Eldest Part 2

THE DAGSHELGR INVOCATION


Though he was tired from the previous day, Eragon forced himself to
rise before dawn in an attempt to catch one of the elves asleep. It had
become a game with him to discover when the elves got up—or if they
slept at all—as he had yet to see any of them with their eyes closed. Today
was no exception.

“Good morning,” said Narí and Lifaen from above him. Eragon craned
back his head and saw that they each stood on the bough of a pine tree,
over fifty feet in the air. Jumping from branch to branch with feline
grace, the elves dropped to the ground alongside him.

“We have been keeping watch,” explained Lifaen.

“For what?”

Arya stepped around a tree and said, “For my fears. Du Weldenvarden
has many mysteries and dangers, especially for a Rider. We have lived
here for thousands of years, and old spells still linger in unexpected
places; magic permeates the air, the water, and the earth. In places it has
affected the animals. Sometimes strange creatures are found roaming the
forest, and not all of them friendly.”

“Are they—” Eragon stopped as his gedwëy ignasia tingled. The silver
hammer on the necklace Gannel had given him grew hot on his chest,
and he felt the amulet’s spell draw upon his strength.

Someone was trying to scry him.

Is it Galbatorix? he wondered, frightened. He clutched the necklace
and pulled it out of his tunic, ready to yank it off should he become too
weak. From the other side of the camp, Saphira rushed to his side, bolstering
him with her own reserves of energy.

A moment later, the heat leached out of the hammer, leaving it cold
against Eragon’s skin. He bounced it on his palm, then tucked it back under
his clothes, whereupon Saphira said, Our enemies are searching for us.

Enemies? Could not it be someone in Du Vrangr Gata?

I think Hrothgar would have told Nasuada that he ordered Gannel to enchant
you this necklace.... She might have even come up with the idea in the

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first place.

Arya frowned when Eragon explained what had occurred. “This makes
it all the more important we reach Ellesméra quickly so your training can
resume. Events in Alagaësia move apace, and I fear you won’t have adequate
time for your studies.”

Eragon wanted to discuss it further, but lost the opportunity in the
rush to leave camp. Once the canoes were loaded and the fire tamped
out, they continued to forge up the Gaena River.

They had only been on the water for an hour when Eragon noticed that
the river was growing wider and deeper. A few minutes later, they came
upon a waterfall that filled Du Weldenvarden with its throbbing rumble.
The cataract was about a hundred feet tall, and streamed down a stone
face with an overhang that made it impossible to climb. “How do we get
past that?” He could already feel cool spray on his face.

Lifaen pointed at the left shore, some distance from the falls, where a
trail had been worn up the steep ridge. “We have to portage our canoes
and supplies for half a league before the river clears.”

The five of them untied the bundles wedged between the seats of the
canoes and divided the supplies into piles that they stuffed into their
packs. “Ugh,” said Eragon, hefting his load. It was twice as heavy as what
he usually carried when traveling on foot.

I could fly it upstream for you... all of it, offered Saphira, crawling onto
the muddy bank and shaking herself dry.

When Eragon repeated her suggestion, Lifaen looked horrified. “We
would never dream of using a dragon as a beast of burden. It would dishonor
you, Saphira—and Eragon as Shur’tugal—and it would shame our
hospitality.”

Saphira snorted, and a plume of flame erupted from her nostrils, vaporizing
the surface of the river and creating a cloud of steam. This is nonsense.
Reaching past Eragon with one scaly leg, she hooked her talons
through the packs’ shoulder straps, then took off over their heads. Catch
me if you can!

A peal of clear laughter broke the silence, like the trill of a mockingbird.
Amazed, Eragon turned and looked at Arya. It was the first time he
had ever heard her laugh; he loved the sound. She smiled at Lifaen. “You

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have much to learn if you presume to tell a dragon what she may or may
not do.”

“But the dishonor—”

“It is no dishonor if Saphira does it of her free will,” asserted Arya.
“Now, let us go before we waste any more time.”

Hoping that the strain would not trigger the pain in his back, Eragon
picked up his canoe with Lifaen and fit it over his shoulders. He was
forced to rely on the elf to guide him along the trail, as he could only see
the ground beneath his feet.

An hour later, they had topped the ridge and hiked beyond the dangerous
white water to where the Gaena River was once again calm and
glassy. Waiting for them was Saphira, who was busy catching fish in the
shallows, jabbing her triangular head into the water like a heron.

Arya called her over and said to both her and Eragon, “Beyond the next
curve lies Ardwen Lake and, upon its western shore, Sílthrim, one of our
greatest cities. Past that, a vast expanse of forest still separates us from
Ellesméra. We will encounter many elves close to Sílthrim. However, I
don’t want either of you to be seen until we speak with Queen Islanzadí.”

Why? asked Saphira, echoing Eragon’s thoughts.

In her musical accent, Arya answered: “Your presence represents a
great and terrible change for our kingdom, and such shifts are dangerous
unless handled with care. The queen must be the first to meet with you.
Only she has the authority and wisdom to oversee this transition.”

“You speak highly of her,” commented Eragon.

At his words, Narí and Lifaen stopped and watched Arya with guarded
eyes. Her face went blank, then she drew herself up proudly. “She has led
us well.... Eragon, I know you carry a hooded cape from Tronjheim. Until
we are free of possible observers, will you wear it and keep your head
covered so that none can see your rounded ears and know that you are
human?” He nodded. “And, Saphira, you must hide during the day and
catch up with us at night. Ajihad told me that is what you did in the
Empire.”

And I hated every moment of it, she growled.

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“It’s only for today and tomorrow. After that we will be far enough
away from Sílthrim that we won’t have to worry about encountering
anyone of consequence,” promised Arya.

Saphira turned her azure eyes on Eragon. When we escaped the Empire, I
swore that I would always stay close enough to protect you. Every time I
leave, bad things happen: Yazuac, Daret, Dras-Leona, the slavers.

Not in Teirm.

You know what I mean! I’m especially loath to leave since you can’t defend
yourself with your crippled back.

I trust that Arya and the others will keep me safe. Don’t you?

Saphira hesitated. I trust Arya. She twisted away and padded up the
riverbank, sat for a minute, then returned. Very well. She broadcast her
acceptance to Arya, adding, But I won’t wait any longer than tomorrow
night, even if you’re in the middle of Sílthrim at the time.

“I understand,” said Arya. “You will still have to be careful when flying
after dark, as elves can see clearly on all but the blackest nights. If you are
sighted by chance, you could be attacked by magic.”

Wonderful, commented Saphira.

While Orik and the elves repacked the boats, Eragon and Saphira explored
the dim forest, searching for a suitable hiding place. They settled
on a dry hollow rimmed by crumbling rocks and blanketed with a bed of
pine needles that were pleasantly soft underfoot. Saphira curled up on
the ground and nodded her head. Go now. I will be fine.

Eragon hugged her neck—careful to avoid her sharp spines—and then
reluctantly departed, glancing backward. At the river, he donned his cape
before they resumed their journey.

The air was motionless when Ardwen Lake came into view, and as a
result, the vast mantle of water was smooth and flat, a perfect mirror for
the trees and clouds. The illusion was so flawless, Eragon felt as if he
were looking through a window at another world and that if they continued
forward, the canoes would fall endlessly into the reflected sky. He
shivered at the thought.

In the hazy distance, numerous white birch-bark boats darted like wa


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ter striders along both shores, propelled to incredible speeds by the elves’
strength. Eragon ducked his head and tugged on the edge of his hood to
ensure that it covered his face.

His link with Saphira grew ever more tenuous the farther apart they
became, until only a wisp of thought connected them. By evening he
could no longer feel her presence, even if he strained his mind to its limits.
All of a sudden, Du Weldenvarden seemed much more lonely and
desolate.

As the gloom deepened, a cluster of white lights—placed at every conceivable
height among the trees—sprang into existence a mile ahead. The
sparks glowed with the silver radiance of the full moon, eerie and mysterious
in the night.

“There lies Sílthrim,” said Lifaen.

With a faint splash, a dark boat passed them from the opposite direction,
accompanied by a murmur of “Kvetha Fricai” from the elf steering.

Arya brought her canoe alongside Eragon’s. “We will stop here tonight.”

They made camp a ways from Ardwen Lake, where the ground was
dry enough to sleep on. The ferocious droves of mosquitoes forced Arya
to cast a protective spell so that they could eat dinner in relative comfort.

Afterward, the five of them sat around the fire, staring at the gold
flames. Eragon leaned his head against a tree and watched a meteor streak
across the sky. His eyelids were about to sink shut when a woman’s voice
drifted through the woods from Sílthrim, a faint susurration that brushed
the inside of his ear like a down feather. He frowned and straightened,
trying to better hear the tenuous whisper.

Like a thread of smoke that thickens as a newborn fire blazes to life, so
the voice rose in strength until the forest sighed with a teasing, twisting
melody that leaped and fell with wild abandon. More voices joined the
unearthly song, embroidering the original theme with a hundred variations.
The air itself seemed to shimmer with the fabric of the tempestuous
music.

The fey strains sent jolts of elation and fear down Eragon’s spine; they
clouded his senses, drawing him into the velvet night. Seduced by the
haunting notes, he jumped to his feet, ready to dash through the forest
until he found the source of the voices, ready to dance among the trees

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and moss, anything so that he could join the elves’ revels. But before he
could move, Arya caught his arm and yanked him around to face her.

“Eragon! Clear your mind!” He struggled in a futile attempt to break
her grip. “Eyddr eyreya onr!” Empty your ears! Everything fell silent then,
as if he had gone deaf. He stopped fighting and looked around, wondering
what had just occurred. On the other side of the fire, Lifaen and Narí
wrestled noiselessly with Orik.

Eragon watched Arya’s mouth move as she spoke, then sound returned
to the world with a pop, though he could no longer hear the music.
“What... ?” he asked, dazed.

“Gerr’off me,” growled Orik. Lifaen and Narí lifted their hands and
backed away.

“Your pardon, Orik-vodhr,” said Lifaen.

Arya gazed toward Sílthrim. “I miscounted the days; I didn’t want to be
anywhere near a city during Dagshelgr. Our saturnalias, our celebrations,
are perilous for mortals. We sing in the ancient language, and the lyrics
weave spells of passion and longing that are difficult to resist, even for
us.”

Narí stirred restlessly. “We should be at a grove.”

“We should,” agreed Arya, “but we will do our duty and wait.”

Shaken, Eragon sat closer to the fire, wishing for Saphira; he was sure
she could have protected his mind from the music’s influence. “What is
the point of Dagshelgr?” he asked.

Arya joined him on the ground, crossing her long legs. “It is to keep the
forest healthy and fertile. Every spring we sing for the trees, we sing for
the plants, and we sing for the animals. Without us, Du Weldenvarden
would be half its size.” As if to emphasize her point, birds, deer, squirrels—
red and gray—striped badgers, foxes, rabbits, wolves, frogs, toads,
tortoises, and every other nearby animal forsook their hiding and began to
rush madly about with a cacophony of yelps and cries. “They are searching
for mates,” explained Arya. “All across Du Weldenvarden, in each of
our cities, elves are singing this song. The more who participate, the
stronger the spell, and the greater Du Weldenvarden will be this year.”

Eragon snatched back his hand as a trio of hedgehogs trundled past his

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thigh. The entire forest yammered with noise. I’ve stepped into fairyland,
he thought, hugging himself.

Orik came around the fire and raised his voice above the clamor: “By
my beard and my ax, I’ll not be controlled against my will by magic. If it
happens again, Arya, I swear on Helzvog’s stone girdle that I’ll return to
Farthen Dûr and you will have the wrath of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum to deal
with.”

“It was not my intention for you to experience Dagshelgr,” said Arya. “I
apologize for my mistake. However, though I am shielding you from this
spell, you cannot escape magic in Du Weldenvarden; it permeates everything.”


“So long as it doesn’t befoul my mind.” Orik shook his head and fingered
the haft of his ax while eyeing the shadowy beasts that lumbered in
the gloom beyond the pool of firelight.

No one slept that night. Eragon and Orik remained awake because of
the frightful din and the animals that kept crashing by their tents, the
elves because they still listened to the song. Lifaen and Narí took to pacing
in endless circles, while Arya stared toward Sílthrim with a hungry
expression, her tawny skin drawn thin and taut over her cheekbones.

Four hours into the riot of sound and motion, Saphira dove out of the
sky, her eyes sparkling with a queer aspect. She shivered and arched her
neck, panting between her open jaws. The forest, she said, is alive. And I
am alive. My blood burns like never before. It burns as yours burns when
you think of Arya. I... understand!

Eragon put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremors that racked
her frame; her sides vibrated as she hummed along with the music. She
gripped the ground with her ivory claws, her muscles coiled and clenched
in a supreme effort to remain motionless. The tip of her tail twitched like
she was about to pounce.

Arya stood and joined Eragon on the opposite side of Saphira. The elf
also put a hand on Saphira’s shoulder, and the three of them faced the
darkness, united into a living chain.

When dawn broke, the first thing Eragon noticed was that all the trees

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now had buds of bright green needles at the ends of their branches. He
bent and examined the snowberries at his feet and found that every
plant, large or small, had acquired new growth during the night. The forest
vibrated with the ripeness of its colors; everything was lush and fresh
and clean. The air smelled like it had just rained.

Saphira shook herself beside Eragon and said, The fever has passed; I am
myself again. Such things I felt... It was as if the world were being born
anew and I was helping to create it with the fire in my limbs.

How are you? On the inside, I mean.

I will need some time to understand what I experienced.

Since the music had ceased, Arya removed her spell from Eragon and
Orik. She said, “Lifaen. Narí. Go to Sílthrim and get horses for the five of
us. We cannot walk all the way from here to Ellesméra. Also, alert Captain
Damítha that Ceris requires reinforcements.”

Narí bowed. “And what shall we say when she asks why we have deserted
our post?”

“Tell her that that which she once hoped for—and feared—has occurred;
the wyrm has bitten its own tail. She will understand.”

The two elves departed for Sílthrim after the boats were emptied of
supplies. Three hours later, Eragon heard a stick snap and looked up to
see them returning through the forest on proud white stallions, leading
four other identical horses. The magnificent beasts moved among the
trees with uncanny stealth, their coats shimmering in the emerald twilight.
None of them wore saddles or harnesses.

“Blöthr, blöthr,” murmured Lifaen, and his steed halted, pawing the
ground with its dark hooves.

“Are all your horses as noble as these?” asked Eragon. He cautiously approached
one, amazed by its beauty. The animals were only a few inches
taller than ponies, which made it easy for them to navigate among the
closely placed trunks. They did not seem frightened by Saphira.

“Not all,” laughed Narí, tossing his silver hair, “but most. We have bred
them for many centuries.”

“How am I supposed to ride?”

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Arya said, “An elf horse responds instantly to commands in the ancient
language; tell it where you wish to go and it will take you. However, do
not mistreat them with blows or harsh words, for they are not our slaves,
but our friends and partners. They bear you only so long as they consent
to; it is a great privilege to ride one. I was only able to save Saphira’s egg
from Durza because our horses sensed that something was amiss and
stopped us from riding into his ambush.... They won’t let you fall unless
you deliberately throw yourself off, and they are skilled in choosing the
safest, quickest path through treacherous ground. The dwarves’ Feldûnost
are like that.”

“Right you are,” grunted Orik. “A Feldûnost can run you up a cliff and
down without a single bruise. But how can we carry food and whatnot
without saddles? I won’t ride while wearing a full pack.”

Lifaen tossed a pile of leather bags at Orik’s feet and indicated the sixth
horse. “Nor will you have to.”

It took half an hour to arrange their supplies in the bags and heap them
into a lumpy mound on the horse’s back. Afterward, Narí told Eragon
and Orik the words they could use to direct the horses: “Gánga framto go
forward,blöthr to stop, hlaupa if needs you must run, and gánga aptr to
go back. You can give more precise instructions if you know more of the
ancient language.” He led Eragon to a horse and said, “This is Folkvír.
Hold out your hand.”

Eragon did, and the stallion snorted, flaring his nostrils. Folkvír sniffed
Eragon’s palm, then touched it with his muzzle and allowed Eragon to
stroke his thick neck. “Good,” said Narí, appearing satisfied. The elf had
Orik do the same with the next horse.

As Eragon mounted Folkvír, Saphira drew closer. He looked up at her,
noting how troubled she still seemed from the night. One more day, he
said.

Eragon...She paused. I thought of something while I was under the influence
of the elves’ spell, something that I have always considered of little
consequence, but now looms within me like a mountain of black dread:
Every creature, no matter how pure or monstrous, has a mate of their own
kind. Yet I have none. She shuddered and closed her eyes. In this regard, I
am alone.

Her statements reminded Eragon that she was barely more than eight

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months old. On most occasions, her youth did not show—due to the influence
of her hereditary instincts and memories—but, in this arena, she
was even more inexperienced than he was with his feeble stabs at romance
in Carvahall and Tronjheim. Pity welled inside Eragon, but he
suppressed it before it could seep across their mental link. Saphira would
have only contempt for the emotion: it could neither solve her problem
nor make her feel better. Instead, he said, Galbatorix still has two dragon
eggs. During our first audience with Hrothgar, you mentioned that you
would like to rescue them. If we can—

Saphira snorted bitterly. It could take years, and even if we did retrieve
the eggs, I have no guarantee that they would hatch, nor that they would be
male, nor that we would be fit mates. Fate has abandoned my race to extinction.
She lashed her tail with frustration, breaking a sapling in two.
She seemed perilously close to tears.

What can I say? he asked, disturbed by her distress. You can’t give up
hope. You still have a chance to find a mate, but you have to be patient.
Even if Galbatorix’s eggs don’t work, dragons must exist elsewhere in the
world, just like humans, elves, and Urgals do. The moment we are free of
our obligations, I’ll help you search for them. All right?

All right, she sniffed. She craned back her head and released a puff of
white smoke that dispersed among the branches overhead. I should know
better than to let my emotions get the best of me.

Nonsense. You would have to be made of stone not to feel this way. It’s
perfectly normal.... But promise you won’t dwell on it while you’re alone.

She fixed one giant sapphire eye on him. I won’t. He turned warm inside
as he felt her gratitude for his reassurances and companionship. Leaning
out from Folkvír, he put a hand on her rough cheek and held it there
for a moment. Go on, little one, she murmured. I will see you later.

Eragon hated to leave her in such a state. He reluctantly entered the
forest with Orik and the elves, heading west toward the heart of Du
Weldenvarden. After an hour spent pondering Saphira’s plight, he mentioned
it to Arya.

Faint lines creased Arya’s forehead as she frowned. “It is one of Galbatorix’s
greatest crimes. I do not know if a solution exists, but we can
hope. We must hope.”

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THE PINEWOOD CITY


Eragon had been in Du Weldenvarden for so long that he had begun to
long for clearings, fields, or even a mountain, instead of the endless tree
trunks and meager underbrush. His flights with Saphira provided no respite
as they only revealed hills of prickly green that rolled unbroken into
the distance like a verdant sea.

Oftentimes, the branches were so thick overhead, it was impossible to
tell from what direction the sun rose and set. That, combined with the
repetitive scenery, made Eragon hopelessly lost, no matter how many
times Arya or Lifaen troubled to show him the points of the compass. If
not for the elves, he knew that he could wander in Du Weldenvarden for
the rest of his life without ever finding his way free.

When it rained, the clouds and the forest canopy plunged them into
profound darkness, as if they were entombed deep underground. The falling
water would collect on the black pine needles above, then trickle
through and pour a hundred feet or more down onto their heads, like a
thousand little waterfalls. At such times, Arya would summon a glowing
orb of green magic that floated over her right hand and provided the only
light in the cavernous forest. They would stop and huddle underneath a
tree until the storm abated, but even then water cached in the myriad
branches would, at the slightest provocation, shower them with droplets
for hours afterward.

As they rode deeper into the heart of Du Weldenvarden, the trees
grew thicker and taller, as well as farther apart to accommodate the increased
span of their branches. The trunks—bare brown shafts that towered
up into the overarching ribbed ceiling, which was smudged and obscured
by shadow—were over two hundred feet tall, higher than any tree
in the Spine or the Beors. Eragon paced out the girth of one tree and
measured it at seventy feet.

He mentioned this to Arya, and she nodded, saying, “It means that we
are near Ellesméra.” She reached out and rested her hand lightly on the
gnarled root beside her, as if touching, with consummate delicacy, the
shoulder of a friend or lover. “These trees are among the oldest living
creatures in Alagaësia. Elves have loved them since first we saw Du Weldenvarden,
and we have done everything within our power to help them
flourish.” A faint blade of light pierced the dusty emerald branches overhead
and limned her arm and face with liquid gold, dazzlingly bright
against the murky background. “We have traveled far together, Eragon,

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but now you are about to enter my world. Tread softly, for the earth and
air are heavy with memories and naught is as it seems.... Do not fly with
Saphira today, as we have already triggered certain wards that protect
Ellesméra. It would be unwise to stray from the path.”

Eragon bowed his head and retreated to Saphira, who lay curled on a
bed of moss, amusing herself by releasing plumes of smoke from her nostrils
and watching them roil out of sight. Without preamble, she said,
There is plenty of room for me on the ground now. I will have no difficulty.

Good. He mounted Folkvír and followed Orik and the elves farther
into the empty, silent forest. Saphira crawled beside him. She and the
white horses gleamed in the somber half light.

Eragon paused, overcome by the solemn beauty of his surroundings.
Everything had a feeling of wintry age, as if nothing had changed under
the thatched needles for a thousand years and nothing ever would; time
itself seemed to have fallen into a slumber from which it would never
wake.

In late afternoon, the gloom lifted to reveal an elf standing before them,
sheathed in a brilliant ray of light that slanted down from the ceiling. He
was garbed in flowing robes, with a circlet of silver upon his brow. His
face was old, noble, and serene.

“Eragon,” murmured Arya. “Show him your palm and your ring.”

Baring his right hand, Eragon raised it so that first Brom’s ring and then
the gedwëy ignasia was visible. The elf smiled, closed his eyes, and spread
his arms in a gesture of welcome. He held the posture.

“The way is clear,” said Arya. At a soft command, her steed moved
forward. They rode around the elf—like water parting at the base of a
weathered boulder—and when they had all passed, he straightened,
clasped his hands, and vanished as the light that illuminated him ceased
to exist.

Who is he? asked Saphira.

Arya said, “He is Gilderien the Wise, Prince of House Miolandra,
wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, and guardian of Ellesméra since
the days of Du Fyrn Skulblaka, our war with the dragons. None may enter
the city unless he permits it.”

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A quarter of a mile beyond, the forest thinned and breaks appeared
within the canopy, allowing planks of mottled sunlight to bar the way.
Then they passed underneath two burled trees that leaned against each
other and stopped at the edge of an empty glade.

The ground was strewn with dense patches of flowers. From pink roses
to bluebells and lilies, spring’s fleeting treasure was heaped about like
piles of rubies, sapphires, and opals. Their intoxicating aromas attracted
hordes of bumblebees. To the right, a stream chuckled behind a row of
bushes, while a pair of squirrels chased each other around a rock.

At first it looked to Eragon like a place where deer might bed for the
night. But as he continued to stare, he began to pick out paths hidden
among the brush and trees; soft warm light where normally there would
be auburn shadows; an odd pattern in the shapes of the twigs and
branches and flowers, so subtle that it nearly escaped detection—clues
that what he saw was not entirely natural. He blinked, and his vision
suddenly shifted as if a lens had been placed over his eyes, resolving everything
into recognizable shapes. Those were paths, aye. And those were
flowers, aye. But what he had taken to be clusters of lumpy, twisted trees
were in fact graceful buildings that grew directly out of the pines.

One tree bulged at the base to form a two-story house before sinking
its roots into the loam. Both stories were hexagonal, although the upper
level was half as small as the first, which gave the house a tiered appearance.
The roofs and walls were made of webbed sheets of wood draped
over six thick ridges. Moss and yellow lichen bearded the eaves and hung
over jeweled windows set into each side. The front door was a mysterious
black silhouette recessed under an archway wrought with symbols.

Another house was nestled between three pines, which were joined to
it through a series of curved branches. Reinforced by those flying buttresses,
the house rose five levels, light and airy. Beside it sat a bower
woven out of willow and dogwood and hung with flameless lanterns disguised
as galls.

Each unique building enhanced and complemented its surroundings,
blending seamlessly with the rest of the forest until it was impossible to
tell where artifice ended and nature resumed. The two were in perfect
balance. Instead of mastering their environment, the elves had chosen to
accept the world as it was and adapt themselves to it.

The inhabitants of Ellesméra eventually revealed themselves as a flicker
of movement at the fringe of Eragon’s sight, no more than needles stirring

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in the breeze. Then he caught glimpses of hands, a pale face, a sandaled
foot, an upraised arm. One by one, the wary elves stepped into view,
their almond eyes fixed upon Saphira, Arya, and Eragon.

The women wore their hair unbound. It rippled down their backs in
waves of silver and sable braided with fresh blossoms, like a garden waterfall.
They all possessed a delicate, ethereal beauty that belied their unbreakable
strength; to Eragon, they seemed flawless. The men were just
as striking, with high cheekbones, finely sculpted noses, and heavy eyelids.
Both sexes were garbed in rustic tunics of green and brown, fringed
with dusky colors of orange, russet, and gold.

The Fair Folk indeed, thought Eragon. He touched his lips in greeting.

As one, the elves bowed from the waist. Then they smiled and laughed
with unrestrained happiness. From within their midst, a woman sang:

Gala O Wyrda brunhvitr,

Abr Berundal vandr-fódhr,

Burthro laufsblädar ekar undir,

Eom kona dauthleikr...

Eragon clapped his hands over his ears, fearing that the melody was a
spell like the one he had heard at Sílthrim, but Arya shook her head and
lifted his hands. “It is not magic.” Then she spoke to her horse, saying,
“Gánga.” The stallion nickered and trotted away. “Release your steeds as
well. We have no further need of them and they deserve to rest in our
stables.”

The song waxed stronger as Arya proceeded along a cobblestone path
set with bits of green tourmaline, which looped among the hollyhocks
and the houses and the trees before finally crossing a stream. The elves
danced around their party as they walked, flitting here and there as the
fancy struck them, laughing, and occasionally leaping up onto a branch to
run over their heads. They praised Saphira with names like “Longclaws”
and “Daughter of Air and Fire” and “Strong One.”

Eragon smiled, delighted and enchanted. I could live here, he thought
with a sense of peace. Tucked away in Du Weldenvarden, as much out


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doors as in, safe from the rest of the world... Yes, he liked Ellesméra very
much indeed, more than any of the dwarf cities. He pointed to a dwelling
situated within a pine tree and asked Arya, “How is that done?

“We sing to the forest in the old tongue and give it our strength to
grow in the shape that we desire. All our buildings and tools are made in
that manner.”

The path ended at a net of roots that formed steps, like bare pools of
earth. They climbed to a door embedded within a wall of saplings. Eragon’s
heart quickened as the door swung open, seemingly of its own accord,
and revealed a hall of trees. Hundreds of branches melded together
to form the honeycombed ceiling. Below, twelve chairs were arrayed
along each wall.

In them reposed four-and-twenty elf lords and ladies.

Wise and handsome were they, with smooth faces unmarked by age
and keen eyes that gleamed with excitement. They leaned forward, gripping
the arms of their chairs, and stared at Eragon’s group with open
wonder and hope. Unlike the other elves, they had swords belted at their
waists—hilts studded with beryls and garnets—and circlets that adorned
their brows.

And at the head of the assembly stood a white pavilion that sheltered a
throne of knotted roots. Queen Islanzadí sat upon it. She was as beautiful
as an autumn sunset, proud and imperious, with two dark eyebrows
slanted like upraised wings, lips as bright and red as holly berries, and
midnight hair bound under a diamond diadem. Her tunic was crimson.
Round her hips hung a girdle of braided gold. And clasped at the hollow
of her neck was a velvet cloak that fell to the ground in languid folds. Despite
her imposing countenance, the queen seemed fragile, as if she concealed
a great pain.

By her left hand was a curved rod with a chased crosspiece. A brilliantwhite
raven perched on it, shuffling impatiently from foot to foot. He
cocked his head and surveyed Eragon with uncanny intelligence, then
gave a long, low croak and shrieked, “Wyrda!” Eragon shivered from the
force of that single cracked word.

The door closed behind the six of them as they entered the hall and
approached the queen. Arya knelt on the moss-covered ground and
bowed first, then Eragon, Orik, Lifaen, and Narí. Even Saphira, who had
never bowed to anyone, not even Ajihad or Hrothgar, lowered her head.

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Islanzadí stood and descended from the throne, her cloak trailing behind
her. She stopped before Arya, placed trembling hands on her shoulders,
and said in a rich vibrato, “Rise.” Arya did, and the queen scrutinized
her face with increasing intensity, until it seemed as if she were trying to
decipher an obscure text.

At last Islanzadí cried out and embraced Arya, saying, “O my daughter,
I have wronged you!”

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QUEEN ISLANZADÍ


Eragon knelt before the queen of the elves and her councilors in a fantastic
room made from the boles of living trees in a near-mythic land, and
the only thing that filled his mind was shock. Arya is a princess! It was
fitting in a way—she had always possessed an air of command—but he
bitterly regretted the fact, for it placed another barrier between them
when he would have torn them all away. The knowledge filled his mouth
with the taste of ashes. He remembered Angela’s prophecy that he would
love one of noble birth... and her warning that she could not see if it
would end for good or for ill.

He could feel Saphira’s own surprise, then her amusement. She said, It
appears that we have been traveling in the presence of royalty without knowing
it.

Why didn’t she tell us?

Perhaps it would have placed her in greater danger.

“Islanzadí Dröttning,” said Arya formally.

The queen withdrew as if she had been stung and then repeated in the
ancient language, “O my daughter, I have wronged you.” She covered her
face. “Ever since you disappeared, I’ve barely slept or eaten. I was haunted
by your fate, and feared that I would never see you again. Banning you
from my presence was the greatest mistake I have ever made.... Can you
forgive me?”

The gathered elves stirred with amazement.

Arya’s response was long in coming, but at last she said, “For seventy
years, I have lived and loved, fought and killed without ever speaking to
you, my mother. Our lives are long, but even so, that is no small span.”

Islanzadí drew herself upright, lifting her chin. A tremor ran her length.
“I cannot undo the past, Arya, no matter how much I might desire to.”

“And I cannot forget what I endured.”

“Nor should you.” Islanzadí clasped her daughter’s hands. “Arya, I love
you. You are my only family. Go if you must, but unless you wish to renounce
me, I would be reconciled with you.”

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For a terrible moment, it seemed as if Arya would not answer, or
worse, would reject the offer. Eragon saw her hesitate and quickly look at
her audience. Then she lowered her eyes and said, “No, Mother. I could
not leave.” Islanzadí smiled uncertainly and embraced her daughter again.
This time Arya returned the gesture, and smiles broke out among the assembled
elves.

The white raven hopped on his stand, cackling, “And on the door was
graven evermore, what now became the family lore, Let us never do but to
adore! ”

“Hush, Blagden,” said Islanzadí to the raven. “Keep your doggerel to
yourself.” Breaking free, the queen turned to Eragon and Saphira. “You
must excuse me for being discourteous and ignoring you, our most important
guests.”

Eragon touched his lips and then twisted his right hand over his sternum,
as Arya had taught him. “Islanzadí Dröttning. Atra esterní ono
thelduin.” He had no doubt that he was supposed to speak first.

Islanzadí’s dark eyes widened. “Atra du evarínya ono varda.”

“Un atra mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr,” replied Eragon, completing the
ritual. He could tell that the elves were caught off guard by his knowledge
of their customs. In his mind, he listened as Saphira repeated his
greeting to the queen.

When she finished, Islanzadí asked, “Dragon, what is your name?”

Saphira.

A flash of recognition appeared in the queen’s expression, but she made
no comment on it. “Welcome to Ellesméra, Saphira. And yours, Rider?”

“Eragon Shadeslayer, Your Majesty.” This time an audible stir rippled
among the elves seated behind them; even Islanzadí appeared startled.

“You carry a powerful name,” she said softly, “one that we rarely bestow
upon our children.... Welcome to Ellesméra, Eragon Shadeslayer.
We have waited long for you.” She moved on to Orik, greeted him, then
returned to her throne and draped her velvet cloak over her arm. “I assume
by your presence here, Eragon, so soon after Saphira’s egg was captured,
and by the ring on your hand and the sword on your hip, that

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Brom is dead and that your training with him was incomplete. I wish to
hear your full story, including how Brom fell and how you came to meet
my daughter, or how she met you, as it may be. Then I will hear of your
mission here, dwarf, and of your adventures, Arya, since your ambush in
Du Weldenvarden.”

Eragon had narrated his experiences before, so he had no trouble reiterating
them now for the queen. The few occasions where his memory faltered,
Saphira was able to provide an accurate description of events. In
several places, he simply left the telling to her. When they finished, Eragon
retrieved Nasuada’s scroll from his pack and presented it to Islanzadí.


She took the roll of parchment, broke the red wax seal, and, upon
completing the missive, sighed and briefly closed her eyes. “I see now the
true depth of my folly. My grief would have ended so much sooner if I
had not withdrawn our warriors and ignored Ajihad’s messengers after
learning that Arya had been ambushed. I should have never blamed the
Varden for her death. For one so old, I am still far too foolish....”

A long silence followed, as no one dared to agree or disagree. Summoning
his courage, Eragon said, “Since Arya has returned alive, will you agree
to help the Varden, like before? Nasuada cannot succeed otherwise, and I
am pledged to her cause.”

“My quarrel with the Varden is as dust in the wind,” said Islanzadí.
“Fear not; we will assist them as we once did, and more, because of you
and their victory over the Urgals.” She leaned forward on one arm. “Will
you give me Brom’s ring, Eragon?” Without hesitation, he pulled it off his
finger and offered it to the queen, who plucked it from his palm with her
slim fingers. “You should not have worn this, Eragon, as it was not meant
for you. However, because of the aid you have rendered the Varden and
my family, I now name you Elf Friend and bestow this ring, Aren, upon
you, so that all elves, wherever you go, will know that you are to be
trusted and helped.”

Eragon thanked her and returned the ring to his finger, acutely aware of
the queen’s gaze, which remained upon him with disturbing perception,
studying and analyzing. He felt as if she knew everything that he might
say or do. She said, “Such tidings as yours, we have not heard the like of
in Du Weldenvarden for many a year. We are accustomed to a slower
way of life here than the rest of Alagaësia, and it troubles me that so
much could occur so swiftly without word of it reaching my ear.”

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“And what of my training?” Eragon snatched a furtive glance at the
seated elves, wondering if any of them could be Togira Ikonoka, the being
who had reached into his mind and freed him of Durza’s foul influence
after the battle in Farthen Dûr—and who had also encouraged Eragon
to travel to Ellesméra.

“It will begin in the fullness of time. Yet I fear that instructing you is
futile so long as your infirmity persists. Unless you can overcome the
Shade’s magic, you will be reduced to no more than a figurehead. You
may still be useful, but only as a shadow of the hope that we have nurtured
for over a century.” Islanzadí spoke without reproach, yet her
words struck Eragon like hammer blows. He knew that she was right.
“Your situation is not your fault, and it pains me to voice such things, but
you must understand the gravity of your disability.... I am sorry.”

Then Islanzadí addressed Orik: “It has been long since one of your race
entered our halls, dwarf. Eragon-finiarel has explained your presence, but
do you have aught to add?”

“Only royal greetings from my king, Hrothgar, and a plea, now unneeded,
for you to resume contact with the Varden. Beyond that, I am
here to see that the pact that Brom forged between you and the humans
is honored.”

“We keep our promises whether we utter them in this language or in
the ancient language. I accept Hrothgar’s greetings and return them in
kind.” Finally, as Eragon was sure she had longed to do since they first arrived,
Islanzadí looked at Arya and asked, “Now, daughter, what befell
you?”

Arya began to speak in a slow monotone, first of her capture and then
of her long imprisonment and torture in Gil’ead. Saphira and Eragon had
deliberately avoided the details of her abuse, but Arya herself seemed to
have no difficulty recounting what she had been subjected to. Her emotionless
descriptions roused the same rage within Eragon as when he first
saw her wounds. The elves remained completely silent throughout Arya’s
tale, although they gripped their swords and their faces hardened into razor
lines of cold anger. A single tear rolled down Islanzadí’s cheek.

Afterward, a lithe elf lord paced along the mossy sward between the
chairs. “I know that I speak for us all, Arya Dröttningu, when I say that
my heart burns with sorrow for your ordeal. It is a crime beyond apology,
mitigation, or reparation, and Galbatorix must be punished for it. Also,
we are in your debt for keeping the locations of our cities hidden from

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the Shade. Few of us could have withstood him for so long.”

“Thank you, Däthedr-vor.”

Now Islanzadí spoke, and her voice rang like a bell among the trees.
“Enough. Our guests wait tired on their feet, and we have spoken of evil
things for far too long. I will not have this occasion marred by lingering
on past injuries.” A glorious smile brightened her expression. “My daughter
has returned, a dragon and her Rider have appeared, and I will see us
celebrate in the proper fashion!” She stood, tall and magnificent in her
crimson tunic, and clapped her hands. At the sound, the chairs and pavilion
were showered with hundreds of lilies and roses that appeared
twenty feet above their heads and drifted down like colorful snowflakes,
suffusing the air with their heady fragrance.

She didn’t use the ancient language, observed Eragon.

He noticed that, while everyone was occupied by the flowers, Islanzadí
touched Arya gently on the shoulder and murmured, almost too softly to
hear, “You never would have suffered so if you had taken my counsel. I
was right to oppose your decision to accept the yawë.”

“It was my decision to make.”

The queen paused, then nodded and extended her arm. “Blagden.” With
a flutter of wings, the raven flew from his perch and landed on her left
shoulder. The entire assembly bowed as Islanzadí proceeded to the end of
the hall and threw open the door to the hundreds of elves outside,
whereupon she made a brief declaration in the ancient language that Eragon
did not understand. The elves burst into cheers and began to rush
about.

“What did she say?” whispered Eragon to Narí.

Narí smiled. “To break open our finest casks and light the cook-fires,
for tonight shall be a night of feast and song. Come!” He grabbed Eragon’s
hand and pulled him after the queen as she threaded her way between
the shaggy pines and through banks of cool ferns. During their time indoors,
the sun had dropped low in the sky, drenching the forest with an
amber light that clung to the trees and plants like a layer of glistering oil.

You do realize, don’t you, said Saphira, that the king Lifaen mentioned,
Evandar, must be Arya’s father?

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Eragon almost stumbled. You’re right.... And that means he was killed
by either Galbatorix or the Forsworn.

Circles within circles.

They stopped on the crest of a small hill, where a team of elves had set
out a long trestle table and chairs. All around them, the forest hummed
with activity. As evening approached, the cheery glow of fires appeared
scattered throughout Ellesméra, including a bonfire near the table.

Someone handed Eragon a goblet made of the same odd wood that he
had noticed in Ceris. He drank the cup’s clear liqueur and gasped as it
blazed down his throat. It tasted like mulled cider mixed with mead. The
potion made the tips of his fingers and ears tingle and gave him a marvelous
sense of clarity. “What is this?” he asked Narí.

Narí laughed. “Faelnirv? We distill it from crushed elderberries and
spun moonbeams. If he needs must, a strong man can travel for three
days on naught else.”

Saphira, you have to taste this. She sniffed the goblet, then opened her
mouth and allowed him to pour the rest of the faelnirv down her throat.
Her eyes widened and her tail twitched.

Now that’s a treat! Is there more?

Before Eragon could reply, Orik stomped over to them. “Daughter to
the queen,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I wish that I could tell
Hrothgar and Nasuada. They’d want to know.”

Islanzadí seated herself in a high-backed chair and clapped her hands
once again. From within the city came a quartet of elves bearing musical
instruments. Two had harps of cherrywood, the third a set of reed pipes,
and the fourth nothing but her voice, which she immediately put to use
with a playful song that danced about their ears.

Eragon caught only every third word or so, but what he did understand
made him grin. It was the story of a stag who could not drink at a pond
because a magpie kept harassing him.

As Eragon listened, his gaze wandered and alighted upon a small girl
prowling behind the queen. When he looked again, he saw that her
shaggy hair was not silver, like many of the elves, but bleached white
with age, and that her face was creased and lined like a dry, withered ap


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ple. She was no elf, nor dwarf, nor—Eragon felt—even human. She
smiled at him, and he glimpsed rows of sharp teeth.

When the singer finished, and the pipes and lutes filled the silence, Eragon
found himself approached by scores of elves who wished to meet
him and—more importantly, he sensed—Saphira.

The elves presented themselves by bowing softly and touching their
lips with their first and middle fingers, to which Eragon responded in
kind, along with endless repetitions of their greeting in the ancient language.
They plied Eragon with polite questions about his exploits, but
they reserved the bulk of their conversation for Saphira.

At first Eragon was content to let Saphira talk, since this was the first
place where anyone was interested in having a discussion just with her.
But he soon grew annoyed at being ignored; he had become used to having
people listen when he spoke. He grinned ruefully, dismayed that he
had come to rely on people’s attention so much since he had joined the
Varden, and forced himself to relax and enjoy the celebration.

Before long the scent of food permeated the glade and elves appeared
carrying platters piled with delicacies. Aside from loaves of warm bread
and stacks of small, round honeycakes, the dishes were made entirely of
fruit, vegetables, and berries. The berries predominated; they were in
everything from blueberry soup to raspberry sauce to thimbleberry jelly.
A bowl of sliced apples dripped with syrup and sprinkled with wild
strawberries sat beside a mushroom pie stuffed with spinach, thyme, and
currants.

No meat was to be found, not even fish or fowl, which still puzzled Eragon.
In Carvahall and elsewhere in the Empire, meat was a symbol of
status and luxury. The more gold you had, the more often you could afford
steak and veal. Even the minor nobility ate meat with every meal.
To do otherwise would indicate a deficit in their coffers. And yet the
elves did not subscribe to this philosophy, despite their obvious wealth
and the ease with which they could hunt with magic.

The elves rushed to the table with an enthusiasm that surprised Eragon.
Soon all were seated: Islanzadí at the head of the table with Blagden, the
raven; Däthedr to her left; Arya and Eragon by her right hand; Orik across
from them; and then all the rest of the elves, including Narí and Lifaen.
No chair was at the far end of the table, only a huge carved plate for
Saphira.

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As the meal progressed, everything dissolved around Eragon into a blur
of talk and mirth. He was so caught up in the festivities, he lost track of
time, aware of only the laughter and the foreign words swirling over his
head and the warm glow left in his stomach by the faelnirv. The elusive
harp music sighed and whispered at the edges of his hearing and sent
shivers of excitement down his side. Occasionally, he found himself distracted
by the lazy slit-eyed stare of the woman-child, which she kept
focused on him with single-minded intensity, even when eating.

During a lull in the conversation, Eragon turned toward Arya, who had
uttered no more than a dozen words. He said nothing, only looked and
wondered who she really was.

Arya stirred. “Not even Ajihad knew.”

“What?”

“Outside of Du Weldenvarden, I told no one of my identity. Brom was
aware of it—he first met me here—but he kept it a secret at my request.”

Eragon wondered if she was explaining to him out of a sense of duty or
because she felt guilty for deceiving him and Saphira. “Brom once said
that what elves didn’t say was often more important that what they did.”

“He understood us well.”

“Why, though? Did it matter if anyone knew?”

This time Arya hesitated. “When I left Ellesméra, I had no desire to be
reminded of my position. Nor did it seem relevant to my task with the
Varden and dwarves. It had nothing to do with who I became... with
who I am.” She glanced at the queen.

“You could have told Saphira and me.”

Arya seemed to bridle at the reproach in his voice. “I had no reason to
suspect that my standing with Islanzadí had improved, and telling you
that would have changed nothing. My thoughts are my own, Eragon.” He
flushed at her implied meaning: Why should she— who was a diplomat,
a princess, an elf, and older than both his father and grandfather, whoever
they were—confide in him, a sixteen-year-old human?

“At least,” he muttered, “you made up with your mother.”

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She smiled oddly. “Did I have a choice?”

At that moment, Blagden jumped from Islanzadí’s shoulder and strutted
down the middle of the table, bobbing his head left and right in a
mocking bow. He stopped before Saphira, uttered a hoarse cough, and
then croaked:

Dragons, like wagons,

Have tongues.

Dragons, like flagons,

Have necks.

But while two hold beer,

The other eats deer!

The elves froze with mortified expressions while they waited for
Saphira’s reaction. After a long silence, Saphira looked up from her
quince pie and released a puff of smoke that enveloped Blagden. And little
birds too, she said, projecting her thoughts so that everyone could hear.
The elves finally laughed as Blagden staggered back, cawing indignantly
and flapping his wings to clear the air.

“I must apologize for Blagden’s wretched verses,” said Islanzadí. “He has
ever had a saucy tongue, despite our attempts to tame it.”

Apology accepted, said Saphira calmly, and returned to her pie.

“Where does he come from?” Eragon asked, eager to return to more
cordial footing with Arya but also genuinely curious.

“Blagden,” said Arya, “once saved my father’s life. Evandar was fighting
an Urgal when he stumbled and lost his sword. Before the Urgal could
strike, a raven flew at him and pecked out his eyes. No one knows why
the bird did it, but the distraction allowed Evandar to regain his balance
and so win the battle. My father was always generous, so he thanked the
raven by blessing him with spells for intelligence and long life. However,
the magic had two effects that he did not foresee: Blagden lost all color in
his feathers and he gained the ability to predict certain events.”

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“He can see into the future?” asked Eragon, startled.

“See? No. But perhaps he can sense what is to come. In any case, he always
speaks in riddles, most of which are a fair bit of nonsense. Just remember
that if Blagden ever comes to you and tells you something that is
not a joke or a pun, you would do well to heed his words.”

Once the meal had concluded, Islanzadí stood—causing a flurry of activity
as everyone hastened to do likewise—and said, “It is late, I am tired,
and I would return to my bower. Accompany me, Saphira and Eragon,
and I will show you where you may sleep tonight.” The queen motioned
with one hand to Arya, then left the table. Arya followed.

As Eragon stepped around the table with Saphira, he paused by the
woman-child, caught by her feral eyes. All the elements of her appearance,
from her eyes to her shaggy hair to her white fangs, triggered Eragon’s
memory. “You’re a werecat, aren’t you?” She blinked once and
then bared her teeth in a dangerous smile. “I met one of your kin, Solembum,
in Teirm and in Farthen Dûr.”

Her grin widened. “Aye. A good one he is. Humans bore me, but he
finds it amusing to travel with the witch Angela.” Then her gaze switched
to Saphira and she uttered a throaty half-growl, half-purr of appreciation.

What is your name? asked Saphira.

“Names be powerful things in the heart of Du Weldenvarden, dragon,
yes they are. However... among the elves, I am known as The Watcher
and as Quickpaw and as The Dream Dancer, but you may know me as
Maud.” She tossed her mane of stiff white bangs. “You’d better catch up
with the queen, younglings; she does not take lightly to fools or laggards.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Maud,” said Eragon. He bowed, and
Saphira inclined her head. Eragon glanced at Orik, wondering where the
dwarf would be taken, and then pursued Islanzadí.

They overtook the queen just as she reached the base of a tree. The
trunk was ridged by a delicate staircase that spiraled up to a series of
globular rooms cupped and suspended in the tree’s crown by a spray of
branches.

Islanzadí lifted an elegant hand and pointed at the eyrie. “You needs
must fly there, Saphira. Our stairs were not grown with dragons in mind.”

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Then she spoke to Eragon: “This is where the leader of the Dragon Riders
would dwell while in Ellesméra. I give it to you now, for you are the
rightful heir to that title.... It is your inheritance.” Before Eragon could
thank her, the queen swept past and departed with Arya, who held his
gaze for a long moment before vanishing deeper into the city.

Shall we see what accommodations they’ve provided us with? asked
Saphira. She jumped into the air and sailed around the tree in a tight circle,
balancing on one wing tip, perpendicular to the ground.

As Eragon took the first step, he saw that Islanzadí had spoken true;
the stairs were one with the tree. The bark beneath his feet was smooth
and flat from the many elves who had traversed it, but it was still part of
the trunk, as were the twisting cobweb banisters by his side and the
curved railing that slid under his right hand.

Because the stairs had been designed with the elves’ strength in mind,
they were steeper than Eragon was used to, and his calves and thighs soon
began to burn. He was breathing so hard when he reached the top—after
climbing through a trapdoor in the floor of one of the rooms—he had to
put his hands on his knees and bend over to pant. Once recovered, he
straightened and examined his surroundings.

He stood in a circular vestibule with a pedestal in the center, out of
which spiraled a sculpture of two pale hands and forearms that twined
around each other without touching. Three screen doors led from the
vestibule—one to an austere dining room that might hold ten people at
the most, one to a closet with an empty hollow in the floor that Eragon
could think of no discernible use for, and the last to a bedroom overlooking,
and open to, the wide expanse of Du Weldenvarden.

Taking a lantern from its hook in the ceiling, Eragon entered the bedroom,
creating a host of shadows that jumped and swirled like madcap
dancers. A teardrop gap large enough for a dragon pierced the outer wall.
Inside the room was a bed, situated so that he could watch the sky and
the moon while lying on his back; a fireplace made of gray wood that felt
as hard and cold as steel when he touched it, as if the timber had been
compressed to unsurpassed density; and a huge low-rimmed bowl set in
the floor and lined with soft blankets where Saphira could sleep.

Even as he watched, she swooped down and landed on the edge of the
opening, her scales twinkling like a constellation of blue stars. Behind her,
the last rays of the sun streaked across the forest, painting the various
ridges and hills with a hazy amber that made the needles glow like hot

223



iron and chased the shadows back toward the violet horizon. From their
height, the city appeared as a series of gaps in the voluminous canopy, islands
of calm in a restless ocean. Ellesméra’s true scope was now revealed;
it extended for several miles to the west and to the north.

I respect the Riders even more if this is how Vrael normally lived, said Eragon.
It’s much simpler than I expected. The entire structure rocked
slightly in response to a breath of wind.

Saphira sniffed her blankets. We have yet to see Vroengard, she cautioned,
although he sensed that she agreed with him.

As Eragon closed the screen to the bedroom, he saw something in the
corner that he had missed during his first inspection: a spiral staircase that
wound up a dark wood chimney. Thrusting the lantern before him, he
cautiously ascended, one step at a time. After about twenty feet, he
emerged in a study furnished with a writing desk—stocked with quills,
ink, and paper, but no parchment—and another padded roost for a
dragon to curl up on. The far wall also had an opening to fly through.

Saphira, come see this.

How? she asked.

Through the outside. Eragon winced as layers of bark splintered and
cracked under Saphira’s claws while she crawled out of the bedroom and
up the side of the compound to the study. Satisfied? he asked when she
arrived. Saphira raked him with her sapphire eyes, then proceeded to
scrutinize the walls and furniture.

I wonder, she said, how you are supposed to stay warm when the rooms
are open to the elements?

I don’t know. Eragon examined the walls on either side of the breach,
running his hands over abstract patterns that had been coaxed from the
tree by the elves’ songs. He stopped when he felt a vertical ridge embedded
in the bark. He tugged on it, and a diaphanous membrane unspooled
from within the wall. Pulling it across the portal, he found a second
groove to hold the hem of the cloth. As soon as it was fastened, the air
thickened and became noticeably hotter. There’s your answer, he said. He
released the cloth and it lashed back and forth as it rewound itself.

When they returned to the bedroom, Eragon unpacked while Saphira
coiled upon her dais. He carefully arranged his shield, bracers, greaves,

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coif, and helm, then stripped off his tunic and removed his shirt of
leather-backed mail. He sat bare-chested on the bed and studied the oiled
links, struck by their similarity to Saphira’s scales.

We made it, he said, bemused.

A long journey... but yes, we made it. We’re lucky that misfortune did not
strike upon the road.

He nodded. Now we’ll find out if it was worth it. Sometimes I wonder if
our time would have been better spent helping the Varden.

Eragon! You know that we need further instruction. Brom would have
wanted it. Besides, Ellesméra and Islanzadí were certainly worth coming all
this way to see.

Maybe. Finally, he asked, What do you make of all this?

Saphira parted her jaws slightly to show her teeth. I don’t know. The
elves keep more secrets than even Brom, and they can do things with magic
that I never thought possible. I have no idea what methods they use to grow
their trees into such shapes, nor how Islanzadí summoned those flowers. It is
beyond my ken.

Eragon was relieved that he was not the only one who felt overwhelmed.
And Arya?

What about her?

You know, who she really is.

She hasn’t changed, only your perception of her. Saphira chuckled deep
in her throat, where it sounded like stones grinding against each other,
and rested her head on her two front feet.

The stars were bright in the sky now, and the soft hoots of owls drifted
through Ellesméra. All the world was calm and silent as it slumbered
away the liquid night.

Eragon clambered underneath his downy sheets and reached to shutter
the lantern, then stopped, his hand an inch from the latch. Here he was
in the elves’ capital, over a hundred feet in the air, lying in what used to
be Vrael’s bed.

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The thought was too much for him.

Rolling upright, he grabbed the lantern with one hand, Zar’roc with the
other, and surprised Saphira by crawling onto her dais and snuggling
against her warm side. She hummed and dropped a velvet wing over him
as he extinguished the light and closed his eyes.

Together they slept long and deep in Ellesméra.

226



OUT OF THE PAST


Eragon woke at dawn well rested. He tapped Saphira’s ribs, and she
lifted her wing. Running his hands through his hair, he walked to the
room’s precipice and leaned against one side, bark rough against his
shoulder. Below, the forest sparkled like a field of diamonds as each tree
reflected the morning light with a thousand thousand drops of dew.

He jumped with surprise as Saphira dove past him, twisting like an auger
toward the canopy before she pulled up and circled through the sky,
roaring with joy. Morning, little one. He smiled, happy that she was
happy.

He opened the screen to their bedroom, where he found two trays of
food—mostly fruit—that had been placed by the lintel during the night.
By the trays was a bundle of clothes with a paper note pinned to it. Eragon
had difficulty deciphering the flowing script, since he had not read
for over a month and had forgotten some of the letters, but at last he understood
that it said:

Greetings, Saphira Bjartskular and Eragon Shadeslayer.

I, Bellaen of House Miolandra, do humble myself and apologize to you,
Saphira, for this unsatisfactory meal. Elves do not hunt, and no meat is to
be had in Ellesméra, nor in any of our cities. If you wish, you can do as
the dragons of old were wont, and catch what you may in Du Weldenvarden.
We only ask that you leave your kills in the forest so that our air
and water remain untainted by blood.

Eragon, these clothes are for you. They were woven by Niduen of Islanzadí’s
house and are her gift to you.

May good fortune rule over you,

Peace live in your heart,

And the stars watch over you.

Bellaen du Hljödhr

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When Eragon told Saphira the message, she said, It does not matter; I
won’t need to eat for a while after yesterday’s meal. However, she did snap
up a few seed cakes. Just so that I don’t appear rude, she explained.

After Eragon finished breakfast, he hauled the bundle of clothes onto
his bed and carefully unfolded them, finding two full-length tunics of russet
trimmed with thimbleberry green, a set of creamy leggings to wrap
his calves in, and three pairs of socks so soft, they felt like liquid when he
pulled them through his hands. The quality of the fabric shamed the
weaving of the women of Carvahall as well as the dwarf clothes he wore
now.

Eragon was grateful for the new raiment. His own tunic and breeches
were sadly travel-worn from their weeks exposed to the rain and sun
since Farthen Dûr. Stripping, he donned one of the luxurious tunics, savoring
its downy texture.

He had just laced on his boots when someone knocked on the screen to
the bedroom. “Come in,” he said, reaching for Zar’roc.

Orik poked his head inside, then cautiously entered, testing the floor
with his feet. He eyed the ceiling. “Give me a cave any day instead of a
bird’s nest like this. How fared your night, Eragon? Saphira?”

“Well enough. And yours?” said Eragon.

“I slept like a rock.” The dwarf chuckled at his own jest, then his chin
sank into his beard and he fingered the head of his ax. “I see you’ve eaten,
so I’ll ask you to accompany me. Arya, the queen, and a host of other
elves await you at the base of the tree.” He fixed Eragon with a testy
gaze. “Something is going on that they haven’t told us about. I’m not sure
what they want from you, but it’s important. Islanzadí’s as tense as a cornered
wolf... I thought I’d warn you beforehand.”

Eragon thanked him, then the two of them descended by way of the
stairs, while Saphira glided to earth. They were met on the ground by Islanzadí
arrayed in a mantle of ruffled swan feathers, which were like winter
snow heaped upon a cardinal’s breast. She greeted them and said, “Follow
me.”

Her wending course took the group to the edge of Ellesméra, where
the buildings were few and the paths were faint from disuse. At the base
of a wooded knoll, Islanzadí stopped and said in a terrible voice, “Before

228



we go any farther, the three of you must swear in the ancient language
that you will never speak to outsiders of what you are about to see, not
without permission from me, my daughter, or whoever may succeed us
to the throne.”

“Why should I gag myself?” demanded Orik.

Why indeed ?asked Saphira. Do you not trust us?

“It is not a matter of trust, but of safety. We must protect this knowledge
at all costs—it’s our greatest advantage over Galbatorix—and if you
are bound by the ancient language, you will never willingly reveal our secret.
You came to supervise Eragon’s training, Orik-vodhr. Unless you
give me your word, you may as well return to Farthen Dûr.”

At last Orik said, “I believe that you mean no harm to dwarves or to
the Varden, else I would never agree. And I hold you to the honor of
your hall and clan that this isn’t a ploy to deceive us. Tell me what to
say.”

While the queen tutored Orik in the correct pronunciation of the desired
phrase, Eragon asked Saphira, Should I do it?

Do we have a choice? Eragon remembered that Arya had asked the
same question yesterday, and he began to have an inkling of what she had
meant: the queen left no room to maneuver.

When Orik finished, Islanzadí looked expectantly at Eragon. He hesitated,
then delivered the oath, as did Saphira. “Thank you,” said Islanzadí.
“Now we may proceed.”

At the top of the knoll, the trees were replaced by a bed of red clover
that ran several yards to the edge of a stone cliff. The cliff extended a
league in either direction and dropped a thousand feet to the forest below,
which pooled outward until it merged with the sky. It felt as if they
stood on the edge of the world, staring across an endless expanse of forest.


I know this place, realized Eragon, remembering his vision of Togira Ikonoka.


Thud. The air shivered from the strength of the concussion. Thud. Another
dull blow made Eragon’s teeth chatter. Thud. He jammed his fingers
in his ears, trying to protect them from the painful spikes in pres


229



sure. The elves stood motionless. Thud. The clover bent under a sudden
gust of wind.

Thud. From below the edge of the cliff rose a huge gold dragon with a
Rider on its back.

230



CONVICTION


Roran glared at Horst.

They were in Baldor’s room. Roran was propped upright in bed, listening
as the smith said, “What did you expect me to do? We couldn’t attack
once you fainted. Besides, the men were in no state to fight. Can’t
blame them either. I nearly bit off my tongue when I saw those monsters.”
Horst shook his wild mane of hair. “We’ve been dragged into one
of the old tales, Roran, and I don’t like it one bit.” Roran retained his
stony expression. “Look, you can kill the soldiers if you want, but you
have to get your strength back first. You’ll have plenty of volunteers;
people trust you in battle, especially after you defeated the soldiers here
last night.” When Roran remained silent, Horst sighed, patted him on his
good shoulder, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Roran did not even blink. So far in his life, he had only truly cared
about three things: his family, his home in Palancar Valley, and Katrina.
His family had been annihilated last year. His farm had been smashed and
burned, though the land remained, which was all that really mattered.

But now Katrina was gone.

A choked sob escaped past the iron lump in his throat. He was faced
with a quandary that tore at his very essence: the only way to rescue
Katrina would be to somehow pursue the Ra’zac and leave Palancar Valley,
yet he could not abandon Carvahall to the soldiers. Nor could he forget
Katrina.

My heart or my home, he thought bitterly. They were worthless without
each other. If he killed the soldiers it would only prevent the
Ra’zac—and perhaps Katrina—from returning. Anyway, the slaughter
would be pointless if reinforcements were nearby, for their arrival would
surely signal Carvahall’s demise.

Roran clenched his teeth as a fresh burst of pain emanated from his
bound shoulder. He closed his eyes. I hope Sloan gets eaten like Quimby.
No fate could be too terrible for that traitor. Roran cursed him with the
blackest oaths he knew.

Even if I were free to leave Carvahall, how could I find the Ra’zac? Who
would know where they live? Who would dare inform on Galbatorix’s servants?
Despair rolled over him as he wrestled with the problem. He

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imagined himself in one of the great cities of the Empire, searching aimlessly
among dirty buildings and hordes of strangers for a hint, a glimpse,
a taste of his love.

It was hopeless.

A river of tears followed as he doubled over, groaning from the
strength of his agony and fear. He rocked back and forth, blind to anything
but the desolation of the world.

An endless amount of time reduced Roran’s sobs to weak gasps of protest.
He wiped his eyes and forced himself to take a long, shuddering
breath. He winced. His lungs felt like they were filled with shards of
glass.

I have to think, he told himself.

He leaned against the wall and—through the sheer strength of his
will—began to gradually subdue each of his unruly emotions, wrestling
them into submission to the one thing that could save him from insanity:
reason. His neck and shoulders trembled from the violence of his efforts.

Once he regained control, Roran carefully arranged his thoughts, like a
master craftsman organizing his tools into precise rows. There must be a
solution hidden amid my knowledge, if only I’m creative enough.

He could not track the Ra’zac through the air. That much was clear.
Someone would have to tell him where to find them, and of all the people
he could ask, the Varden probably knew the most. However, they
would be just as hard to find as the desecrators, and he could not waste
time searching for them. Although... A small voice in his head reminded
him of the rumors he had heard from trappers and traders that Surda secretly
supported the Varden.

Surda. The country lay at the bottom of the Empire, or so Roran had
been told, as he had never seen a map of Alagaësia. Under ideal conditions,
it would take several weeks to reach on horse, longer if he had to
evade soldiers. Of course, the swiftest mode of transportation would be
to sail south along the coast, but that would mean having to travel all the
way to the Toark River and then to Teirm to find a ship. It would take
far too long. And he still might be apprehended by soldiers.

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“If, could, would, might, ” he muttered, repeatedly clenching his left
hand. North of Teirm, the only port he knew of was Narda, but to reach
it, he would have to cross the entire width of the Spine—a feat unheard
of, even for the trappers.

Roran swore quietly. The conjecture was pointless. I should be trying to
save Carvahall, not desert it. The problem was, he had already determined
that the village and all who remained in it were doomed. Tears
gathered at the corners of his eyes again. All who remain...

What... what if everyone in Carvahall accompanied me to Narda and
then to Surda? He would achieve both his desires simultaneously.

The audacity of the idea stunned him.

It was heresy, blasphemy, to think that he could convince the farmers
to abandon their fields and the merchants their shops... and yet... and yet
what was the alternative but slavery or death? The Varden were the only
group that would harbor fugitives of the Empire, and Roran was sure that
the rebels would be delighted to have a village’s worth of recruits, especially
ones who had proved themselves in battle. Also, by bringing the
villagers to them, he would earn the Varden’s confidence, so that they
would trust him with the location of the Ra’zac. Maybe they can explain
why Galbatorix is so desperate to capture me.

If the plan were to succeed, though, it would have to be implemented
before the new troops reached Carvahall, which left only a few days—if
that—to arrange the departure of some three hundred people. The logistics
were frightening to consider.

Roran knew that mere reason could not persuade anyone to leave; it
would require messianic zeal to stir people’s emotions, to make them feel
in the depths of their hearts the need to relinquish the trappings of their
identities and lives. Nor would it be enough to simply instill fear—for he
knew that fear often made those in peril fight harder. Rather, he had to
instill a sense of purpose and destiny, to make the villagers believe, as he
did, that joining the Varden and resisting Galbatorix’s tyranny was the
noblest action in the world.

It required passion that could not be intimidated by hardship, deterred
by suffering, or quenched by death.

In his mind, Roran saw Katrina standing before him, pale and ghostly
with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the

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mulled scent of her hair, and what it felt like to be with her under the
cover of darkness. Then in a long line behind her appeared his family,
friends, and everyone he had known in Carvahall, both dead and alive. If
not for Eragon... and me... the Ra’zac would have never come here. I must
rescue the village from the Empire as surely as I must rescue Katrina from
those desecrators.

Drawing upon the strength of his vision, Roran rose from bed, causing
his maimed shoulder to burn and sting. He staggered and leaned against a
wall. Will I ever regain the use of my right arm ? He waited for the pain to
subside. When it did not, he bared his teeth, shoved himself upright, and
marched from the room.

Elain was folding towels in the hallway. She cried out with amazement.
“Roran! What are you—”

“Come,” he growled, lurching past.

With a worried expression, Baldor stepped out of a doorway. “Roran,
you shouldn’t be walking around. You lost too much blood. I’ll help—”

“Come.”

Roran heard them follow as he descended the curved stairs toward the
entrance of the house, where Horst and Albriech stood talking. They
looked up with astonishment.

“Come.”

He ignored the babble of questions, opened the front door, and stepped
into the evening’s faded light. Above, an imposing plume of clouds was
laced with gold and purple.

Leading the small group, Roran stomped to the edge of Carvahall—
repeating his monosyllabic message whenever he passed a man or
woman—pulled a torch mounted on a pole from the grasping mud,
wheeled about, and retraced his path to the center of town. There he
stabbed the pole between his feet, then raised his left arm and roared,
“COME!”

The village rang with his voice. He continued the summons as people
drifted from the houses and shadowed alleyways and began to gather
around him. Many were curious, others sympathetic, some awed, and
some angry. Again and again, Roran’s chant echoed in the valley. Loring

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arrived with his sons in tow. From the opposite direction came Birgit,
Delwin, and Fisk with his wife, Isold. Morn and Tara left the tavern together
and joined the crush of spectators.

When most of Carvahall stood before him, Roran fell silent, tightening
his left fist until his fingernails cut into his palm. Katrina. Raising his
hand, he opened it and showed everyone the crimson tears that dripped
down his arm. “This,” he said, “is my pain. Look well, for it will be yours
unless we defeat the curse wanton fate has set upon us. Your friends and
family will be bound in chains, destined for slavery in foreign lands, or
slain before your eyes, hewn open by soldiers’ merciless blades. Galbatorix
will sow our land with salt so that it lies forever fallow. This I have
seen. This I know.” He paced like a caged wolf, glowering and swinging
his head. He had their attention. Now he had to stoke them into a frenzy
to match his own.

“My father was killed by the desecrators. My cousin has fled. My farm
was razed. And my bride-to-be was kidnapped by her own father, who
murdered Byrd and betrayed us all! Quimby eaten, the hay barn burned
along with Fisk’s and Delwin’s houses. Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Farold,
Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, Albem, and Elmund: all slain. Many of
you have been injured, like me, so that you can no longer support your
family. Isn’t it enough that we toil every day of our lives to eke a living
from the earth, subjected to the whims of nature? Isn’t it enough that we
are forced to pay Galbatorix’s iron taxes, without also having to endure
these senseless torments?” Roran laughed maniacally, howling at the sky
and hearing the madness in his own voice. No one stirred in the crowd.

“I know now the true nature of the Empire and of Galbatorix; they are
evil. Galbatorix is an unnatural blight on the world. He destroyed the
Riders and the greatest peace and prosperity we ever had. His servants
are foul demons birthed in some ancient pit. But is Galbatorix content to
grind us beneath his heel? No! He seeks to poison all of Alagaësia, to suffocate
us with his cloak of misery. Our children and their descendants
shall live in the shadow of his darkness until the end of time, reduced to
slaves, worms, vermin for him to torture at his pleasure. Unless...”

Roran stared into the villagers’ wide eyes, conscious of his control over
them. No one had ever dared say what he was about to. He let his voice
rasp low in his throat: “Unless we have the courage to resist evil.

“We’ve fought the soldiers and the Ra’zac, but it means nothing if we
die alone and forgotten—or are carted away as chattel. We cannot stay
here, and I won’t allow Galbatorix to obliterate everything that’s worth

235



living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out and my hands
chopped off than see him triumph! I choose to fight! I choose to step
from my grave and let my enemies bury themselves in it!

“I choose to leave Carvahall.

“I will cross the Spine and take a ship from Narda down to Surda,
where I will join the Varden, who have struggled for decades to free us
of this oppression.” The villagers looked shocked at the idea. “But I do not
wish to go alone. Come with me. Come with me and seize this chance to
forge a better life for yourselves. Throw off the shackles that bind you
here.” Roran pointed at his listeners, moving his finger from one target to
the next. “A hundred years from now, what names shall drop from the
bards’ lips? Horst... Birgit... Kiselt... Thane; they will recite our sagas. They
will sing “The Epic of Carvahall,” for we were the only village brave
enough to defy the Empire.”

Tears of pride flooded Roran’s eyes. “What could be more noble than
cleansing Galbatorix’s stain from Alagaësia? No more would we live in
fear of having our farms destroyed, or being killed and eaten. The grain
we harvest would be ours to keep, save for any extra that we might send
as a gift to the rightful king. The rivers and streams would run thick with
gold. We would be safe and happy and fat!

“It is our destiny.”

Roran held his hand before his face and slowly closed his fingers over
the bleeding wounds. He stood hunched over his injured arm—crucified
by the scores of gazes—and waited for a response to his speech. None
came. At last he realized that they wanted him to continue; they wanted
to hear more about the cause and the future he had portrayed.

Katrina.

Then as darkness gathered around the radius of his torch, Roran drew
himself upright and resumed speaking. He hid nothing, only labored to
make them understand his thoughts and feelings, so they too could share
the sense of purpose that drove him. “Our age is at an end. We must step
forward and cast our lot with the Varden if we and our children are to
live free.” He spoke with rage and honeyed tones in equal amount, but
always with a fervid conviction that kept his audience entranced.

When his store of images was exhausted, Roran looked into the faces of
his friends and neighbors and said, “I march in two days. Accompany me

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if you wish, but I go regardless.” He bowed his head and stepped out of
the light.

Overhead, the waning moon glowed behind a lens of clouds. A slight
breeze wafted through Carvahall. An iron weather vane creaked on a
roof as it swung in the direction of the current.

From within the crowd, Birgit picked her way into the light, clutching
the folds of her dress to avoid tripping. With a subdued expression, she
adjusted her shawl. “Today we saw an...” She stopped, shook her head,
and laughed in an embarrassed way. “I find it hard to speak after Roran. I
don’t like his plan, but I believe that it’s necessary, although for a different
reason: I would hunt down the Ra’zac and avenge my husband’s
death. I will go with him. And I will take my children.” She too stepped
away from the torch.

A silent minute passed, then Delwin and his wife, Lenna, advanced
with their arms around each other. Lenna looked at Birgit and said, “I understand
your need, Sister. We want our vengeance as well, but more
than that, we want the rest of our children to be safe. For that reason, we
too will go.” Several women whose husbands had been slain came forward
and agreed with her.

The villagers murmured among themselves, then fell silent and motionless.
No one else seemed willing to address the subject; it was too
momentous. Roran understood. He was still trying to digest the implications
himself.

Finally, Horst strode to the torch and stared with a drawn face into the
flame. “It’s no good talking any more.... We need time to think. Every
man must decide for himself. Tomorrow... tomorrow will be another day.
Perhaps things will be clearer then.” He shook his head and lifted the
torch, then inverted it and extinguished it against the ground, leaving
everyone to find their way home in the moonlight.

Roran joined Albriech and Baldor, who walked behind their parents at
a discreet distance, giving them privacy to talk. Neither of the brothers
would look at Roran. Unsettled by their lack of expression, Roran asked,
“Do you think anyone else will go? Was I good enough?”

Albriech emitted a bark of laughter. “Good enough!”

“Roran,” said Baldor in an odd voice, “you could have convinced an Urgal
to become a farmer tonight.”

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“No!”

“When you finished, I was ready to grab my spear and dash into the
Spine after you. I wouldn’t have been alone either. The question isn’t
who will leave, it’s who won’t. What you said... I’ve never heard anything
like it before.”

Roran frowned. His goal had been to persuade people to accept his
plan, not to get them to follow him personally. If that’s what it takes, he
thought with a shrug. Still, the prospect had caught him unawares. At an
earlier time, it would have disturbed him, but now he was just thankful
for anything that could help him to rescue Katrina and save the villagers.

Baldor leaned toward his brother. “Father would lose most of his tools.”
Albriech nodded solemnly.

Roran knew that smiths made whatever implement was required by
the task at hand, and that these custom tools formed a legacy that was
bequeathed from father to son, or from master to journeyman. One
measure of a smith’s wealth and skill was the number of tools he owned.
For Horst to surrender his would be...Would be no harder than what anyone
else has to do, thought Roran. He only regretted that it would entail
depriving Albriech and Baldor of their rightful inheritance.

When they reached the house, Roran retreated to Baldor’s room and lay
in bed. Through the walls, he could still hear the faint sound of Horst and
Elain talking. He fell asleep imagining similar discussions taking place
throughout Carvahall, deciding his—and their—fate.

238



REPERCUSSIONS


The morning after his speech, Roran looked out his window and saw
twelve men leaving Carvahall, heading toward Igualda Falls. He yawned
and limped downstairs to the kitchen.

Horst sat alone at the table, twisting a mug of ale in his hands. “Morning,”
he said.

Roran grunted, tore a heel of bread off the loaf on the counter, then
seated himself at the opposite end of the table. As he ate, he noted
Horst’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt beard. Roran guessed that the smith
had been awake the entire night. “Do you know why a group is going
up—”

“Have to talk with their families,” said Horst abruptly. “They’ve been
running into the Spine since dawn.” He put the mug down with a crack.
“You have no idea what you did, Roran, by asking us to leave. The whole
village is in turmoil. You backed us into a corner with only one way out:
your way. Some people hate you for it. Of course a fair number of them
already hated you for bringing this upon us.”

The bread in Roran’s mouth tasted like sawdust as resentment flared
inside him. Eragon was the one who brought back the stone, not me. “And
the others?”

Horst sipped his ale and grimaced. “The others adore you. I never
thought I would see the day when Garrow’s son would stir my heart
with words, but you did it, boy, you did it.” He swung a gnarled hand
over his head. “All this? I built it for Elain and my sons. It took me seven
years to finish! See that beam over the door right there? I broke three
toes getting that into place. And you know what? I’m going to give it up
because of what you said last night.”

Roran remained silent; it was what he wanted. Leaving Carvahall was
the right thing to do, and since he had committed himself to that course,
he saw no reason to torment himself with guilt and regret. The decision is
made. I will accept the outcome without complaint, no matter how dire, for
this is our only escape from the Empire.

“But,” said Horst, and leaned forward on one elbow, his black eyes
burning beneath his brow, “just you remember that if reality falls short of
the airy dreams you conjured, there’ll be debts to pay. Give people a

239



hope and then take it away, and they’ll destroy you.”

The prospect was of no concern to Roran. If we make it to Surda, we
will be greeted as heroes by the rebels. If we don’t, our deaths will fulfill all
debts. When it was clear that the smith had finished, Roran asked,
“Where is Elain?”

Horst scowled at the change of topic. “Out back.” He stood and
straightened his tunic over his heavy shoulders. “I have to go clear out the
smithy and decide what tools I’m going to take. I’ll hide or destroy the
rest. The Empire won’t benefit from my work.”

“I’ll help.” Roran pushed back his chair.

“No,” said Horst roughly. “This is a task I can only do with Albriech and
Baldor. That forge has been my entire life, and theirs.... You wouldn’t be
much help with that arm of yours anyway. Stay here. Elain can use you.”

After the smith left, Roran opened the side door and found Elain talking
with Gertrude by the large pile of firewood Horst maintained yearround.
The healer went up to Roran and put a hand on his forehead. “Ah,
I was afraid that you might have a fever after yesterday’s excitement.
Your family heals at the most extraordinary rate. I could barely believe
my eyes when Eragon started walking about after having his legs skinned
and spending two days in bed.” Roran stiffened at the mention of his
cousin, but she did not seem to notice. “Let’s see how your shoulder is
doing, shall we?”

Roran bowed his neck so that Gertrude could reach behind him and
untie the knot to the wool sling. When it was undone, he carefully lowered
his right forearm—which was immobilized in a splint—until his
arm was straight. Gertrude slid her fingers under the poultice packed on
his wound and peeled it off.

“Oh my,” she said.

A thick, rancid smell clogged the air. Roran clenched his teeth as his
gorge rose, then looked down. The skin under the poultice had turned
white and spongy, like a giant birthmark of maggot flesh. The bite itself
had been stitched up while he was unconscious, so all he saw was a jagged
pink line caked with blood on the front of his shoulder. Swelling and
inflammation had forced the twisted catgut threads to cut deep into his
flesh, while beads of clear liquid oozed from the wound.

240



Gertrude clucked her tongue as she inspected him, then refastened the
bandages and looked Roran in the eye. “You’re doing well enough, but
the tissue may become diseased. I can’t tell yet. If it does, we’ll have to
cauterize your shoulder.”

Roran nodded. “Will my arm work once it heals?”

“As long as the muscle knits together properly. It also depends on how
you want to use it. You—”

“Will I be able to fight?”

“If you want to fight,” said Gertrude slowly, “I suggest that you learn to
use your left hand.” She patted his cheek, then hurried back toward her
hut.

My arm. Roran stared at his bound limb as if it no longer belonged to
him. Until that moment, he had not realized how closely his sense of
identity was linked to the condition of his body. Injuring his flesh caused
injury to his psyche, as well as the other way around. Roran was proud of
his body, and seeing it mutilated sent a jolt of panic through him, especially
since the damage was permanent. Even if he regained the use of his
arm, he would always bear a thick scar as a memento of his injury.

Taking his hand, Elain led Roran back into the house, where she crumbled
mint into a kettle, then set it on the stove to boil. “You really love
her, don’t you?”

“What?” He looked at her, startled.

Elain rested a hand on her belly. “Katrina.” She smiled. “I’m not blind. I
know what you’ve done for her, and I’m proud of you. Not every man
would go as far.”

“It won’t matter, if I can’t free her.”

The kettle began to whistle stridently. “You will, I’m sure of it—one
way or another.” Elain poured the tea. “We had better start preparing for
the trip. I’m going to sort through the kitchen first. While I do, can you
go upstairs and bring me all the clothes, bedding, and anything else you
think might be useful?”

“Where should I put it?” asked Roran.

241



“The dining room will be fine.”

Since the mountains were too steep—and the forest too dense—for
wagons, Roran realized that their supplies were limited to however much
they could carry themselves, as well as what they could pile onto Horst’s
two horses, although one of those had to be left partially unburdened so
that Elain could ride whenever the trail proved too strenuous for her
pregnancy.

Compounding the issue was the fact that some families in Carvahall did
not have enough steeds for both provisions and the young, old, and infirm
who would be unable to keep pace on foot. Everyone would have to
share resources. The question, though, was with whom? They still did
not know who else was going, besides Birgit and Delwin.

Thus, when Elain finished packing the items she deemed essential—
mainly food and shelter—she sent Roran to find out if anyone needed extra
storage space and, if not, if she could borrow some in turn, for there
were plenty of nonessential items she wanted to bring but would otherwise
abandon.

Despite the people hurrying through the streets, Carvahall was heavy
with a forced stillness, an unnatural calm that belied the feverish activity
hidden within the houses. Almost everyone was silent and walked with
downturned faces, engrossed in their own thoughts.

When Roran arrived at Orval’s house, he had to pound on the knocker
for almost a minute before the farmer answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,
Stronghammer.” Orval stepped out on the porch. “Sorry for the wait, but
I was busy. How can I help you?” He tapped a long black pipe against his
palm, then began to roll it nervously between his fingers. Inside the
house, Roran heard chairs being shoved across the floor and pots and pans
banging together.

Roran quickly explained Elain’s offer and request. Orval squinted up at
the sky. “I reckon I’ve got enough room for my own stuff. Ask around, an’
if you still need space, I have a pair of oxen that could hold a bit more.”

“So you are going?”

Orval shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We’re just...
getting ready in case of another attack.”

242



“Ah.” Puzzled, Roran trudged on to Kiselt’s house. He soon discovered
that no one was willing to reveal whether they had decided to leave—
even when evidence of their preparations was in plain sight.

And they all treated Roran with a deference that he found unsettling. It
manifested itself in small gestures: offers of condolences for his misfortune,
respectful silence whenever he spoke, and murmurs of assent when
he made a statement. It was as if his deeds had inflated his stature and intimidated
the people he had known since childhood, distancing him from
them.

I am branded, thought Roran, limping through the mud. He stopped at
the edge of a puddle and bent to examine his reflection, curious if he
could discern what made him so different.

He saw a man in ragged, blood-stained clothes, with a humped back
and a crooked arm tied across his chest. His neck and cheeks were scumbled
with an impending beard, while his hair was matted into snarled
ropes that writhed in a halo around his head. Most frightening of all,
though, were his eyes, which had sunk deep into the sockets, giving him
a haunted appearance. From within those two morbid caverns, his gaze
boiled like molten steel, full of loss, rage, and an obsessive craving.

A lopsided smile crept across Roran’s face, rendering his visage even
more shocking. He liked how he looked. It matched his feelings. Now he
understood how he had managed to influence the villagers. He bared his
teeth. I can use this image. I can use it to destroy the Ra’zac.

Lifting his head, he slouched up the street, pleased with himself. Just
then, Thane approached him and grasped his left forearm in a hearty grip.
“Stronghammer! You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

“You are?” Roran wondered if the whole world had been turned inside
out during the night.

Thane nodded vigorously. “Ever since we attacked the soldiers, everything
has seemed hopeless to me. It pains me to admit it, but so it was.
My heart pounded all the time, like I was about to fall down a well; my
hands shook; and I felt dreadfully ill. I thought someone had poisoned
me! It was worse than death. But what you said yesterday healed me instantly
and let me see purpose and meaning in the world again! I... I can’t
even explain the horror you saved me from. I am in your debt. If you
need or want anything, just ask and I’ll help.”

243



Moved, Roran gripped the farmer’s forearm in return and said, “Thank
you, Thane. Thank you.” Thane bowed his head, tears in his eyes, then
released Roran and left him standing alone in the middle of the street.

What have I done?

244



EXODUS


Awall of thick, smoky air engulfed Roran as he entered the Seven
Sheaves, Morn’s tavern. He stopped beneath the Urgal horns pegged over
the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. “Hello?” he called.

The door to the back rooms banged open as Tara plowed forward,
trailed by Morn. They both glared sullenly at Roran. Tara planted her
meaty fists on her hips and demanded, “What do you want here?”

Roran stared at her for a moment, trying to determine the source of her
animosity. “Have you decided whether to accompany me into the Spine?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped Tara.

Oh yes, it is. He restrained himself, though, and instead said, “Whatever
your intentions are, if you were to go, Elain would like to know if you
have room in your bags for a few more items, or if you need extra room
yourself. She has—”

“Extra room!” burst out Morn. He waved at the wall behind the bar,
which was lined with oak casks. “I have, packed in straw, twelve barrels
of the clearest winter ale, which have been kept at the perfect temperature
for the past five months. They were Quimby’s last batch! What am I
supposed to do with them? Or my hogsheads of lager and stout? If I leave
them, the soldiers will dispose of it in a week, or they’ll spike the barrels
and pour the beer into the ground, where the only creatures who’ll enjoy
it will be grubs and worms. Oh!” Morn sat and wrung his hands, shaking
his head. “Twelve years of work! Ever since Father died I ran the tavern
the same way he did, day in and day out. And then you and Eragon had
to cause this trouble. It...” He stopped, breathing with difficulty, and
wiped his mashed face with the edge of his sleeve.

“There, there now,” said Tara. She put her arm around Morn and
jabbed a finger at Roran. “Who gave you leave to stir up Carvahall with
your fancy words? If we go, how will my poor husband make a living?
He can’t take his trade with him like Horst or Gedric. He can’t squat in
an empty field and farm it like you! Impossible! Everyone will go and we
will starve. Or we will go and we will still starve. You have ruined us!”

Roran looked from her flushed, angry face to Morn’s distraught one,
then turned and opened the door. He paused on the threshold and said in
a low voice, “I have always counted you among my friends. I would not

245



have you killed by the Empire.” Stepping outside, he pulled his vest tight
around himself and paced away from the tavern, ruminating the whole
way.

At Fisk’s well, he stopped for a drink and found himself joined by
Birgit. She watched him struggle to turn the crank with only one hand,
then took it from him and brought up the water bucket, which she
passed to him without drinking. He sipped the cool liquid, then said, “I’m
glad that you are coming.” He handed the bucket back.

Birgit eyed him. “I recognize the force that drives you, Roran, for it
propels me as well; we both wish to find the Ra’zac. Once we do,
though, I will have my compensation from you for Quimby’s death.
Never forget that.” She pushed the full bucket back into the well and let
it fall unchecked, the crank spinning wildly. A second later, the well echoed
with a hollow splash.

Roran smiled as he watched her walk away. He was more pleased than
upset by her declaration; he knew that even if everyone else in Carvahall
were to forsake the cause or die, Birgit would still help him to hunt the
Ra’zac. Afterward, though—if an afterward existed—he would have to
pay her price or kill her. That was the only way to resolve such matters.

By evening Horst and his sons had returned to the house, bearing two
small bundles wrapped in oilcloth. “Is that all?” asked Elain. Horst nodded
curtly, lay the bundles on the kitchen table, and unwrapped them to expose
four hammers, three tongs, a clamp, a medium-sized bellows, and a
three-pound anvil.

As the five of them sat to dinner, Albriech and Baldor discussed the
various people they had seen making covert preparations. Roran listened
intently, trying to keep track of who had lent donkeys to whom, who
showed no signs of departing, and who might need help to leave.

“The biggest problem,” said Baldor, “is food. We can only carry so
much, and it’ll be difficult to hunt enough in the Spine to feed two or
three hundred people.”

“Mmm.” Horst shook his finger, his mouth full of beans, then swallowed.
“No, hunting won’t work. We have to bring our flocks with us.
Combined, we own enough sheep and goats to feed the lot of us for a
month or more.”

246



Roran raised his knife. “Wolves.”

“I’m more worried about keeping the animals from wandering off into
the forest,” replied Horst. “Herding them will be a chore.”

Roran spent the following day assisting whomever he could, saying little,
and generally allowing people to see him working for the good of the
village. Late that night, he tumbled into bed exhausted but hopeful.

The advent of dawn pierced Roran’s dreams and woke him with a
sense of momentous expectation. He stood and tiptoed downstairs, then
went outside and stared at the misty mountains, absorbed by the morning’s
silence. His breath formed a white plume in the air, but he felt
warm, for his heart throbbed with fear and eagerness.

After a subdued breakfast, Horst brought the horses to the front of the
house, where Roran helped Albriech and Baldor load them with saddlebags
and other bundles of supplies. Next Roran took up his own pack,
hissing as the leather shoulder strap pressed down on his injury.

Horst closed the door to the house. He lingered for a moment with his
fingers on the steel doorknob, then took Elain’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

As they walked through Carvahall, Roran saw somber families gathering
by their houses with their piles of possessions and yammering livestock.
He saw sheep and dogs with bags tied on their backs, teary-eyed
children on donkeys, and makeshift sledges hitched to horses with crates
of fluttering chickens hung on each side. He saw the fruits of his success,
and he knew not whether to laugh or to cry.

They stopped at Carvahall’s north end and waited to see who would
join them. A minute passed, then Birgit approached from the side, accompanied
by Nolfavrell and his younger siblings. Birgit greeted Horst
and Elain and stationed herself nearby.

Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a
hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it
would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the
animals.

“Good thinking!” replied Horst.

247



Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family;
Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile;
and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed,
like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the mountain
peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.

Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when
Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Roran.
He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to
restrain.

“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He
shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lifting
his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave.
Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the
first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children,
so...” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”

“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”

“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”

Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to
ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who remained.


A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congregation
and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people
turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness,
but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his
words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll
take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therinsford.
They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in
Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.

Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned
the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering.
Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their
minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”

“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if
anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in
opposite directions.

248



Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed
horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her
hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of
her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts.
She stopped, wheezing for breath. “I am sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had
trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to
bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching
a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First
this one, then that one.”

A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”

Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his
teeth. “Where is he?”

Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”

Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his
back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and
several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara,
who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey
and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment,
the animals were burdened with even more casks.

“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness.
“And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed
them or—”

With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food.
Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few
extra meals. You’ll see.”

As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him
and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative,
Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding
Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s,
Parr’s, and Knute’s. I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right.
There’s no sense in waiting longer.”

Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived.
Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid
planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.

249



Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”

“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened
six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the
top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base.
“I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have
need of it.”

Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I
couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful.... Thank
you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.

Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced
the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the
leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had
known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky
and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he
would not look back.

Katrina.

Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the
hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading
the villagers into the wilderness.

250



ON THE CRAGS OF TEL’NAEÍR


Thud.

Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone
clustered along the Crags of Tel’naeír, buffeting them with gusts from its
mighty wings. The dragon’s body appeared to be on fire as the brilliant
dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with
dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough to be
several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs,
and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the brilliance
of the scales.

Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. I’m not alone.... Awe and relief
coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsibility
of the Varden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here was one of the
guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a living
symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here
was his master. Here was a legend!

As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature’s left foreleg
had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in
place of the once mighty limb. Tears filled his eyes.

A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the
dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider carefully
descended from his steed along the dragon’s intact front right leg,
then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf
with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the
expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.

“Osthato Chetowä,” said Eragon. “The Mourning Sage... As you asked, I
have come.” With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his
lips. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright,
staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing
else; he was consumed by the endless depths within the elf’s eyes.
“Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

“You knew,” whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly
transformed into a storm of rage. “You knew of Eragon’s existence and
yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur’tugal?”

251



Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen.
“I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live
long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that
might have been torn away at any moment.”

Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings.
“You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have
sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to
escort them safely here.”

Oromis smiled sadly. “I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you
had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as is your duty,
you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia
and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget
the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but Brom?
Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the
world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you
further away by subjecting you to another loss.”

Islanzadí’s anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders
slumped. “I am diminished,” she whispered.

A cloud of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent
to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparked. We are well met,
Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Glaedr. His voice—for it was unmistakably
male—rumbled and shook through Eragon’s mind, like the growl of a
mountain avalanche.

All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, “I am honored.”

Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained
perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and
along the line of her wing. Eragon saw Saphira’s clenched leg muscles
flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and
all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but
you have the heart of a true dragon.

During this silent exchange, Orik presented himself to Oromis. “Truly,
this is beyond anything that I dared hope or expect. You are a pleasant
surprise in these dark times, Rider.” He clapped his fist over his heart. “If
it is not too presumptuous, I would ask a boon on behalf of my king and
my clan, as was the custom between our people.”

252



Oromis nodded. “And I will grant it if it is within my power.”

“Then tell me: Why have you remained hidden for all these years? You
were sorely needed, Argetlam.”

“Ah,” said Oromis. “Many sorrows exist in this world, and one of the
greatest is being unable to help those in pain. I could not risk leaving this
sanctuary, for if I had died before one of Galbatorix’s eggs had hatched,
then there would have been no one to pass on our secrets to the new
Rider, and it would have been even harder to defeat Galbatorix.”

“That was your reason?” spat Orik. “Those are the words of a coward!
The eggs might have never hatched.”

Everyone went deathly quiet, except for a faint growl that emanated
from between Glaedr’s teeth. “If you were not my guest here,” said Islanzadí,
“I would strike you down myself for that insult.”

Oromis spread his hands. “Nay, I am not offended. It is an apt reaction.
Understand, Orik, that Glaedr and I cannot fight. Glaedr has his disability,
and I,” he touched the side of his head, “I am also maimed. The Forsworn
broke something within me when I was their captive, and while I
can still teach and learn, I can no longer control magic, except for the
smallest of spells. The power escapes me, no matter how much I struggle.
I would be worse than useless in battle, I would be a weakness and a liability,
one who could easily be captured and used against you. So I removed
myself from Galbatorix’s influence for the good of the many, even
though I yearned to openly oppose him.”

“The Cripple Who Is Whole,” murmured Eragon.

“Forgive me,” said Orik. He appeared stricken.

“It is of no consequence.” Oromis placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder.
“Islanzadí Dröttning, by your leave?”

“Go,” she said wearily. “Go and be done with you.”

Glaedr crouched low to the ground, and Oromis nimbly climbed up his
leg and into the saddle on his back. “Come, Eragon and Saphira. We have
much to talk about.” The gold dragon leaped off the cliff and circled
overhead, rising on an updraft.

Eragon and Orik solemnly clasped arms. “Bring honor to your clan,” said

253



the dwarf.

As Eragon mounted Saphira, he felt as if he were about to embark on a
long journey and that he should say farewell to those who remained behind.
Instead, he just looked at Arya and smiled, letting his wonder and
joy show. She half frowned, appearing troubled, but then he was gone,
swept into the sky by the eagerness of Saphira’s flight.

Together the two dragons followed the white cliff northward for several
miles, accompanied only by the sound of their wings. Saphira flew
abreast of Glaedr. Her enthusiasm boiled over into Eragon’s mind,
heightening his own emotions.

They landed in another clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just
before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare
path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut grown between
the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged
from the moody depths of the forest. Glaedr would not fit inside; the hut
could have easily sat between his ribs.

“Welcome to my home,” said Oromis as he alighted on the ground with
uncommon ease. “I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel’naeír, because
it provides me the opportunity to think and study in peace. My
mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other
people.”

He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with two stools and flagons
of clear, cold water for both himself and Eragon. Eragon sipped his
drink and admired the spacious view of Du Weldenvarden in an attempt
to conceal his awe and nervousness while he waited for the elf to speak.
I’m in the presence of another Rider! Beside him, Saphira crouched with
her eyes fixed on Glaedr, slowly kneading the dirt between her claws.

The gap in their conversation stretched longer and longer. Ten minutes
passed... half an hour... then an hour. It reached the point where Eragon
began to measure the elapsed time by the sun’s progress. At first his mind
buzzed with questions and thoughts, but those eventually subsided into
calm acceptance. He enjoyed just observing the day.

Only then did Oromis say, “You have learned the value of patience
well. That is good.”

It took Eragon a moment to find his voice. “You can’t stalk a deer if
you are in a hurry.”

254



Oromis lowered his flagon. “True enough. Let me see your hands. I find
that they tell me much about a person.” Eragon removed his gloves and
allowed the elf to grip his wrists with thin, dry fingers. He examined Eragon’s
calluses, then said, “Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a
scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are accustomed to
a bow.”

“Aye.”

“And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all.”

“Brom taught me my letters in Teirm.”

“Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to
be reckless and disregard your own safety.”

“What makes you say that, Oromis-elda?” asked Eragon, using the most
respectful and formal honorific that he could think of.

“Not elda, ” corrected Oromis. “You may call me master in this tongue
and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the
same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your teachers; you are our students; and
you will act with proper respect and deference.” Oromis spoke gently,
but with the authority of one who expects absolute obedience.

“Yes, Master Oromis.”

“As will you, Saphira.”

Eragon could sense how hard it was for Saphira to unbend her pride
enough to say, Yes, Master.

Oromis nodded. “Now. Anyone with such a collection of scars has either
been hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately
pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?”

“No.”

“Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only
one explanation. Unless you think differently?”

Eragon cast his mind over his experiences at home and on the road, in
an attempt to categorize his behavior. “I would say, rather, that once I

255



dedicate myself to a certain project or path, I see it through, no matter
the cost... especially if someone I love is in danger.” His gaze flicked toward
Saphira.

“And do you undertake challenging projects?”

“I like to be challenged.”

“So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test
your abilities.”

“I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know
that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can
do to survive as it is.”

“Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to
remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”

“It was the right thing to do... Master.”

For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf
was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage.
Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some
kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”

“Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace
with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s orders,
to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid
that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like.... How did you
know?”

“Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”

“Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that
you?”

Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no
need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch
your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.”
Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language,
then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you
at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers together,
his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the
arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Er


256



agon?”

“To complete my training.”

“And what do you think that process entails?”

Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fighting.
Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”

“Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you
know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as
Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most
dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon
and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not
make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more
about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is
why you are here.”

When do we begin? asked Saphira.

Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His
face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that
dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and instantaneous.
Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed
again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.

Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”

A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so
than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we
can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowledge
of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry... it isn’t contagious,
but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades
binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one
upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond
my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to
witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection
from the ruin of our mistakes.”

“How long until...”

Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time,
but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call
upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will

257



begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any
Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge
into months and weeks.”

“You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and
shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my... my own infirmity. ” He
ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you
are.”

Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon,
you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you
feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a
handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pitying
yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers
will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but
in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”

Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implications.
Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The
pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”

“No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know about your curse.
However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We
cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we
can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic
threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but
their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely.
Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”

His first thought was of Saphira, but he was not doing this for her. Nor
for Nasuada. Nor even for Arya. What drove him, then? When he had
pledged fealty to Nasuada, he had done so for the good of Roran and the
other people trapped within the Empire. But did they mean enough to
him to put himself through such anguish? Yes, he decided. Yes, they do,
because I am the only one who has a chance to help them, and because I
won’t be free of Galbatorix’s shadow until they are as well. And because
this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do? He shuddered as he
mouthed the ghastly phrase, “I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the
people of Alagaësia—of all races—who have suffered from Galbatorix’s
brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any
student you’ve had before.”

Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for
a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you

258



are made of.”

Wait, said Saphira. Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Eragon
paused, struck by the possibility.

“Of course,” said Oromis. “He was my pupil as a boy in Ilirea. I am glad
that you gave him a proper burial, for he had a hard life and few enough
ever showed him kindness. I hope that he found peace before he entered
the void.”

Eragon slowly frowned. “Did you know Morzan as well?”

“He was my apprentice before Brom.”

“And Galbatorix?”

“I was one of the Elders who denied him another dragon after his first
was killed, but no, I never had the misfortune to teach him. He made
sure to personally hunt down and kill each of his mentors.”

Eragon wanted to inquire further, but he knew that it would be better
to wait, so he stood and unlaced the top of his tunic. It seems, he said to
Saphira, that we will never learn all of Brom’s secrets. He shivered as he
pulled off the tunic in the cool air, then squared his shoulders and lifted
his chest.

Oromis circled him, stopping with an astonished exclamation as he saw
the scar that crossed Eragon’s back. “Did not Arya or one of the Varden’s
healers offer to remove this weal? You should not have to carry it.”

“Arya did offer, but...” Eragon stopped, unable to articulate his feelings.
Finally, he just said, “It’s part of me now, just as Murtagh’s scar is part of
him.”

“Murtagh’s scar?”

“Murtagh bore a similar mark. It was inflicted when his father, Morzan,
threw Zar’roc at him while he was only a child.”

Oromis stared at him seriously for a long time before he nodded and
moved on. “You have a fair amount of muscle, and you are not as lopsided
as most swordsmen. Are you ambidextrous?”

“Not really, but I had to teach myself to fight with my left hand after I

259



broke my wrist by Teirm.”

“Good. That will save some time. Clasp your hands behind your back
and lift them as high as possible.” Eragon did as he was told, but the posture
hurt his shoulders and he could barely make his hands meet. “Now
bend forward while keeping your knees straight. Try to touch the
ground.” This was even harder for Eragon; he ended up bowed like a
hunchback, with his arms hanging uselessly by his head while his hamstrings
twinged and burned. His fingers were still nine or ten inches from
the ground. “At least you can stretch without hurting yourself. I had not
hoped for so much. You can perform a number of exercises for flexibility
without overexerting. Yes.”

Then Oromis addressed Saphira: “I would know your capabilities as
well, dragon.” He gave her a number of complex poses that had her contort
every foot of her sinuous length in fantastic ways, culminating in a
series of aerial acrobatics the likes of which Eragon had never seen before.
Only a few things exceeded her ability, such as executing a backward
loop while corkscrewing through the air.

When she landed, it was Glaedr who said, I fear that we coddled the
Riders. If our hatchlings had been forced to care for themselves in the
wild—as you were, and so our ancestors were—then perhaps they would
have possessed your skill.

“No,” said Oromis, “even if Saphira had been raised on Vroengard using
the established methods, she would still be an extraordinary flier. I’ve
rarely seen a dragon so naturally suited to the sky.” Saphira blinked, then
shuffled her wings and busied herself cleaning one of her claws in a manner
that hid her head from view. “You have room to improve, as do we
all, but little, very little.” The elf reseated himself, his back perfectly
straight.

For the next five hours, by Eragon’s reckoning, Oromis delved into
every aspect of his and Saphira’s knowledge, from botany to woodworking
to metallurgy and medicine, although he mainly concentrated on their
grasp of history and the ancient language. The interrogation comforted
Eragon, as it reminded him of how Brom used to quiz him during their
long treks to Teirm and Dras-Leona.

When they broke for lunch, Oromis invited Eragon into his house,
leaving the two dragons alone. The elf’s quarters were barren except for
those few essentials necessary for food, hygiene, and the pursuit of an intellectual
life. Two entire walls were dotted with cubbyholes that held

260



hundreds of scrolls. Next to the table hung a golden sheath—the same
color as Glaedr’s scales—and a matching sword with a blade the color of
iridescent bronze.

On the inner pane of the door, set within the heart of the wood, was a
flat panel one span high and two wide. It depicted a beautiful, towering
city built against an escarpment and caught in the ruddy light of a rising
harvest moon. The pitted lunar face was bisected by the horizon and appeared
to sit on the ground like a maculated dome as large as a mountain.
The picture was so clear and perfectly detailed, Eragon at first took it to
be a magical window; it was only when he saw that the image was indeed
static that he could accept it as a piece of art.

“Where is this?” he asked.

Oromis’s slanted features tightened for an instant. “You would do well
to memorize that landscape, Eragon, for there lies the heart of your misery.
You see what was once our city of Ilirea. It was burned and abandoned
during Du Fyrn Skulblaka and became the capital of the Broddring
Kingdom and now is the black city of Urû’baen. I made that fairth on the
night that I and others were forced to flee our home before Galbatorix
arrived.”

“You painted this... fairth?”

“No, no such thing. A fairth is an image fixed by magic upon a square
of polished slate that is prepared beforehand with layers of pigments. The
landscape upon that door is exactly how Ilirea presented itself to me at
the moment I uttered my spell.”

“And,” said Eragon, unable to stop the flow of questions, “what was the
Broddring Kingdom?”

Oromis’s eyes widened with dismay. “You don’t know?” Eragon shook
his head. “How can you not? Considering your circumstances and the fear
that Galbatorix wields among your people, I might understand that you
were raised in darkness, ignorant of your heritage. But I cannot credit
Brom with being so lax with your instruction as to neglect subjects that
even the youngest elf or dwarf knows. The children of your Varden
could tell me more about the past.”

“Brom was more concerned with keeping me alive than teaching me
about people who are already dead,” retorted Eragon.

261



This drew silence from Oromis. Finally, he said, “Forgive me. I did not
mean to impugn Brom’s judgment, only I am impatient beyond reason;
we have so little time, and each new thing you must learn reduces that
which you can master during your tenure here.” He opened a series of
cupboards hidden within the curved wall and removed bread rolls and
bowls of fruit, which he rowed out on the table. He paused for a moment
over the food with his eyes closed before beginning to eat. “The
Broddring Kingdom was the human’s country before the Riders fell. After
Galbatorix killed Vrael, he flew on Ilirea with the Forsworn and deposed
King Angrenost, taking his throne and titles for his own. The Broddring
Kingdom then formed the core of Galbatorix’s conquests. He added Vroengard
and other lands to the east and south to his holdings, creating the
empire you are familiar with. Technically, the Broddring Kingdom still
exists, though, at this point, I doubt that it is much more than a name on
royal decrees.”

Afraid to pester the elf with further inquiries, Eragon concentrated on
his food. His face must have betrayed him, though, because Oromis said,
“You remind me of Brom when I chose him as my apprentice. He was
younger than you, only ten, but his curiosity was just as great. I doubt I
heard aught from him for a year but how, what, when, and, above all else,
why. Do not be shy to ask what lies in your heart.”

“I want to know so much,” whispered Eragon. “Who are you? Where
do you come from?... Where did Brom come from? What was Morzan
like? How, what, when, why ? And I want to know everything about
Vroengard and the Riders. Maybe then my own path will be clearer.”

Silence fell between them as Oromis meticulously disassembled a
blackberry, prying out one plump segment at a time. When the last corpuscle
vanished between his port-red lips, he rubbed his hands flat together—“
polishing his palms,” as Garrow used to say—and said, “Know
this about me, then: I was born some centuries past in our city of Luthivíra,
which stood in the woods by Lake Tüdosten. At the age of
twenty, like all elf children, I was presented to the eggs that the dragons
had given the Riders, and Glaedr hatched for me. We were trained as
Riders, and for near a century, we traveled the world over, doing Vrael’s
will. Eventually, the day arrived when it was deemed appropriate for us
to retire and pass on our experience to the next generation, so we took a
position in Ilirea and taught new Riders, one or two at a time, until Galbatorix
destroyed us.”

“And Brom?”

262



“Brom came from a family of illuminators in Kuasta. His mother was
Nelda and his father Holcomb. Kuasta is so isolated by the Spine from
the rest of Alagaësia, it has become a peculiar place, full of strange customs
and superstitions. When he was still new to Ilirea, Brom would
knock on a door frame three times before entering or leaving a room.
The human students teased him about it until he abandoned the practice
along with some of his other habits.

“Morzan was my greatest failure. Brom idolized him. He never left his
side, never contradicted him, and never believed that he could best Morzan
in any venture. Morzan, I’m ashamed to admit—for it was within my
power to stop—was aware of this and took advantage of Brom’s devotion
in a hundred different ways. He grew so proud and cruel that I considered
separating him from Brom. But before I could, Morzan helped Galbatorix
to steal a dragon hatchling, Shruikan, to replace the one Galbatorix
had lost, killing the dragon’s original Rider in the process. Morzan
and Galbatorix then fled together, sealing our doom.

“You cannot begin to fathom the effect Morzan’s betrayal had on Brom
until you understand the depth of Brom’s affection for him. And when
Galbatorix at last revealed himself and the Forsworn killed Brom’s
dragon, Brom focused all of his anger and pain on the one who he felt
was responsible for the destruction of his world: Morzan.”

Oromis paused, his face grave. “Do you know why losing your dragon,
or vice versa, usually kills the survivor?”

“I can imagine,” said Eragon. He quailed at the thought.

“The pain is shock enough—although it isn’t always a factor—but what
really causes the damage is feeling part of your mind, part of your identity,
die. When it happened to Brom, I fear that he went mad for a time.
After I was captured and escaped, I brought him to Ellesméra for safety,
but he refused to stay, instead marching with our army to the plains of
Ilirea, where King Evandar was slain.

“The confusion then was indescribable. Galbatorix was busy consolidating
his power, the dwarves were in retreat, the southwest was a mass of
war as the humans rebelled and fought to create Surda, and we had just
lost our king. Driven by his desire for vengeance, Brom sought to use the
turmoil to his advantage. He gathered together many of those who had
been exiled, freed some who had been imprisoned, and with them he
formed the Varden. He led them for a few years, then surrendered the
position to another so that he was free to pursue his true passion, which

263



was Morzan’s downfall. Brom personally killed three of the Forsworn, including
Morzan, and he was responsible for the deaths of five others. He
was rarely happy during his life, but he was a good Rider and a good man,
and I am honored to have known him.”

“I never heard his name mentioned in connection to the Forsworn’s
deaths,” objected Eragon.

“Galbatorix did not want to publicize the fact that any still existed who
could defeat his servants. Much of his power resides in the appearance of
invulnerability.”

Once again, Eragon was forced to revise his conception of Brom, from
the village storyteller that Eragon had first taken him to be, to the warrior
and magician he had traveled with, to the Rider he was at last revealed as,
and now firebrand, revolutionary leader, and assassin. It was hard to reconcile
all of those roles. I feel as if I barely knew him. I wish that we had
had a chance to talk about all of this at least once. “He was a good man,”
agreed Eragon.

He looked out one of the round windows that faced the edge of the
cliff and allowed the afternoon warmth to suffuse the room. He watched
Saphira, noting how she acted with Glaedr, seeming both shy and coy.
One moment she would twist around to examine some feature of the
clearing, the next she would shuffle her wings and make small advances
on the larger dragon, weaving her head from side to side, the tip of her
tail twitching as if she were about to pounce on a deer. She reminded Eragon
of a kitten trying to bait an old tomcat into playing with her, only
Glaedr remained impassive throughout her machinations.

Saphira, he said. She responded with a distracted flicker of her
thoughts, barely acknowledging him. Saphira, answer me.

What?

I know you’re excited, but don’t make a fool of yourself.

You’ve made a fool of yourself plenty of times, she snapped.

Her reply was so unexpected, it stunned him. It was the sort of casually
cruel remark that humans often make, but that he had never thought to
hear from her. He finally managed to say, That doesn’t make it any better.
She grunted and closed her mind to his, although he could still feel the
thread of her emotions connecting them.

264



Eragon returned to himself to find Oromis’s gray eyes heavy upon him.
The elf’s gaze was so perceptive, Eragon was sure that Oromis understood
what had transpired. Eragon forced a smile and motioned toward
Saphira. “Even though we’re linked, I can never predict what she’s going
to do. The more I learn about her, the more I realize how different we
are.”

Then Oromis made his first statement that Eragon thought was truly
wise: “Those whom we love are often the most alien to us.” The elf
paused. “She is very young, as are you. It took Glaedr and I decades before
we fully understood each other. A Rider’s bond with his dragon is
like any relationship—that is, a work in progress. Do you trust her?”

“With my life.”

“And does she trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Then humor her. You were brought up as an orphan. She was brought
up to believe that she was the last sane individual of her entire race. And
now she has been proved wrong. Don’t be surprised if it takes some
months before she stops pestering Glaedr and returns her attention to
you.”

Eragon rolled a blueberry between his thumb and forefinger; his appetite
had vanished. “Why don’t elves eat meat?”

“Why should we?” Oromis held up a strawberry and rotated it so that
the light reflected off its dimpled skin and illuminated the tiny hairs that
bearded the fruit. “Everything that we need or want we sing from the
plants, including our food. It would be barbaric to make animals suffer
that we might have additional courses on the table.... Our choice will
make greater sense to you before long.”

Eragon frowned. He had always eaten meat and did not look forward to
living solely on fruit and vegetables while in Ellesméra. “Don’t you miss
the taste?”

“You cannot miss that which you have never had.”

“What about Glaedr, though? He can’t live off grass.”

265



“No, but neither does he needlessly inflict pain. We each do the best
we can with what we are given. You cannot help who or what you are
born as.”

“And Islanzadí? Her cape was made of swan feathers.”

“Loose feathers gathered over the course of many years. No birds were
killed to make her garment.”

They finished the meal, and Eragon helped Oromis to scour the dishes
clean with sand. As the elf stacked them in the cupboard, he asked, “Did
you bathe this morning?” The question startled Eragon, but he answered
that no, he had not. “Please do so tomorrow then, and every day following.”


“Every day! The water’s too cold for that. I’ll catch the ague.”

Oromis eyed him oddly. “Then make it warmer.”

Now it was Eragon’s turn to look askance. “I’m not strong enough to
heat an entire stream with magic,” he protested.

The house echoed as Oromis laughed. Outside, Glaedr swung his head
toward the window and inspected the elf, then returned to his earlier position.
“I assume that you explored your quarters last night.” Eragon nodded.
“And you saw a small room with a depression in the floor?”

“I thought that it might be for washing clothes or linens.”

“It is for washing you. Two nozzles are concealed in the side of the wall
above the hollow. Open them and you can bathe in water of any temperature.
Also,” he gestured at Eragon’s chin, “while you are my student, I
expect you to keep yourself clean-shaven until you can grow a full
beard—if you so choose—and not look like a tree with half its leaves
blown off. Elves do not shave, but I will have a razor and mirror found
and sent to you.”

Wincing at the blow to his pride, Eragon agreed. They returned outside,
whereupon Oromis looked at Glaedr and the dragon said, We have
decided upon a curriculum for Saphira and you.

The elf said, “You will start—”

—an hour after sunrise tomorrow, in the time of the Red Lily. Return here

266



then.

“And bring the saddle that Brom made for you, Saphira,” continued
Oromis. “Do what you wish in the meantime; Ellesméra holds many
wonders for a foreigner, if you care to see them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Eragon, bowing his head. “Before I go, Master,
I want to thank you for helping me in Tronjheim after I killed Durza.
I doubt that I would have survived without your assistance. I am in your
debt.”

We are both in your debt, added Saphira.

Oromis smiled slightly and inclined his head.

267



THE SECRET LIVES OF ANTS


The moment that Oromis and Glaedr were out of sight, Saphira said,

Eragon, another dragon! Can you believe it?

He patted her shoulder. It’s wonderful. High above Du Weldenvarden,
the only sign of habitation in the forest was an occasional ghostly plume
of smoke that rose from the crown of a tree and soon faded into clear air.

I never expected to encounter another dragon, except for Shruikan. Maybe
rescue the eggs from Galbatorix, yes, but that was the extent of my hopes.
And now this! She wriggled underneath him with joy. Glaedr is incredible,
isn’t he? He’s so old and strong and his scales are so bright. He must be two,
no, three times bigger than me. Did you see his claws? They...

She continued on in that manner for several minutes, waxing eloquent
about Glaedr’s attributes. But stronger than her words were the emotions
Eragon sensed roiling within her: eagerness and enthusiasm, twined over
what he could only identify as a longing adoration.

Eragon tried to tell Saphira what he had learned from Oromis—since
he knew that she had not paid attention—but he found it impossible to
change the subject of conversation. He sat silently on her back, the world
an emerald ocean below, and felt himself the loneliest man in existence.

Back at their quarters, Eragon decided against any sightseeing; he was
far too tired from the day’s events and the weeks of traveling. And
Saphira was more than content to sit on her bed and chatter about
Glaedr while he examined the mysteries of the elves’ wash closet.

Morning came, and with it a package wrapped in onionskin paper containing
the razor and mirror that Oromis had promised. The blade was of
elvish make, so it needed no sharpening or stropping. Grimacing, Eragon
first bathed in steaming hot water, then held up the mirror and confronted
his visage.

I look older. Older and worn. Not only that, but his features had become
far more angled, giving him an ascetic, hawklike appearance. He
was no elf, but neither would anyone take him to be a purebred human
if they inspected him closely. Pulling back his hair, he bared his ears,
which now tapered to slight points, more evidence of how his bond with

268



Saphira had changed him. He touched one ear, letting his fingers wander
over the unfamiliar shape.

It was difficult for him to accept the transformation of his flesh. Even
though he had known it would occur—and occasionally welcomed the
prospect as the last confirmation that he was a Rider—the reality of it
filled him with confusion. He resented the fact that he had no say in how
his body was being altered, yet at the same time he was curious where
the process would take him. Also, he was aware that he was still in the
midst of his own, human adolescence, and its attendant realm of mysteries
and difficulties.

When will I finally know who and what I am?

He placed the edge of the razor against his cheek, as he had seen Gar-
row do, and dragged it across his skin. The hairs came free, but they were
cut long and ragged. He altered the angle of the blade and tried again
with a bit more success.

When he reached his chin, though, the razor slipped in his hand and
cut him from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw. He
howled and dropped the razor, clapping his hand over the incision, which
poured blood down his neck. Spitting the words past bared teeth, he said,
“Waíse heill.” The pain quickly receded as magic knitted his flesh back
together, though his heart still pounded from the shock.

Eragon! cried Saphira. She forced her head and shoulders into the vestibule
and nosed open the door to the closet, flaring her nostrils at the
scent of blood.

I’ll live, he assured her.

She eyed the sanguine water. Be more careful. I’d rather you were as
ragged as a molting deer than have you decapitate yourself for the sake of a
close shave.

So would I. Go on, I’m fine.

Saphira grunted and reluctantly withdrew.

Eragon sat, glaring at the razor. Finally, he muttered, “Forget this.”
Composing himself, he reviewed his store of words from the ancient language,
selected those that he needed, and then allowed his invented spell
to roll off his tongue. A faint stream of black powder fell from his face as

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his stubble crumbled into dust, leaving his cheeks perfectly smooth.

Satisfied, Eragon went and saddled Saphira, who immediately took to
the air, aiming their course toward the Crags of Tel’naeír. They landed
before the hut and were met by Oromis and Glaedr.

Oromis examined Saphira’s saddle. He traced each strap with his fingers,
pausing on the stitching and buckles, and then pronounced it passable
handiwork considering how and when it had been constructed.
“Brom was always clever with his hands. Use this saddle when you must
travel with great speed. But when comfort is allowed—” He stepped into
his hut for a moment and reappeared carrying a thick, molded saddle
decorated with gilt designs along the seat and leg pieces. “—use this. It
was crafted in Vroengard and imbued with many spells so that it will
never fail you in time of need.”

Eragon staggered under the weight of the saddle as he received it from
Oromis. It had the same general shape as Brom’s, with a row of buckles—
intended to immobilize his legs—hanging from each side. The deep seat
was sculpted out of the leather in such a way that he could fly for hours
with ease, both sitting upright and lying flat against Saphira’s neck. Also,
the straps encircling Saphira’s chest were rigged with slips and knots so
that they could extend to accommodate years of growth. A series of
broad ties on either side of the head of the saddle caught Eragon’s attention.
He asked their purpose.

Glaedr rumbled, Those secure your wrists and arms so that you are not
killed like a rat shaken to death when Saphira performs a complex maneuver.


Oromis helped Eragon relieve Saphira of her current saddle. “Saphira,
you will go with Glaedr today, and I will work with Eragon here.”

As you wish, she said, and crowed with excitement. Heaving his golden
bulk off the ground, Glaedr soared off to the north, Saphira close behind.

Oromis did not give Eragon long to ponder Saphira’s departure; the elf
marched him to a square of hard-packed dirt beneath a willow tree at the
far side of the clearing. Standing opposite him in the square, Oromis said,
“What I am about to show you is called the Rimgar, or the Dance of
Snake and Crane. It is a series of poses that we developed to prepare our
warriors for combat, although all elves use it now to maintain their
health and fitness. The Rimgar consists of four levels, each more difficult
than the last. We will start with the first.”

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Apprehension for the coming ordeal sickened Eragon to the point
where he could barely move. He clenched his fists and hunched his
shoulders, his scar tugging at the skin of his back as he glared between his
feet.

“Relax,” advised Oromis. Eragon jerked open his hands and let them
hang limply at the end of his rigid arms. “I asked you to relax, Eragon.
You can’t do the Rimgar if you are as stiff as a piece of rawhide.”

“Yes, Master.” Eragon grimaced and reluctantly loosened his muscles
and joints, although a knot of tension remained coiled in his belly.

“Place your feet together and your arms at your sides. Look straight
ahead. Now take a deep breath and lift your arms over your head so that
your palms meet.... Yes, like that. Exhale and bend down as far as you
can, put your palms on the ground, take another breath... and jump back.
Good. Breathe in and bend up, looking toward the sky... and exhale, lifting
your hips until you form a triangle. Breathe in through the back of
your throat... and out. In... and out. In...”

To Eragon’s utter relief, the stances proved gentle enough to hold without
igniting the pain in his back, yet challenging enough that sweat
beaded his forehead and he panted for breath. He found himself grinning
with joy at his reprieve. His wariness evaporated and he flowed through
the postures—most of which far exceeded his flexibility—with more energy
and confidence than he had possessed since before the battle in Far-
then Dûr. Maybe I’ve healed!

Oromis performed the Rimgar with him, displaying a level of strength
and flexibility that astounded Eragon, especially for one so old. The elf
could touch his forehead to his toes. Throughout the exercise, Oromis
remained impeccably composed, as if he were doing no more than strolling
down a garden path. His instruction was calmer and more patient
than Brom’s, yet completely unyielding. No deviation was allowed from
the correct path.

“Let us wash the sweat from our limbs,” said Oromis when they finished.


Going to the stream by the house, they quickly disrobed. Eragon surreptitiously
watched the elf, curious as to what he looked like without
his clothes. Oromis was very thin, yet his muscles were perfectly defined,
etched under his skin with the hard lines of a woodcut. No hair grew

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upon his chest or legs, not even around his groin. His body seemed almost
freakish to Eragon, compared to the men he was used to seeing in
Carvahall—although it had a certain refined elegance to it, like that of a
wildcat.

When they were clean, Oromis took Eragon deep into Du Weldenvarden
to a hollow where the dark trees leaned inward, obscuring the sky
behind branches and veils of snarled lichen. Their feet sank into the moss
above their ankles. All was silent about them.

Pointing to a white stump with a flat, polished top three yards across
that rested in the center of the hollow, Oromis said, “Sit here.” Eragon did
as he was told. “Cross your legs and close your eyes.” The world went
dark around him. From his right, he heard Oromis whisper, “Open your
mind, Eragon. Open your mind and listen to the world around you, to the
thoughts of every being in this glade, from the ants in the trees to the
worms in the ground. Listen until you can hear them all and you understand
their purpose and nature. Listen, and when you hear no more,
come tell me what you have learned.”

Then the forest was quiet.

Unsure if Oromis had left, Eragon tentatively lowered the barriers
around his mind and reached out with his consciousness, like he did
when trying to contact Saphira at a great distance. Initially only a void
surrounded him, but then pricks of light and warmth began to appear in
the darkness, strengthening until he sat in the midst of a galaxy of swirling
constellations, each bright point representing a life. Whenever he had
contacted other beings with his mind, like Cadoc, Snowfire, or Solembum,
the focus had always been on the one he wanted to communicate
with. But this... this was as if he had been standing deaf in the midst of a
crowd and now he could hear the rivers of conversation whirling around
him.

He felt suddenly vulnerable; he was completely exposed to the world.
Anyone or anything that might want to leap into his mind and control
him could now do so. He tensed unconsciously, withdrawing back into
himself, and his awareness of the hollow vanished. Remembering one of
Oromis’s lessons, Eragon slowed his breathing and monitored the sweep
of his lungs until he had relaxed enough to reopen his mind.

Of all the lives he could sense, the majority were, by far, insects. Their
sheer number astounded him. Tens of thousands dwelled in a square foot
of moss, teeming millions throughout the rest of the small hollow, and

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uncounted masses beyond. Their abundance actually frightened Eragon.
He had always known that humans were scarce and beleaguered in Alagaësia,
but he had never imagined that they were so outnumbered by
even beetles.

Since they were one of the few insects that he was familiar with, and
Oromis had mentioned them, Eragon concentrated his attention on the
columns of red ants marching across the ground and up the stems of a
wild rosebush. What he gleaned from them were not so much
thoughts—their brains were too primitive—but urges: the urge to find
food and avoid injury, the urge to defend one’s territory, the urge to
mate. By examining the ants’ instincts, he could begin to puzzle out their
behavior.

It fascinated him to discover that—except for the few individuals exploring
outside the borders of their province—the ants knew exactly
where they were going. He was unable to ascertain what mechanism
guided them, but they followed clearly defined paths from their nest to
food and back. Their source of food was another surprise. As he had expected,
the ants killed and scavenged other insects, but most of their efforts
were directed toward the cultivation of... of something that dotted
the rosebush. Whatever the life-form was, it was barely large enough for
him to sense. He focused all of his strength on it in an attempt to identify
it and satisfy his curiosity.

The answer was so simple, he laughed out loud when he comprehended
it: aphids. The ants were acting as shepherds for aphids, driving
and protecting them, as well as extracting sustenance from them by massaging
the aphids’ bellies with the tips of their antennae. Eragon could
hardly believe it, but the longer he watched, the more he became convinced
that he was correct.

He traced the ants underground into their complex matrix of warrens
and studied how they cared for a certain member of their species that
was several times bigger than a normal ant. However, he was unable to
determine the insect’s purpose; all he could see were servants swarming
around it, rotating it, and removing the specks of matter it produced at
regular intervals.

After a time, Eragon decided that he had gleaned all the information
from the ants that he could—unless he was willing to sit there for the
rest of the day—and was about to return to his body when a squirrel
jumped into the glade. Its appearance was like a blast of light to him, attuned
as he was to the insects. Stunned, he was overwhelmed by a rush

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of sensations and feelings from the animal. He smelled the forest with its
nose, felt the bark give under his hooked claws and the air swish through
his upraised plume of a tail. Compared to an ant, the squirrel burned
with energy and possessed unquestionable intelligence.

Then it leaped to another branch and faded from his awareness.

The forest seemed much darker and quieter than before when Eragon
opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and looked about, appreciating
for the first time how much life existed in the world. Unfolding his
cramped legs, he walked over to the rosebush.

He bent down and examined the branches and twigs. Sure enough,
aphids and their crimson guardians clung to them. And near the base of
the plant was the mound of pine needles that marked the entrance to the
ants’ lair. It was strange to see with his own eyes; none of it betrayed the
numerous and subtle interactions that he was now aware of.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Eragon returned to the clearing, wondering
what he might be crushing under his feet with every step. When he
emerged from under the trees’ shelter, he was startled by how far the sun
had fallen. I must have been sitting there for at least three hours.

He found Oromis in his hut, writing with a goose-feather quill. The elf
finished his line, then wiped the nib of the quill clean, stoppered his ink,
and asked, “And what did you hear, Eragon?”

Eragon was eager to share. As he described his experience, he heard his
voice rise with enthusiasm over the details of the ants’ society. He recounted
everything that he could recall, down to the minutest and most
inconsequential observation, proud of the information that he had gathered.


When he finished, Oromis raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“I...” Dismay gripped Eragon as he understood that he had somehow
missed the point of the exercise. “Yes, Ebrithil.”

“And what about the other organisms in the earth and the air? Can you
tell me what they were doing while your ants tended their droves?”

“No, Ebrithil.”

“Therein lies your mistake. You must become aware of all things

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equally and not blinker yourself in order to concentrate on a particular
subject. This is an essential lesson, and until you master it, you will meditate
on the stump for an hour each day.”

“How will I know when I have mastered it?”

“When you can watch one and know all.”

Oromis motioned for Eragon to join him at the table, then set a fresh
sheet of paper before him, along with a quill and a bottle of ink. “So far
you have made do with an incomplete knowledge of the ancient language.
Not that any of us knows all the words in the language, but you
must be familiar with its grammar and structure so that you do not kill
yourself through an incorrectly placed verb or similar mistake. I do not
expect you to speak our language like an elf—that would take a life-
time—but I do expect you to achieve unconscious competence. That is,
you must be able to use it without thinking.

“In addition, you must learn to read and write the ancient language. Not
only will this help you to memorize words, it is an essential skill if you
need to compose an especially long spell and you don’t trust your memory,
or if you find such a spell recorded and you want to use it.

“Every race has evolved their own system of writing the ancient language.
The dwarves use their runic alphabet, as do humans. They are only
makeshift techniques, though, and are incapable of expressing the language’s
true subtleties as well as our Liduen Kvaedhí, the Poetic Script.
The Liduen Kvaedhí was designed to be as elegant, beautiful, and precise
as possible. It is composed of forty-two different shapes that represent
various sounds. These shapes can be combined in a nearly infinite range
of glyphs that represent both individual words and entire phrases. The
symbol on your ring is one such glyph. The symbol on Zar’roc is another....
Let us start: What are the basic vowel sounds of the ancient language?”


“What?”

Eragon’s ignorance of the underpinnings of the ancient language quickly
became apparent. When he had traveled with Brom, the old storyteller
had concentrated on having Eragon memorize lists of words that he
might need to survive, as well as perfecting his pronunciation. In those
two areas, he excelled, but he could not even explain the difference between
a definite and indefinite article. If the gaps in his education frustrated
Oromis, the elf did not betray it through word or action, but la


275



bored persistently to mend them.

At a certain point during the lesson, Eragon commented, “I’ve never
needed very many words in my spells; Brom said it was a gift that I could
do so much with just brisingr. I think the most I ever said in the ancient
language was when I spoke to Arya in her mind and when I blessed an
orphan in Farthen Dûr.”

“You blessed a child in the ancient language?” asked Oromis, suddenly
alert. “Do you remember how you worded this blessing?”

“Aye.”

“Recite it for me.” Eragon did so, and a look of pure horror engulfed
Oromis. He exclaimed, “You used skölir ! Are you sure? Wasn’t it sköliro
?”

Eragon frowned. “No, skölir. Why shouldn’t I have used it? Skölir means
shielded. ‘... and may you be shielded from misfortune.’ It was a good
blessing.”

“That was no blessing, but a curse.” Oromis was more agitated than Eragon
had ever seen him. “The suffix o forms the past tense of verbs ending
with r and i. Sköliro means shielded, but skölir means shield. What
you said was ‘May luck and happiness follow you and may you be a
shield from misfortune.’ Instead of protecting this child from the vagaries
of fate, you condemned her to be a sacrifice for others, to absorb their
misery and suffering so that they might live in peace.”

No, no! It can’t be! Eragon recoiled from the possibility. “The effect a
spell has isn’t only determined by the word’s sense, but also by your intent,
and I didn’t intend to harm—”

“You cannot gainsay a word’s inherent nature. Twist it, yes. Guide it,
yes. But not contravene its definition to imply the very opposite.” Oromis
pressed his fingers together and stared at the table, his lips reduced to a
flat white line. “I will trust that you did not mean harm, else I would refuse
to teach you further. If you were honest and your heart was pure,
then this blessing may cause less evil than I fear, though it will still be the
nucleus of more pain than either of us could wish.”

Violent trembling overtook Eragon as he realized what he had done to
the child’s life. “It may not undo my mistake,” he said, “but perhaps it will
alleviate it; Saphira marked the girl on the brow, just like she marked my

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palm with the gedwëy ignasia.”

For the first time in his life, Eragon witnessed an elf dumbstruck.
Oromis’s gray eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he clutched the arms
of his chair until the wood groaned with protest. “One who bears the sign
of the Riders, and yet is not a Rider,” he murmured. “In all my years, I
have never met anyone such as the two of you. Every decision you make
seems to have an impact far beyond what anyone could anticipate. You
change the world with your whims.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, it just is. Where is the babe now?”

It took a moment for Eragon to compose his thoughts. “With the
Varden, either in Farthen Dûr or Surda. Do you think that Saphira’s mark
will help her?”

“I know not,” said Oromis. “No precedent exists to draw upon for wisdom.”


“There must be ways to remove the blessing, to negate a spell.” Eragon
was almost pleading.

“There are. But for them to be most effective, you should be the one to
apply them, and you cannot be spared here. Even under the best of circumstances,
remnants of your magic will haunt this girl evermore. Such is
the power of the ancient language.” He paused. “I see that you understand
the gravity of the situation, so I will say this only once: you bear full responsibility
for this girl’s doom, and, because of the wrong you did her, it
is incumbent upon you to help her if ever the opportunity should arise.
By the Riders’ law, she is your shame as surely as if you had begotten her
out of wedlock, a disgrace among humans, if I remember correctly.”

“Aye,” whispered Eragon. “I understand.” I understand that I forced a defenseless
baby to pursue a certain destiny without ever giving her a choice in
the matter. Can someone be truly good if they never have the opportunity to
act badly? I made her a slave. He also knew that if he had been bound in
that manner without permission, he would hate his jailer with every fiber
of his being.

“Then we will speak of this no more.”

“Yes, Ebrithil.”

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Eragon was still subdued, even depressed, by the end of the day. He
barely looked up when they went outside to meet Saphira and Glaedr
upon their return. The trees shook from the fury of the gale that the two
dragons created with their wings. Saphira seemed proud of herself; she
arched her neck and pranced toward Eragon, opening her chops in a lupine
grin.

A stone cracked under Glaedr’s weight as the ancient dragon turned a
giant eye—as large as a dinner platter—on Eragon and asked, What are
the rules three to spotting downdrafts, and the rules five for escaping them?

Startled out of his reverie, Eragon could only blink dumbly. “I don’t
know.”

Then Oromis confronted Saphira and asked, “What creatures do ants
farm, and how do they extract food from them?”

I wouldn’t know, declared Saphira. She sounded affronted.

A gleam of anger leaped into Oromis’s eyes and he crossed his arms,
though his expression remained calm. “After all the two of you have
done together, I would think that you had learned the most basic lesson
of being Shur’tugal: Share everything with your partner. Would you cut
off your right arm? Would you fly with only one wing? Never. Then why
would you ignore the bond that links you? By doing so, you reject your
greatest gift and your advantage over any single opponent. Nor should
you just talk to each other with your minds, but rather mingle your consciousnesses
until you act and think as one. I expect both of you to know
what either one of you is taught.”

“What about our privacy?” objected Eragon.

Privacy? said Glaedr. Keep your thoughts to thyself when you leave here,
if it pleases you, but while we tutor you, you have no privacy.

Eragon looked at Saphira, feeling even worse than before. She avoided
his gaze, then stamped a foot and faced him directly. What?

They’re right. We have been negligent.

It’s not my fault.

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I didn’t say that it was. She had guessed his opinion, though. He resented
the attention she lavished on Glaedr and how it drew her away
from him. We’ll do better, won’t we?

Of course! she snapped.

She declined to offer Oromis and Glaedr an apology, though, leaving
the task to Eragon. “We won’t disappoint you again.”

“See that you don’t. You will be tested tomorrow on what the other
learned.” Oromis revealed a round wood bauble nestled in the middle of
his palm. “So long as you take care to wind it regularly, this device will
wake you at the proper time each morning. Return here as soon as you
have bathed and eaten.”

The bauble was surprisingly heavy when Eragon took it. The size of a
walnut, it had been carved with deep whorls around a knob wrought in
the likeness of a moss-rose blossom. He turned the knob experimentally
and heard three clicks as a hidden ratchet advanced. “Thank you,” he said.

279



UNDER THE MENOA TREE


After Eragon and Saphira had said their farewells, they flew back to
their tree house with Saphira’s new saddle dangling between her front
claws. Without acknowledging the fact, they gradually opened their
minds and allowed their connection to widen and deepen, though neither
of them consciously reached for the other. Eragon’s tumultuous emotions
must have been strong enough for Saphira to sense anyway, though, for
she asked, What happened, then?

A throbbing pain built up behind his eyes as he explained the terrible
crime he had committed in Farthen Dûr. Saphira was as appalled by it as
he was. He said, Your gift may help that girl, but what I did is inexcusable
and will only hurt her.

The blame isn’t all yours. I share your knowledge of the ancient language,
and I didn’t spot the error any more than you did. When Eragon remained
silent, she added, At least your back didn’t cause any trouble today. Be
grateful for that.

He grunted, unwilling to be tempted out of his black mood. And what
did you learn this fine day?

How to identify and avoid dangerous weather patterns. She paused, apparently
ready to share the memories with him, but he was too busy
worrying about his distorted blessing to inquire further. Nor could he
bear the thought of being so intimate right then. When he did not pursue
the matter, Saphira withdrew into a taciturn silence.

Back in their bedroom, he found a tray of food by the screen door, as
he had the previous night. Carrying the tray to his bed—which had been
remade with fresh linens—he settled down to eat, cursing the lack of
meat. Already sore from the Rimgar, he propped himself up with pillows
and was about to take his first bite when there came a gentle rapping at
the opening to his chamber. “Enter,” he growled. He took a drink of water.


Eragon nearly choked as Arya stepped through the doorway. She had
abandoned the leather clothes she usually wore in favor of a soft green
tunic cinched at the waist with a girdle adorned with moonstones. She
had also removed her customary headband, allowing her hair to tumble
around her face and over her shoulders. The biggest change, however,
was not so much in her dress but her bearing; the brittle tension that had

280



permeated her demeanor ever since Eragon first met her was now gone.

She seemed to have finally relaxed.

He scrambled to his feet, noticing that her own were bare. “Arya! Why
are you here?”

Touching her first two fingers to her lips, she said, “Do you plan on
spending another evening inside?”

“I—”

“You have been in Ellesméra for three days now, and yet you have seen
nothing of our city. I know that you always wished to explore it. Set
aside your weariness this once and accompany me.” Gliding toward him,
she took Zar’roc from where it lay by his side and beckoned to him.

He rose from the bed and followed her into the vestibule, where they
descended through the trapdoor and down the precipitous staircase that
wound around the rough tree trunk. Overhead, the gathering clouds
glowed with the sun’s last rays before it was extinguished behind the
edge of the world.

A piece of bark fell on Eragon’s head and he looked up to see Saphira
leaning out of their bedroom, gripping the wood with her claws. Without
opening her wings, she sprang into the air and dropped the hundred or so
feet to the ground, landing in a thunderous cloud of dirt. I’m coming.

“Of course,” said Arya, as if she expected nothing less. Eragon scowled;
he had wanted to be alone with her, but he knew better than to complain.


They walked under the trees, where dusk already extended its tendrils
from inside hollow logs, dark crevices in boulders, and the underside of
knobby eaves. Here and there, a gemlike lantern twinkled within the side
of a tree or at the end of a branch, casting gentle pools of light on either
side of the path.

Elves worked on various projects in and around the lanterns’ radius,
solitary except for a few, rare couples. Several elves sat high in the trees,
playing mellifluous tunes on their reed pipes, while others stared at the
sky with peaceful expressions—neither awake nor asleep. One elf sat
cross-legged before a pottery wheel that whirled round and round with a
steady rhythm while a delicate urn took form beneath his hands. The

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werecat, Maud, crouched beside him in the shadows, watching his progress.
Her eyes flared silver as she looked at Eragon and Saphira. The elf
followed her gaze and nodded to them without halting his work.

Through the trees, Eragon glimpsed an elf—man or woman, he could
not tell—squatting on a rock in the middle of a stream, muttering a spell
over the orb of glass clutched in its hands. He twisted his neck in an attempt
to get an unobstructed view, but the spectacle had already vanished
into the dark.

“What,” asked Eragon, keeping his voice low so as to not disturb anyone,
“do most elves do for a living or profession?”

Arya answered just as quietly. “Our strength with magic grants us as
much leisure as we desire. We neither hunt nor farm, and, as a result, we
spend our days working to master our interests, whatever they might be.
Very little exists that we must strive for.”

Through a tunnel of dogwood draped with creepers, they entered the
enclosed atrium of a house grown out of a ring of trees. An open-walled
hut occupied the center of the atrium, which sheltered a forge and an assortment
of tools that Eragon knew even Horst would covet.

An elf woman held a pair of small tongs in a nest of molten coals,
working bellows with her right hand. With uncanny speed, she pulled
the tongs from the fire—revealing a ring of white-hot steel clamped in
the pincers’ jaws—looped the ring through the edge of an incomplete
mail corselet hung over the anvil, grasped a hammer, and welded shut the
open ends of the ring with a blow and a burst of sparks.

Only then did Arya approach. “Atra esterní ono thelduin.”

The elf faced them, her neck and cheek lit from underneath by the
coals’ bloody light. Like taut wires embedded in her skin, her face was
scribed with a delicate pattern of lines—the greatest display of age Eragon
had seen in an elf. She gave no response to Arya, which he knew
was offensive and discourteous, especially since the queen’s daughter had
honored her by speaking first.

“Rhunön-elda, I have brought you the newest Rider, Eragon Shade-
slayer.”

“I heard you were dead,” said Rhunön to Arya. Rhunön’s voice guttered
and rasped unlike any other elf’s. It reminded Eragon of the old men of

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Carvahall who sat on the porches outside their houses, smoking pipes and
telling stories.

Arya smiled. “When did you last leave your house, Rhunön?”

“You should know. It was that Midsummer’s Feast you forced me to attend.”


“That was three years ago.”

“Was it?” Rhunön frowned as she banked the coals and covered them
with a grated lid. “Well, what of it? I find company trying. A gaggle of
meaningless chatter that...” She glared at Arya. “Why are we speaking this
foul language? I suppose you want me to forge a sword for him? You
know I swore to never create instruments of death again, not after that
traitor of a Rider and the destruction he wreaked with my blade.”

“Eragon already has a sword,” said Arya. She raised her arm and presented
Zar’roc to the smith.

Rhunön took Zar’roc with a look of wonder. She caressed the wine-red
sheath, lingered on the black symbol etched into it, rubbed a bit of dirt
from the hilt, then wrapped her fingers around the handle and drew the
sword with all the authority of a warrior. She sighted down each of
Zar’roc’s edges and flexed the blade between her hands until Eragon
feared it might break. Then, in a single movement, Rhunön swung
Zar’roc over her head and brought it down upon the tongs on her anvil,
riving them in half with a resounding ring.

“Zar’roc,” said Rhunön. “I remember thee.” She cradled the weapon like
a mother would her firstborn. “As perfect as the day you were finished.”
Turning her back, she looked up at the knotted branches while she
traced the curves of the pommel. “My entire life I spent hammering these
swords out of ore. Then he came and destroyed them. Centuries of effort
obliterated in an instant. So far as I knew, only four examples of my art
still existed. His sword, Oromis’s, and two others guarded by families
who managed to rescue them from the Wyrdfell.”

Wyrdfell? Eragon dared ask Arya with his mind.

Another name for the Forsworn.

Rhunön turned on Eragon. “Now Zar’roc has returned to me. Of all my
creations, this I least expected to hold again, save for his. How came you

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to possess Morzan’s sword?”

“It was given to me by Brom.”

“Brom?” She hefted Zar’roc. “Brom... I remember Brom. He begged me
to replace the sword he had lost. Truly, I wished to help him, but I had
already taken my oath. My refusal angered him beyond reason. Oromis
had to knock him unconscious before he would leave.”

Eragon seized on the information with interest. “Your handiwork has
served me well, Rhunön-elda. I would be long dead were it not for
Zar’roc. I killed the Shade Durza with it.”

“Did you now? Then some good has come of it.” Sheathing Zar’roc,
Rhunön returned it to him, though not without reluctance, then looked
past him to Saphira. “Ah. Well met, Skulblaka.”

Well met, Rhunön-elda.

Without bothering to ask permission, Rhunön went up to Saphira’s
shoulder and tapped a scale with one of her blunt fingernails, twisting her
head from side to side in an attempt to peer into the translucent pebble.
“Good color. Not like those brown dragons, all muddy and dark. Properly
speaking, a Rider’s sword should match the hue of his dragon, and this
blue would have made a gorgeous blade....” The thought seemed to drain
the energy from her. She returned to the anvil and stared at the wrecked
tongs, as if the will to replace them had deserted her.

Eragon felt that it would be wrong to end the conversation on such a
depressing note, but he could not think of a tactful way to change the
subject. The glimmering corselet caught his attention and, as he studied
it, he was astonished to see that every ring was welded shut. Because the
tiny links cooled so quickly, they usually had to be welded before being
attached to the main piece of mail, which meant that the finest mail—
such as Eragon’s hauberk—was composed of links that were alternately
welded and riveted closed. Unless, it seemed, the smith possessed an elf’s
speed and precision.

Eragon said, “I’ve never seen the equal of your mail, not even among
the dwarves. How do you have the patience to weld every link? Why
don’t you just use magic and save yourself the work?”

He hardly expected the burst of passion that animated Rhunön. She
tossed her short-cropped hair and said, “And rob myself of all pleasure in

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this task? Aye, every other elf and I could use magic to satisfy our desires—
and some do—but then what meaning is there in life? How would
you fill your time? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

“By pursuing that which you love the most. When you can have anything
you want by uttering a few words, the goal matters not, only the
journey to it. A lesson for you. You’ll face the same dilemma one day, if
you live long enough.... Now begone! I am weary of this talk.” With that
Rhunön plucked the lid off the forge, retrieved a new pair of tongs, and
immersed a ring in the coals while she worked the bellows with single-
minded intensity.

“Rhunön-elda,” said Arya, “remember, I will return for you on the eve
of the Agaetí Blödhren.” A grunt was her only reply.

The rhythmic peal of steel on steel, as lonely as the cry of a death bird
in the night, accompanied them back through the dogwood tunnel and
onto the path. Behind them, Rhunön was no more than a black figure
bowed over the sullen glow of her forge.

“She made all the Riders’ swords?” asked Eragon. “Every last one?”

“That and more. She’s the greatest smith who has ever lived. I thought
that you should meet her, for her sake and yours.”

“Thank you.”

Is she always so brusque? asked Saphira.

Arya laughed. “Always. For her, nothing matters except her craft, and
she’s famously impatient with anything—or anyone—that interferes with
it. Her eccentricities are well tolerated, though, because of her incredible
skill and accomplishments.”

While she spoke, Eragon tried to work out the meaning of Agaetí
Blödhren. He was fairly sure that blödh stood for blood and, as a result,
that blödhren was blood-oath, but he had never heard of agaetí.

“Celebration,” explained Arya when he asked. “We hold the Blood-oath
Celebration once every century to honor our pact with the dragons. Both
of you are fortunate to be here now, for it is nigh upon us....” Her slanted
eyebrows met as she frowned. “Fate has indeed arranged a most auspi


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cious coincidence.”

She surprised Eragon by leading them deeper into Du Weldenvarden,
down paths tangled with nettles and currant bushes, until the lights
around them vanished and they entered the restless wilderness. In the
darkness, Eragon had to rely on Saphira’s keen night vision so as to not
lose his way. The craggy trees increased in width, crowding closer and
closer together and threatening to form an impenetrable barrier. Just
when it appeared that they could go no farther, the forest ended and they
entered a clearing washed with moonlight from the bright sickle low in
the eastern sky.

A lone pine tree stood in the middle of the clearing. No taller than the
rest of its brethren, it was thicker than a hundred regular trees combined;
in comparison, they looked as puny as windblown saplings. A blanket of
roots radiated from the tree’s massive trunk, covering the ground with
bark-sheathed veins that made it seem as if the entire forest flowed out
from the tree, as if it were the heart of Du Weldenvarden itself. The tree
presided over the woods like a benevolent matriarch, protecting its inhabitants
under the shelter of her branches.

“Behold the Menoa tree,” whispered Arya. “We observe the Agaetí
Blödhren in her shade.”

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon’s side as he recognized the name.
After Angela told his fortune in Teirm, Solembum had come up to him
and said, When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots
of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient,
go to the rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.
Eragon could not imagine what kind of weapon might be buried under
the tree, nor how he would go about finding it.

Do you see anything? he asked Saphira.

No, but then I doubt that Solembum’s words will make sense until our
need is clear.

Eragon told Arya about both parts of the werecat’s counsel, although—
as he had with Ajihad and Islanzadí—he kept Angela’s prophecy a secret
because of its personal nature, and because he feared that it might lead
Arya to guess his attraction to her.

When he finished, Arya said, “Werecats rarely offer help, and when
they do, it’s not to be ignored. So far as I know, no weapon is hidden

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here, not even in song or legend. As for the Rock of Kuthian... the name
echoes in my head like a voice from a half-forgotten dream, familiar yet
strange. I’ve heard it before, though I cannot recall where.”

As they approached the Menoa tree, Eragon’s attention was caught by
the multitude of ants crawling over the roots. Faint black smudges were
all he could see of the insects, but Oromis’s assignment had sensitized
him to the currents of life around him, and he could feel the ants’ primitive
consciousness with his mind. He lowered his defenses and allowed
his awareness to flood outward, lightly touching Saphira and Arya and
then expanding beyond them to see what else lived in the clearing.

With unexpected suddenness, he encountered an immense entity, a
sentient being of such a colossal nature, he could not grasp the limits of
its psyche. Even Oromis’s vast intellect, which Eragon had been in contact
with in Farthen Dûr, was dwarfed in comparison to this presence.
The very air seemed to thrum with the energy and strength that emanated
from...the tree?

The source was unmistakable.

Deliberate and inexorable, the tree’s thoughts moved at a measured
pace as slow as the creep of ice over granite. It took no notice of Eragon
nor, he was sure, of any single individual. It was entirely concerned with
the affairs of things that grow and flourish in the bright sunlight, with the
dogbane and the lily, the evening primrose and the silky foxglove and the
yellow mustard tall beside the crabapple with its purple blossoms.

“It’s awake!” exclaimed Eragon, shocked into speaking. “I mean... it’s intelligent.”
He knew that Saphira felt it too; she cocked her head toward
the Menoa tree, as if listening, then flew to one of its branches, which
were as thick as the road from Carvahall to Therinsford. There she
perched with her tail hanging free, waving the tip of it back and forth,
ever so gracefully. It was such an odd sight, a dragon in a tree, that Eragon
almost laughed.

“Of course she’s awake,” said Arya. Her voice was low and mellow in
the night air. “Shall I tell you the story of the Menoa tree?”

“I’d like that.”

A flash of white streaked across the sky, like a banished specter, and resolved
itself beside Saphira in the form of Blagden. The raven’s narrow
shoulders and crooked neck gave him the appearance of a miser basking

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in the radiance of a pile of gold. The raven lifted his pallid head and uttered
his ominous cry,“ Wyrda!”

“This is what happened. Once there lived a woman, Linnëa, in the years
of spice and wine before our war with the dragons and before we became
as immortal as any beings still composed of vulnerable flesh can be. Linnëa
had grown old without the comfort of a mate or children, nor did she
feel the need to seek them out, preferring to occupy herself with the art
of singing to plants, of which she was a master. That is, she did until a
young man came to her door and beguiled her with words of love. His
affections woke a part of Linnëa that she had never suspected existed, a
craving to experience the things that she had unknowingly sacrificed. The
offer of a second chance was too great an opportunity for her to ignore.
She deserted her work and devoted herself to the young man and, for a
time, they were happy.

“But the young man was young, and he began to long for a mate closer
to his own age. His eye fell upon a young woman, and he wooed and won
her. And for a time, they too were happy.

“When Linnëa discovered that she had been spurned, scorned, and
abandoned, she went mad with grief. The young man had done the worst
possible thing; he had given her a taste of the fullness of life, then torn it
away with no more thought than a rooster flitting from one hen to the
next. She found him with the woman and, in her fury, she stabbed him
to death.

“Linnëa knew that what she had done was evil. She also knew that even
if she was exonerated of the murder, she could not return to her previous
existence. Life had lost all joy for her. So she went to the oldest tree in
Du Weldenvarden, pressed herself against it, and sang herself into the
tree, abandoning all allegiance to her own race. For three days and three
nights she sang, and when she finished, she had become one with her beloved
plants. And through all the millennia since has she kept watch over
the forest.... Thus was the Menoa tree created.”

At the conclusion of her tale, Arya and Eragon sat side by side on the
crest of a huge root, twelve feet off the ground. Eragon bounced his heels
against the tree and wondered if Arya had intended the story as a warning
to him or if it was merely an innocent piece of history.

His doubt hardened into certainty when she asked, “Do you think that
the young man was to blame for the tragedy?”

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“I think,” he said, knowing that a clumsy reply could turn her against
him, “that what he did was cruel... and that Linnëa overreacted. They
were both at fault.”

Arya stared at him until he was forced to avert his gaze. “They weren’t
suited for each other.”

Eragon began to deny it but then stopped himself. She was right. And
she had maneuvered him so that he had to say it out loud, so that he had
to say it to her. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

Silence accumulated between them like sand piling into a wall that neither
of them was willing to breach. The high-pitched hum of cicadas
echoed from the edge of the clearing. At last he said, “Being home seems
to agree with you.”

“It does.” With unconscious ease, she leaned over and picked up a thin
branch that had fallen from the Menoa tree and began to weave the
clumps of needles into a small basket.

Hot blood rushed to Eragon’s face as he watched her. He hoped that
the moon was not bright enough to reveal that his cheeks had turned
mottled red. “Where... where do you live? Do you and Islanzadí have a
palace or castle... ?”

“We live in Tialdarí Hall, our family’s ancestral buildings, in the western
part of Ellesméra. I would enjoy showing our home to you.”

“Ah.” A practical question suddenly intruded in Eragon’s muddled
thoughts, driving away his embarrassment. “Arya, do you have any siblings?”
She shook her head. “Then you are the sole heir to the elven
throne?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?” She sounded bemused by his curiosity.

“I don’t understand why you were allowed to become an ambassador to
the Varden and dwarves, as well as ferry Saphira’s egg from here to Tronjheim.
It’s too dangerous an errand for a princess, much less the queen-inwaiting.”


“You mean it’s too dangerous for a human woman. I told you before
that I am not one of your helpless females. What you fail to realize is that
we view our monarchs differently than you or the dwarves. To us, a king
or queen’s highest responsibility is to serve their people however and

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wherever possible. If that means forfeiting our lives in the process, we
welcome the opportunity to prove our devotion to—as the dwarves
say—hearth, hall, and honor. If I had died in the course of my duty, then
a replacement successor would have been chosen from among our various
Houses. Even now I would not be required to become queen if I
found the prospect distasteful. We do not choose leaders who are unwilling
to devote themselves wholeheartedly to their obligation.” She hesitated,
then hugged her knees against her chest and propped her chin on
them. “I had many years to perfect those arguments with my mother.”
For a minute, the wheet-wheet of the cicadas went undisturbed in the
clearing. Then she asked, “How go your studies with Oromis?”

Eragon grunted as his foul temper returned on a wave of unpleasant
memories, souring his pleasure at being with Arya. All he wanted to do
was crawl into bed, go to sleep, and forget the day. “Oromis-elda,” he
said, working each word around his mouth before letting it escape, “is
quite thorough.”

He winced as she gripped his upper arm with bruising strength. “What
has gone amiss?”

He tried to shrug her hand off. “Nothing.”

“I’ve traveled with you long enough to know when you’re happy, angry...
or in pain. Did something happen between you and Oromis? If so,
you have to tell me so that it can be rectified as soon as possible. Or was
it your back? We could—”

“It’s not my training!” Despite his pique, Eragon noticed that she
seemed genuinely concerned, which pleased him. “Ask Saphira. She can
tell you.”

“I want to hear it from you,” she said quietly.

The muscles in Eragon’s jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth. In a low
voice, no more than a whisper, he first described how he had failed at his
meditation in the glade, then the incident that poisoned his heart like a
viper coiled in his chest: his blessing.

Arya released his arm and clutched at the root of the Menoa tree, as if
to steady herself. “Barzûl.” The dwarf curse alarmed him; he had never
heard her use profanity before, and this one was particularly apt, for it
meant ill fate. “I knew of your act in Farthen Dûr, for sure, but I never
thought... I never suspected that such a thing could occur. I cry your par


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don, Eragon, for forcing you to leave your rooms tonight. I did not comprehend
your discomfort. You must want to be alone.”

“No,” he said. “No, I appreciate the company and the things you’ve
shown me.” He smiled at her, and after a moment, she smiled back. Together
they sat small and still at the base of the ancient tree and watched
the moon arch high over the peaceful forest before it hid behind the
gathering clouds. “I only wonder what will become of the child.”

High above their heads, Blagden ruffled his bone-white feathers and
shrieked, “Wyrda!”

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A MAZE OF OPPOSITION


Nasuada crossed her arms without bothering to conceal her impatience
as she examined the two men before her.

The one on the right had a neck so thick, it forced his head to jut forward
at nearly right angles to his shoulders, giving him a stubborn, dim-
witted appearance. This was intensified by his heavy brow with its two
cliffs of matted hair—almost long enough to pull over his eyes—and bulbous
lips that remained puckered into a pink mushroom, even when he
spoke. She knew better than to put stock in his repulsive looks, though.
No matter its rough housing, his tongue was as clever as a jester’s.

The only identifying feature of the second man was his pale skin, which
refused to darken under Surda’s relentless sun, even though the Varden
had been in Aberon, the capital, for some weeks now. From his coloring,
Nasuada guessed he had been born in the northern reaches of the Empire.
He held a knit wool cap that he wrung into a hard rope between his
hands.

“You,” she said, pointing at him. “How many of your chickens did he
kill again?”

“Thirteen, Ma’am.”

Nasuada returned her attention to the ugly man. “An unlucky number,
by all accounts, Master Gamble. And so it has proved for you. You are
guilty of both theft and destroying someone else’s property without offering
proper recompense.”

“I never denied it.”

“I only wonder how you ate thirteen chickens in four days. Are you
ever full, Master Gamble?”

He gave her a jocular grin and scratched the side of his face. The rasp of
his untrimmed fingernails over his stubble annoyed her, and it was only
with an effort of will that she kept from asking him to stop. “Well, not to
be disrespectful, Ma’am, but filling my stomach wouldn’t be a problem if
you fed us properly, what with all the work we do. I’m a large man, an’ I
need a bit o’ meat in my belly after half a day breaking rocks with a mattock.
I did my best to resist temptation, I did. But three weeks of short
rations and watching these farmers drive around fat livestock they

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wouldn’t share even if a body were starving... Well, I’ll admit, it broke
me. I’m not a strong man when it comes to food. I like it hot and I like
plenty of it. An’ I don’t fancy I’m the only one willing to help himself.”

And that’s the heart of the problem, reflected Nasuada. The Varden
could not afford to feed its members, not even with Surda’s king, Orrin,
helping. Orrin had opened his treasury to them, but he had refused to
behave as Galbatorix was wont to do when moving his army across the
Empire, which was to appropriate supplies from his countrymen without
paying for them. A noble sentiment, but one that only makes my task
harder. Still, she knew that acts like those were what separated her,
Orrin, Hrothgar, and Islanzadí from Galbatorix’s despotism. It would be so
easy to cross that divide without noticing it.

“I understand your reasons, Master Gamble. However, although the
Varden aren’t a country and we answer to no one’s authority but our
own, that does not give you or anyone else leave to ignore the rule of law
as laid down by my predecessors or as it’s observed here in Surda. Therefore,
I order you to pay a copper for each chicken you stole.”

Gamble surprised her by acceding without protest. “As you wish,
Ma’am,” he said.

“That’s it?” exclaimed the pale man. He wrung his cap even tighter.
“That’s no fair price. If I sold them in any market, they’d—”

She could not contain herself any longer. “Yes! You’d get more. But I
happen to know that Master Gamble cannot afford to give you the
chickens’ full price, as I’m the one who provides his salary! As I do yours.
You forget that if I decided to acquire your poultry for the good of the
Varden, you’d get no more than a copper a chicken and be lucky at that.
Am I understood?”

“He can’t—”

“Am I understood?”

After a moment, the pale man subsided and muttered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Very well. You’re both dismissed.” With an expression of sardonic
admiration, Gamble touched his brow and bowed to Nasuada before
backing out of the stone room with his sullen opponent. “You too,” she
said to the guards on either side of the door.

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As soon as they were gone, she slumped in her chair with an exhausted
sigh and reached for her fan, batting it over her face in a futile attempt to
dissipate the pinpricks of sweat that accumulated on her forehead. The
constant heat drained her strength and made even the smallest task arduous.


She suspected she would feel tired even if it were winter. Familiar as
she was with the innermost secrets of the Varden, it still had taken more
work than she expected to transport the entire organization from Farthen
Dûr, through the Beor Mountains, and deliver them to Surda and
Aberon. She shuddered, remembering long, uncomfortable days spent in
the saddle. Planning and executing their departure had been exceedingly
difficult, as was integrating the Varden into their new surroundings while
simultaneously preparing for an attack on the Empire. I don’t have enough
time each day to solve all these problems, she lamented.

Finally, she dropped the fan and rang the bellpull, summoning her
handmaid, Farica. The banner hanging to the right of the cherrywood
desk rippled as the door hidden behind it opened. Farica slipped out to
stand with downcast eyes by Nasuada’s elbow.

“Are there any more?” asked Nasuada.

“No, Ma’am.”

She tried not to let her relief show. Once a week, she held an open
court to resolve the Varden’s various disputes. Anyone who felt that they
had been wronged could seek an audience with her and ask for her judgment.
She could not imagine a more difficult and thankless chore. As her
father had often said after negotiating with Hrothgar, “A good compromise
leaves everyone angry.” And so it seemed.

Returning her attention to the matter at hand, she told Farica, “I want
that Gamble reassigned. Give him a job where his talent with words will
be of some use. Quartermaster, perhaps, just so long as it’s a job where
he’ll get full rations. I don’t want to see him before me for stealing again.”

Farica nodded and went to the desk, where she recorded Nasuada’s instructions
on a parchment scroll. That skill alone made her invaluable.
Farica asked, “Where can I find him?”

“One of the work gangs in the quarry.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Oh, while you were occupied, King Orrin asked that you

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join him in his laboratory.”

“What has he done in there now, blind himself?” Nasuada washed her
wrists and neck with lavender water, then checked her hair in the mirror
of polished silver that Orrin had given her and tugged on her overgown
until the sleeves were straight.

Satisfied with her appearance, she swept out of her chambers with
Farica in tow. The sun was so bright today that no torches were needed
to illuminate the inside of Borromeo Castle, nor could their added
warmth have been tolerated. Shafts of light fell through the crossletted
arrow slits and glowed upon the inner wall of the corridor, striping the
air with bars of golden dust at regular intervals. Nasuada looked out one
embrasure toward the barbican, where thirty or so of Orrin’s orange-clad
cavalry soldiers were setting forth on another of their ceaseless rounds of
patrols in the countryside surrounding Aberon.

Not that they could do much good if Galbatorix decided to attack us himself,
she thought bitterly. Their only protection against that was Galbatorix’s
pride and, she hoped, his fear of Eragon. All leaders were aware of
the risk of usurpation, but usurpers themselves were doubly afraid of the
threat that a single determined individual could pose. Nasuada knew that
she was playing an exceedingly dangerous game with the most powerful
madman in Alagaësia. If she misjudged how far she could push him, she
and the rest of the Varden would be destroyed, along with any hope of
ending Galbatorix’s reign.

The clean smell of the castle reminded her of the times she had stayed
there as a child, back when Orrin’s father, King Larkin, still ruled. She
never saw much of Orrin then. He was five years older than her and already
occupied with his duties as a prince. Nowadays, though, she often
felt as if she were the elder one.

At the door to Orrin’s laboratory, she had to stop and wait for his
bodyguards, who were always posted outside, to announce her presence
to the king. Soon Orrin’s voice boomed out into the stairwell: “Lady
Nasuada! I’m so glad you came. I have something to show you.”

Mentally bracing herself, she entered the laboratory with Farica. A
maze of tables laden with a fantastic array of alembics, beakers, and retorts
confronted them, like a glass thicket waiting to snag their dresses on
any one of its myriad fragile branches. The heavy odor of metallic vapors
made Nasuada’s eyes water. Lifting their hems off the floor, she and
Farica wended their way in single file toward the back of the room, past

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hourglasses and scales, arcane tomes bound with black iron, dwarven astrolabes,
and piles of phosphorescent crystal prisms that produced fitful
blue flashes.

They met Orrin by a marble-topped bench, where he stirred a crucible
of quicksilver with a glass tube that was closed at one end, open at the
other, and must have measured at least three feet in length, although it
was only a quarter of an inch thick.

“Sire,” said Nasuada. As befitted one of equal rank to the king, she remained
upright while Farica curtsied. “You seem to have recovered from
the explosion last week.”

Orrin grimaced good-naturedly. “I learned that it’s not wise to combine
phosphorus and water in an enclosed space. The result can be quite violent.”


“Has all of your hearing returned?”

“Not entirely, but...” Grinning like a boy with his first dagger, he lit a
taper with the coals from a brazier, which she could not fathom how he
endured in the stifling weather, carried the flaming brand back to the
bench, and used it to start a pipe packed with cardus weed.

“I didn’t know that you smoked.”

“I don’t really,” he confessed, “except that I found that since my eardrum
hasn’t completely sealed up yet, I can do this....” Drawing on the
pipe, he puffed out his cheeks until a tendril of smoke issued from his
left ear, like a snake leaving its den, and coiled up the side of his head. It
was so unexpected, Nasuada burst out laughing, and after a moment,
Orrin joined her, releasing a plume of smoke from his mouth. “It’s the
most peculiar sensation,” he confided. “Tickles like crazy on the way out.”

Growing serious again, Nasuada asked, “Was there something else that
you wished to discuss with me, Sire?”

He snapped his fingers. “Of course.” Dipping his long glass tube in the
crucible, he filled it with quicksilver, then capped the open end with one
finger and showed the whole thing to her. “Would you agree that the
only thing in this tube is quicksilver?”

“I would.” Is this why he wanted to see me?

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“And what about now?” With a quick movement, he inverted the tube
and planted the open end inside the crucible, removing his finger. Instead
of all pouring out, as Nasuada expected, the quicksilver in the tube
dropped about halfway, then stopped and held its position. Orrin pointed
to the empty section above the suspended metal. He asked, “What occupies
that space?”

“It must be air,” asserted Nasuada.

Orrin grinned and shook his head. “If that were true, how would the air
bypass the quicksilver or diffuse through the glass? No routes are available
by which the atmosphere can gain admission.” He gestured at Farica.
“What’s your opinion, maid?”

Farica stared at the tube, then shrugged and said, “It can’t be nothing,
Sire.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly what I think it is: nothing. I believe that I’ve
solved one of the oldest conundrums of natural philosophy by creating
and proving the existence of a vacuum! It completely invalidates Vacher’s
theories and means that Ládin was actually a genius. Blasted elves
always seem to be right.”

Nasuada struggled to remain cordial as she asked, “What purpose does
it serve, though?”

“Purpose?” Orrin looked at her with genuine astonishment. “None, of
course. At least not that I can think of. However, this will help us to understand
the mechanics of our world, how and why things happen. It’s a
wondrous discovery. Who knows what else it might lead to?” While he
spoke, he emptied the tube and carefully placed it in a velvet-padded
box that held similar delicate instruments. “The prospect that truly excites
me, though, is of using magic to ferret out nature’s secrets. Why,
just yesterday, with a single spell, Trianna helped me to discover two entirely
new gases. Imagine what could be learned if magic were systematically
applied to the disciplines of natural philosophy. I’m considering
learning magic myself, if I have the talent for it, and if I can convince
some magic users to divulge their knowledge. It’s a pity that your Dragon
Rider, Eragon, didn’t accompany you here; I’m sure that he could help
me.”

Looking at Farica, Nasuada said, “Wait for me outside.” The woman
curtsied and then departed. Once Nasuada heard the door to the laboratory
close, she said, “Orrin. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

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“Whatever do you mean?”

“While you spend your time locked in here conducting experiments
that no one understands—endangering your well-being in the process—
your country totters on the brink of war. A myriad issues await your decision,
and you stand here blowing smoke and playing with quicksilver?”

His face hardened. “I am quite aware of my duties, Nasuada. You may
lead the Varden, but I’m still king of Surda, and you would do well to recall
that before you speak so disrespectfully. Need I remind you that your
sanctuary here depends on my continued goodwill?”

She knew it was an idle threat; many of the Surdan people had relatives
in the Varden, and vice versa. They were too closely linked for either of
them to abandon the other. No, the real reason that Orrin had taken offense
was the question of authority. Since it was nigh impossible to keep
large groups of armed warriors at the ready over extended periods of
time—as Nasuada had learned, feeding that many inactive people was a
logistical nightmare—the Varden had begun taking jobs, starting farms,
and otherwise assimilating into their host country. Where will that leave
me eventually? As the leader of a nonexistent army? A general or councilor
under Orrin? Her position was precarious. If she moved too quickly or
with too much initiative, Orrin would perceive it as a threat and turn
against her, especially now that she was cloaked in the glamour of the
Varden’s victory in Farthen Dûr. But if she waited too long, they would
lose their chance to exploit Galbatorix’s momentary weakness. Her only
advantage over the maze of opposition was her command of the one
element that had instigated this act of the play: Eragon and Saphira.

She said, “I don’t seek to undermine your command, Orrin. That was
never my intention, and I apologize if it appeared that way.” He bowed
his neck with a stiff bob. Unsure of how to continue, she leaned on her
fingertips against the lip of the bench. “It’s only... so many things must be
done. I work night and day—I keep a tablet beside my bed for notes—
and yet I never catch up; I feel as if we are always balanced on the brink
of disaster.”

Orrin picked up a pestle stained black from use and rolled it between
his palms with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. “Before you came here... No,
that’s not right. Before your Rider materialized fully formed from the
ethers like Moratensis from his fountain, I expected to live my life as my
father and grandfather before me. That is, opposing Galbatorix in secret.
You must excuse me if it takes a while to accustom myself to this new

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reality.”

It was as much contrition as she could expect in return. “I understand.”

He stopped the pestle in its path for a brief moment. “You are newly
come to your power, whereas I have held mine for a number of years. If I
may be arrogant enough to offer advice, I’ve found that it’s essential for
my sanity to allocate a certain portion of the day for my own interests.”

“I couldn’t do that,” objected Nasuada. “Every moment I waste might
be the moment of effort that’s needed to defeat Galbatorix.”

The pestle paused again. “You do the Varden a disservice if you insist
on overworking yourself. No one can function properly without occasional
peace and quiet. They don’t have to be long breaks, just five or ten
minutes. You could even practice your archery, and then you would still
serve your goals, albeit in a different manner.... That’s why I had this laboratory
constructed in the first place. That’s why I blow smoke and play
with quicksilver, as you put it—so that I don’t scream with frustration
throughout the rest of the day.”

Despite her reluctance to surrender her view of Orrin as a feckless lay-
about, Nasuada could not help but acknowledge the validity of his argument.
“I will keep your recommendation in mind.”

Some of his former levity returned as he smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

Walking to the window, she pushed the shutters farther open and
gazed down upon Aberon, with its cries of quick-fingered merchants
hawking their wares to unsuspecting customers, the clotted yellow dust
blowing from the western road as a caravan approached the city gates,
the air that shimmered over clay tile roofs and carried the scent of cardus
weed and incense from the marble temples, and the fields that surrounded
Aberon like the outstretched petals of a flower.

Without turning around, she asked, “Have you received copies of our
latest reports from the Empire?”

“I have.” He joined her at the window.

“What’s your opinion of them?

“That they’re too meager and incomplete to extract any meaningful
conclusions.”

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“They’re the best we have, though. Give me your suspicions and your
hunches. Extrapolate from the known facts like you would if this were
one of your experiments.” She smiled to herself. “I promise that I won’t
attach meaning to what you say.”

She had to wait for his reply, and when it came, it was with the dolorous
weight of a doomsday prophecy. “Increased taxes, emptied garrisons,
horses and oxen confiscated throughout the Empire... It seems that Galbatorix
gathers his forces in preparation to confront us, though I cannot
tell whether he means to do it in offense or defense.” Revolving shadows
cooled their faces as a cloud of starlings whirled across the sun. “The
question that weighs upon my mind now is, how long will it take him to
mobilize? For that will determine the course of our strategies.”

“Weeks. Months. Years. I cannot predict his actions.”

He nodded. “Have your agents continued to spread tidings of Eragon?”

“It has become increasingly dangerous, but yes. My hope is that if we
inundate cities like Dras-Leona with rumors of Eragon’s prowess, when
we actually reach the city and they see him, they will join us of their own
accord and we can avoid a siege.”

“War is rarely so easy.”

She let the comment pass uncontested. “And how fares the mobilization
of your own army? The Varden, as always, are ready to fight.”

Orrin spread his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s difficult to rouse a nation,
Nasuada. There are nobles who I must convince to back me, armor
and weapons to be constructed, supplies to be gathered....”

“And in the meantime, how do I feed my people? We need more land
than you allotted us—”

“Well, I know it,” he said.

“—and we’ll only get it by invading the Empire, unless you fancy making
the Varden a permanent addition to Surda. If so, you’ll have to find
homes for the thousands of people I brought from Farthen Dûr, which
won’t please your existing citizens. Whatever your choice, choose
quickly, because I fear that if you continue to procrastinate, the Varden
will disintegrate into an uncontrollable horde.” She tried not to make it

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sound like a threat.

Nevertheless, Orrin obviously did not appreciate the insinuation. His
upper lip curled and he said, “Your father never let his men get out of
hand. I trust you won’t either, if you expect to remain leader of the
Varden. As for our preparations, there’s a limit to what we can do in so
short a time; you’ll just have to wait until we are ready.”

She gripped the windowsill until veins stood out on her wrists and her
fingernails sank into the crevices between the stones, yet she allowed
none of her anger to color her voice: “In that case, will you lend the
Varden more gold for food?”

“No. I’ve given you all the money I can spare.”

“How will we eat, then?”

“I would suggest that you raise the funds yourself.”

Furious, she gave him her widest, brightest smile—holding it long
enough to make him shift with unease—and then curtsied as deeply as a
servant, never letting her demented grimace waver. “Farewell then, Sire. I
hope that the rest of your day is as enjoyable as our conversation was.”

Orrin muttered an unintelligible response as she swept back to the
laboratory’s entrance. In her anger, Nasuada caught her right sleeve on a
jade bottle and knocked it over, cracking the stone and releasing a flood
of yellow liquid that splattered her sleeve and soaked her skirt. She
flicked her wrist in annoyance without stopping.

Farica rejoined her in the stairwell, and together they traversed the
warren of passageways to Nasuada’s chambers.

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HANGING BY A THREAD


Throwing open the doors to her rooms, Nasuada strode to her desk,
then dropped into a chair, blind to her surroundings. Her spine was so
rigid that her shoulders did not touch the back. She felt frozen by the insoluble
quandary the Varden faced. The rise and fall of her chest slowed
until it was imperceptible. I have failed, was all she could think.

“Ma’am, your sleeve!”

Jolted from her reverie, Nasuada looked down to find Farica beating at
her right arm with a cleaning rag. A wisp of smoke rose from the embroidered
sleeve. Alarmed, Nasuada pushed herself out of the chair and
twisted her arm, trying to find the cause of the smoke. Her sleeve and
skirt were disintegrating into chalky cobwebs that emitted acrid fumes.

“Get me out of this,” she said.

She held her contaminated arm away from her body and forced herself
to remain still as Farica unlaced her overgown. The handmaid’s fingers
scrabbled against Nasuada’s back with frantic haste, fumbling with the
knots, and then finally loosening the wool shell that encased Nasuada’s
torso. As soon as the overgown sagged, Nasuada yanked her arms out of
the sleeves and clawed her way free of the robe.

Panting, she stood by the desk, clad only in her slippers and linen chemise.
To her relief, the expensive chainsil had escaped harm, although it
had acquired a foul reek.

“Did it burn you?” asked Farica. Nasuada shook her head, not trusting
her tongue to respond. Farica nudged the overgown with the tip of her
shoe. “What evil is this?”

“One of Orrin’s foul concoctions,” croaked Nasuada. “I spilled it in his
laboratory.” Calming herself with long breaths, she examined the ruined
gown with dismay. It had been woven by the dwarf women of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum as a gift for her last birthday and was one of the finest pieces in
her wardrobe. She had nothing to replace it, nor could she justify commissioning
a new dress, considering the Varden’s financial difficulties.
Somehow I will have to make do without.

Farica shook her head. “It’s a shame to lose such a pretty dress.” She
went round the desk to a sewing basket and returned with a pair of

302



etched scissors. “We might as well save as much of the cloth as we can.
I’ll cut off the ruined parts and have them burned.”

Nasuada scowled and paced the length of the room, seething with anger
at her own clumsiness and at having another problem added to her
already overwhelming list of worries. “What am I going to wear to court
now?” she demanded.

The scissors bit into the soft wool with brisk authority. “Mayhap your
linen dress.”

“It’s too casual to appear in before Orrin and his nobles.”

“Give me a chance with it, Ma’am. I’m sure that I can alter it so it’s serviceable.
By the time I’m done, it’ll look twice as grand as this one ever
did.”

“No, no. It won’t work. They’ll just laugh at me. It’s hard enough to
command their respect when I’m dressed properly, much less if I’m
wearing patched gowns that advertise our poverty.”

The older woman fixed Nasuada with a stern gaze. “It will work, so
long as you don’t apologize for your appearance. Not only that, I guarantee
that the other ladies will be so taken with your new fashion that
they’ll imitate you. Just you wait and see.” Going to the door, she cracked
it open and handed the damaged fabric to one of the guards outside.
“Your mistress wants this burned. Do it in secret and breathe not a word
of this to another soul or you’ll have me to answer to.” The guard saluted.

Nasuada could not help smiling. “How would I function without you,
Farica?”

“Quite well, I should think.”

After donning her green hunting frock—which, with its light skirt,
provided some respite from the day’s heat—Nasuada decided that even
though she was ill disposed toward Orrin, she would take his advice and
break with her regular schedule to do nothing more important than help
Farica rip out stitches from the overgown. She found the repetitive task
an excellent way to focus her thoughts. While she pulled on the threads,
she discussed the Varden’s predicament with Farica, in the hope that she
might perceive a solution that had escaped Nasuada.

In the end, Farica’s only assistance was to observe, “Seems most matters

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in this world have their root in gold. If we had enough of it, we could
buy Galbatorix right off his black throne... might not even have to fight
his men.”

Did I really expect that someone else would do my job for me? Nasuada
asked herself. I led us into this blind and I have to lead us out.

Intending to cut open a seam, she extended her arm and snagged the tip
of her knife on a fringe of bobbin lace, slicing it in half. She stared at the
ragged wound in the lace, at the frayed ends of the parchment-colored
strands that wriggled across the overgown like so many contorted worms,
stared and felt a hysterical laugh claw at her throat even as a tear formed
in her eye. Could her luck be any worse?

The bobbin lace was the most valuable part of the dress. Even though
lace required skill to make, its rarity and expense were mainly due to its
central ingredient: vast, copious, mind-numbing, and deadening amounts
of time. It took so long to produce that if you attempted to create a lace
veil by yourself, your progress would be measured not in weeks but in
months. Ounce for ounce, lace was worth more than gold or silver.

She ran her fingers over the band of threads, pausing on the rift that she
had created. It’s not as if lace takes that much energy, just time. She hated
making it herself. Energy... energy... At that moment, a series of images
flashed through her mind: Orrin talking about using magic for research;
Trianna, the woman who had helmed Du Vrangr Gata since the Twins’
deaths; looking up at one of the Varden’s healers while he explained the
principles of magic to Nasuada when she was only five or six years old.
The disparate experiences formed a chain of reasoning that was so outrageous
and unlikely, it finally released the laugh imprisoned in her throat.

Farica gave her an odd look and waited for an explanation. Standing,
Nasuada tumbled half the overgown off her lap and onto the floor.
“Fetch me Trianna this instant,” she said. “I don’t care what she’s doing;
bring her here.”

The skin around Farica’s eyes tightened, but she curtsied and said, “As
you wish, Ma’am.” She departed through the hidden servants’ door.

“Thank you,” Nasuada whispered in the empty room.

She understood her maid’s reluctance; she too felt uncomfortable
whenever she had to interact with magic users. Indeed, she only trusted
Eragon because he was a Rider—although that was no proof of virtue, as

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Galbatorix had shown—and because of his oath of fealty, which Nasuada
knew he would never break. It scared her to consider magicians’ and sorcerers’
powers. The thought that a seemingly ordinary person could kill
with a word; invade your mind if he or she wished; cheat, lie, and steal
without being caught; and otherwise defy society with near impunity...

Her heart quickened.

How did you enforce the law when a certain segment of the population
possessed special powers? At its most basic level, the Varden’s war
against the Empire was nothing more than an attempt to bring to justice
a man who had abused his magical abilities and to prevent him from
committing further crimes. All this pain and destruction because no one
had the strength to defeat Galbatorix. He won’t even die after a normal
span of years!

Although she disliked magic, she knew that it would play a crucial role
in removing Galbatorix and that she could not afford to alienate its practitioners
until victory was assured. Once that occurred, she intended to
resolve the problem that they presented.

A brazen knock on her chamber door disturbed her thoughts. Fixing a
pleasant smile on her face and guarding her mind as she had been trained,
Nasuada said, “Enter!” It was important that she appear polite after summoning
Trianna in such a rude manner.

The door thrust open and the brunette sorceress strode into the room,
her tousled locks piled high above her head with obvious haste. She
looked as if she had just been roused from bed. Bowing in the dwarven
fashion, she said, “You asked for me, Lady?”

“I did.” Relaxing into a chair, Nasuada let her gaze slowly drift up and
down Trianna. The sorceress lifted her chin under Nasuada’s examination.
“I need to know: What is the most important rule of magic?”

Trianna frowned. “That whatever you do with magic requires the same
amount of energy as it would to do otherwise.”

“And what you can do is only limited by your ingenuity and by your
knowledge of the ancient language?”

“Other strictures apply, but in general, yes. Lady, why do you ask?
These are basic principles of magic that, while not commonly bandied
about, I am sure you are familiar with.”

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“I am. I wished to ensure that I understood them properly.” Without
moving from her chair, Nasuada reached down and lifted the overgown
so that Trianna could see the mutilated lace. “So then, within those limits,
you should be able to devise a spell that will allow you to manufacture
lace with magic.”

A condescending sneer distorted the sorceress’s dark lips. “Du Vrangr
Gata has more important duties than repairing your clothes, Lady. Our
art is not so common as to be employed for mere whims. I’m sure that
you will find your seamstresses and tailors more than capable of fulfilling
your request. Now, if you will excuse me, I—”

“Be quiet, woman,” said Nasuada in a flat voice. Astonishment muted
Trianna in midsentence. “I see that I must teach Du Vrangr Gata the
same lesson that I taught the Council of Elders: I may be young, but I am
no child to be patronized. I ask about lace because if you can manufacture
it quickly and easily with magic, then we can support the Varden by
selling inexpensive bobbin and needle lace throughout the Empire. Galbatorix’s
own people will provide the funds we need to survive.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” protested Trianna. Even Farica looked skeptical.
“You can’t pay for a war with lace. ”

Nasuada raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Women who otherwise could
never afford to own lace will leap at the chance to buy ours. Every
farmer’s wife who longs to appear richer than she is will want it. Even
wealthy merchants and nobles will give us their gold because our lace
will be finer than any thrown or stitched by human hands. We’ll garner a
fortune to rival the dwarves’. That is, if you are skilled enough in magic
to do what I want.”

Trianna tossed her hair. “You doubt my abilities?”

“Can it be done!”

Trianna hesitated, then took the overgown from Nasuada and studied
the lace strip for a long while. At last she said, “It should be possible, but
I’ll have to conduct some tests before I know for certain.”

“Do so immediately. From now on, this is your most important assignment.
And find an experienced lace maker to advise you on the patterns.”

“Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

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Nasuada allowed her voice to soften. “Good. I also want you to select
the brightest members of Du Vrangr Gata and work with them to invent
other magical techniques that will help the Varden. That’s your responsibility,
not mine.”

“Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

“Now you are excused. Report back to me tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Lady Nasuada.”

Satisfied, Nasuada watched the sorceress depart, then closed her eyes
and allowed herself to enjoy a moment of pride for what she had accomplished.
She knew that no man, not even her father, would have thought
of her solution. “This is my contribution to the Varden,” she told herself,
wishing that Ajihad could witness it. Louder, she asked, “Did I surprise
you, Farica?”

“You always do, Ma’am.”

307



ELVA


“Ma’am?... You’re needed, Ma’am.”

“What?” Reluctant to move, Nasuada opened her eyes and saw Jörmundur
enter the room. The wiry veteran pulled off his helm, tucked it
in the crook of his right arm, and made his way to her with his left hand
planted on the pommel of his sword.

The links of his hauberk clinked as he bowed. “My Lady.”

“Welcome, Jörmundur. How is your son today?” She was pleased that
he had come. Of all the members of the Council of Elders, he had accepted
her leadership the most easily, serving her with the same dogged
loyalty and determination as he had Ajihad. If all my warriors were like
him, no one could stop us.

“His cough has subsided.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, what brings you?”

Lines appeared on Jörmundur’s forehead. He ran his free hand over his
hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, then caught himself and pushed
his hand back down to his side. “Magic, of the strangest kind.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember the babe that Eragon blessed?”

“Aye.” Nasuada had seen her only once, but she was well aware of the
exaggerated tales about the child that circulated among the Varden, as
well as the Varden’s hopes for what the girl might achieve once she grew
up. Nasuada was more pragmatic about the subject. Whatever the infant
became, it would not be for many years, by which time the battle with
Galbatorix would already be won or lost.

“I’ve been asked to take you to her.”

“Asked? By whom? And why?”

“A boy on the practice field told me that you should visit the child.
Said that you would find it interesting. He refused to give me his name,
but he looked like what that witch’s werecat is supposed to turn into, so

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I thought... Well, I thought you should know.” Jörmundur looked embarrassed.
“I asked my men questions about the girl, and I heard things... that
she’s different. ”

“In what way?”

He shrugged. “Enough to believe that you should do what the werecat
says.”

Nasuada frowned. She knew from the old stories that ignoring a were-
cat was the height of folly and often led to one’s doom. However, his
companion—Angela the herbalist—was another magic user that Nasuada
did not entirely trust; she was too independent and unpredictable.
“Magic,” she said, making it a curse.

“Magic,” agreed Jörmundur, though he used it as a word of awe and
fear.

“Very well, let us go visit this child. Is she within the castle?”

“Orrin gave her and her caretaker rooms on the west side of the keep.”

“Take me to her.”

Gathering up her skirts, Nasuada ordered Farica to postpone the rest of
the day’s appointments, then left the chambers. Behind her, she heard
Jörmundur snap his fingers as he directed four guards to take up positions
around her. A moment later, he joined her side, pointing out their course.

The heat within Borromeo Castle had increased to the point where
they felt as if they were trapped within a giant bread oven. The air
shimmered like liquid glass along the windowsills.

Though she was uncomfortable, Nasuada knew that she dealt with the
heat better than most people because of her swarthy skin. The ones who
had the hardest time enduring the high temperatures were men like Jörmundur
and her guards, who had to wear their armor all day long, even if
they were stationed out under the lidless gaze of the sun.

Nasuada kept close watch on the five men as sweat gathered on their
exposed skin and their breathing became ever more ragged. Since they
had arrived in Aberon, a number of the Varden had fainted from heatstroke—
two of whom died an hour or two later—and she had no intention
of losing more of her subjects by driving them beyond their physical

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limits.

When she deemed they needed to rest, she bade them to stop—
overriding their objections—and get drinks of water from a servant. “I
can’t have you toppling like ninepins.”

They had to break twice more before they reached their destination, a
nondescript door recessed in the inner wall of the corridor. The floor
around it was littered with gifts.

Jörmundur knocked, and a quavering voice from inside asked, “Who is
it?”

“Lady Nasuada, come to see the child,” he said.

“Be you of true heart and steadfast resolve?”

This time Nasuada answered, “My heart is pure and my resolve is as
iron.”

“Cross the threshold, then, and be welcome.”

The door swung open to an entryway lit by a single red dwarf lantern.
No one was at the door. Proceeding inward, Nasuada saw that the walls
and ceiling were swathed with layers of dark fabric, giving the place the
appearance of a cave or lair. To her surprise, the air was quite cold, almost
chilly, like a brisk autumn night. Apprehension sank its poisonous
claws into her belly. Magic.

A black mesh curtain blocked her way. Brushing it aside, she found
herself in what was once a sitting room. The furniture had been removed,
except for a line of chairs pushed against the shrouded walls. A cluster of
faint dwarf lanterns were hung in a dimple of the sagging fabric overhead,
casting weird multicolored shadows in every direction.

A bent crone watched her from the depths of one corner, bracketed by
Angela the herbalist and the werecat, who stood with his hackles raised.
In the center of the room knelt a pale girl that Nasuada took to be three
or four years old. The girl picked at a platter of food on her lap. No one
spoke.

Confused, Nasuada asked, “Where is the baby?”

The girl looked up.

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Nasuada gasped as she saw the dragon mark bright upon the child’s
brow and as she peered deep into her violet eyes. The girl quirked her
lips with a terrible, knowing smile. “I am Elva.”

Nasuada recoiled without thinking, clutching at the dagger she kept
strapped to her left forearm. It was an adult’s voice and filled with an
adult’s experience and cynicism. It sounded profane coming from the
mouth of a child.

“Don’t run,” said Elva. “I’m your friend.” She put the platter aside; it was
empty now. To the crone, she said, “More food.” The old woman hurried
from the room. Then Elva patted the floor beside her. “Please, sit. I have
been waiting for you ever since I learned to talk.”

Keeping her grip on her dagger, Nasuada lowered herself to the stones.
“When was that?”

“Last week.” Elva folded her hands in her lap. She fixed her ghastly eyes
on Nasuada, pinning her in place through the unnatural strength of her
gaze. Nasuada felt as if a violet lance had pierced her skull and was twisting
inside her mind, tearing apart her thoughts and memories. She fought
the desire to scream.

Leaning forward, Elva reached out and cupped Nasuada’s cheek with
one soft hand. “You know, Ajihad could not have led the Varden better
than you have. You chose the correct path. Your name will be praised for
centuries for having the courage and foresight to move the Varden to
Surda and attack the Empire when everyone else thought it was insane to
do so.”

Nasuada gaped at the girl, stunned. Like a key matched to a lock, Elva’s
words perfectly addressed Nasuada’s primal fears, the doubts that kept
her awake at night, sweating in the darkness. An involuntary surge of
emotion rushed through her, bolstering her with a sense of confidence
and peace that she had not possessed since before Ajihad’s death. Tears of
relief burst from her eyes and rolled down her face. It was as if Elva had
known exactly what to say in order to comfort her.

Nasuada loathed her for it.

Her euphoria warred against her distaste for how this moment of
weakness had been induced and by whom. Nor did she trust the girl’s
motivation.

311



“What are you?” she demanded.

“I am what Eragon made me.”

“He blessed you.”

The dreadful, ancient eyes were obscured for a moment as Elva
blinked. “He did not understand his actions. Since Eragon ensorcelled me,
whenever I see a person, I sense all the hurts that beset him and are
about to beset him. When I was smaller, I could do nothing about it. So I
grew bigger.”

“Why would—”

“The magic in my blood drives me to protect people from pain... no
matter the injury to myself or whether I want to help or not.” Her smile
acquired a bitter twist. “It costs me dearly if I resist the urge.”

As Nasuada digested the implications, she realized that Elva’s unsettling
aspect was a by-product of the suffering that she had been exposed to.
Nasuada shivered at the thought of what the girl had endured. It must
have torn her apart to have this compulsion and yet be unable to act on it.
Against her better judgment, she began to feel a measure of sympathy for
Elva.

“Why have you told me this?”

“I thought that you should know who and what I am.” Elva paused, and
the fire in her gaze strengthened. “And that I will fight for you however I
can. Use me as you would an assassin—in hiding, in the dark, and without
mercy.” She laughed with a high, chilling voice. “You wonder why; I
see you do. Because unless this war ends, and sooner rather than later, it
will drive me insane. I find it hard enough to deal with the agonies of
everyday life without also having to confront the atrocities of battle. Use
me to end it and I’ll ensure that your life is as happy as any human has
had the privilege to experience.”

At that moment, the crone scurried back into the room, bowed to
Elva, and handed her a new platter of food. It was a physical relief to
Nasuada as Elva looked down and attacked a leg of mutton, cramming
the meat into her mouth with both hands. She ate with the ravenous intensity
of a gorging wolf, displaying a complete lack of decorum. With
her violet eyes hidden and her dragon mark covered by black bangs, she

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once again appeared to be nothing more than an innocent child.

Nasuada waited until it became apparent that Elva had said all she was
going to. Then—at a gesture from Angela—she accompanied the herbalist
through a side door, leaving the pale girl sitting alone in the center of
the dark, cloth-bound room, like a dire fetus nestled in its womb, waiting
for the right moment to emerge.

Angela made sure that the door was closed and whispered, “All she
does is eat and eat. We can’t sate her appetite with the current rations.
Can you—”

“She’ll be fed. You needn’t worry about it.” Nasuada rubbed her arms,
trying to eradicate the memory of those awful, horrible eyes....

“Thank you.”

“Has this ever happened to anyone else?”

Angela shook her head until her curly hair bounced on her shoulders.
“Not in the entire history of magic. I tried to cast her future, but it’s a
hopeless quagmire—lovely word, quagmire —because her life interacts
with so many others.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“We’re all dangerous.”

“You know what I mean.”

Angela shrugged. “She’s more dangerous than some and less than others.
The one she’s most likely to kill, though, is herself. If she meets someone
who’s about to be hurt and Eragon’s spell catches her unawares, then
she’ll take the doomed person’s place. That’s why she stays inside most of
the time.”

“How far in advance can she foretell events?”

“Two or three hours at the most.”

Leaning against the wall, Nasuada considered the newest complication
in her life. Elva could be a potent weapon if she were applied correctly.
Through her, I can discern my opponents’ troubles and weaknesses, as well
as what will please them and make them amenable to my wishes. In an

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emergency, the girl could also act as an infallible guard if one of the
Varden, like Eragon or Saphira, had to be protected.

She can’t be left unsupervised. I need someone to watch her. Someone who
understands magic and is comfortable enough with their own identity to resist
Elva’s influence... and who I can trust to be reliable and honest. She
immediately discounted Trianna.

Nasuada looked at Angela. Though she was wary of the herbalist, she
knew that Angela had helped the Varden with matters of the utmost
delicacy and importance—like healing Eragon—and had asked for nothing
in return. Nasuada could think of no one else who had the time, inclination,
and expertise to look after Elva.

“I realize,” said Nasuada, “that this is presumptuous of me, as you aren’t
under my command and I know little of your life or duties, but I have a
favor to ask of you.”

“Proceed.” Angela waved a hand.

Nasuada faltered, disconcerted, then forged ahead. “Would you be willing
to keep an eye on Elva for me? I need—”

“Of course! And I’ll keep two eyes on her, if I can spare them. I relish
the opportunity to study her.”

“You’ll have to report to me,” warned Nasuada.

“The poison dart hidden in the raisin tart. Ah, well, I suppose I can
manage.”

“I have your word, then?”

“You have my word.”

Relieved, Nasuada groaned and sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, what a
mess. What a quagmire. As Eragon’s liegelord, I’m responsible for his
deeds, but I never imagined that he would do anything as dreadful as this.
It’s a blight on my honor as much as his.”

A ripple of sharp pops filled the room as Angela cracked her knuckles.
“Yes. I intend to speak to him about it once he returns from Ellesméra.”

Her expression was so fierce, it alarmed Nasuada. “Well, don’t hurt

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him. We need him.”
“I won’t... permanently.”

315



RESURGENCE


A blast of ravening wind tore Eragon from his sleep.

Blankets flapped over him as a tempest clawed at his room, hurling his
possessions into the air and knocking the lanterns against the walls. Outside,
the sky was black with thunderheads.

Saphira watched as Eragon staggered upright and fought to keep his
balance as the tree swayed like a ship at sea. He lowered his head against
the gale and made his way around the room, clutching at the wall until
he reached the teardrop portal through which the storm howled.

Eragon looked past the heaving floor to the ground below. It appeared
to rock back and forth. He swallowed and tried to ignore the churning in
his stomach.

By touch he found the edge of the cloth membrane that could be
pulled out of the wood to cover the opening. He prepared to launch
himself from one side of the gap to the next. If he slipped, nothing would
stop him from falling onto the roots of the tree.

Wait, said Saphira.

She backed off the low pedestal where she slept and laid her tail alongside
him so that he could use it as a handrail.

Holding the cloth with just his right hand, which took all his strength,
Eragon used the line of spikes on Saphira’s tail to pull himself across the
portal. As soon as he reached the far side, he grabbed the cloth with both
hands and pressed its edge into the groove that locked it in place.

The room went silent.

The membrane bulged inward under the force of the angry elements
but showed no sign of giving. Eragon poked it with his finger. The fabric
was as taut as a drum.

It’s amazing what the elves can do, he said.

Saphira cocked her head, then lifted it so that her head was flat against
the ceiling while she listened. You’d better close up the study; it’s being
wrecked.

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As he headed toward the stairs, the tree jolted and his leg buckled,
sending him down hard on one knee.

“Blast it,” he growled.

The study was a whirlwind of paper and quills, darting about as if they
had a mind of their own. He dove into the flurry with his arms wrapped
around his head. It felt like he was being pelted with stones when the
tips of the quills struck him.

Eragon struggled to close the upper portal without Saphira’s help. The
moment he did, pain—endless, mind-numbing pain— ripped open his
back.

He screamed once and went hoarse from the strength of his cry. His vision
flashed with red and yellow, then faded to black as he toppled to his
side. Below, he heard Saphira howl with frustration; the staircase was too
small and, outside, the wind was too ferocious for her to reach him. His
connection with her receded. He surrendered to the waiting darkness as a
release from his agony.

A sour taste filled Eragon’s mouth when he woke. He did not know
how long he had been lying on the floor, but the muscles in his arms and
legs were knotted from being curled into a tight ball. The storm still assailed
the tree, accompanied by a thudding rain that matched the pounding
in his head.

Saphira... ?

I’m here. Can you come down?

I’ll try.

He was too weak to stand on the pitching floor, so he crawled to the
stairs and slid down one at a time, wincing with each impact. Halfway
down, he encountered Saphira, who had jammed her head and neck as
far up the stairs as she could, gouging the wood in her frenzy.

Little one. She flicked out her tongue and caught him on the hand with
its rough tip. He smiled. Then she arched her neck and tried to pull back,
but to no avail.

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What’s wrong?

I’m stuck.

You’re...He could not help it; he laughed even though it hurt. The
situation was too absurd.

She snarled and heaved her entire body, shaking the tree with her efforts
and knocking him over. Then she collapsed, panting. Well, don’t just
sit there grinning like an idiot fox. Help me!

Fighting the urge to giggle, he put his foot on her nose and pushed as
hard as he dared while Saphira twisted and squirmed in an attempt to
free herself.

It took more than ten minutes before she succeeded. Only then did Eragon
see the full extent of the damage to the stairwell. He groaned. Her
scales had cut through the bark and obliterated the delicate patterns
grown out from the wood.

Oops, said Saphira.

At least you did it, not me.The elves might forgive you. They’d sing dwarf
love ballads night and day if you asked them to.

He joined Saphira on her dais and huddled against the flat scales of her
belly, listening as the storm roared about them. The wide membrane became
translucent whenever lightning pulsed in jagged shards of light.

What time do you think it is?

Several hours before we must meet Oromis. Go on, sleep and recover. I
will keep guard.

He did just that, despite the tree’s churning.

318



WHY DO YOU FIGHT?


Oromis’s timepiece buzzed like a giant hornet, blaring in Eragon’s ears
until he retrieved the bauble and wound the mechanism.

His bashed knee had turned purple, he was sore both from his attack
and the elves’ Dance of Snake and Crane, and he could do no more than
croak with his ragged throat. The worst injury, though, was his sense of
foreboding that this would not be the last time Durza’s wound would
trouble him. The prospect sickened him, draining his strength and will.

So many weeks passed between attacks, he said, I began to hope that
maybe, just maybe, I was healed.... I suppose sheer luck is the only reason I
was spared that long.

Extending her neck, Saphira nuzzled him on the arm. You know you
aren’t alone, little one. I’ll do everything I can to help. He responded with
a weak smile. Then she licked his face and added, You should get ready to
leave.

I know. He stared at the floor, unwilling to move, then dragged himself
to the wash closet, where he scrubbed himself clean and used magic to
shave.

He was in the middle of drying himself when he felt a presence touch
his mind. Without pausing to think, Eragon began to fortify his mind,
concentrating on an image of his big toe to the exclusion of all else. Then
he heard Oromis say, Admirable, but unnecessary. Bring Zar’roc with you
today. The presence vanished.

Eragon released a shaky breath. I need to be more alert, he told Saphira. I
would have been at his mercy if he were an enemy.

Not with me around.

When his ablutions were complete, Eragon unhooked the membrane
from the wall and mounted Saphira, cradling Zar’roc in the crook of his
arm.

Saphira took flight with a rush of air, angling toward the Crags of
Tel’naeír. From their high vantage point, they could see the damage that
the storm had wreaked on Du Weldenvarden. No trees had fallen in
Ellesméra, but farther away, where the elves’ magic was weaker, numer


319



ous pines had been knocked over. The remaining wind made the crossed
branches and trees rub together, producing a brittle chorus of creaks and
groans. Clouds of golden pollen, as thick as dust, streamed out from the
trees and flowers.

While they flew, Eragon and Saphira exchanged memories of their
separate lessons from the day before. He told her what he had learned
about ants and the ancient language, and she told him about downdrafts
and other dangerous weather patterns and how to avoid them.

Thus, when they landed and Oromis interrogated Eragon about
Saphira’s lessons and Glaedr interrogated Saphira about Eragon’s, they
were able to answer every question.

“Very good, Eragon-vodhr.”

Aye. Well played, Bjartskular, added Glaedr to Saphira.

As before, Saphira was sent off with Glaedr while Eragon remained on
the cliffs, although this time he and Saphira were careful to maintain
their link so as to absorb each other’s instruction.

As the dragons departed, Oromis observed, “Your voice is rougher today,
Eragon. Are you sick?”

“My back hurt again this morning.”

“Ah. You have my sympathy.” He motioned with one finger. “Wait
here.”

Eragon watched as Oromis strode into his hut and then reappeared,
looking fierce and warlike with his silver mane rippling in the wind and
his bronze sword in hand. “Today,” he said, “we shall forgo the Rimgar
and instead cross our two blades, Naegling and Zar’roc. Draw thy sword
and guard its edge as your first master taught you.”

Eragon wanted nothing more than to refuse. However, he had no intention
of breaking his vow or letting his resolve waver in front of Oromis.
He swallowed his trepidation. This is what it means to be a Rider, he
thought.

Drawing upon his reserves, he located the nub deep within his mind
that connected him to the wild flow of magic. He delved into it, and the
energy suffused him. “Gëuloth du knífr,” he said, and a winking blue star

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popped into existence between his thumb and forefinger, jumping from
one to the next as he ran it down Zar’roc’s perilous length.

The instant their swords met, Eragon knew that he was as out-matched
by Oromis as by Durza and Arya. Eragon was an exemplary human
swordsman, but he could not compete with warriors whose blood ran
thick with magic. His arm was too weak and his reflexes too slow. Still,
that did not stop him from trying to win. He fought to the limits of his
abilities, even if, in the end, it was a futile prospect.

Oromis tested him in every conceivable manner, forcing Eragon to utilize
his entire arsenal of blows, counterblows, and underhand tricks. It was
all for naught. He could not touch the elf. As a last resort, he tried altering
his style of fighting, which could unsettle even the most hardened
veteran. All it got him was a welt on his thigh.

“Move your feet faster,” cried Oromis. “He who stands like a pillar dies
in battle. He who bends like a reed is triumphant!”

The elf was glorious in action, a perfect blend of control and untamed
violence. He pounced like a cat, struck like a heron, and bobbed and
wove with the grace of a weasel.

They had been sparring for almost twenty minutes when Oromis faltered,
his narrow features clamped in a brief grimace. Eragon recognized
the symptoms of Oromis’s mysterious illness and lashed out with Zar’roc.
It was a low thing to do, but Eragon was so frustrated, he was willing to
take advantage of any opening, no matter how unfair, just to have the satisfaction
of marking Oromis at least once.

Zar’roc never reached its target. As Eragon twisted, he overextended
and strained his back.

The pain was upon him without warning.

The last thing he heard was Saphira shouting, Eragon!

Despite the intensity of the fit, Eragon remained conscious throughout
his ordeal. Not that he was aware of his surroundings, only the fire that
burned in his flesh and prolonged each second into an eternity. The worst
part was that he could do nothing to end his suffering but wait... and
wait...

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Eragon lay panting in the cold mud. He blinked as his vision came into
focus and he saw Oromis sitting on a stool next to him. Pushing himself
onto his knees, Eragon surveyed his new tunic with a mixture of regret
and disgust. The fine russet cloth was caked with dirt from his convulsions
on the ground. Muck filled his hair as well.

He could sense Saphira in his mind, radiating concern as she waited for
him to notice her. How can you continue like this? she fretted. It’ll destroy
you.

Her misgivings undermined Eragon’s remaining fortitude. Saphira had
never before expressed doubt that he would prevail, not at Dras-Leona,
Gil’ead, or Farthen Dûr, nor with any of the dangers they had encountered.
Her confidence had given him courage. Without it he was truly
afraid.

You should concentrate on your lesson, he said.

I should concentrate on you.

Leave me alone! He snapped at her like a wounded animal that wants
to nurse its injuries in silence and in dark. She fell silent, leaving just
enough of their connection intact so that he was vaguely aware of Glaedr
teaching her about fireweed, which she could chew to help her digestion.

Eragon combed the mud from his hair with his fingers, then spat out a
globule of blood. “Bit my tongue.”

Oromis nodded as if it were to be expected. “Do you require healing?”

“No.”

“Very well. Tend to your sword, then bathe and go to the stump in the
glade and listen to the thoughts of the forest. Listen, and when you hear
no more, come tell me what you have learned.”

“Yes, Master.”

As he sat on the stump, Eragon found that his turbulent thoughts and
emotions prevented him from mustering the concentration to open his
mind and sense the creatures in the hollow. Nor was he interested in do


322



ing so.

Still, the peaceful quality of his surroundings gradually ameliorated his
resentment, confusion, and stubborn anger. It did not make him happy,
but it did bring him a certain fatalistic acceptance. This is my lot in life,
and I’d better get used to it because it’s not about to improve in the foreseeable
future.

After a quarter of an hour, his faculties had regained their usual acuity,
so he resumed studying the colony of red ants that he had discovered the
day before. He also tried to be aware of everything else that was happening
in the glade, as Oromis had instructed.

Eragon met with limited success. If he relaxed and allowed himself to
absorb input from all the consciousnesses nearby, thousands of images
and feelings rushed into his head, piling on top of one another in quick
flashes of sound and color, touch and smell, pain and pleasure. The
amount of information was overwhelming. Out of pure habit, his mind
would snatch one subject or another from the torrent, excluding all the
rest before he noticed his lapse and wrenched himself back into a state of
passive receptivity. The cycle repeated itself every few seconds.

Despite that, he was able to improve his understanding of the ants’
world. He got his first clue as to their genders when he deduced that the
huge ant in the heart of their underground lair was laying eggs, one every
minute or so, which made it—her—a female. And when he accompanied
a group of the red ants up the stem of their rosebush, he got a vivid
demonstration of the kind of enemies they faced: something darted out
from underneath a leaf and killed one of the ants he was bound to. It was
hard for him to guess exactly what the creature was, since the ants only
saw fragments of it and, in any case, they placed more emphasis on smell
than vision. If they had been people, he would have said that they were
attacked by a terrifying monster the size of a dragon, which had jaws as
powerful as the spiked portcullis at Teirm and could move with whiplash
speed.

The ants ringed in the monster like grooms working to capture a runaway
horse. They darted at it with a total lack of fear, nipping at its
knobbed legs and withdrawing an instant before they were caught in the
monster’s iron pincers. More and more ants joined the throng. They
worked together to overpower the intruder, never faltering, even when
two were caught and killed and when several of their brethren fell off the
stem to the ground below.

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It was a desperate battle, with neither side willing to give quarter. Only
escape or victory would save the combatants from a horrible death. Eragon
followed the fray with breathless anticipation, awed by the ants’
bravery and how they continued to fight in spite of injuries that would
incapacitate a human. Their feats were heroic enough to be sung about
by bards throughout the land.

Eragon was so engrossed by the contest that when the ants finally prevailed,
he loosed an elated cry so loud, it roused the birds from their
roosts among the trees.

Out of curiosity, he returned his attention to his own body, then
walked to the rosebush to view the dead monster for himself. What he
saw was an ordinary brown spider with its legs curled into a fist being
transported by the ants down to their nest for food.

Amazing.

He started to leave, but then realized that once again he had neglected
to keep watch over the myriad other insects and animals in the glade. He
closed his eyes and whirled through the minds of several dozen beings,
doing his best to memorize as many interesting details as he could. It was
a poor substitute for prolonged observation, but he was hungry and he
had already exhausted his assigned hour.

When Eragon rejoined Oromis in his hut, the elf asked, “How went it?”

“Master, I could listen night and day for the next twenty years and still
not know everything that goes on in the forest.”

Oromis raised an eyebrow. “You have made progress.” After Eragon described
what he had witnessed, Oromis said, “But still not enough, I fear.
You must work harder, Eragon. I know you can. You are intelligent and
persistent, and you have the potential to be a great Rider. As difficult as
it is, you have to learn to put aside your troubles and concentrate entirely
on the task at hand. Find peace within yourself and let your actions flow
from there.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“No, this isn’t your best. We shall recognize your best when it appears.”
He paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would help if you had a fellow student
to compete with. Then we might see your best.... I will think on the
matter.”

324



From his cupboards, Oromis produced a loaf of freshly baked bread, a
wood jar of hazelnut butter—which the elves used in place of actual but-
ter—and a pair of bowls that he ladled full of a vegetable stew that had
been simmering in a pot hung over a bed of coals in the corner fireplace.

Eragon looked at the stew with distaste; he was sick of the elves’ fare.
He longed for meat, fish, or fowl, something hearty that he could sink his
teeth into, not this endless parade of plants. “Master,” he asked to distract
himself, “why do you have me meditate? Is it so that I will understand
the doings of the animals and insects, or is there more to it than that?”

“Can you think of no other motive?” Oromis sighed when Eragon shook
his head. “Always it is thus with my new students, and especially with
the human ones; the mind is the last muscle they train or use, and the
one that they regard the least. Ask them about swordplay and they can
list every blow from a duel a month old, but ask them to solve a problem
or make a coherent statement and... well, I would be lucky to get more
than a blank stare in return. You are still new to the world of gramarye—
as magic is properly called—but you must begin to consider its full implications.”


“How so?”

“Imagine for a moment that you are Galbatorix, with all of his vast resources
at your command. The Varden have destroyed your Urgal army
with the help of a rival Dragon Rider, who you know was educated—at
least in part—by one of your most dangerous and implacable foes, Brom.
You are also aware that your enemies are massing in Surda for a possible
invasion. Given that, what would be the easiest way to deal with these
various threats, short of flying into battle yourself?”

Eragon stirred his stew to cool it while he examined the issue. “It seems
to me,” he said slowly, “that the easiest thing would be to train a corps of
magicians—they wouldn’t even have to be that powerful—force them to
swear loyalty to me in the ancient language, then have them infiltrate
Surda to sabotage the Varden’s efforts, poison wells, and assassinate
Nasuada, King Orrin, and other key members of the resistance.”

“And why hasn’t Galbatorix done this yet?”

“Because until now, Surda was of negligible interest to him, and because
the Varden have dwelled in Farthen Dûr for decades, where they
were able to examine every newcomer’s mind for duplicity, which they

325



can’t do in Surda since its border and population are so large.”

“Those are my very conclusions,” said Oromis. “Unless Galbatorix forsakes
his lair in Urû’baen, the greatest danger you’re likely to encounter
during the Varden’s campaign will come from fellow magicians. You
know as well as I how difficult it is to guard against magic, especially if
your opponent has sworn in the ancient language to kill you, no matter
the cost. Instead of attempting to first conquer your mind, such a foe will
simply cast a spell to obliterate you, even though—in the instant before
you are destroyed—you will still be free to retaliate. However, you cannot
fell your murderer if you don’t know who or where he is.”

“So sometimes you don’t have to bother taking control of your opponent’s
mind?”

“Sometimes, but it’s a risk to avoid.” Oromis paused to consume a few
spoonfuls of stew. “Now, to address the heart of this issue, how do you
defend yourself against anonymous enemies who can contravene any
physical precautions and slay with a muttered word?”

“I don’t see how, unless...” Eragon hesitated, then smiled. “Unless I was
aware of the consciousnesses of all the people around me. Then I could
sense if they meant me harm.”

Oromis appeared pleased by his answer. “Even so, Eragon-finiarel. And
that’s the answer to your question. Your meditations condition your
mind to find and exploit flaws in your enemies’ mental armor, no matter
how small.”

“But won’t another magic user know if I touch their mind?”

“Aye, they will know, but most people won’t. And as for the magicians,
they will know, they will be afraid, and they will shield their minds from
you out of their fear, and you will know them because of it.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to leave your consciousness unguarded? If you’re attacked
mentally, you could easily be overwhelmed.”

“It’s less dangerous than being blind to the world.”

Eragon nodded. He tapped his spoon against his bowl in a measured
meter of time, engrossed in his thoughts, then said, “It feels wrong.”

“Oh? Explain yourself.”

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“What about people’s privacy? Brom taught me to never intrude in
someone’s mind unless it was absolutely necessary.... I guess I’m uncomfortable
with the idea of prying into people’s secrets... secrets that they
have every right to keep to themselves.” He cocked his head. “Why didn’t
Brom tell me about this if it’s so important? Why didn’t he train me in it
himself?”

“Brom told you,” said Oromis, “what was appropriate to tell you under
the circumstances. Dipping into the pool of minds can prove addictive to
those with a malicious personality or a taste for power. It was not taught
to prospective Riders—though we had them meditate as you do
throughout their training—until we were convinced that they were mature
enough to resist temptation.

“It is an invasion of privacy, and you will learn many things from it that
you never wanted to. However, this is for your own good and the good of
the Varden. I can say from experience, and from watching other Riders
experience the same, that this, above all else, will help you to understand
what drives people. And understanding begets empathy and compassion,
even for the meanest beggar in the meanest city of Alagaësia.”

They were quiet for a while, eating, then Oromis asked, “Can you tell
me, What is the most important mental tool a person can possess?”

It was a serious question, and Eragon considered it for a reasonable span
before he ventured to say, “Determination.”

Oromis tore the loaf in half with his long white fingers. “I can understand
why you arrived at that conclusion—determination has served you
well in your adventures—but no. I meant the tool most necessary to
choose the best course of action in any given situation. Determination is
as common among men who are dull and foolish as it is among those
who are brilliant intellects. So, no, determination cannot be what we’re
looking for.”

This time Eragon treated the question as he would a riddle, counting
the number of words, whispering them out loud to establish whether
they rhymed, and otherwise examining them for hidden meaning. The
problem was, he was no more than a mediocre riddler and had never
placed very high in Carvahall’s annual riddle contest. He thought too literally
to work out the answers to riddles that he had not heard before, a
legacy of Garrow’s practical upbringing.

327



“Wisdom,” he finally said. “Wisdom is the most important tool for a
person to possess.”

“A fair guess, but, again, no. The answer is logic. Or, to put it another
way, the ability to reason analytically. Applied properly, it can overcome
any lack of wisdom, which one only gains through age and experience.”

Eragon frowned. “Yes, but isn’t having a good heart more important
than logic? Pure logic can lead you to conclusions that are ethically
wrong, whereas if you are moral and righteous, that will ensure that you
don’t act shamefully.”

A razor-thin smile curled Oromis’s lips. “You confuse the issue. All I
wanted to know was the most useful tool a person can have, regardless of
whether that person is good or evil. I agree that it’s important to be of a
virtuous nature, but I would also contend that if you had to choose between
giving a man a noble disposition or teaching him to think clearly,
you’d do better to teach him to think clearly. Too many problems in this
world are caused by men with noble dispositions and clouded minds.

“History provides us with numerous examples of people who were
convinced that they were doing the right thing and committed terrible
crimes because of it. Keep in mind, Eragon, that no one thinks of himself
as a villain, and few make decisions they think are wrong. A person may
dislike his choice, but he will stand by it because, even in the worst circumstances,
he believes that it was the best option available to him at
the time.

“On its own, being a decent person is no guarantee that you will act
well, which brings us back to the one protection we have against demagogues,
tricksters, and the madness of crowds, and our surest guide
through the uncertain shoals of life: clear and reasoned thinking. Logic
will never fail you, unless you’re unaware of—or deliberately ignore—the
consequences of your deeds.”

“If elves are so logical,” said Eragon, “then you must all agree on what to
do.”

“Hardly,” averred Oromis. “Like every race, we adhere to a wide range
of tenets, and, as a result, we often arrive at differing conclusions, even in
identical situations. Conclusions, I might add, that make logical sense
from each person’s point of view. And although I wish it were otherwise,
not all elves have trained their minds properly.”

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“How do you intend to teach me this logic?”

Oromis’s smile broadened. “By the oldest and most effective method:
debating. I will ask you a question, then you will answer and defend your
position.” He waited while Eragon refilled his bowl with stew. “For example,
why do you fight the Empire?”

The sudden change of topic caught Eragon off guard. He had a feeling
that Oromis had just reached the subject that he had been driving toward
all along. “As I said before, to help those who suffer from Galbatorix’s
rule and, to a lesser extent, for personal vengeance.”

“Then you fight for humanitarian reasons?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you fight to help the people who Galbatorix has harmed and to
stop him from hurting any more.”

“Exactly,” said Eragon.

“Ah, but answer me this, my young Rider: Won’t your war with Galbatorix
cause more pain than it will ever prevent? The majority of people
in the Empire live normal, productive lives untouched by their king’s
madness. How can you justify invading their land, destroying their homes,
and killing their sons and daughters?”

Eragon gaped, stunned that Oromis could ask such a question—
Galbatorix was evil —and stunned because no easy reply presented itself.
He knew that he was in the right, but how could he prove it? “Don’t you
believe that Galbatorix should be overthrown?”

“That is not the question.”

“You must believe it, though,” persisted Eragon. “Look what he did to
the Riders.”

Dunking his bread in his stew, Oromis resumed eating, letting Eragon
fume in silence. When he finished, Oromis folded his hands in his lap and
asked, “Have I upset you?”

“Yes, you have.”

“I see. Well then, continue to ponder the matter until you find an an


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swer. I expect it to be a convincing one.”


330



BLACK MORNING GLORY


They cleared the table and took the dishes outside, where they cleaned
them with sand. Oromis crumbled what remained of the bread around
his house for the birds to eat, then they returned inside.

Oromis brought out pens and ink for Eragon, and they resumed his
education of the Liduen Kvaedhí, the written form of the ancient language,
which was so much more elegant than the humans’ or dwarves’
runes. Eragon lost himself in the arcane glyphs, happy to have a task that
required nothing more strenuous than rote memorization.

After hours spent bent over the paper sheets, Oromis waved a hand
and said, “Enough. We will continue this tomorrow.” Eragon leaned back
and rolled his shoulders while Oromis selected five scrolls from their
nooks in the wall. “Two of these are in the ancient language, three are in
your native tongue. They will help you to master both alphabets, as well
as give you valuable information that would be tedious for me to vocalize.”


“Vocalize?”

With unerring accuracy, Oromis’s hand darted out and plucked a massive
sixth scroll from the wall, which he added to the pyramid in Eragon’s
arms. “This is a dictionary. I doubt you can, but try to read it all.”

When the elf opened the door for him to leave, Eragon said, “Master?”

“Yes, Eragon?”

“When will we start working with magic?”

Oromis leaned on one arm against the doorway, caving in on himself as
if he no longer possessed the will to remain upright. Then he sighed and
said, “You must trust me to guide your training, Eragon. Still, I suppose it
would be foolish of me to delay any longer. Come, leave the scrolls on
the table, and let us go explore the mysteries of gramarye.”

On the greensward before the hut, Oromis stood looking out over the
Crags of Tel’naeír, his back to Eragon, his feet shoulder width apart, and
his hands clasped in the small of his back. Without turning around, he
asked, “What is magic?”

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“The manipulation of energy through the use of the ancient language.”

There was a pause before Oromis responded. “Technically, you are correct,
and many spellcasters never understand more than that. However,
your description fails to capture the essence of magic. Magic is the art of
thinking, not strength or language—you already know that a limited vocabulary
is no obstacle to using magic. As with everything else you must
master, magic relies on having a disciplined intellect.

“Brom bypassed the normal training regimen and ignored the subtleties
of gramarye to ensure that you had the skills you needed to remain alive.
I too must distort the regimen in order to focus on the skills that you will
likely require in the coming battles. However, whereas Brom taught you
the crude mechanics of magic, I will teach you its finer applications, the
secrets that were reserved for the wisest of the Riders: how you can kill
with no more energy than moving your finger, the method by which you
can instantaneously transport an item from one point to another, a spell
that will allow you to identify poisons in your food and drink, a variation
on scrying that allows you to hear as well as to see, how you can draw
energy from your surroundings and thus preserve your own strength, and
how you can maximize your strength in every possible way.

“These techniques are so potent and dangerous, they were never shared
with novice Riders such as yourself, but circumstances demand that I divulge
them and trust that you won’t abuse them.” Raising his right arm to
his side, his hand a hooked claw, Oromis proclaimed, “Adurna!”

Eragon watched as a sphere of water coalesced from the brook by the
hut and floated through the air until it hovered between Oromis’s outstretched
fingers.

The brook was dark and brown under the branches of the forest, but
the sphere, removed from it, was as colorless as glass. Flecks of moss, dirt,
and other bits of detritus floated inside the orb.

Still gazing toward the horizon, Oromis said, “Catch.” He tossed the
sphere back over his shoulder toward Eragon.

Eragon tried to grab the ball, but as soon as it touched his skin, the water
lost cohesion and splashed across his chest.

“Catch it with magic,” said Oromis. Again, he cried, “Adurna!” and a
sphere of water gathered itself from the surface of the brook and leaped
into his hand like a trained hawk obeying its master.

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This time Oromis threw the ball without warning. Eragon was prepared,
though, and said, “Reisa du adurna,” even as he reached for the ball.
It slowed to a halt a hairsbreadth from the skin of his palm.

“An awkward word choice,” said Oromis, “but workable, nevertheless.”

Eragon grinned and whispered, “Thrysta.”

The ball reversed its course and sped toward the base of Oromis’s silver
head. However, the sphere did not land where Eragon had intended, but
rather shot past the elf, whipped around, and flew back at Eragon with
increased velocity.

The water remained as hard and solid as polished marble when it
struck Eragon, producing a dull thunk as it collided with his skull. The
blow knocked him sprawling on the turf, where he lay stunned, blinking
as pulsing lights swam across the sky.

“Yes,” said Oromis. “A better word might be letta or kodthr. ” He finally
turned to look at Eragon and raised an eyebrow with apparent surprise.
“Whatever are you doing? Get up. We can’t lay about all day.”

“Yes, Master,” groaned Eragon.

When Eragon got back on his feet, Oromis had him manipulate the water
in various ways—shaping it into complex knots, changing the color of
light that it absorbed or reflected, and freezing it in certain prescribed sequences—
none of which proved difficult for him.

The exercises continued for so long that Eragon’s initial interest faded
and was replaced by impatience and puzzlement. He was chary of offending
Oromis, but he saw no point to what the elf was doing; it was as
if Oromis were avoiding any spells that would require him to use more
than a minimal amount of strength. I’ve already demonstrated the extent of
my skills. Why does he persist in reviewing these fundamentals? He said,
“Master, I know all of this. Can we not move on?”

The muscles in Oromis’s neck hardened, and his shoulders were like
chiseled granite for all they moved; even the elf’s breathing halted before
he said, “Will you never learn respect, Eragon-vodhr? So be it!” Then he
uttered four words from the ancient language in a voice so deep that
their meaning escaped Eragon.

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Eragon yelped as he felt each of his legs enveloped by pressure up to
the knee, squeezing and constricting his calves in such a way that made it
impossible for him to walk. His thighs and upper body were free to
move, but other than that, it was as if he had been cast in lime mortar.

“Free yourself,” said Oromis.

Here now was a challenge that Eragon had never dealt with before:
how to counter someone else’s spells. He could sever his invisible bonds
using one of two different methods. The most effective would be if he
knew how Oromis had immobilized him—whether by affecting his body
directly or using an external source—for then he could redirect the element
or force to disperse Oromis’s power. Or he could use a generic,
vague spell to block whatever Oromis was doing. The downside to the
tactic was that it would lead to a direct contest of strength between
them. It had to happen sometime, thought Eragon. He entertained no hope
of prevailing against an elf.

Assembling the required phrase, he said, “Losna kalfya iet.” Release my
calves.

The surge of energy that deserted Eragon was greater than he had anticipated;
he went from being moderately tired from the day’s pains and
exertions to feeling as if he had hiked over rough terrain since morn.
Then the pressure vanished from his legs, causing him to stagger as he regained
his balance.

Oromis shook his head. “Foolish,” he said, “very foolish. If I had committed
more to maintaining my spell, that would have killed you. Never
use absolutes.”

“Absolutes?”

“Never word your spells so that only two outcomes are possible: success
or death. If an enemy had trapped your legs and if he were stronger
than you, then you would have expended all of your energy trying to
break his spell. You would have died with no chance to abort the attempt
once you realized that it was futile.”

“How do I avoid that?” asked Eragon.

“It’s safer to make the spell a process that you can terminate at your discretion.
Instead of saying release my calves, which is an absolute, you
could say reduce the magic imprisoning my calves. A bit wordy, but you

334



could then decide how much you wanted your opponent’s spell decreased
and if it were safe to remove it entirely. We will try again.”

The pressure returned to Eragon’s legs as soon as Oromis mouthed his
inaudible invocation. Eragon was so tired, he doubted that he could provide
much opposition. Nevertheless, he reached for the magic.

Before the ancient language left Eragon’s mouth, he became aware of a
curious sensation as the weight constraining his legs lessened at a steady
rate. It tickled and felt like he was being pulled out of a mire of cold,
slick mud. He glanced at Oromis and saw the elf’s face scribed by passion,
as if he clung to something precious that he could not bear to lose. A
vein throbbed at one of Oromis’s temples.

When Eragon’s arcane fetters ceased to exist, Oromis recoiled as if he
had been pricked by a wasp and stood with his gaze fixed on his two
hands, his thin chest heaving. For perhaps a minute, he remained thus,
then he drew himself upright and walked to the very edge of the Crags of
Tel’naeír, a lone figure outlined against the pale sky.

Regret and sorrow welled in Eragon—the same emotions that had
gripped him when he first saw Glaedr’s mutilated foreleg. He cursed
himself for being so arrogant with Oromis, so oblivious to his infirmities,
and for not placing more confidence in the elf’s judgment. I’m not the only
one who must deal with past injuries. Eragon had not fully comprehended
what it meant when Oromis said that all but the slightest magic escaped
his grasp. Now he appreciated the depths of Oromis’s situation and the
pain that it must cause him, especially for one of his race, who was born
and bred with magic.

Eragon went to Oromis, knelt, and bowed in the fashion of the
dwarves, pressing his bruised forehead against the ground. “Ebrithil, I beg
your pardon.”

The elf gave no indication that he had heard.

The two of them lingered in their respective positions while the sun
declined before them, the birds sang their evening songs, and the air grew
cool and moist. From the north came the faint offbeat thumps of Saphira
and Glaedr’s wing strokes as they returned for the day.

In a low, distant voice, Oromis said, “We will begin anew tomorrow,
with this and other subjects.” From his profile, Eragon could tell that
Oromis had regained his customary expression of impassive reserve. “Is

335



that agreeable to you?”

“Yes, Master,” said Eragon, grateful for the question.

“I think it best if, from now on, you endeavor to speak only in the ancient
language. We have little time at our disposal, and this is the fastest
way for you to learn.”

“Even when I talk to Saphira?”

“Even then.”

Adopting the elven tongue, Eragon vowed, “Then I will work ceaselessly
until I not only think, but dream, in your language.”

“If you achieve that,” said Oromis, replying in kind, “our venture may
yet succeed.” He paused. “Instead of flying directly here in the morning,
you will accompany the elf I send to guide you. He will take you to
where those of Ellesméra practice swordplay. Stay for an hour, then continue
on as normal.”

“Won’t you teach me yourself?” asked Eragon, feeling slighted.

“I have naught to teach. You are as good a swordsman as ever I have
met. I know no more of fighting than you, and that which I possess and
you do not, I cannot give you. All that remains for you is to preserve your
current level of skill.”

“Why can’t I do that with you... Master?”

“Because I do not appreciate beginning the day with alarum and conflict.”
He looked at Eragon, then relented and added, “And because it will
be good for you to become acquainted with others who live here. I am
not representative of my race. But enough of that. Look, they approach.”

The two dragons glided across the flat disk of the sun. First came
Glaedr with a roar of wind, blotting out the sky with his massive bulk
before he settled on the grass and folded his golden wings, then Saphira,
as quick and agile as a sparrow beside an eagle.

As they had that morning, Oromis and Glaedr asked a number of questions
to ensure that Eragon and Saphira had paid attention to each other’s
lessons. They had not always, but by cooperating and sharing information
between themselves, they were able to answer all of the questions. Their

336



only stumbling block was the foreign language they were required to
communicate in.

Better, rumbled Glaedr afterward. Much better. He bent his gaze toward
Eragon. You and I will have to train together soon.

“Of course, Skulblaka.”

The old dragon snorted and crawled alongside Oromis, half hopping
with his front leg to compensate for his missing limb. Darting forward,
Saphira nipped at the end of Glaedr’s tail, tossing it into the air with a
flip of her head, like she would to break the neck of a deer. She recoiled
as Glaedr twisted round and snapped at her neck, exposing his enormous
fangs.

Eragon winced and, too late, covered his ears to protect them from
Glaedr’s roar. The speed and intensity of Glaedr’s response suggested to
Eragon that this was not the first time Saphira had annoyed him throughout
the day. Instead of remorse, Eragon detected an excited playfulness in
her—like a child with a new toy—and a near-blind devotion to the other
dragon.

“Contain yourself, Saphira!” said Oromis. Saphira pranced backward
and settled on her haunches, though nothing in her demeanor expressed
contrition. Eragon muttered a feeble excuse, and Oromis waved a hand
and said, “Begone, both of you.”

Without arguing, Eragon scrambled onto Saphira. He had to urge her to
take flight, and once she did, she insisted on circling over the clearing
three times before he got her to angle toward Ellesméra.

What possessed you to bite him? he demanded. He thought he knew, but
he wanted her to confirm it.

I was only playing.

It was the truth, since they spoke in the ancient language, yet he suspected
that it was but a piece of a larger truth. Yes, and at what game?
She tensed underneath him. You forget your duty. By... He searched for
the right word. Unable to find it, he reverted to his native speech, By provoking
Glaedr, you distract him, Oromis, and me—and hinder what we
must accomplish. You’ve never been so thoughtless before.

Do not presume to be my conscience.

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He laughed then, heedless for a moment of where he sat among the
clouds, rolling to his side until he almost dropped from the peak of her
shoulders. Oh, rich irony that, after the times you’ve told me what to do. I
am your conscience, Saphira, as much as you are mine. You’ve had good
reason to chastise and warn me in the past, and now I must do the same for
you: stop pestering Glaedr with your attentions.

She remained silent.

Saphira?

I hear you.

I hope so.

After a minute of peaceful flying, she said, Two seizures in one day.
How are you now?

Sore and ill. He grimaced. Some of it’s from the Rimgar and sparring, but
mostly it’s the aftereffects of the pain. It’s like a poison, weakening my muscles
and clouding my mind. I just hope that I can remain sane long enough
to reach the end of this training. Afterward, though... I don’t know what I’ll
do. I certainly can’t fight for the Varden like this.

Don’t think about it, she counseled. You can do nothing about your condition,
and you’ll only make yourself feel worse. Live in the present, remember
the past, and fear not the future, for it doesn’t exist and never shall.
There is only now.

He patted her shoulder and smiled with resigned gratitude. To their
right, a goshawk rode a warm air current while it patrolled the broken
forest for signs of furred or feathered quarry. Eragon watched it, pondering
the question that Oromis had given him: How could he justify fighting
the Empire when it would cause so much grief and agony?

I have an answer, said Saphira.

What is it?

That Galbatorix has...She hesitated, then said, No, I won’t tell you. You
should figure this out for yourself.

Saphira! Be reasonable.

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I am. If you don’t know why what we do is the right thing, you might as
well surrender to Galbatorix for all the good you’ll do. No matter how eloquent
his pleas, he could extract nothing more from her, for she blocked
him from that part of her mind.

Back in their eyrie, Eragon ate a light supper and was just about to
open one of Oromis’s scrolls when a knock on the screen door disturbed
his quiet.

“Enter,” he said, hoping that Arya had returned to see him.

She had.

Arya greeted Eragon and Saphira, then said, “I thought that you might
appreciate an opportunity to visit Tialdarí Hall and the adjacent gardens,
since you expressed interest in them yesterday. That is, if you aren’t too
tired.” She wore a flowing red kirtle trimmed and decorated with intricate
designs wrought in black thread. The color scheme echoed the
queen’s robes and emphasized the strong resemblance between mother
and daughter.

Eragon pushed aside the scrolls. “I’d be delighted to see them.”

He means we’d be delighted, added Saphira.

Arya looked surprised when both of them spoke in the ancient language,
so Eragon explained Oromis’s command. “An excellent idea,” said
Arya, joining them in the same language. “And it is more appropriate to
speak thus while you stay here.”

When all three of them had descended from the tree, Arya directed
them westward toward an unfamiliar quadrant of Ellesméra. They encountered
many elves on the path, all of whom stopped to bow to
Saphira.

Eragon noticed once again that no elf children were to be seen. He
mentioned this to Arya, and she said, “Aye, we have few children. Only
two are in Ellesméra at the present, Dusan and Alanna. We treasure children
above all else because they are so rare. To have a child is the greatest
honor and responsibility that can be bestowed upon any living being.”

339



At last they arrived at a ribbed lancet arch—grown between two
trees—which served as the entrance for a wide compound. Still in the
ancient language, Arya chanted, “Root of tree, fruit of vine, let me pass by
this blood of mine.”

The two archway doors trembled, then swung outward, releasing five
monarch butterflies that fluttered toward the dusky sky. Through the
archway lay a vast flower garden arranged to look as pristine and natural
as a wild meadow. The one element that betrayed artifice was the sheer
variety of plants; many of the species were blooming out of season, or
came from hotter or colder climates and would never have flourished
without the elves’ magic. The scene was lit with the gemlike flameless
lanterns, augmented by constellations of swirling fireflies.

To Saphira, Arya said, “Mind your tail, that it does not sweep across the
beds.”

Advancing, they crossed the garden and pressed deep into a line of scattered
trees. Before Eragon quite knew where he was, the trees became
more numerous and then thickened into a wall. He found himself standing
on the threshold of a burnished wood hall without ever being conscious
of having gone inside.

The hall was warm and homey—a place of peace, reflection, and comfort.
Its shape was determined by the tree trunks, which on the inside of
the hall had been stripped of their bark, polished, and rubbed with oil
until the wood gleamed like amber. Regular gaps between the trunks
acted as windows. The scent of crushed pine needles perfumed the air. A
number of elves occupied the hall, reading, writing, and, in one dark corner,
playing a set of reed pipes. They all paused and inclined their heads
to acknowledge Saphira’s presence.

“Here you would stay,” said Arya, “were you not Rider and dragon.”

“It’s magnificent,” replied Eragon.

Arya guided him and Saphira everywhere in the compound that was
accessible to dragons. Each new room was a surprise; no two were alike,
and each chamber found different ways to incorporate the forest in its
construction. In one room, a silver brook trickled down the gnarled wall
and flowed across the floor on a vein of pebbles and back out under the
sky. In another, creepers blanketed the entire room, except for the floor,
in a leafy green pelt adorned with trumpet-shaped flowers with the most
delicate pink and white colors. Arya called it the Lianí Vine.

340



They saw many great works of art, from fairths and paintings to sculptures
and radiant mosaics of stained glass—all based on the curved shapes
of plants and animals.

Islanzadí met with them for a short time in an open pavilion joined to
two other buildings by covered pathways. She inquired about the progress
of Eragon’s training and the state of his back, both of which he described
with brief, polite phrases. This seemed to satisfy the queen, who
exchanged a few words with Saphira and then departed.

In the end, they returned to the garden. Eragon walked beside Arya—
Saphira trailing behind—entranced by the sound of her voice as she told
him about the different varieties of flowers, where they originated, how
they were maintained, and, in many instances, how they had been altered
with magic. She also pointed out the flowers that only opened their petals
during the night, like a white datura.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asked.

Arya smiled and escorted him to a tree on the edge of the garden, by a
pond lined with rushes. Around the tree’s lowest branch coiled a morning
glory with three velvety black blossoms that were clenched shut.

Blowing on them, Arya whispered, “Open.”

The petals rustled as they unfurled, fanning their inky robes to expose
the hoard of nectar in their centers. A starburst of royal blue filled the
flowers’ throats, diffusing into the sable corolla like the vestiges of day
into night.

“Is it not the most perfect and lovely flower?” asked Arya.

Eragon gazed at her, exquisitely aware of how close they were, and said,
“Yes... it is.” Before his courage deserted him, he added, “As are you.”

Eragon! exclaimed Saphira.

Arya fixed her eyes upon him, studying him until he was forced to look
away. When he dared face her again, he was mortified to see her wearing
a faint smile, as if amused by his reaction. “You are too kind,” she murmured.
Reaching up, she touched the rim of a blossom and glanced from
it to him. “Fäolin created this especially for me one summer solstice, long
ago.”

341



He shuffled his feet and responded with a few unintelligible words,
hurt and offended that she did not take his compliment more seriously.
He wished he could turn invisible, and even considered trying to cast a
spell that would allow him to do just that.

In the end, he drew himself upright and said, “Please excuse us, Arya
Svit-kona, but it is late, and we must return to our tree.”

Her smile deepened. “Of course, Eragon. I understand.” She accompanied
them to the main archway, opened the doors for them, and said,
“Good night, Saphira. Good night, Eragon.”

Good night, replied Saphira.

Despite his embarrassment, Eragon could not help asking, “Will we see
you tomorrow?”

Arya tilted her head. “I think I shall be busy tomorrow.” Then the doors
closed, cutting off his view of her as she returned to the main compound.

Crouching low on the path, Saphira nudged Eragon in the side. Stop
daydreaming and get on my back. Climbing up her left foreleg, he took
his usual place, then clutched the neck spike in front of him as Saphira
rose to her full height. After a few steps: How can you criticize my behavior
with Glaedr and then go and do something like that? What were you
thinking?

You know how I feel about her, he grumbled.

Pah! If you are my conscience and I am yours, then it’s my duty to tell
you when you’re acting like a deluded popinjay. You’re not using logic, like
Oromis keeps telling us to. What do you really expect to happen between
you and Arya? She’s a princess!

And I’m a Rider.

She’s an elf; you’re a human!

I look more like an elf every day.

Eragon, she’s over a hundred years old!

I’ll live as long as her or any elf.

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Ah, but you haven’t yet, and that’s the problem. You can’t overcome such
a vast difference. She’s a grown woman with a century of experience, while
you’re—

What? What am I? he snarled. A child? Is that what you mean?

No, not a child. Not after what you have seen and done since we were
joined. But you are young, even by the reckoning of your short-lived race—
much less by that of the dwarves, dragons, and elves.

As are you.

His retort silenced her for a minute. Then: I’m just trying to protect you,
Eragon. That’s all. I want you to be happy, and I’m afraid you won’t be if
you insist on pursuing Arya.

The two of them were about to retire when they heard the trapdoor in
the vestibule bang open and the jingle of mail as someone climbed inside.
Zar’roc in hand, Eragon threw back the screen door, ready to confront the
intruder.

His hand dropped as he saw Orik on the floor. The dwarf took a hearty
draught from the bottle he wielded in his left hand, then squinted at Eragon.
“Bricks and bones, where be you? Ah, there you shtand. I wondered
where you were. Couldn’t find you, so I thought that given this fine dolorous
night, I might go find you... and here you are! What shall we talk
about, you and I, now that we’re together in this delectable bird’s nest?”

Taking hold of the dwarf’s free arm, Eragon pulled him upright, surprised,
as he always was, by how dense Orik was, like a miniature boulder.
When Eragon removed his support, Orik swayed from one side to
the other, achieving such precarious angles that he threatened to topple
at the slightest provocation.

“Come on in,” said Eragon in his own language. He closed the trapdoor.
“You’ll catch cold out here.”

Orik blinked his round, deep-set eyes at Eragon. “I’ve not sheen you
round my leafy exile, no I haven’t. You’ve abandoned me to the company
of elves... and misherable, dull company they are, yesh indeed.”

343



A touch of guilt made Eragon disguise himself with an awkward smile.
He had forgotten the dwarf amid the goings-on. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited
you, Orik, but my studies have kept me busy. Here, give me your
cloak.” As he helped the dwarf out of his brown mantle, he asked, “What
are you drinking?”

“Faelnirv,” declared Orik. “A mosht wonderful, ticklish potion. The
besht and greatest of the elves’ tricksty inventions; it gives you the gift of
loquacion. Words float from your tongue like shoals of flapping minnows,
like flocks of breathlessh hummingbirds, like rivers of writhing
shnakes.” He paused, apparently taken by the unique magnificence of his
similes. As Eragon ushered him into the bedroom, Orik saluted Saphira
with his bottle and said, “Greetings, O Irontooth. May your shcales shine
as bright as the coals of Morgothal’s forge.”

Greetings, Orik, said Saphira, laying her head on the rim of her bed.
What has put you in this state? It is not like you. Eragon repeated her
question.

“What has put me in mine shtate?” repeated Orik. He dropped into the
chair that Eragon provided—his feet dangling several inches above the
ground—and began to shake his head. “Red cap, green cap, elves here and
elves there. I drown in elvesh and their thrice-damned courtesy. Bloodless
they be. Taciturn they are. Yesh sir, no shir, three bagsh full, sir, yet nary
a pip more can I extract.” He looked at Eragon with a mournful expression.
“What am I to do while you meander through your instruction? Am
I to sit and twiddle mine thumbs while I turn to shtone and join the
shpirits of mine anshestors? Tell me, O sagacious Rider.”

Have you no skills or hobbies that you might occupy yourself with? asked
Saphira.

“Aye,” said Orik. “I’m a fair enough smith by any who’d care to judge.
But why should I craft bright armsh and armor for those who treasure
them not? I’m usheless here. As usheless as a three-legged Feldûnost.”

Eragon extended a hand toward the bottle. “May I?” Orik glanced between
him and the bottle, then grimaced and gave it up. The faelnirv was
cold as ice as it ran down Eragon’s throat, stinging and smarting. He
blinked as his eyes watered. After he indulged in a second quaff, he
passed the bottle back to Orik, who seemed disappointed by how little
of the concoction remained.

“And what mischief,” asked Orik, “have you two managed to ferret out

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of Oromis and yon bucolic woods?”

The dwarf alternately chuckled and groaned as Eragon described his
training, his misplaced blessing in Farthen Dûr, the Menoa tree, his back,
and all else that had filled the past few days. Eragon ended with the topic
that was dearest to him at the moment: Arya. Emboldened by the liqueur,
he confessed his affection for her and described how she had dismissed
his advance.

Wagging a finger, Orik said, “The rock beneath you is flawed, Eragon.
Don’t tempt fate. Arya...” He stopped, then growled and took another
gulp of faelnirv. “Ah, it’s too late for thish. Who am I to say what is wisdom
and what isn’t?”

Saphira had closed her eyes a while ago. Without opening them, she
asked, Are you married, Orik? The question surprised Eragon; he had
never stopped to wonder about Orik’s personal life.

“Eta,” said Orik. “Although I’m promished to fair Hvedra, daughter of
Thorgerd One-eye and Himinglada. We were to be wed thish spring, until
the Urgals attacked and Hrothgar sent me on this accursed trip.”

“Is she of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum?” asked Eragon.

“Of coursh!” roared Orik, pounding his fist on the side of the chair.
“Thinkest thou I would marry outside my clan? She’s the granddaughter
of mine aunt Vardrûn, Hrothgar’s coushin twice removed, with white,
round calves as smooth as satin, cheeks as red as apples, and the prettiesht
dwarf maid who ever did exist.”

Undoubtedly, said Saphira.

“I’m sure it won’t be long before you see her again,” said Eragon.

“Hmph.” Orik squinted at Eragon. “Do you believe in giants? Tall giants,
shtrong giants, thick and bearded giants with fingers like spadeses?”

“I’ve never seen nor heard of them,” said Eragon, “except in stories. If
they do exist, it’s not in Alagaësia.”

“Ah, but they do! They do!” exclaimed Orik, waving the bottle about
his head. “Tell me, O Rider, if a fearshome giant were to meet you on the
garden path, what might he call you, if not dinner?”

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“Eragon, I would presume.”

“No, no. He’d call you a dwarf, for dwarf you’d be to him.” Orik guffawed
and nudged Eragon in the ribs with his hard elbow. “See you now?
Humans and elvesh are the giants. The land’s full of them, here, there,
and everywhere, stomping about with their big feet and casting us in
endless shadowses.” He continued laughing, rocking back in his chair until
it tipped over and he fell to the floor with a solid thump.

Helping him upright, Eragon said, “I think you’d better stay here for the
night. You’re in no condition to go down those stairs in the dark.”

Orik agreed with cheery indifference. He allowed Eragon to remove his
mail and bundle him onto one side of the bed. Afterward, Eragon sighed,
covered the lights, and lay on his side of the mattress.

He fell asleep hearing the dwarf mutter, “... Hvedra... Hvedra...
Hvedra...”

346



THE NATURE OF EVIL


Bright morning arrived all too soon.

Jolted to awareness by the buzz of the vibrating timepiece, Eragon
grabbed his hunting knife and sprang out of bed, expecting an attack. He
gasped as his body shrieked with protest from the abuse of the past two
days.

Blinking away tears, Eragon rewound the timepiece. Orik was gone; the
dwarf must have slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. With a
groan, Eragon hobbled to the wash closet for his daily ablutions, like an
old man afflicted by rheumatism.

He and Saphira waited by the tree for ten minutes before they were
met by a solemn, black-haired elf. The elf bowed, touched two fingers to
his lips—which Eragon mirrored—and then preempted Eragon by saying,
“May good fortune rule over you.”

“And may the stars watch over you,” replied Eragon. “Did Oromis send
you?”

The elf ignored him and said to Saphira, “Well met, dragon. I am Vanir
of House Haldthin.” Eragon scowled with annoyance.

Well met, Vanir.

Only then did the elf address Eragon: “I will show you where you may
practice with your blade.” He strode away, not waiting for Eragon to
catch up.

The sparring yard was dotted with elves of both sexes fighting in pairs
and groups. Their extraordinary physical gifts resulted in flurries of blows
so quick and fast, they sounded like bursts of hail striking an iron bell.
Under the trees that fringed the yard, individual elves performed the
Rimgar with more grace and flexibility than Eragon thought he would
ever achieve.

After everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, Vanir unsheathed
his narrow blade. “If you will guard your sword, Silver Hand, we
can begin.”

Eragon eyed the inhuman swordsmanship of the other elves with trepi


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dation. Why do I have to do this? he asked. I’ll just be humiliated.

You’ll be fine, said Saphira, yet he could sense her concern for him.

Right.

As he prepared Zar’roc, Eragon’s hands trembled with dread. Instead of
throwing himself into the fray, he fought Vanir from a distance, dodging,
sidestepping, and doing everything possible to avoid triggering another fit.
Despite Eragon’s evasions, Vanir touched him four times in rapid succession—
once each on his ribs, shin, and both shoulders.

Vanir’s initial expression of stoic impassivity soon devolved into open
contempt. Dancing forward, he slid his blade up Zar’roc’s length while at
the same time twirling Zar’roc in a circle, wrenching Eragon’s wrist. Eragon
allowed Zar’roc to fly out of his hand rather than resist the elf’s superior
strength.

Vanir dropped his sword onto Eragon’s neck and said, “Dead.” Shrugging
off the sword, Eragon trudged over to retrieve Zar’roc. “Dead,” said
Vanir. “How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected
better, even from a weakling human.”

“Then why don’t you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du
Weldenvarden?”

Vanir stiffened with outrage. “Because,” he said, cool and haughty, “I’m
not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you.”

No one moved or spoke on the field.

His back to Vanir, Eragon leaned on Zar’roc and craned his neck toward
the sky, snarling to himself. He knows nothing. This is just one more
test to overcome.

“Coward, I say. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race’s. I think
that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix’s wiles and made the wrong
choice of Rider.” The spectating elves gasped at Vanir’s words and muttered
among themselves with open disapproval for his atrocious breach
of etiquette.

Eragon ground his teeth. He could stand insults to himself, but not to
Saphira. She was already moving when his pent-up frustration, fear, and
pain burst within him and he whirled around, the tip of Zar’roc whistling

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through the air.

The blow would have killed Vanir had he not blocked it at the last
second. He looked surprised by the ferocity of the attack. Holding nothing
in reserve, Eragon drove Vanir to the center of the field, jabbing and
slashing like a madman—determined to hurt the elf however he could.
He nicked Vanir on the hip with enough force to draw blood, even with
Zar’roc’s blunted edge.

At that instant, Eragon’s back ruptured in an explosion of agony so intense,
he experienced it with all five senses: as a deafening, crashing waterfall
of sound; a metallic taste that coated his tongue; an acrid, eye-
watering stench in his nostrils, redolent of vinegar; pulsing colors; and,
above all, the feeling that Durza had just laid open his back.

He could see Vanir standing over him with a derisive sneer. It occurred
to Eragon that Vanir was very young.

After the seizure, Eragon wiped the blood from his mouth with his
hand and showed it to Vanir, asking, “Thin enough?” Vanir did not deign
to respond, but rather sheathed his sword and walked away.

“Where are you going?” demanded Eragon. “We have unfinished business,
you and I.”

“You are in no fit condition to spar,” scoffed the elf.

“Try me.” Eragon might be inferior to the elves, but he refused to give
them the satisfaction of fulfilling their low expectations of him. He
would earn their respect through sheer persistence, if nothing else.

He insisted on completing Oromis’s assigned hour, after which Saphira
marched up to Vanir and touched him on the chest with the point of
one of her ivory talons. Dead, she said. Vanir paled. The other elves
edged away from him.

Once they were in the air, Saphira said, Oromis was right.

About what?

You give more of yourself when you have an opponent.

349



At Oromis’s hut, the day resumed its usual pattern: Saphira accompanied
Glaedr for her instruction while Eragon remained with Oromis.

Eragon was horrified when he discovered that Oromis expected him to
do the Rimgar in addition to his earlier exercises. It took all of his courage
to obey. His apprehension proved groundless, though, for the Dance of
Snake and Crane was too gentle to injure him.

That, coupled with his meditation in the secluded glade, provided Eragon
with his first opportunity since the previous day to order his
thoughts and consider the question that Oromis had posed him.

While he did, he observed his red ants invade a smaller, rival anthill,
overrunning the inhabitants and stealing their resources. By the end of the
massacre, only a handful of the rival ants were left alive, alone and purposeless
in the vast and hostile pine-needle barrens.

Like the dragons in Alagaësia, thought Eragon. His connection to the
ants vanished as he considered the dragons’ unhappy fate. Bit by bit, an
answer to his problem revealed itself to him, an answer that he could live
with and believe in.

He finished his meditations and returned to the hut. This time Oromis
seemed reasonably satisfied with what Eragon had accomplished.

As Oromis served the midday meal, Eragon said, “I know why fighting
Galbatorix is worth it, though thousands of people may die.”

“Oh?” Oromis seated himself. “Do tell me.”

“Because Galbatorix has already caused more suffering over the past
hundred years than we ever could in a single generation. And unlike a
normal tyrant, we cannot wait for him to die. He could rule for centuries
or millennia—persecuting and tormenting people the entire time—unless
we stop him. If he became strong enough, he would march on the
dwarves and you here in Du Weldenvarden and kill or enslave both races.
And...,” Eragon rubbed the heel of his palm against the edge of the table,
“... because rescuing the two eggs from Galbatorix is the only way to save
the dragons.”

The strident warble of Oromis’s teakettle intruded, escalating in volume
until Eragon’s ears rang. Standing, Oromis hooked the kettle off the

350



cookfire and poured the water for blueberry tea. The creases around his
eyes softened. “Now,” he said, “you understand.”

“I understand, but I take no pleasure in it.”

“Nor should you. But now we can be confident that you won’t shrink
from the path when you are confronted by the injustices and atrocities
that the Varden will inevitably commit. We cannot afford to have you
consumed by doubts when your strength and focus are most needed.”
Oromis steepled his fingers and gazed into the dark mirror of his tea, contemplating
whatever he saw in its tenebrous reflection. “Do you believe
that Galbatorix is evil?”

“Of course!”

“Do you believe that he considers himself evil?”

“No, I doubt it.”

Oromis tapped his forefingers against each other. “Then you must also
believe that Durza was evil?”

The fragmented memories Eragon had gleaned from Durza when they
fought in Tronjheim returned to him now, reminding him how the young
Shade—Carsaib, then—had been enslaved by the wraiths he had summoned
to avenge the death of his mentor, Haeg. “He wasn’t evil himself,
but the spirits that controlled him were.”

“And what of the Urgals?” asked Oromis, sipping his tea. “Are they
evil?”

Eragon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his spoon. “When I think of
death, I see an Urgal’s face. They’re worse than beasts. The things they
have done...” He shook his head, unable to continue.

“Eragon, what kind of opinion would you form of humans if all you
knew of them were the actions of your warriors on the field of battle?”

“That’s not...” He took a deep breath. “It’s different. Urgals deserve to be
wiped out, every last one of them.”

“Even their females and children? The ones who haven’t harmed you
and likely never will? The innocents? Would you kill them and condemn
an entire race to the void?”

351



“They wouldn’t spare us, given the chance.”

“Eragon!” exclaimed Oromis in biting tones. “I never want to hear you
use that excuse again, that because someone else has done—or would
do—something means that you should too. It’s lazy, repugnant, and indicative
of an inferior mind. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master.”

The elf raised his mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Eragon
the entire time. “What do you actually know of Urgals?”

“I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It’s all I need
to know.”

“Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history
and legends, or the way in which they live?”

“Does it matter?”

Oromis sighed. “Just remember,” he said gently, “that at a certain point,
your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life.”

Eragon resisted the urge to argue. He swirled his own tea in its mug, accelerating
the liquid into a black whirlpool with a white lens of foam at
the bottom of the vortex. “Is that why Galbatorix enlisted the Urgals?”

“That is not an example I would have chosen, but yes.”

“It seems strange that he befriended them. After all, they were the ones
who killed his dragon. Look what he did to us, the Riders, and we
weren’t even responsible for his loss.”

“Ah,” said Oromis, “mad Galbatorix may be, but he’s still as cunning as
a fox. I guess that he intended to use the Urgals to destroy the Varden
and the dwarves—and others, if he had triumphed in Farthen Dûr—
thereby removing two of his enemies while simultaneously weakening
the Urgals so that he could dispose of them at his leisure.”

Study of the ancient language devoured the afternoon, whereupon they
took up the practice of magic. Much of Oromis’s lectures concerned the

352



proper way in which to control various forms of energy, such as light,
heat, electricity, and even gravity. He explained that since these forces
consumed strength faster than any other type of spell, it was safer to find
them already in existence in nature and then shape them with gramarye,
instead of trying to create them from nothing.

Abandoning the subject, Oromis asked, “How would you kill with
magic?”

“I’ve done it many ways,” said Eragon. “I’ve hunted with a pebble—
moving and aiming it with magic—as well as using the word jierda to
break Urgals’ legs and necks. Once, with thrysta, I stopped a man’s heart.”

“There are more efficient methods,” revealed Oromis. “What does it
take to kill a man, Eragon? A sword through the chest? A broken neck?
The loss of blood? All it takes is for a single artery in the brain to be
pinched off, or for certain nerves to be severed. With the right spell, you
could obliterate an army.”

“I should have thought of that in Farthen Dûr,” said Eragon, disgusted
with himself. Not just Farthen Dûr either, but also when the Kull chased us
from the Hadarac Desert. “Again, why didn’t Brom teach me this?”

“Because he did not expect you to face an army for months or years to
come; it is not a tool given to untested Riders.”

“If it’s so easy to kill people, though, what’s the point of us or Galbatorix
raising an army?”

“To be succinct, tactics. Magicians are vulnerable to physical attack
when they are embroiled in their mental struggles. Therefore, they need
warriors to protect them. And the warriors must be shielded, at least in
part, from magical attacks, else they would be slain within minutes.
These limitations mean that when armies confront one another, their
magicians are scattered throughout the bulk of their forces, close to the
edge but not so close as to be in danger. The magicians on both sides
open their minds and attempt to sense if anyone is using or is about to
use magic. Since their enemies might be beyond their mental reach, magicians
also erect wards around themselves and their warriors to stop or
lessen long-range attacks, such as a pebble sent flying toward their head
from a mile away.”

“Surely one man can’t defend an entire army,” said Eragon.

353



“Not alone, but with enough magicians, you can provide a reasonable
amount of protection. The greatest danger in this sort of conflict is that a
clever magician may think of a unique attack that can bypass your wards
without tripping them. That itself could be enough to decide a battle.

“Also,” said Oromis, “you must keep in mind that the ability to use
magic is exceedingly rare among the races. We elves are no exception,
although we have a greater allotment of spellweavers than most, as a result
of oaths we bound ourselves with centuries ago. The majority of
those blessed with magic have little or no appreciable talent; they struggle
to heal even so much as a bruise.”

Eragon nodded. He had encountered magicians like that in the Varden.
“But it still takes the same amount of energy to accomplish a task.”

“Energy, yes, but lesser magicians find it harder than you or I do to feel
the flow of magic and immerse themselves in it. Few magicians are strong
enough to pose a threat to an entire army. And those who are usually
spend the bulk of their time during battles evading, tracking, or fighting
their opposites, which is fortunate from the standpoint of ordinary warriors,
else they would all soon be killed.”

Troubled, Eragon said, “The Varden don’t have many magicians.”

“That is one reason why you are so important.”

A moment passed as Eragon reflected on what Oromis had told him.
“These wards, do they only drain energy from you when they are activated?”


“Aye.”

“Then, given enough time, you could acquire countless layers of wards.
You could make yourself...” He struggled with the ancient language as he
attempted to express himself. “... untouchable?... impregnable?... impregnable
to any assault, magical or physical.”

“Wards,” said Oromis, “rely upon the strength of your body. If that
strength is exceeded, you die. No matter how many wards you have, you
will only be able to block attacks so long as your body can sustain the
output of energy.”

“And Galbatorix’s strength has been increasing each year.... How is that
possible?”

354



It was a rhetorical question, yet when Oromis remained silent, his almond
eyes fixed on a trio of swallows pirouetting overhead, Eragon realized
that the elf was considering how best to answer him. The birds
chased each other for several minutes. When they flitted from view,
Oromis said, “It is not appropriate to have this discussion at the present.”

“Then you know?” exclaimed Eragon, astonished.

“I do. But that information must wait until later in your training. You
are not ready for it.” Oromis looked at Eragon, as if expecting him to object.


Eragon bowed. “As you wish, Master.” He could never prize the information
out of Oromis until the elf was willing to share it, so why try?
Still, he wondered what could be so dangerous that Oromis dared not tell
him, and why the elves had kept it secret from the Varden. Another
thought presented itself to him, and he said, “If battles with magicians are
conducted like you said, then why did Ajihad let me fight without wards
in Farthen Dûr? I didn’t even know that I needed to keep my mind open
for enemies. And why didn’t Arya kill most or all of the Urgals? No magicians
were there to oppose her except for Durza, and he couldn’t have
defended his troops when he was underground.”

“Did not Ajihad have Arya or one of Du Vrangr Gata set defenses
around you?” demanded Oromis.

“No, Master.”

“And you fought thus?”

“Yes, Master.”

Oromis’s eyes unfocused, withdrawing into himself as he stood motionless
on the greensward. He spoke without warning: “I have consulted
Arya, and she says that the Twins of the Varden were ordered to assess
your abilities. They told Ajihad you were competent in all magic, including
wards. Neither Ajihad nor Arya doubted their judgment on that matter.”


“Those smooth-tongued, bald-pated, tick-infested, treacherous dogs,”
swore Eragon. “They tried to get me killed!” Reverting to his own language,
he indulged in several more pungent oaths.

355



“Do not befoul the air,” said Oromis mildly. “It ill becomes you.... In any
case, I suspect the Twins allowed you into battle unprotected not so you
would be killed, but so that Durza could capture you.”

“What?”

“By your own account, Ajihad suspected that the Varden had been betrayed
when Galbatorix began persecuting their allies in the Empire with
near-perfect accuracy. The Twins were privy to the identities of the
Varden’s collaborators. Also, the Twins lured you to the heart of Tronjheim,
thereby separating you from Saphira and placing you within
Durza’s reach. That they were traitors is the logical explanation.”

“If they were traitors,” said Eragon, “it doesn’t matter now; they’re long
dead.”

Oromis inclined his head. “Even so. Arya said that the Urgals did have
magicians in Farthen Dûr and that she fought many of them. None of
them attacked you?”

“No, Master.”

“More evidence that you and Saphira were left for Durza to capture
and take to Galbatorix. The trap was well laid.”

Over the next hour, Oromis taught Eragon twelve methods to kill,
none of which took more energy than lifting an ink-laden pen. As he finished
memorizing the last one, a thought struck Eragon that caused him
to grin. “The Ra’zac won’t stand a chance the next time they cross my
path.”

“You must still be wary of them,” cautioned Oromis.

“Why? Three words and they’ll be dead.”

“What do ospreys eat?”

Eragon blinked. “Fish, of course.”

“And if a fish were slightly faster and more intelligent than its brethren,
would it be able to escape a hunting osprey?”

“I doubt it,” said Eragon. “At least not for very long.”

356



“Just as ospreys are designed to be the best possible hunters of fish,
wolves are designed to be the best hunters of deer and other large game,
and every animal is gifted to best suit its purpose. So too are the Ra’zac
designed to prey upon humans. They are the monsters in the dark, the
dripping nightmares that haunt your race.”

The back of Eragon’s neck prickled with horror. “What manner of creatures
are they?”

“Neither elf; man; dwarf; dragon; furred, finned, or feathered beast; reptile;
insect; nor any other category of animal.”

Eragon forced a laugh. “Are they plants, then?”

“Nor that either. They reproduce by laying eggs, like dragons. When
they hatch, the young—or pupae—grow black exoskeletons that mimic
the human form. It’s a grotesque imitation, but convincing enough to let
the Ra’zac approach their victims without undo alarm. All areas where
humans are weak, the Ra’zac are strong. They can see on a cloudy night,
track a scent like a bloodhound, jump higher, and move faster. However,
bright light pains them and they have a morbid fear of deep water, for
they cannot swim. Their greatest weapon is their evil breath, which fogs
the minds of humans—incapacitating many—though it is less potent on
dwarves, and elves are immune altogether.”

Eragon shivered as he remembered his first sight of the Ra’zac in Carvahall
and how he had been unable to flee once they noticed him. “It felt
like a dream where I wanted to run but I couldn’t move, no matter how
hard I tried.”

“As good a description as any,” said Oromis. “Though the Ra’zac cannot
use magic, they are not to be underestimated. If they know that you hunt
them, they will not reveal themselves but keep to the shadows, where
they are strong, and plot to ambush you as they did by Dras-Leona. Even
Brom’s experience could not protect him from them. Never grow overconfident,
Eragon. Never grow arrogant, for then you will be careless and
your enemies will exploit your weakness.”

“Yes, Master.”

Oromis fixed Eragon with a steady gaze. “The Ra’zac remain pupae for
twenty years while they mature. On the first full moon of their twentieth
year, they shed their exoskeletons, spread their wings, and emerge as
adults ready to hunt all creatures, not just humans.”

357



“Then the Ra’zac’s mounts, the ones they fly on, are really...”
“Aye, their parents.”

358



IMAGE OF PERFECTION


At last I understand the nature of my enemies, thought Eragon. He had
feared the Ra’zac ever since they first appeared in Carvahall, not only because
of their villainous deeds but because he knew so little about the
creatures. In his ignorance, he credited the Ra’zac with more powers than
they actually possessed and regarded them with an almost superstitious
dread. Nightmares indeed. But now that Oromis’s explanation had
stripped away the Ra’zac’s aura of mystery, they no longer seemed quite
so formidable. The fact that they were vulnerable to light and water
strengthened Eragon’s conviction that when next they met, he would destroy
the monsters that had killed Garrow and Brom.

“Are their parents called Ra’zac as well?” he asked.

Oromis shook his head. “Lethrblaka, we named them. And whereas
their offspring are narrow-minded, if cunning, Lethrblaka have all the intelligence
of a dragon. A cruel, vicious, and twisted dragon.”

“Where do they come from?”

“From whatever land your ancestors abandoned. Their depredations
may have been what forced King Palancar to emigrate. When we, the
Riders, became aware of the Ra’zac’s foul presence in Alagaësia, we did
our best to eradicate them, as we would leaf blight. Unfortunately, we
were only partially successful. Two Lethrblaka escaped, and they along
with their pupae are the ones who have caused you so much grief. After
he killed Vrael, Galbatorix sought them out and bargained for their services
in return for his protection and a guaranteed amount of their favorite
food. That is why Galbatorix allows them to live by Dras-Leona, one
of the Empire’s largest cities.”

Eragon’s jaw tightened. “They have much to answer for.” And they will,
if I have my way.

“That they do,” Oromis agreed. Returning to the hut, he stepped
through the black shadow of the doorway, then reappeared carrying a
half-dozen slate tablets about a half-foot wide and a foot high. He presented
one to Eragon. “Let us abandon such unpleasant topics for a time. I
thought you might enjoy learning how to make a fairth. It is an excellent
device for focusing your thoughts. The slate is impregnated with enough
ink to cover it with any combination of colors. All you need do is concentrate
upon the image that you wish to capture and then say, ‘Let that

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which I see in my mind’s eye be replicated on the surface of this tablet.’ ”
As Eragon examined the clay-smooth slate, Oromis gestured at the clearing.
“Look about you, Eragon, and find something worth preserving.”

The first objects that Eragon noticed seemed too obvious, too banal to
him: a yellow lily by his feet, Oromis’s overgrown hut, the white stream,
and the landscape itself. None were unique. None would give an observer
an insight into the subject of the fairth or he who had created it. Things
that change and are lost, that is what’s worth preserving, he thought. His
eye alighted upon the pale green nubs of spring growth at the tip of a
tree’s branches and then the deep, narrow wound that seamed the trunk
where a storm had broken a bough, tearing off a rope of bark with it.
Translucent orbs of sap encrusted the seam, catching and refracting the
light.

Eragon positioned himself alongside the trunk so that the rotund galls
of the tree’s congealed blood bulged out in silhouette and were framed by
a cluster of shiny new needles. Then he fixed the scene in his mind as
best he could and uttered the spell.

The surface of the gray tablet brightened as splashes of color bloomed
across it, blending and mixing to produce the proper array of hues. When
the pigments at last stopped moving, Eragon found himself looking at a
strange copy of what he had wanted to reproduce. The sap and needles
were rendered with vibrant, razor-sharp detail, while all else was slurred
and bleary, as if seen through half-opened eyes. It was far removed from
the universal clarity of Oromis’s fairth of Ilirea.

At a sign from Oromis, Eragon handed the tablet to him. The elf studied
it for a minute, then said, “You have an unusual way of thinking, Eragon-
finiarel. Most humans have difficulty achieving the proper concentration
to create a recognizable image. You, on the other hand, seem to
observe nearly everything about whatever interests you. It’s a narrow focus,
though. You have the same problem here that you do with your
meditation. You must relax, broaden your field of vision, and allow yourself
to absorb everything around you without judging what is important
or not.” Setting aside the picture, Oromis took a second, blank tablet
from the grass and gave it to Eragon. “Try again with what I—”

“Hail, Rider!”

Startled, Eragon turned and saw Orik and Arya emerge side by side
from the forest. The dwarf raised his arm in greeting. His beard was
freshly trimmed and braided, his hair was pulled back into a neat pony


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tail, and he wore a new tunic—courtesy of the elves—that was red and
brown and embroidered with gold thread. His appearance gave no indication
of his condition the previous night.

Eragon, Oromis, and Arya exchanged the traditional greeting, then,
abandoning the ancient language, Oromis asked, “To what may I attribute
this visit? You are both welcome to my hut, but as you can see, I am in
the midst of working with Eragon, and that is of paramount importance.”

“I apologize for disturbing you, Oromis-elda,” said Arya, “but—”

“The fault is mine,” said Orik. He glanced at Eragon before continuing:
“I was sent here by Hrothgar to ensure that Eragon receives the instruction
he is due. I have no doubt that he is, but I am obliged to see his
training with my own eyes so that when I return to Tronjheim, I may
give my king a true account of events.”

Oromis said, “That which I teach Eragon is not to be shared with anyone
else. The secrets of the Riders are for him alone.”

“And I understand that. However, we live in uncertain times; the stone
that once was fixed and solid is now unstable. We must adapt to survive.
So much depends on Eragon, we dwarves have a right to verify that his
training proceeds as promised. Do you believe our request is an unreasonable
one?”

“Well spoken, Master Dwarf,” said Oromis. He tapped his fingers together,
inscrutable as always. “May I assume, then, that this is a matter of
duty for you?”

“Duty and honor.”

“And neither will allow you to yield on this point?”

“I fear not, Oromis-elda,” said Orik.

“Very well. You may stay and watch for the duration of this lesson.
Will that satisfy you?”

Orik frowned. “Are you near the end of the lesson?”

“We have just begun.”

“Then yes, I will be satisfied. For the moment, at least.”

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While they spoke, Eragon tried to catch Arya’s eye, but she kept her attention
centered on Oromis.

“... Eragon!”

He blinked, jolted out of his reverie. “Yes, Master?”

“Don’t wander, Eragon. I want you to make another fairth. Keep your
mind open, like I told you before.”

“Yes, Master.” Eragon hefted the tablet, his hands slightly damp at the
thought of having Orik and Arya there to judge his performance. He
wanted to do well in order to prove that Oromis was a good teacher.
Even so, he could not concentrate on the pine needles and sap; Arya
tugged at him like a lodestone, drawing his attention back to her whenever
he thought of something else.

At last he realized that it was futile for him to resist the attraction. He
composed an image of her in his head—which took but a heartbeat, since
he knew her features better than his own—and voiced the spell in the
ancient language, pouring all of his adoration, love, and fear of her into
the currents of fey magic.

The result left him speechless.

The fairth depicted Arya’s head and shoulders against a dark, indistinct
background. She was bathed in firelight on her right side and gazed out at
the viewer with knowing eyes, appearing not just as she was but as he
thought of her: mysterious, exotic, and the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. It was a flawed, imperfect picture, but it possessed such intensity
and passion that it evoked a visceral response from Eragon. Is this
how I really see her? Whoever this woman was, she was so wise, so powerful,
and so hypnotic, she could consume any lesser man.

From a great distance, he heard Saphira whisper, Be careful....

“What have you wrought, Eragon?” demanded Oromis.

“I... I don’t know.” Eragon hesitated as Oromis extended his hand for
the fairth, reluctant to let the others examine his work, especially Arya.
After a long, terrifying pause, Eragon pried his fingers off the tablet and
released it to Oromis.

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The elf’s expression grew stern as he looked at the fairth, then back at
Eragon, who quailed under the weight of his stare. Without a word,
Oromis handed the tablet to Arya.

Her hair obscured her face as she bowed over the tablet, but Eragon
saw cords and veins ridge her hands as she clenched the slate. It shook in
her grip.

“Well, what is it?” asked Orik.

Raising the fairth over her head, Arya hurled it against the ground, shattering
the picture into a thousand pieces. Then she drew herself upright
and, with great dignity, walked past Eragon, across the clearing, and into
the tangled depths of Du Weldenvarden.

Orik picked up one of the fragments of slate. It was blank. The image
had vanished when the tablet broke. He tugged his beard. “In all the decades
I’ve known her, Arya has never lost her temper like that. Never.
What did you do, Eragon?”

Dazed, Eragon said, “A portrait of her.”

Orik frowned, obviously puzzled. “A portrait? Why would that—”

“I think it would be best if you left now,” said Oromis. “The lesson is
over, in any case. Come back tomorrow or the day after if you want a
better idea of Eragon’s progress.”

The dwarf squinted at Eragon, then nodded and brushed the dirt from
his palms. “Yes, I believe I’ll do that. Thank you for your time, Oromiselda.
I appreciate it.” As he headed back toward Ellesméra, he said over
his shoulder to Eragon, “I’ll be in the common room of Tialdarí Hall, if
you want to talk.”

When Orik was gone, Oromis lifted the hem of his tunic, knelt, and
began to gather up the remains of the tablet. Eragon watched him, unable
to move.

“Why?” he asked in the ancient language.

“Perhaps,” said Oromis, “Arya was frightened by you.”

“Frightened? She never gets frightened.” Even as he said it, Eragon knew
that it was not true. She just concealed her fear better than most. Drop


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ping to one knee, he took a piece of the fairth and pressed it into
Oromis’s palm. “Why would I frighten her?” he asked. “Please, tell me.”

Oromis stood and walked to the edge of the stream, where he scattered
the fragments of slate over the bank, letting the gray flakes trickle
through his fingers. “Fairths only show what you want them to. It’s possible
to lie with them, to create a false image, but to do so requires more
skill than you yet have. Arya knows this. She also knows, then, that your
fairth was an accurate representation of your feelings for her.”

“But why would that frighten her?”

Oromis smiled sadly. “Because it revealed the depth of your infatuation.”
He pressed his fingertips together, forming a series of arches. “Let
us analyze the situation, Eragon. While you are old enough to be considered
a man among your people, in our eyes, you are no more than a
child.” Eragon frowned, hearing echoes of Saphira’s words from the previous
night. “Normally, I would not compare a human’s age to an elf’s,
but since you share our longevity, you must also be judged by our standards.


“And you are a Rider. We rely upon you to help us defeat Galbatorix;
it could be disastrous for everyone in Alagaësia if you are distracted from
your studies.

“Now then,” said Oromis, “how should Arya have responded to your
fairth? It’s clear that you see her in a romantic light, yet—while I have no
doubt Arya is fond of you—a union between the two of you is impossible
due to your own youth, culture, race, and responsibilities. Your interest
has placed Arya in an uncomfortable position. She dare not confront
you, for fear of disrupting your training. But, as the queen’s daughter, she
cannot ignore you and risk offending a Rider—especially one upon which
so much depends.... Even if you were a fit match, Arya would refrain
from encouraging you so that you could devote all of your energy to the
task at hand. She would sacrifice her happiness for the greater good.”
Oromis’s voice thickened: “You must understand, Eragon, that slaying
Galbatorix is more important than any one person. Nothing else matters.”
He paused, his gaze gentle, then added, “Given the circumstances, is it so
strange Arya was frightened that your feelings for her could endanger
everything we have worked for?”

Eragon shook his head. He was ashamed that his behavior had caused
Arya distress, and dismayed by how reckless and juvenile he had been. I
could have avoided this entire mess if I’d just kept better control of myself.

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Touching him on the shoulder, Oromis guided him back inside the hut.
“Think not that I am devoid of sympathy, Eragon. Everyone experiences
ardor like yours at one point or another during their lives. It’s part of
growing up. I also know how hard it is for you to deny yourself the usual
comforts of life, but it’s necessary if we are to prevail.”

“Yes, Master.”

They sat at the kitchen table, and Oromis began to lay out writing materials
for Eragon to practice the Liduen Kvaedhí. “It would be unreasonable
of me to expect you to forget your fascination with Arya, but I do
expect you to prevent it from interfering with my instruction again. Can
you promise me that?”

“Yes, Master. I promise.”

“And Arya? What would be the honorable thing to do about her predicament?”


Eragon hesitated. “I don’t want to lose her friendship.”

“No.”

“Therefore... I will go to her, I will apologize, and I will reassure her
that I never intend to cause her such hardship again.” It was difficult for
him to say, but once he did, he felt a sense of relief, as if acknowledging
his mistake cleansed him of it.

Oromis appeared pleased. “By that alone, you prove that you have matured.”


The sheets of paper were smooth underneath Eragon’s hands as he
pressed them flat against the tabletop. He stared at the blank white expanse
for a moment, then dipped a quill in ink and began to transcribe a
column of glyphs. Each barbed line was like a streak of night against the
paper, an abyss into which he could lose himself and try to forget his
confused feelings.

365



THE OBLITERATOR


The following morn, Eragon went looking for Arya in order to apologize.
He searched for over an hour without success. It seemed as if she
had vanished among the many hidden nooks within Ellesméra. He caught
a glimpse of her once as he paused by the entrance to Tialdarí Hall and
called out to her, but she slipped away before he could reach her side.
She’s avoiding me, he finally realized.

As the days rolled by, Eragon embraced Oromis’s training with a zeal
that the elder Rider praised, devoting himself to his studies in order to
distract himself from thoughts of Arya.

Night and day, Eragon strove to master his lessons. He memorized the
words of making, binding, and summoning; learned the true names of
plants and animals; and studied the perils of transmutation, how to call
upon the wind and the sea, and the myriad skills needed to understand
the forces of the world. At spells that dealt with the great energies—such
as light, heat, and magnetism—he excelled, for he possessed the talent to
judge nigh exactly how much strength a task required and whether it
would exceed that of his body.

Occasionally, Orik would come and watch, standing without comment
by the edge of the clearing while Oromis tutored Eragon, or while Eragon
struggled alone with a particularly difficult spell.

Oromis set many challenges before him. He had Eragon cook meals
with magic, in order to teach him finer control of his gramarye; Eragon’s
first attempts resulted in a blackened mess. The elf showed Eragon how
to detect and neutralize poisons of every sort and, from then on, Eragon
had to inspect his food for the different venoms Oromis was liable to slip
into it. More than once Eragon went hungry when he could not find the
poison or was unable to counteract it. Twice he became so sick, Oromis
had to heal him. And Oromis had Eragon cast multiple spells simultaneously,
which required tremendous concentration to keep the spells directed
at their intended targets and prevent them from shifting among
the items Eragon wanted to affect.

Oromis devoted long hours to the craft of imbuing matter with energy,
either to be released at a later time or to give an object certain attributes.
He said, “This is how Rhunön charmed the Riders’ swords so they never
break or dull; how we sing plants into growing as we desire; how a trap
might be set in a box, only to be triggered when the box is opened; how

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we and the dwarves make the Erisdar, our lanterns; and how you may
heal one who is injured, to name but a few uses. These are the most potent
of spells, for they can lie dormant for a thousand years or more and
are difficult to perceive or avert. They permeate much of Alagaësia,
shaping the land and the destiny of those who live here.”

Eragon asked, “You could use this technique to alter your body,
couldn’t you? Or is that too dangerous?”

Oromis’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Alas, you have stumbled upon
elves’ greatest weakness: our vanity. We love beauty in all its forms, and
we seek to represent that ideal in our appearance. That is why we are
known as the Fair Folk. Every elf looks exactly as he or she wishes to.
When elves learn the spells for growing and molding living things, they
often choose to modify their appearance to better reflect their personalities.
A few elves have gone beyond mere aesthetic changes and altered
their anatomy to adapt to various environments, as you will see during
the Blood-oath Celebration. Oftentimes, they are more animal than elf.

“However, transferring power to a living creature is different from
transferring power to an inanimate object. Very few materials are suitable
for storing energy; most either allow it to dissipate or become so
charged with force that when you touch the object, a bolt of lightning
drives through you. The best materials we have found for this purpose
are gemstones. Quartz, agates, and other lesser stones are not as efficient
as, say, a diamond, but any gem will suffice. That is why Riders’ swords
always have a jewel set in their pommels. It is also why your dwarf necklace—
which is entirely metal—must sap your strength to fuel its spell,
since it can hold no energy of its own.”

When not with Oromis, Eragon supplemented his education by reading
the many scrolls the elf gave him, a habit he soon became addicted to.
Eragon’s rearing—limited as it was by Garrow’s scant tutelage—had exposed
him only to the knowledge needed to run a farm. The information
he discovered on the miles of paper flooded into him like rain on parched
desert, sating a previously unknown thirst. He devoured texts on geography,
biology, anatomy, philosophy, and mathematics, as well as memoirs,
biographies, and histories. More important than mere facts was his introduction
to alternative ways of thinking. They challenged his beliefs and
forced him to reexamine his assumptions about everything from the
rights of an individual within society to what caused the sun to move
across the sky.

He noticed that a number of scrolls concerned Urgals and their culture.

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Eragon read them and made no mention of it, nor did Oromis broach the
topic.

From his studies, Eragon learned much about the elves, a subject that
he avidly pursued, hoping that it would help him to better understand
Arya. To his surprise, he discovered that the elves did not practice marriage,
but rather took mates for however long they wanted, whether it be
for a day or a century. Children were rare, and having a child was considered
by the elves to be the ultimate vow of love.

Eragon also learned that since their two races had first met, only a
handful of elf-human couples had existed: mainly human Riders who
found appropriate mates among the elves. However, as best he could tell
from the cryptic records, most such relationships ended in tragedy, either
because the lovers were unable to relate to one another or because the
humans aged and died while the elves escaped the ravages of time.

In addition to nonfiction, Oromis presented Eragon with copies of the
elves’ greatest songs, poems, and epics, which captured Eragon’s imagination,
for the only stories he was familiar with were the ones Brom had
recited in Carvahall. He savored the epics as he might a well-cooked
meal, lingering over The Deed of Gëda or The Lay of Umhodan so as to
prolong his enjoyment of the tales.

Saphira’s own training proceeded apace. Linked as he was to her mind,
Eragon got to watch as Glaedr put her through an exercise regimen every
bit as strenuous as his. She practiced hovering in the air while lifting
boulders, as well as sprints, dives, and other acrobatics. To increase her
endurance, Glaedr had her breathe fire for hours upon a natural stone pillar
in an attempt to melt it. At first Saphira could only maintain the
flames for a few minutes at a time, but before long the blistering torch
roared from her maw for over a half hour uninterrupted, heating the pillar
white-hot. Eragon was also privy to the dragon lore Glaedr imparted
to Saphira, details about the dragons’ lives and history that complemented
her instinctual knowledge. Much of it was incomprehensible to
Eragon, and he suspected that Saphira concealed even more from him,
secrets of her race that dragons shared with no one but themselves. One
thing he did glean, and that Saphira treasured, was the name of her sire,
Iormúngr, and her dam, Vervada, which meant Storm-cleaver in the old
speech. While Iormúngr had been bound to a Rider, Vervada was a wild
dragon who had laid many eggs but entrusted only one to the Riders:
Saphira. Both dragons perished in the Fall.

Some days Eragon and Saphira would fly with Oromis and Glaedr,

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practicing aerial combat or visiting crumbling ruins hidden within Du
Weldenvarden. Other days they would reverse the usual order of things,
and Eragon would accompany Glaedr while Saphira remained on the
Crags of Tel’naeír with Oromis.

Each morning Eragon sparred with Vanir, which, without exception,
ignited one or more of Eragon’s seizures. To make matters worse, the elf
continued to treat Eragon with haughty condescension. He delivered
oblique slights that, on the surface, never exceeded the bounds of politeness,
and he refused to be drawn to anger no matter how Eragon needled
him. Eragon hated him and his cool, mannered bearing. It seemed as if
Vanir was insulting him with every movement. And Vanir’s companions—
who, as best Eragon could tell, were of a younger generation of
elves—shared his veiled distaste for Eragon, though they never displayed
aught but respect for Saphira.

Their rivalry came to a head when, after defeating Eragon six times in a
row, Vanir lowered his sword and said, “Dead yet again, Shadeslayer.
How repetitive. Do you wish to continue?” His tone indicated that he
thought it would be pointless.

“Aye,” grunted Eragon. He had already suffered an episode with his
back and was in no mood to bandy words.

Still, when Vanir said, “Tell me, as I am curious: How did you kill
Durza when you are so slow? I cannot fathom how you managed it,” Eragon
felt compelled to reply: “I caught him by surprise.”

“Forgive me; I should have guessed trickery was involved.”

Eragon fought the impulse to grind his teeth. “If I were an elf or you a
human, you would not be able to match my blade.”

“Perhaps,” said Vanir. He assumed his ready position and, within the
span of three seconds and two blows, disarmed Eragon. “But I think not.
You should not boast to a better swordsman, else he may decide to punish
your temerity.”

Eragon’s temper broke then, and he reached deep within himself and
into the torrent of magic. He released the pent-up energy with one of the
twelve minor words of binding, crying “Malthinae!” to chain Vanir’s legs
and arms in place and hold his jaw shut so that he could not utter a counterspell.
The elf’s eyes bulged with outrage.

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Eragon said, “And you should not boast to one who is more skilled in
magic than you.”

Vanir’s dark eyebrows met.

Without warning or a whisper of a sound, an invisible force clouted Eragon
on the chest and threw him ten yards across the grass, where he
landed upon his side, driving the wind from his lungs. The impact disrupted
Eragon’s control of the magic and freed Vanir.

How did he do that?

Advancing upon him, Vanir said, “Your ignorance betrays you, human.
You do not know whereof you speak. To think that you were chosen to
succeed Vrael, that you were given his quarters, that you have had the
honor to serve the Mourning Sage...” He shook his head. “It sickens me
that such gifts are bestowed upon one so unworthy. You do not even understand
what magic is or how it works.”

Eragon’s anger resurged like a crimson tide. “What,” he said, “have I ever
done to wrong you? Why do you despise me so? Would you prefer it if
no Rider existed to oppose Galbatorix?”

“My opinions are of little consequence.”

“I agree, but I would hear them.”

“Listening, as Nuala wrote in Convocations, is the path to wisdom only
when the result of a conscious decision and not a void of perception.”

“Straighten your tongue, Vanir, and give me an honest answer!”

Vanir smiled coldly. “As you command, O Rider.” Drawing near so that
only Eragon could hear his soft voice, the elf said, “For eighty years after
the fall of the Riders, we held no hope of victory. We survived by hiding
ourselves through deceit and magic, which is but a temporary measure,
for eventually Galbatorix will be strong enough to march upon us and
sweep aside our defenses. Then, long after we had resigned ourselves to
our fate, Brom and Jeod rescued Saphira’s egg, and once again a chance
existed to defeat the foul usurper. Imagine our joy and celebration. We
knew that in order to withstand Galbatorix, the new Rider had to be
more powerful than any of his predecessors, more powerful than even
Vrael. Yet how was our patience rewarded? With another human like
Galbatorix. Worse... a cripple. You doomed us all, Eragon, the instant you

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touched Saphira’s egg. Do not expect us to welcome your presence.”
Vanir touched his lips with his first and second finger, then sidestepped
Eragon and walked off the sparring field, leaving Eragon rooted in place.

He’s right, thought Eragon. I’m ill suited for this task. Any of these elves,
even Vanir, would make a better Rider than me.

Emanating outrage, Saphira broadened the contact between them. Do
you think so little of my judgment, Eragon? You forget that when I was in
my egg, Arya exposed me to each and every one of these elves—as well as
many of the Varden’s children—and that I rejected them all. I wouldn’t
have chosen someone to be my Rider unless they could help your race, mine,
and the elves, for the three of us share an intertwined fate. You were the
right person, at the right place, at the right time. Never forget that.

If ever that were true, he said, it was before Durza injured me. Now I see
naught but darkness and evil in our future. I won’t give up, but I despair
that we may not prevail. Perhaps our task is not to overthrow Galbatorix
but to prepare the way for the next Rider chosen by the remaining eggs.

At the Crags of Tel’naeír, Eragon found Oromis at the table in his hut,
painting a landscape with black ink along the bottom edge of a scroll he
had finished writing.

Eragon bowed and knelt. “Master.”

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Oromis finished limning the tufts of
needles on a gnarled juniper tree, laid aside his ink, cleaned his sable
brush with water from a clay pot, and then addressed Eragon, saying,
“Why have you come so early?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, but Vanir abandoned our contest partway
through and I did not know what to do with myself.”

“Why did Vanir leave, Eragon-vodhr?”

Oromis folded his hands in his lap while Eragon described the encounter,
ending with: “I should not have lost control, but I did, and I looked all
the more foolish because of it. I have failed you, Master.”

“You have,” agreed Oromis. “Vanir may have goaded you, but that was
no reason to respond in kind. You must keep a better hold over your
emotions, Eragon. It could cost you your life if you allow your temper to
sway your judgment during battle. Also, such childish displays do nothing

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but vindicate those elves who are opposed to you. Our machinations are
subtle and allow little room for such errors.”

“I am sorry, Master. It won’t happen again.”

As Oromis seemed content to wait in his chair until the time when
they normally performed the Rimgar, Eragon seized the opportunity to
ask, “How could Vanir have worked magic without speaking?”

“Did he? Perhaps another elf decided to assist him.”

Eragon shook his head. “During my first day in Ellesméra, I also saw Islanzadí
summon a downpour of flowers by clapping her hands, nothing
more. And Vanir said that I didn’t understand how magic works. What
did he mean?”

“Once again,” said Oromis, resigned, “you grasp at knowledge that you
are not prepared for. Yet, because of our circumstances, I cannot deny it
to you. Only know this: that which you ask for was not taught to Rid-
ers—and is not taught to our magicians—until they had, and have, mastered
every other aspect of magic, for this is the secret to the true nature
of magic and the ancient language. Those who know it may acquire great
power, yes, but at a terrible risk.” He paused for a moment. “How is the
ancient language bound to magic, Eragon-vodhr?”

“The words of the ancient language can release the energy stored within
your body and thus activate a spell.”

“Ah. Then you mean that certain sounds, certain vibrations in the air,
somehow tap into this energy? Sounds that might be produced at random
by any creature or thing?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Does not that seem absurd?”

Confused, Eragon said, “It doesn’t matter if it seems absurd, Master; it
just is. Should I think it absurd that the moon wanes and waxes, or that
the seasons turn, or that birds fly south in the winter?”

“Of course not. But how could mere sound do so much? Can particular
patterns of pitch and volume really trigger reactions that allow us to manipulate
energy?”

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“But they do.”

“Sound has no control over magic. Saying a word or phrase in this language
is not what’s important, it’s thinking them in this language.” With a
flick of his wrist, a golden flame appeared over Oromis’s palm, then disappeared.
“However, unless the need is dire, we still utter our spells out
loud to prevent stray thoughts from disrupting them, which is a danger to
even the most experienced magic user.”

The implications staggered Eragon. He thought back to when he almost
drowned under the waterfall of the lake Kóstha-mérna and how he had
been unable to access magic because of the water surrounding him. If I
had known this then, I could have saved myself, he thought. “Master,” he
said, “if sound does not affect magic, why, then, do thoughts?”

Now Oromis smiled. “Why indeed? I must point out that we ourselves
are not the source of magic. Magic can exist on its own, independent of
any spell, such as the werelights in the bogs by Aroughs, the dream well
in Mani’s Caves in the Beor Mountains, and the floating crystal on Eoam.
Wild magic such as this is treacherous, unpredictable, and often stronger
than any we can cast.

“Eons ago, all magic was thus. To use it required nothing but the ability
to sense magic with your mind—which every magician must possess—
and the desire and strength to use it. Without the structure of the ancient
language, magicians could not govern their talent and, as a result, loosed
many evils upon the land, killing thousands. Over time they discovered
that stating their intentions in their language helped them to order their
thoughts and avoid costly errors. But it was no foolproof method. Eventually,
an accident occurred so horrific that it almost destroyed every living
being in the world. We know of the event from fragments of manuscripts
that survived the era, but who or what cast the fatal spell is hidden
from us. The manuscripts say that, afterward, a race called the Grey
Folk—not elves, for we were young then—gathered their resources and
wrought an enchantment, perhaps the greatest that was or ever shall be.
Together the Grey Folk changed the nature of magic itself. They made it
so that their language, the ancient language, could control what a spell
does... could actually limit the magic so that if you said burn that door and
by chance looked at me and thought of me, the magic would still burn
the door, not me. And they gave the ancient language its two unique
traits, the ability to prevent those who speak it from lying and the ability
to describe the true nature of things. How they did this remains a mystery.


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“The manuscripts differ on what happened to the Grey Folk when they
completed their work, but it seems that the enchantment drained them
of their power and left them but a shadow of themselves. They faded
away, choosing to live in their cities until the stones crumbled to dust or
to take mates among the younger races and so pass into darkness.”

“Then,” said Eragon, “it is still possible to use magic without the ancient
language?”

“How do you think Saphira breathes fire? And, by your own account,
she used no word when she turned Brom’s tomb to diamond nor when
she blessed the child in Farthen Dûr. Dragons’ minds are different from
ours; they need no protection from magic. They cannot use it consciously,
aside from their fire, but when the gift touches them, their
strength is unparalleled.... You look troubled, Eragon. Why?”

Eragon stared down at his hands. “What does this mean for me, Master?”


“It means that you will continue to study the ancient language, for you
can accomplish much with it that would be too complex or too dangerous
otherwise. It means that if you are captured and gagged, you can still
call upon magic to free yourself, as Vanir did. It means that if you are
captured and drugged and cannot recall the ancient language, yes, even
then, you may cast a spell, though only in the gravest circumstances. And
it means that if you would cast a spell for that which has no name in the
ancient language, you can.” He paused. “But beware the temptation to use
these powers. Even the wisest among us hesitate to trifle with them for
fear of death or worse.”

The next morning, and every morning thereafter so long as he stayed in
Ellesméra, Eragon dueled with Vanir, but he never lost his temper again,
no matter what the elf did or said.

Nor did Eragon feel like devoting energy to their rivalry. His back
pained him more and more frequently, driving him to the limits of his
endurance. The debilitating attacks sensitized him; actions that previously
had caused him no trouble could now leave him writhing on the ground.
Even the Rimgar began to trigger the seizures as he advanced to more
strenuous poses. It was not uncommon for him to suffer three or four
such episodes in one day.

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Eragon’s face grew haggard. He walked with a shuffle, his movements
slow and careful as he tried to preserve his strength. It became hard for
him to think clearly or to pay attention to Oromis’s lessons, and gaps began
to appear in his memory that he could not account for. In his spare
time, he took up Orik’s puzzle ring again, preferring to concentrate upon
the baffling interlocked rings rather than his condition. When she was
with him, Saphira insisted that he ride upon her back and did everything
that she could to make him comfortable and to save him effort.

One morning, as he clung to a spike on her neck, Eragon said, I have a
new name for pain.

What’s that?

The Obliterator. Because when you’re in pain, nothing else can exist. Not
thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it’s strong
enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we are,
until we’re reduced to creatures less than animals, creatures with a single
desire and goal: escape.

A good name, then.

I’m falling apart, Saphira, like an old horse that’s plowed too many fields.
Keep hold of me with your mind, or I may drift apart and forget who I am.

I will never let go of you.

Soon afterward, Eragon fell victim to three bouts of agony while fighting
Vanir and then two more during the Rimgar. As he uncurled from
the clenched ball he had rolled into, Oromis said, “Again, Eragon. You
must perfect your balance.”

Eragon shook his head and growled in an undertone, “No.” He crossed
his arms to hide his tremors.

“What?”

“No.”

“Get up, Eragon, and try again.”

“No! Do the pose yourself; I won’t.”

Oromis knelt beside Eragon and placed a cool hand on his cheek. Hold


375



ing it there, he gazed at Eragon with such kindness, Eragon understood
the depth of the elf’s compassion for him, and that, if it were possible,
Oromis would willingly assume Eragon’s pain to relieve his suffering.
“Don’t abandon hope,” said Oromis. “Never that.” A measure of strength
seemed to flow from him to Eragon. “We are the Riders. We stand between
the light and the dark, and keep the balance between the two. Ignorance,
fear, hate: these are our enemies. Deny them with all your
might, Eragon, or we will surely fail.” He stood and extended a hand toward
Eragon. “Now rise, Shadeslayer, and prove you can conquer the instincts
of your flesh!”

Eragon took a deep breath and pushed himself upright on one arm,
wincing from the effort. He got his feet underneath himself, paused for a
moment, then straightened to his full height and looked Oromis in the
eye.

The elf nodded with approval.

Eragon remained silent until they finished the Rimgar and went to
bathe in the stream, whereupon he said, “Master.”

“Yes, Eragon?”

“Why must I endure this torture? You could use magic to give me the
skills I need, to shape my body as you do the trees and plants.”

“I could, but if I did, you would not understand how you got the body
you had, your own abilities, nor how to maintain them. No shortcuts exist
for the path you walk, Eragon.”

Cold water rushed over the length of Eragon’s body as he lowered himself
into the stream. He ducked his head under the surface, holding a rock
so that he would not float away, and lay stretched out along the streambed,
feeling like an arrow flying through the water.

376



NARDA


Roran leaned on one knee and scratched his new beard as he looked
down at Narda.

The small town was dark and compact, like a crust of rye bread
tamped into a crevasse along the coast. Beyond it, the wine-red sea glimmered
with the last rays of the dying sunset. The water fascinated him; it
was utterly different from the landscape he was accustomed to.

We made it.

Leaving the promontory, Roran walked back to his makeshift tent, enjoying
deep breaths of the salty air. They had camped high in the foothills
of the Spine in order to avoid detection by anyone who might alert the
Empire as to their whereabouts.

As he strode among the clumps of villagers huddled beneath the trees,
Roran surveyed their condition with sorrow and anger. The trek from
Palancar Valley had left people sick, battered, and exhausted; their faces
gaunt from lack of food; their clothes tattered. Most everyone wore rags
tied around their hands to ward off frostbite during the frigid mountain
nights. Weeks of carrying heavy packs had bowed once-proud shoulders.
The worst sight was the children: thin and unnaturally still.

They deserve better, thought Roran. I’d be in the clutches of the Ra’zac
right now if they hadn’t protected me.

Numerous people approached Roran, most of whom wanted nothing
more than a touch on the shoulder or a word of comfort. Some offered
him bits of food, which he refused or, when they insisted, gave to someone
else. Those who remained at a distance watched with round, pale
eyes. He knew what they said about him, that he was mad, that spirits
possessed him, that not even the Ra’zac could defeat him in battle.

Crossing the Spine had been even harder than Roran expected. The
only paths in the forest were game trails, which were too narrow, steep,
and meandering for their group. As a result, the villagers were often
forced to chop their way through the trees and underbrush, a painstaking
task that everyone despised, not least because it made it easy for the Empire
to track them. The one advantage to the situation was that the exercise
restored Roran’s injured shoulder to its previous level of strength, although
he still had trouble lifting his arm at certain angles.

377



Other hardships took their toll. A sudden storm trapped them on a
bare pass high above the timberline. Three people froze in the snow:
Hida, Brenna, and Nesbit, all of whom were quite old. That night was the
first time Roran was convinced that the entire village would die because
they had followed him. Soon after, a boy broke his arm in a fall, and then
Southwell drowned in a glacier stream. Wolves and bears preyed upon
their livestock on a regular basis, ignoring the watchfires that the villagers
lit once they were concealed from Palancar Valley and Galbatorix’s hated
soldiers. Hunger clung to them like a relentless parasite, gnawing at their
bellies, devouring their strength, and sapping their will to continue.

And yet they survived, displaying the same obstinacy and fortitude that
kept their ancestors in Palancar Valley despite famine, war, and pestilence.
The people of Carvahall might take an age and a half to reach a decision,
but once they did, nothing could deter them from their course.

Now that they had reached Narda, a sense of hope and accomplishment
permeated the camp. No one knew what would happen next, but
the fact that they had gotten so far gave them confidence.

We won’t be safe until we leave the Empire, thought Roran. And it’s up to
me to ensure that we aren’t caught. I’ve become responsible for everyone
here.... A responsibility that he had embraced wholeheartedly because it
allowed him to both protect the villagers from Galbatorix and pursue his
goal of rescuing Katrina. It’s been so long since she was captured. How can
she still be alive? He shuddered and pushed the thoughts away. True
madness awaited him if he allowed himself to brood over Katrina’s fate.

At dawn Roran, Horst, Baldor, Loring’s three sons, and Gertrude set out
for Narda. They descended from the foothills to the town’s main road,
careful to stay hidden until they emerged onto the lane. Here in the lowlands,
the air seemed thick to Roran; it felt as if he were trying to breathe
underwater.

Roran gripped the hammer at his belt as they approached Narda’s gate.
Two soldiers guarded the opening. They examined Roran’s group with
hard eyes, lingering on their ragged clothes, then lowered their poleaxes
and barred the entrance.

“Where’d you be from?” asked the man on the right. He could not have
been older than twenty-five, but his hair was already pure white.

378



Swelling his chest, Horst crossed his arms and said, “Roundabouts
Teirm, if it please you.”

“What brings you here?”

“Trade. We were sent by shopkeepers who want to buy goods directly
from Narda, instead of through the usual merchants.”

“That so, eh? What goods?”

When Horst faltered, Gertrude said, “Herbs and medicine on my part.
The plants I’ve received from here have either been too old or moldy and
spoiled. I have to procure a fresh supply.”

“And my brothers and I,” said Darmmen, “came to bargain with your
cobblers. Shoes made in the northern style are fashionable in Dras-Leona
and Urû’baen.” He grimaced. “At least they were when we set out.”

Horst nodded with renewed confidence. “Aye. And I’m here to collect
a shipment of ironwork for my master.”

“So you say. What about that one? What does he do?” asked the soldier,
motioning toward Roran with his ax.

“Pottery,” said Roran.

“Pottery?”

“Pottery.”

“Why the hammer, then?”

“How do you think the glaze on a bottle or jar gets cracked? It doesn’t
happen by itself, you know. You have to hit it.” Roran returned the
white-haired man’s stare of disbelief with a blank expression, daring him
to challenge the statement.

The soldier grunted and ran his gaze over them again. “Be as that may,
you don’t look like tradesmen to me. Starved alley cats is more like it.”

“We had difficulty on the road,” said Gertrude.

“That I’d believe. If you came from Teirm, where be your horses?”

379



“We left them at our camp,” supplied Hamund. He pointed south, opposite
where the rest of the villagers were actually hidden.

“Don’t have the coin to stay in town, eh?” With a scornful chuckle, the
soldier raised his ax and gestured for his companion to do likewise. “All
right, you can pass, but don’t cause trouble or you’ll be off to the stocks
or worse.”

Once through the gate, Horst pulled Roran to the side of the street and
growled in his ear, “That was a fool thing to do, making up something as
ridiculous as that. Cracking the glaze! Do you want a fight? We can’t—”
He stopped as Gertrude plucked at his sleeve.

“Look,” murmured the healer.

To the left of the entrance stood a six-foot-wide message board with a
narrow shingle roof to protect the yellowing parchment underneath. Half
the board was devoted to official notices and proclamations. On the
other half hung a block of posters displaying sketches of various criminals.
Foremost among them was a drawing of Roran without a beard.

Startled, Roran glanced around to make sure that no one in the street
was close enough to compare his face to the illustration, then devoted his
attention to the poster. He had expected the Empire to pursue them, but
it was still a shock to encounter proof of it. Galbatorix must be expending
an enormous amount of resources trying to catch us. When they were in
the Spine, it was easy to forget that the outside world existed. I bet posters
of me are nailed up throughout the Empire. He grinned, glad that he had
stopped shaving and that he and the others had agreed to use false names
while in Narda.

A reward was inked at the bottom of the poster. Garrow never taught
Roran and Eragon to read, but he did teach them their figures because, as
he said, “You have to know how much you own, what it’s worth, and
what you’re paid for it so you don’t get rooked by some two-faced
knave.” Thus, Roran could see that the Empire had offered ten thousand
crowns for him, enough to live in comfort for several decades. In a perverse
way, the size of the reward pleased him, giving him a sense of importance.


Then his gaze drifted to the next poster in line.

It was Eragon.

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Roran’s gut clenched as if he had been struck, and for a few seconds he
forgot to breathe.

He’s alive!

After his initial relief subsided, Roran felt his old anger about Eragon’s
role in Garrow’s death and the destruction of their farm take its place,
accompanied by a burning desire to know why the Empire was hunting
Eragon. It must have something to do with that blue stone and the Ra’zac’s
first visit to Carvahall. Once again, Roran wondered what kind of fiendish
machinations he and the rest of Carvahall had become entangled in.

Instead of a reward, Eragon’s poster bore two lines of runes. “What
crime is he accused of?” Roran asked Gertrude.

The skin around Gertrude’s eyes wrinkled as she squinted at the board.
“Treason, the both of you. It says Galbatorix will bestow an earldom on
whoever captures Eragon, but that those who try should take care because
he’s extremely dangerous.”

Roran blinked with astonishment. Eragon? It seemed inconceivable until
Roran considered how he himself had changed in the past few weeks.
The same blood runs in our veins. Who knows, Eragon may have accomplished
as much or more than I have since he left.

In a low voice, Baldor said, “If killing Galbatorix’s men and defying the
Ra’zac only earns you ten thousand crowns—large as that is—what
makes you worth an earldom?”

“Buggering the king himself,” suggested Larne.

“That’s enough of that,” said Horst. “Guard your tongue better, Baldor,
or we’ll end up in irons. And, Roran, don’t draw attention to yourself
again. With a reward like that, people are bound to be watching strangers
for anyone who matches your description.” Running a hand through his
hair, Horst pulled up his belt and said, “Right. We all have jobs to do. Return
here at noon to report on your progress.”

With that their party split into three. Darmmen, Larne, and Hamund
set out together to purchase food for the villagers, both to meet present
needs and to sustain them through the next stage of their journey.
Gertrude—as she had told the guard—went to replenish her stock of
herbs, unguents, and tinctures. And Roran, Horst, and Baldor headed

381



down the sloping streets to the docks, where they hoped to charter a ship
that could transport the villagers to Surda or, at the very least, Teirm.

When they reached the weathered boardwalk that covered the beach,
Roran halted and stared out at the ocean, which was gray from low
clouds and dotted with whitecaps from erratic wind. He had never imagined
that the horizon could be so perfectly flat. The hollow boom of water
knocking against the piles beneath his feet made it feel as if he stood
upon the surface of a huge drum. The odor of fish—fresh, gutted, and
rotting—overwhelmed every other smell.

Glancing from Roran to Baldor, who was likewise entranced, Horst
said, “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Roran.

“Makes you feel rather small, doesn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Baldor.

Horst nodded. “I remember when I first saw the ocean, it had a similar
effect on me.”

“When was that?” asked Roran. In addition to the flocks of seagulls
whirling over the cove, he noticed an odd type of bird perched upon the
piers. The animal had an ungainly body with a striped beak that it kept
tucked against its breast like a pompous old man, a white head and neck,
and a sooty torso. One of the birds lifted its beak, revealing a leathery
pouch underneath.

“Bartram, the smith who came before me,” said Horst, “died when I was
fifteen, a year before the end of my apprenticeship. I had to find a smith
who was willing to finish another man’s work, so I traveled to Ceunon,
which is built along the North Sea. There I met Kelton, a vile old man
but good at what he did. He agreed to teach me.” Horst laughed. “By the
time we were done, I wasn’t sure if I should thank him or curse him.”

“Thank him, I should think,” said Baldor. “You never would have married
Mother otherwise.”

Roran scowled as he studied the waterfront. “There aren’t many ships,”
he observed. Two craft were berthed at the south end of the port and a
third at the opposite side with nothing but fishing boats and dinghies in
between. Of the southern pair, one had a broken mast. Roran had no ex


382



perience with ships but, to him, none of the vessels appeared large
enough to carry almost three hundred passengers.

Going from one ship to the next, Roran, Horst, and Baldor soon discovered
that they were all otherwise engaged. It would take a month or
more to repair the ship with the broken mast. The vessel beside it, the
Waverunner, was rigged with leather sails and was about to venture north
to the treacherous islands where the Seithr plant grew. And the Albatross,
the last ship, had just arrived from distant Feinster and was getting
its seams recaulked before departing with its cargo of wool.

A dockworker laughed at Horst’s questions. “You’re too late and too
early at the same time. Most of the spring ships came and left two, three
weeks ago. An’ another month, the nor’westers will start gusting, an’ then
the seal and walrus hunters will return and we’ll get ships from Teirm
and the rest of the Empire to take the hides, meat, and oil. Then you
might have a chance of hiring a captain with an empty hold. Meanwhile,
we don’t see much more traffic than this.”

Desperate, Roran asked, “Is there no other way to get goods from here
to Teirm? It doesn’t have to be fast or comfortable.”

“Well,” said the man, hefting the box on his shoulder, “if it doesn’t have
to be fast an’ you’re only going to Teirm, then you might try Clovis over
there.” He pointed to a line of sheds that floated between two piers
where boats could be stored. “He owns some barges that he ships grain
on in the fall. The rest of the year, Clovis fishes for a living, like most
everybody in Narda.” Then he frowned. “What kind of goods do you
have? The sheep have already been shorn, an’ no crops are in as of yet.”

“This and that,” said Horst. He tossed the man a copper.

The dockworker pocketed it with a wink and a nudge. “Right you are,
sir. This an’ that. I know a dodge when I see one. But no need to fear old
Ulric; mum’s th’ word, it is. Be seeing you, then, sir.” He strolled off,
whistling.

As it turned out, Clovis was absent from the docks. After getting directions,
it took them a half hour to walk to his house on the other side of
Narda, where they found Clovis planting iris bulbs along the path to his
front door. He was a stout man with sunburned cheeks and a salt-andpepper
beard. An additional hour passed before they could convince the
mariner that they really were interested in his barges, despite the season,
and then troop back to the sheds, which he unlocked to reveal three

383



identical barges, the Merrybell, Edeline, and Red Boar.

Each barge was seventy-five feet long, twenty feet wide, and painted
rust red. They had open holds that could be covered with tarpaulins, a
mast that could be erected in the center for a single square sail, and a
block of above-decks cabins at the rear—or aft, as Clovis called it—of
the craft.

“Their draft be deeper than that of an inland scow,” explained Clovis,
“so you needn’t fear them capsizing in rough weather, though you’d do
well to avoid being caught in a real tempest. These barges aren’t meant
for the open sea. They’re meant to stay within sight of land. And now be
the worst time to launch them. By my honor, we’ve had nothing but
thunderstorms every afternoon for a month.”

“Do you have crews for all three?” asked Roran.

“Well now... see, there’s a problem. Most of the men I employ left
weeks ago to hunt seals, as they’re wont to do. Since I need them only
after the harvest, they’re free to come and go as they please for the rest of
the year.... I’m sure you fine gentlemen understand my position.” Clovis
tried to smile, then glanced between Roran, Horst, and Baldor as if uncertain
whom to address.

Roran walked the length of the Edeline, examining it for damage. The
barge looked old, but the wood was sound and the paint was fresh. “If we
replace the missing men in your crews, how much would it cost to go to
Teirm with all three barges?”

“That depends,” said Clovis. “The sailors earn fifteen coppers per day,
plus as much good food as they can eat and a dram of whisky besides.
What your men earn be your own business. I won’t put them on my payroll.
Normally, we also hire guards for each barge, but they’re—”

“They’re off hunting, yes,” said Roran. “We’ll provide guards as well.”

The knob in Clovis’s tanned throat jumped as he swallowed. “That’d be
more than reasonable... so it would. In addition to the crew’s wages, I
charge a fee of two hundred crowns, plus recompense for any damage to
the barges on account of your men, plus—as both owner and captain—
twelve percent of the total profit from sale of the cargo.”

“Our trip will have no profit.”

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That, more than anything, seemed to unnerve Clovis. He rubbed the
dimple in his chin with his left thumb, began to talk twice, stopped, then
finally said, “If that be the case, another four hundred crowns upon completion
of the voyage. What—if I may make so bold as to inquire—do
you wish to transport?”

We frighten him, thought Roran. “Livestock.”

“Be it sheep, cattle, horses, goats, oxen... ?”

“Our herds contain an assortment of animals.”

“And why do you want to take them to Teirm?”

“We have our reasons.” Roran almost smiled at Clovis’s confusion.
“Would you consider sailing past Teirm?”

“No! Teirm’s my limit, it is. I don’t know the waters beyond, nor would
I want to be gone any longer from my wife and daughter.”

“When could you be ready?”

Clovis hesitated and executed two little steps. “Mayhap five or six days.
No... no, you’d better make it a week; I have affairs that I must attend to
before departing.”

“We’d pay an additional ten crowns to leave day after tomorrow.”

“I don’t—”

“Twelve crowns.”

“Day after tomorrow it is,” vowed Clovis. “One way or another, I’ll be
ready by then.”

Trailing his hand along the barge’s gunwale, Roran nodded without
looking back at Clovis and said, “May I have a minute alone to confer
with my associates?”

“As you wish, sir. I’ll just go for a turn about the docks until you’re
done.” Clovis hurried to the door. Just as he exited the shed, he asked,
“I’m sorry, but what’d be your name again? I fear I missed it earlier, an’
my memory can be something dreadful.”

385



“Stronghammer. My name is Stronghammer.”

“Ah, of course. A good name, that.”

When the door closed, Horst and Baldor converged on Roran. Baldor
said, “We can’t afford to hire him.”

“We can’t afford not to,” replied Roran. “We don’t have the gold to buy
the barges, nor do I fancy teaching myself to handle them when everyone’s
lives depend on it. It’ll be faster and safer to pay for a crew.”

“It’s still too expensive,” said Horst.

Roran drummed his fingers against the gunwale. “We can pay Clovis’s
initial fee of two hundred crowns. Once we reach Teirm, though, I suggest
that we either steal the barges using the skills we learn during the
trip or incapacitate Clovis and his men until we can escape through other
means. That way, we avoid paying the extra four hundred crowns, as
well as the sailors’ wages.”

“I don’t like cheating a man out of honest work,” said Horst. “It goes
against my fiber.”

“I don’t like it either, but can you think of an alternative?”

“How would you get everyone onto the barges?”

“Have them meet Clovis a league or so down the coast, out of sight of
Narda.”

Horst sighed. “Very well, we’ll do it, but it leaves a bad taste in my
mouth. Call Clovis back in, Baldor, and we’ll seal this pact.”

That evening, the villagers gathered around a small banked fire in order
to hear what had transpired in Narda. From where he knelt on the
ground, Roran stared at the pulsing coals while he listened to Gertrude
and the three brothers describe their separate adventures. The news
about Roran’s and Eragon’s posters caused murmurs of unease among the
audience.

When Darmmen finished, Horst took his place and, with short, brisk
sentences, related the lack of proper ships in Narda, how the dockworker

386



recommended Clovis, and the deal that was brokered thereafter. However,
the moment Horst mentioned the word barges, the villagers’ cries of
ire and discontent blotted out his voice.

Marching to the forefront of the group, Loring raised his arms for attention.
“Barges?” said the cobbler. “Barges? We don’t want no stinking
barges!” He spat by his foot as people clamored with agreement.

“Everyone, be quiet!” said Delwin. “We’ll be heard if we keep this up.”
When the crackling fire was the loudest noise, he continued at a slower
pace: “I agree with Loring. Barges are unacceptable. They’re slow and vulnerable.
And we’d be crammed together with a complete lack of privacy
and no shelter to speak of for who knows how long. Horst, Elain is six
months pregnant. You can’t expect her and others who are sick and infirm
to sit under the blazing sun for weeks on end.”

“We can lash tarpaulins over the holds,” replied Horst. “It’s not much,
but it’ll shield us from the sun and the rain.”

Birgit’s voice cut through the crowd’s low babble: “I have another concern.”
People moved aside as she walked to the fire. “What with the two
hundred crowns Clovis is due and the money Darmmen and his brothers
spent, we’ve used up most of our coin. Unlike those in cities, our wealth
lies not in gold but in animals and property. Our property is gone and
few animals are left. Even if we turn pirate and steal these barges, how
can we buy supplies at Teirm or passage farther south?”

“The important thing,” rumbled Horst, “is to get to Teirm in the first
place. Once we’re there, then we can worry about what to do next.... It’s
possible that we may have to resort to more drastic measures.”

Loring’s bony face crumpled into a mass of wrinkles. “Drastic? What do
you mean, drastic? We’ve already done drastic. This whole venture is
drastic. I don’t care what you say; I won’t use those confounded barges,
not after what we’ve gone through in the Spine. Barges are for grain and
animals. What we want is a ship with cabins and bunks where we can
sleep in comfort. Why not wait another week or so and see if a ship arrives
that we can bargain passage on? Where’s the harm in that, eh? Or
why not—” He continued to rail for over fifteen minutes, amassing a
mountain of objections before ceding to Thane and Ridley, who built
upon his arguments.

The conversation halted as Roran unfolded his legs and rose to his full
height, silencing the villagers through his presence. They waited, breath


387



less, hoping for another of his visionary speeches.
“It’s this or walk,” he said.
Then he went to bed.

388



THE HAMMER FALLS


The moon floated high among the stars when Roran left the makeshift
tent he shared with Baldor, padded to the edge of the camp, and replaced
Albriech on watch.

“Nothing to report,” whispered Albriech, then slipped off.

Roran strung his bow and planted three goose-feather arrows upright in
the loam, within easy reach, then wrapped himself in a blanket and
curled against the rockface to his left. His position afforded him a good
view down and across the dark foothills.

As was his habit, Roran divided the landscape into quadrants, examining
each one for a full minute, always alert for the flash of movement or
the hint of light that might betray the approach of enemies. His mind
soon began to wander, drifting from subject to subject with the hazy
logic of dreams, distracting him from his task. He bit the inside of his
cheek to force himself to concentrate. Staying awake was difficult in such
mild weather....

Roran was just glad that he had escaped drawing lots for the two
watches preceding dawn, because they gave you no opportunity to catch
up on lost sleep afterward and you felt tired for the rest of the day.

A breath of wind ghosted past him, tickling his ear and making the skin
on the back of his neck prickle with an apprehension of evil. The intrusive
touch frightened Roran, obliterating everything but the conviction
that he and the rest of the villagers were in mortal danger. He quaked as
if with the ague, his heart pounded, and he had to struggle to resist the
urge to break cover and flee.

What’s wrong with me? It required an effort for him to even nock an arrow.


To the east, a shadow detached itself from the horizon. Visible only as
a void among the stars, it drifted like a torn veil across the sky until it
covered the moon, where it remained, hovering. Illuminated from behind,
Roran could see the translucent wings of one of the Ra’zac’s
mounts.

The black creature opened its beak and uttered a long, piercing shriek.
Roran grimaced with pain at the cry’s pitch and frequency. It stabbed at

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his eardrums, turned his blood to ice, and replaced hope and joy with despair.
The ululation woke the entire forest. Birds and beasts for miles
around exploded into a yammering chorus of panic, including, to Roran’s
alarm, what remained of the villagers’ herds.

Staggering from tree to tree, Roran returned to the camp, whispering,
“The Ra’zac are here. Be quiet and stay where you are,” to everyone he
encountered. He saw the other sentries moving among the frightened villagers,
spreading the same message.

Fisk emerged from his tent with a spear in hand and roared, “Are we
under attack? What’s set off those blasted—” Roran tackled the carpenter
to silence him, uttering a muffled bellow as he landed on his right shoulder
and pained his old injury.

“Ra’zac,” Roran groaned to Fisk.

Fisk went still and in an undertone asked, “What should I do?”

“Help me to calm the animals.”

Together they picked their way through the camp to the adjacent
meadow where the goats, sheep, donkeys, and horses were bedded. The
farmers who owned the bulk of the herds slept with their charges and
were already awake and working to soothe the beasts. Roran thanked his
paranoia that he had insisted on having the animals scattered along the
edge of the meadow, where the trees and brush helped to camouflage
them from unfriendly eyes.

As he tried to pacify a clump of sheep, Roran glanced up at the terrible
black shadow that still obscured the moon, like a giant bat. To his horror,
it began to move toward their hiding place. If that creature screams again,
we’re doomed.

By the time the Ra’zac circled overhead, most of the animals had quieted,
except for one donkey, who insisted upon loosing a grating hee-haw.
Without hesitation, Roran dropped to one knee, fit arrow to string, and
shot the ass between the ribs. His aim was true, and the animal dropped
without a sound.

He was too late, though; the braying had already alerted the Ra’zac. The
monster swung its head in the direction of the clearing and descended
toward it with outstretched claws, preceded by its fetid stench.

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Now the time has come to see if we can slay a nightmare, thought Roran.
Fisk, who was crouched beside him in the grass, hefted his spear, preparing
to hurl it once the brute was in range.

Just as Roran drew his bow—in an attempt to begin and end the battle
with a well-placed shaft—he was distracted by a commotion in the forest.


A mass of deer burst through the underbrush and stampeded across the
meadow, ignoring villagers and livestock alike in their frantic desire to
escape the Ra’zac. For almost a minute, the deer bounded past Roran,
mincing the loam with their sharp hooves and catching the moonlight
with their white-rimmed eyes. They came so close, he heard the soft
gasps of their labored breathing.

The multitude of deer must have hidden the villagers because, after
one last circuit over the meadow, the winged monster turned to the
south and glided farther down the Spine, melding into the night.

Roran and his companions remained frozen in place, like hunted rabbits,
afraid that the Ra’zac’s departure might be a ruse to flush them into
the open or that the creature’s twin might be close behind. They waited
for hours, tense and anxious, barely moving except to string a bow.

When the moon was about to set, the Ra’zac’s bone-chilling shriek
echoed far in the distance... then nothing.

We were lucky, decided Roran when he woke the next morning. And
we can’t count on luck to save us the next time.

After the Ra’zac’s appearance, none of the villagers objected to traveling
by barge. On the contrary, they were so eager to be off, many of them
asked Roran if it was possible to set sail that day instead of the next.

“I wish we could,” he said, “but too much has to be done.”

Forgoing breakfast, he, Horst, and a group of other men hiked into
Narda. Roran knew that he risked being recognized by accompanying
them, but their mission was too important for him to neglect. Besides, he
was confident that his current appearance was different enough from his
portrait on the Empire’s poster that no one would equate one with the

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other.

They had no difficulty gaining entrance, as a different set of soldiers
guarded the town gate, whereupon they went to the docks and delivered
the two hundred crowns to Clovis, who was busy overseeing a gang of
men as they readied the barges for sea.

“Thank’ee, Stronghammer,” he said, tying the bag of coins to his belt.
“There be nothing like yellow gold to brighten a man’s day.” He led them
to a worktable and unrolled a chart of the waters surrounding Narda,
complete with notations on the strength of various currents; locations of
rocks, sandbars, and other hazards; and decades’ worth of sounding measurements.
Drawing a line with his finger from Narda to a small cove directly
south of it, Clovis said, “Here’s where we’ll meet your livestock.
The tides are gentle this time o’ year, but we still don’t want to fight
them an’ no bones about it, so we’ll have to be on our way directly after
the high tide.”

“High tide?” said Roran. “Wouldn’t it be easier to wait until low tide
and let it carry us out?”

Clovis tapped his nose with a twinkle in his eye. “Aye, it would, an’ so
I’ve begun many a cruise. What I don’t want, though, is to be slung up on
the beach, loading your animals, when the tide comes a-rushing back in
and pushes us farther inland. There be no danger of that this way, but
we’ll have to move smart so as we’re not left high an’ dry when the waters
recede. Assuming we do, the sea’ll work for us, eh?”

Roran nodded. He trusted Clovis’s experience. “And how many men
will you need to fill out your crews?”

“Well, I managed to dig up seven lads—strong, true, an’ good seamen
all—who have agreed to this venture, odd as it is. Mind you, most of the
boys were at the bottom of their tankards when I cornered them last
night, drinking off the pay from their last voyage, but they’ll be sober as
spinsters come morn; that I promise you. Seeing as seven were all I could
find, I’d like four more.”

“Four it is,” said Roran. “My men don’t know much about sailing, but
they’re able-bodied and willing to learn.”

Clovis grunted. “I usually take on a brace of new lads each trip anyway.
So long as they follow orders, they’ll do fine; otherwise, they’ll get a belaying
pin upsides the head, mark my words. As for guards, I’d like to

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have nine—three per boat. An’ they’d better not be as green as your sailors,
or I won’t budge from the dock, not for all the whisky in the world.”

Roran allowed himself a grim smile. “Every man who rides with me has
proved himself in battle many times over.”

“An’ they all answer to you, eh, young Stronghammer?” said Clovis. He
scratched his chin, eyeing Gedric, Delwin, and the others who were new
to Narda. “How many are with you?”

“Enough.”

“Enough, you say. I wonder.” He waved a hand. “Never you mind me;
my tongue runs a league before my own common sense, or so my father
used to tell me. My first mate, Torson, is at the chandler’s now, overseeing
the purchase of goods and equipment. I understand you have feed for
your livestock?”

“Among other things.”

“Then you’d best fetch them. We can load them into the holds once
the masts are up.”

Throughout the rest of the morning and afternoon, Roran and the villagers
with him labored to ferry the supplies—which Loring’s sons had
procured—from the warehouse where it was stored into the sheds with
the barges.

As Roran trudged across the gangplank to the Edeline and lowered his
bag of flour to the sailor waiting in the hold, Clovis observed, “Most of
this t’aint feed, Stronghammer.”

“No,” said Roran. “But it’s needed.” He was pleased that Clovis had the
sense not to inquire further.

When the last item had been stored away, Clovis beckoned to Roran.
“You might as well go. Me and the boys will handle the rest. Just you
remember to be at the docks three hours after dawn with every man jack
you promised me, or we’ll lose the tide.”

“We’ll be there.”

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Back in the foothills, Roran helped Elain and the others prepare for departure.
It did not take long, as they were accustomed to breaking camp
each morning. Then he picked twelve men to accompany him to Narda
the next day. They were all good fighters, but he asked the best, like
Horst and Delwin, to remain with the rest of the villagers in case soldiers
found them or the Ra’zac returned.

Once night fell, the two groups parted. Roran crouched on a boulder
and watched Horst lead the column of people down through the foothills
toward the cove where they would wait for the barges.

Orval came up beside him and crossed his arms. “Do you think they’ll
be safe, Stronghammer?” Anxiety ran through his voice like a taut bowstring.


Though he too was worried, Roran said, “I do. I’d bet you a barrel of cider
that they’ll still be asleep when we put ashore tomorrow. You can
have the pleasure of waking up Nolla. How does that sound?” Orval
smiled at the mention of his wife and nodded, appearing reassured.

I hope I’m right. Roran remained on the boulder, hunched like a bleak
gargoyle, until the dark line of villagers vanished from his sight.

They woke an hour before sunrise, when the sky had just begun to
brighten with pale green and the damp night air numbed their fingers.
Roran splashed his face with water and then outfitted himself with his
bow and quiver, his ever-present hammer, one of Fisk’s shields, and one
of Horst’s spears. The others did likewise, with the addition of swords
obtained during the skirmishes in Carvahall.

Running as fast as they dared down the hummocky hills, the thirteen
men soon arrived at the road to Narda and, shortly after that, the town’s
main gate. To Roran’s dismay, the same two soldiers who had troubled
them earlier stood guard by the entrance. As before, the soldiers lowered
their poleaxes to block the way.

“There be quite a bit more of you this time,” observed the white-haired
man. “And not all the same ones either. Except for you.” He focused on
Roran. “I suppose you expect me to believe that the spear and shield be
for pottery as well?”

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“No. We’ve been hired by Clovis to protect his barges from attack on
the way to Teirm.”

“You? Mercenaries?” The soldiers burst out laughing. “You said you
were tradesmen.”

“This pays better.”

The white-haired man scowled. “You lie. I tried my hand at being a
gentleman of fortune once. I spent more nights hungry than not. How
large be your company of tradesmen anyway? Seven yesterday and twelve
today—thirteen counting you. It seems too large for an expedition from a
bunch of shopkeepers.” His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Roran’s face.
“You look familiar. What’d be your name, eh?”

“Stronghammer.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be Roran, would—”

Roran jabbed forward with his spear, catching the white-haired soldier
in the throat. Scarlet blood fountained. Releasing the spear, Roran drew
his hammer and twisted round as he blocked the second soldier’s poleax
with his shield. Swinging his hammer up and around, Roran crushed the
man’s helm.

He stood panting between the two corpses. Now I have killed ten.

Orval and the other men stared at Roran with shock. Unable to bear
their gazes, Roran turned his back on them and gestured at the culvert
that ran beneath the road. “Hide the bodies before anyone sees,” he ordered,
brusque and harsh. As they hurried to obey, he examined the
parapet on top of the wall for sentries. Fortunately, no one was visible
there or in the street through the gate. He bent and pulled his spear free,
wiping the blade clean on a tuft of grass.

“Done,” said Mandel, clambering out of the ditch. Despite his beard, the
young man appeared pale.

Roran nodded and, steeling himself, faced his band. “Listen. We will
walk to the docks at a quick but reasonable pace. We will not run. When
the alarm is sounded—and someone may have heard the clash just
now—act surprised and interested but not afraid. Whatever you do, give
people no reason to suspect us. The lives of your families and friends depend
on it. If we are attacked, your only duty is to see the barges

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launched. Nothing else matters. Am I clear?”

“Aye, Stronghammer,” they answered.

“Then follow me.”

As he strode through Narda, Roran felt so tense, he feared he might
snap and explode into a thousand pieces. What have I made of myself? he
wondered. He glanced from man to woman, child to man, man to dog in
an effort to identify potential enemies. Everything around him appeared
unnaturally bright and filled with detail; it seemed as if he could see the
individual threads in people’s clothing.

They reached the docks without incident, whereupon Clovis said, “You
be early, Stronghammer. I like that in a man. It’ll give us the opportunity
to put things nice an’ shipshape before we head out.”

“Can we leave now?” asked Roran.

“You should know better’n that. Have to wait till the tide’s finished
coming in, so we do.” Clovis paused then, taking his first good look at the
thirteen of them, and said, “Why, what’d be the matter, Stronghammer?
The lot of you look as if you saw the ghost of old Galbatorix himself.”

“Nothing a few hours of sea air won’t cure,” said Roran. In his current
state, he could not smile, but he did let his features assume a more pleasant
expression in order to reassure the captain.

With a whistle, Clovis summoned two sailors from the boats. Both
men were tanned the color of hazelnuts. “This’d be Torson, my first
mate,” said Clovis, indicating the man to his right. Torson’s bare shoulder
was decorated with a coiled tattoo of a flying dragon. “He’ll be skipper of
the Merrybell. And this black dog is Flint. He’s in command of the Edeline.
While you are on board, their word is law, as is mine on the Red
Boar. You’ll answer to them and me, not Stronghammer.... Well, give me
a proper aye, aye if you heard me.”

“Aye, aye,” said the men.

“Now, which of you be my hands and which be my men-at-arms? For
the life of me, I can’t tell you apart.”

Ignoring Clovis’s admonishment that he was their commander, not Roran,
the villagers looked at Roran to see if they should obey. He nodded

396



his approval, and they divided into two factions, which Clovis proceeded
to partition into even smaller groups as he assigned a certain number of
villagers to each barge.

For the next half hour, Roran worked alongside the sailors to finish
preparing the Red Boar for departure, ears open for the first hint of alarm.
We’re going to be captured or killed if we stay much longer, he thought,
checking the height of the water against the piers. He mopped sweat
from his brow.

Roran started as Clovis gripped his forearm.

Before he could stop himself, Roran pulled his hammer halfway out of
his belt. The thick air clogged his throat.

Clovis raised an eyebrow at his reaction. “I’ve been watching you,
Stronghammer, and I’d be interested to know how you won such loyalty
from your men. I’ve served with more captains than I care to recall, an’
not one commanded the level of obedience you do without raising his
pipes.”

Roran could not help it; he laughed. “I’ll tell you how I did it; I saved
them from slavery and from being eaten.”

Clovis’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Did you now? There’s a
story I’d like to hear.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

After a minute, Clovis said, “No, maybe I wouldn’t at that.” He glanced
overboard. “Why, I’ll be hanged. I do believe we can be on our way. Ah,
and here’s my little Galina, punctual as ever.”

The burly man sprang onto the gangplank and, from there, onto the
docks, where he embraced a dark-haired girl of perhaps thirteen and a
woman who Roran guessed was her mother. Clovis ruffled the girl’s hair
and said, “Now, you’ll be good while I’m gone, won’t you, Galina?”

“Yes, Father.”

As he watched Clovis bid his family farewell, Roran thought of the two
soldiers dead by the gate. They might have had families as well. Wives and
children who loved them and a home they returned to each day... He tasted
bile and had to wrench his thoughts back to the pier to avoid being sick.

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On the barges, the men appeared anxious. Afraid that they might lose
their nerve, Roran made a show of walking about the deck, stretching,
and doing whatever he could to seem relaxed. At last Clovis jumped
back onto the Red Boar and cried, “Cast off, me lads! It’s the briny deep
for us.”

In short order, the gangplanks were pulled aboard, the mooring ropes
untied, and the sails raised on the three barges. The air rang with shouted
orders and chants of heave-ho as the sailors pulled on ropes.

Behind them, Galina and her mother remained watching as the barges
drew away, still and silent, hooded and grave.

“We’re lucky, Stronghammer,” said Clovis, clapping him on the shoulder.
“We’ve a bit o’ wind to push us along today. We may not have to
row in order to reach the cove before the tide changes, eh!”

When the Red Boar was in the middle of Narda’s bay and still ten minutes
from the freedom of the open sea, that which Roran dreaded occurred:
the sound of bells and trumpets floated across the water from
among the stone buildings.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” said Clovis. He frowned as he stared at the town,
his hands planted on his hips. “It could be a fire, but no smoke is in the
air. Maybe some Urgals were discovered in the area....” Concern grew
upon his face. “Did you perchance spy anyone on the road this morning?”

Roran shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Flint drew alongside them and shouted from the deck of the Edeline,
“Should we turn back, sir?” Roran gripped the gunwale so hard that he
drove splinters under his nails, ready to intercede but afraid to appear too
anxious.

Tearing his gaze from Narda, Clovis bellowed in return, “No. We’d
miss the tide then.”

“Aye, aye, sir! But I’d give a day’s pay to find out what caused that
clamor.”

“So would I,” muttered Clovis.

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As the houses and buildings shrank behind them, Roran crouched at
the rear port of the barge, wrapped his arms around his knees, and leaned
against the cabins. He looked at the sky, struck by its depth, clarity, and
color, then into the Red Boar ’s roiling green wake, where ribbons of seaweed
fluttered. The pitch of the barge lulled him like the rock of a cradle.
What a beautiful day it is, he thought, grateful he was there to observe
it.

After they escaped the cove—to his relief—Roran climbed the ladder
to the poop deck behind the cabins, where Clovis stood with his hand on
the tiller, guiding their course. The captain said, “Ah, there’s something
exhilarating about the first day of a voyage, before you realize how bad
the food is an’ start longing for home.”

Mindful of his need to learn what he could about the barge, Roran
asked Clovis the names and functions of various objects on board, at
which point he was treated to an enthusiastic lecture on the workings of
barges, ships, and the art of sailing in general.

Two hours later, Clovis pointed at a narrow peninsula that lay before
them. “The cove be on the far side of that.” Roran straightened off the
railing and craned his neck, eager to confirm that the villagers were safe.

As the Red Boar rounded the rocky spit of land, a white beach was revealed
at the apex of the cove, upon which were assembled the refugees
from Palancar Valley. The crowd cheered and waved as the barges
emerged from behind the rocks.

Roran relaxed.

Beside him, Clovis uttered a dreadful oath. “I knew something were
amiss the moment I clapped eyes upon you, Stronghammer. Livestock
indeed. Bah! You played me like a fool, you did.”

“You wrong me,” replied Roran. “I did not lie; this is my flock and I am
their shepherd. Is it not within my right to call them ‘livestock’ if I
want?”

“Call them what you will, I didn’t agree to haul people to Teirm. Why
you didn’t tell me the true nature of your cargo, I might wonder, an’ the
only answer on the horizon is that whatever venture you’re engaged in
means trouble... trouble for you an’ trouble for me. I should toss the lot
of you overboard an’ return to Narda.”

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“But you won’t,” said Roran, deadly quiet.

“Oh? An’ why not?”

“Because I need these barges, Clovis, and I’ll do anything to keep them.
Anything. Honor our bargain and you’ll have a peaceful trip and you’ll get
to see Galina again. If not...” The threat sounded worse than it was; Roran
had no intention of killing Clovis, though if he had to, he would abandon
him somewhere along the coast.

Clovis’s face reddened, but he surprised Roran by grunting and saying,
“Fair enough, Stronghammer.” Pleased with himself, Roran returned his
attention to the beach.

Behind him, he heard a snick.

Acting on instinct, Roran recoiled, crouching, twisting, and covering his
head with his shield. His arm vibrated as a belaying pin broke across the
shield. He lowered the shield and gazed at a dismayed Clovis, who retreated
across the deck.

Roran shook his head, never taking his eyes off his opponent. “You
can’t defeat me, Clovis. I’ll ask you again: Will you honor our bargain? If
you don’t, I’ll put you ashore, commandeer the barges, and press your
crew into service. I don’t want to ruin your livelihood, but I will if you
force me.... Come now. This can be a normal, uneventful voyage if you
choose to help us. Remember, you’ve already been paid.”

Drawing himself up with great dignity, Clovis said, “If I agree, then you
must do me the courtesy of explaining why this ruse were necessary, an’
why these people are here an’ where they’re from. No matter how much
gold you offer me, I won’t assist an undertaking that contradicts my principles;
no, I won’t. Are you bandits? Or do you serve the blasted king?”

“The knowledge may place you in greater danger.”

“I insist.”

“Have you heard of Carvahall in Palancar Valley?” asked Roran.

Clovis waved a hand. “Once or twice. What of it?”

“You see it now on the beach. Galbatorix’s soldiers attacked us without

400



provocation. We fought back and, when our position became untenable,
we crossed the Spine and followed the coast to Narda. Galbatorix has
promised that every man, woman, and child from Carvahall will be killed
or enslaved. Reaching Surda is our only hope of survival.” Roran left out
mention of the Ra’zac; he did not want to frighten Clovis too badly.

The weathered seaman had gone gray. “Are you still pursued?”

“Aye, but the Empire has yet to discover us.”

“An’ are you why the alarm was sounded?”

Very softly, Roran said, “I killed two soldiers who recognized me.” The
revelation startled Clovis: his eyes widened, he stepped back, and the
muscles in his forearms rippled as he clenched his fists. “Make your
choice, Clovis; the shore draws near.”

He knew he had won when the captain’s shoulders drooped and the
bravado faded from his bearing. “Ah, the plague take you, Stronghammer.
I’m no friend of the king; I’ll get you to Teirm. But then I want nothing
more to do with you.”

“Will you give me your word that you won’t attempt to slip away in
the night or any similar deception?”

“Aye. You have it.”

Sand and rocks grated across the bottom of the Red Boar ’s hull as the
barge drove itself up onto the beach, followed on either side by its two
companions. The relentless, rhythmic surge of water dashing itself against
the land sounded like the breathing of a gigantic monster. Once the sails
were furled and the gangplanks extended, Torson and Flint both strode
over to the Red Boar and accosted Clovis, demanding to know what was
going on.

“There’s been a change of plans,” said Clovis.

Roran left him to explain the situation—skirting the exact reasons why
the villagers left Palancar Valley—and jumped onto the sand, whereupon
he set out to find Horst among the milling knots of people. When he
spotted the smith, Roran pulled him aside and told him about the deaths
in Narda. “If it’s discovered that I left with Clovis, they may send soldiers
on horses after us. We have to get everyone onto the barges as fast as
possible.”

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Horst met his eye for a long minute. “You’ve become a hard man, Roran,
harder than I’ll ever be.”

“I’ve had to.”

“Mind that you don’t forget who you are.”

Roran spent the next three hours moving and packing the villagers’ belongings
in the Red Boar until Clovis expressed his satisfaction. The bundles
had to be secured so that they would not shift unexpectedly and injure
someone, as well as distributed so that the barge rode level in the
water, which was no easy task as the bundles were of irregular size and
density. Then the animals were coaxed on board much to their displeasure—
and immobilized by tethers lashed to iron rings in the hold.

Last of all came the people, who, like the rest of the cargo, had to be
organized into a symmetrical pattern within the barge to keep from capsizing
it. Clovis, Torson, and Flint each ended up standing at the fore of
their barges, shouting directions to the mass of villagers below.

What now? thought Roran as he heard an argument break out on the
beach. Pushing his way to the source of the disturbance, he saw Calitha
kneeling beside her stepfather, Wayland, trying to calm the old man.

“No! I won’t go on that beast ! You can’t make me,” cried Wayland. He
thrashed his withered arms and beat his heels in an attempt to free himself
from Calitha’s embrace. Spittle flew from his lips. “Let me go, I say.
Let me go!”

Wincing from his blows, Calitha said, “He’s been unreasonable ever
since we made camp last night.”

It would have been better for all concerned if he had died in the Spine,
what with the trouble he’s caused, thought Roran. He joined Calitha, and
together they managed to soothe Wayland so that he no longer screamed
and hit. As a reward for his good behavior, Calitha gave him a piece of
jerky, which occupied his entire attention. While Wayland concentrated
on gumming the meat, she and Roran were able to guide him onto the
Edeline and get him settled in a deserted corner where he would not be a
nuisance.

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“Move your backsides, you lubbers,” shouted Clovis. “The tide’s about
to turn. Hop to, hop to.”

After a final flurry of activity, the gangplanks were withdrawn, leaving
a cluster of twenty men standing on the beach before each barge. The
three groups gathered around the prows and prepared to push them back
into the water.

Roran led the effort on the Red Boar. Chanting in unison, he and his
men strained against the weight of the huge barge, the gray sand giving
beneath their feet, the timbers and cables creaking, and the smell of
sweat in the air. For a moment, their efforts seemed to be in vain, then
the Red Boar lurched and slid back a foot.

“Again!” shouted Roran. Foot by foot, they advanced into the sea, until
the frigid water surged about their waists. A breaker crashed over Roran,
filling his mouth with seawater, which he spat out vigorously, disgusted
by the taste of salt; it was far more intense than he expected.

When the barge lifted free of the seabed, Roran swam alongside the
Red Boar and pulled himself up with one of the ropes draped over the
gunwale. Meanwhile, the sailors deployed long poles that they used to
propel the Red Boar into ever deeper water, as did the crews of the Merrybell
and Edeline.

The instant they were a reasonable distance from shore, Clovis ordered
the poles stowed away and oars broken out, with which the sailors aimed
the Red Boar’s prow toward the cove’s entrance. They hoisted the sail,
aligned it to catch the light wind, and, at the vanguard of the trio of
barges, set forth for Teirm upon the uncertain expanse of the bounding
main.

403