted throne five hundred years ago—
when Dellanir abdicated in order to study the mysteries of magic—and
held it until his death. Now his mate, Islanzadí, rules us.”

“That’s—” Eragon stopped with his mouth open. He was going to say
impossible, but then realized how ridiculous the statement would sound.
Instead, he asked, “Are elves immortal?”

In a soft voice, Lifaen said, “Once we were like you, bright, fleeting, and
as ephemeral as the morning dew. Now our lives stretch endlessly
through the dusty years. Aye, we are immortal, although we are still vulnerable
to injuries of the flesh.”

“You became immortal? How?” The elf refused to elaborate, though Eragon
pressed him for details. Finally, Eragon asked, “How old is Arya?”

Lifaen turned his glittering eyes on him, probing Eragon with disconcerting
acuteness. “Arya? What is your interest in her?”

“I...” Eragon faltered, suddenly unsure of his intentions. His attraction to
Arya was complicated by the fact that she was an elf, and that her age,
whatever it might be, was so much greater than his own. She must view
me as a child. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But she saved both my
life and Saphira’s, and I’m curious to know more about her.”

“I feel ashamed,” said Lifaen, pronouncing each word carefully, “for asking
such a question. Among our kind, it is rude to pry into one’s affairs....
Only, I must say, and I believe that Orik agrees with me, that you would
do well to guard your heart, Argetlam. Now is not the time to lose it, nor
would it be well placed in this instance.”

“Aye,” grunted Orik.

Heat suffused Eragon as blood rushed to his face, like hot tallow melting
through him. Before he could utter a retort, Saphira entered his mind
and said, And now is the time to guard your tongue. They mean well. Don’t
insult them.

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He took a deep breath and tried to let his embarrassment drain away.

Do you agree with them?

I believe, Eragon, that you are full of love and that you are looking for one
who will reciprocate your affection. No shame exists in that.

He struggled to digest her words, then finally said, Will you be back
soon?

I’m on my way now.

Returning his attention to his surroundings, Eragon found that both the
elf and the dwarf were watching him. “I understand your concern... and
I’d still like my question answered.”

Lifaen hesitated briefly. “Arya is quite young. She was born a year before
the destruction of the Riders.”

A hundred! Though he had expected such a figure, Eragon was still
shocked. He concealed it behind a blank face, thinking, She could have
great-grandchildren older than me! He brooded on the subject for several
minutes and then, to distract himself, said, “You mentioned that humans
discovered Alagaësia eight hundred years ago. Yet Brom said that we arrived
three centuries after the Riders were formed, which was thousands
of years ago.”

“Two thousand, seven hundred, and four years, by our reckoning,” declared
Orik. “Brom was right, if you consider a single ship with twenty
warriors the ‘arrival’ of humans in Alagaësia. They landed in the south,
where Surda is now. We met while they were exploring and exchanged
gifts, but then they departed and we didn’t see another human for almost
two millennia, or until King Palancar arrived with a fleet in tow. The
humans had completely forgotten us by then, except for vague stories
about hairy men-of-the-mountains that preyed on children in the night.
Bah!”

“Do you know where Palancar came from?” asked Eragon.

Orik frowned and gnawed the tip of his mustache, then shook his head.
“Our histories only say that his homeland was far to the south, beyond
the Beors, and that his exodus was the result of war and famine.”

Excited by an idea, Eragon blurted, “So there might be countries else


194



where that could help us against Galbatorix.”

“Possibly,” said Orik. “But they would be difficult to find, even on
dragonback, and I doubt that you’d speak the same language. Who would
want to help us, though? The Varden have little to offer another country,
and it’s hard enough to get an army from Farthen Dûr to Urû’baen, much
less bring forces from hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away.”

“We could not spare you anyway,” said Lifaen to Eragon.

“I still—” Eragon broke off as Saphira soared over the river, followed by
a furious crowd of sparrows and blackbirds intent on driving her away
from their nests. At the same time, a chorus of squeaks and chatters burst
from the armies of squirrels hidden among the branches.

Lifaen beamed and cried, “Isn’t she glorious? See how her scales catch
the light! No treasure in the world can match this sight.” Similar exclamations
floated across the river from Narí.

“Bloody unbearable, that’s what it is,” muttered Orik into his beard. Eragon
hid a smile, though he agreed with the dwarf. The elves never
seemed to tire of praising Saphira.

Nothing’s wrong with a few compliments, said Saphira. She landed with a
gigantic splash and submerged her head to escape a diving sparrow.

Of course not, said Eragon.

Saphira eyed him from underwater. Was that sarcasm?

He chuckled and let it pass. Glancing at the other boat, Eragon watched
Arya paddle, her back perfectly straight, her face inscrutable as she
floated through webs of mottled light beneath the mossy trees. She
seemed so dark and somber, it made him want to comfort her. “Lifaen,”
he asked softly so that Orik would not hear, “why is Arya so... unhappy?
You and—”

Lifaen’s shoulders stiffened underneath his russet tunic and he whispered,
so low that Eragon could barely hear, “We are honored to serve
Arya Dröttningu. She has suffered more than you can imagine for our
people. We celebrate out of joy for what she has achieved with Saphira,
and we weep in our dreams for her sacrifice... and her loss. Her sorrows
are her own, though, and I cannot reveal them without her permission.”

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As Eragon sat by their nightly campfire, petting a swatch of moss that
felt like rabbit fur, he heard a commotion deeper in the forest. Exchanging
glances with Saphira and Orik, he crept toward the sound, drawing
Zar’roc.

Eragon stopped at the lip of a small ravine and looked across to the
other side, where a gyrfalcon with a broken wing thrashed in a bed of
snowberries. The raptor froze when it saw him, then opened its beak and
uttered a piercing screech.

What a terrible fate, to be unable to fly, said Saphira.

When Arya arrived, she eyed the gyrfalcon, then strung her bow and,
with unerring aim, shot it through the breast. At first Eragon thought that
she had done it for food, but she made no move to retrieve either the
bird or her arrow.

“Why?” he asked.

With a hard expression, Arya unstrung her bow. “It was too injured for
me to heal and would have died tonight or tomorrow. Such is the nature
of things. I saved it hours of suffering.”

Saphira lowered her head and touched Arya on the shoulder with her
snout, then returned to their camp, her tail scraping bark off the trees. As
Eragon started to follow, he felt Orik tug his sleeve and bent down to
hear the dwarf say in an undertone, “Never ask an elf for help; they might
decide that you’re better off dead, eh?”

196