Eldest Part 3

THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM


The days Eragon spent in Ellesméra blended together without distinction;
time seemed to have no hold in the pinewood city. The season aged
not, even as the afternoons and evenings lengthened, barring the forest
with rich shadows. Flowers of all months bloomed at the urging of the
elves’ magic, nourished by the enchantments spun through the air.

Eragon came to love Ellesméra with its beauty and its quiet, the graceful
buildings that flowed out of the trees, the haunting songs that echoed
at twilight, the works of art hidden within the mysterious dwellings, and
the introspection of the elves themselves, which they mixed with outbursts
of merriment.

The wild animals of Du Weldenvarden had no fear of hunters. Often
Eragon would look from his eyrie to see an elf petting a stag or a gray fox
or murmuring to a shy bear that trundled along the edge of a clearing, reluctant
to expose himself. Some animals had no recognizable form. They
appeared at night, moving and grunting in the bushes and fleeing if Eragon
dared approach. Once he glimpsed a creature like a furred snake and
once a white-robed woman whose body wavered and disappeared to reveal
a grinning she-wolf in her place.

Eragon and Saphira continued to explore Ellesméra when they had the
chance. They went alone or with Orik, for Arya no longer accompanied
them, nor had Eragon spoken to her since she broke his fairth. He saw
her now and then, flitting between the trees, but whenever he approached—
intending to apologize—she withdrew, leaving him alone
among the ancient pines. At last Eragon realized that he had to take the
initiative if he were to ever have a chance of mending his relationship
with her. So one evening, he picked a bouquet from the flowers along the
path by his tree and hobbled to Tialdarí Hall, where he asked directions
to Arya’s quarters from an elf in the common room.

The screen door was open when he reached her chambers. No one answered
when he knocked. He stepped inside, listening for approaching
footsteps as he glanced around the spacious vine-covered living room,
which opened to a small bedroom on one side and a study on the other.
Two fairths decorated the walls: a portrait of a stern, proud elf with silver
hair, who Eragon guessed was King Evandar, and that of a younger
male elf whom he did not recognize.

Eragon wandered through the apartment, looking but not touching, sa


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voring his glimpse into Arya’s life, gleaning what he could about her interests
and hobbies. By her bed, he saw a glass sphere with a preserved
blossom of the black morning glory embedded within it; on her desk,
neat rows of scrolls with titles like Osilon: Harvest Report and Activity
Noted by Gil’ead Watchtower; on the sill of an open bay window, three
miniature trees grown in the shape of glyphs from the ancient language,
the glyphs for peace, strength, and wisdom ; and by the trees, a scrap of
paper with an unfinished poem, covered with crossed-out words and
scribbled marks. It read:

Under the moon, the bright white moon,

Lies a pool, a flat silver pool,

Among the brakes and brambles,

And black-heart pines.

Falls a stone, a living stone,

Cracks the moon, the bright white moon,

Among the brakes and brambles,

And black-heart pines.

Shards of light, swords of light,

Ripple ’cross the pool,

The quiet mere, the still tarn,

The lonely lake there.

In the night, the dark and heavy night,

Flutter shadows, confused shadows,

Where once...

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Going to the small table by the entrance, Eragon laid his bouquet upon
it and turned to leave. He froze as he saw Arya standing in the doorway.
She looked startled by his presence, then concealed her emotions behind
an impassive expression.

They stared at each other in silence.

He lifted the bouquet, half offering it to her. “I don’t know how to
make a blossom for you, like Fäolin did, but these are honest flowers and
the best I could find.”

“I cannot accept them, Eragon.”

“They’re not... they’re not that sort of gift.” He paused. “It’s no excuse,
but I didn’t realize beforehand that my fairth would put you in such a
difficult situation. For that, I’m sorry, and I cry your pardon.... I was just
trying to make a fairth, not cause trouble. I understand the importance of
my studies, Arya, and you needn’t fear I will neglect them in order to
moon after you.” He swayed and leaned against the wall, too dizzy to remain
on his feet without support. “That’s all.”

She regarded him for a long moment, then slowly reached out and took
the bouquet, which she held beneath her nose. Her eyes never left his.
“They are honest flowers,” she conceded. Her gaze flickered down to his
feet and back up again. “Have you been ill?”

“No. My back.”

“I had heard, but I did not think...”

He pushed himself away from the wall. “I should go.”

“Wait.” Arya hesitated, then guided him to the bay window, where he
sat on the padded bench that curved from the wall. Removing two goblets
from a cupboard, Arya crumbled dried nettle leaves into them, then
filled the goblets with water and—saying “Boil”—heated the water for
tea.

She gave a goblet to Eragon, who held it with both hands so the
warmth seeped into him. He glanced out the window to the ground
twenty feet below, where elves walked among the royal gardens, talking
and singing, and fireflies floated through the dusky air.

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“I wish...,” said Eragon, “I wish it could always be like this. It’s so perfect
and quiet.”

Arya stirred her tea. “How fares Saphira?”

“The same. And you?”

“I have been preparing to return to the Varden.”

Alarm shot through him. “When?”

“After the Blood-oath Celebration. I have tarried here far too long as it
is, but I have been loath to leave and Islanzadí wished me to stay. Also... I
have never attended a Blood-oath Celebration and it is the most important
of our observances.” She considered him over the rim of her goblet.
“Is there nothing Oromis can do for you?”

Eragon forced a weary shrug. “He tried everything he knows.”

They sipped their tea and watched the groups and couples meander
along the garden paths. “Your studies go well, though?” she asked.

“They do.” In the lull that followed, Eragon picked up the scrap of paper
from between the trees and examined her stanzas, as if reading them
for the first time. “Do you often write poetry?”

Arya extended her hand for the paper and, when he gave it to her,
rolled it into a tube so that the words were no longer visible. “It is custom
that everyone who attends the Blood-oath Celebration should bring
a poem, a song, or some other piece of art that they have made and share
it with those assembled. I have but begun to work on mine.”

“I think it’s quite good.”

“If you had read much poetry—”

“I have.”

Arya paused, then dipped her head and said, “Forgive me. You are not
the person I first met in Gil’ead.”

“No. I...” He stopped and twisted the goblet between his hands while
he searched for the right words. “Arya... you’ll be leaving soon enough. I
would count it a shame if this is the last I see of you between now and

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then. Could we not meet occasionally, as we did before, and you could
show Saphira and me more of Ellesméra?”

“It would not be wise,” she said in a gentle but firm voice.

He looked up at her. “Must the price of my indiscretion be our friendship?
I cannot help how I feel toward you, but I would rather suffer another
wound from Durza than allow my foolishness to destroy the companionship
that existed between us. I value it too highly.”

Lifting her goblet, Arya finished the last of her tea before responding.
“Our friendship shall endure, Eragon. As for us spending time together...”
Her lips curved with a hint of a smile. “Perhaps. However, we shall have
to wait and see what the future brings, for I am busy and can promise
nothing.”

He knew her words were the closest thing to a conciliation he was
likely to receive, and he was grateful for them. “Of course, Arya Svitkona,”
he said, and bowed his head.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, but it was clear that Arya had
gone as far as she was willing to go that day, so Eragon returned to
Saphira, his hope restored by what he had accomplished. Now it’s up to
fate to decide the outcome, he thought as he settled before Oromis’s latest
scroll.

Reaching into the pouch at his belt, Eragon withdrew a soapstone container
of nalgask—beeswax melted with hazelnut oil—and smeared it
over his lips to protect them against the cold wind that scoured his face.
He closed the pouch, then wrapped his arms around Saphira’s neck and
buried his face in the crook of his elbow to reduce the glare from the
wimpled clouds beneath them. The tireless beat of Saphira’s wings dominated
his hearing, higher and faster than that of Glaedr’s, whom she followed.


They flew southwest from dawn until early afternoon, often pausing
for enthusiastic sparring bouts between Saphira and Glaedr, during which
Eragon had to strap his arms onto the saddle to prevent himself from being
thrown off by the stomach-turning acrobatics. He then would free
himself by pulling on slipknots with his teeth.

The trip ended at a cluster of four mountains that towered over the

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forest, the first mountains Eragon had seen in Du Weldenvarden. White-
capped and windswept, they pierced the veil of clouds and bared their
crevassed brows to the beating sun, which was heatless at such altitude.

They look so small compared to the Beors, said Saphira.

As had become his habit during weeks of meditation, Eragon extended
his mind in every direction, touching upon the consciousnesses around
him in search of any who might mean him harm. He felt a marmot warm
in her burrow, ravens, nuthatches, and hawks, numerous squirrels running
among the trees, and, farther down the mountain, rock snakes undulating
through the brush in search of the mice that were their prey, as
well as the hordes of ubiquitous insects.

When Glaedr descended to a bare ridge on the first mountain, Saphira
had to wait until he folded his massive wings before there was enough
room for her to land. The field of boulder-strewn talus they alighted
upon was brilliant yellow from a coating of hard, crenulated lichen.
Above them loomed a sheer black cliff. It acted as buttress and dam for a
cornice of blue ice that groaned and split under the wind, loosing jagged
slabs that shattered on the granite below.

This peak is known as Fionula, said Glaedr. And her brothers are
Ethrundr, Merogoven, and Griminsmal. Each has its own tale, which I shall
recount on the flight back. But for now, I shall address the purpose of this
trip, namely the nature of the bond forged between dragons and elves and,
later, humans. You both know something of it—and I have hinted at its full
implications to Saphira—but the time has come to learn the solemn and profound
meaning of your partnership so that you may uphold it when Oromis
and I are no more.

“Master?” asked Eragon, wrapping his cloak around himself to stay
warm.

Yes, Eragon.

“Why is Oromis not here with us?”

Because, rumbled Glaedr, it is my duty—as was always the duty of an
elder dragon in centuries past—to ensure that the newest generation of Riders
understands the true importance of the station they have assumed. And
because Oromis is not as well as he appears.

The rocks cracked with muffled reports as Glaedr coiled up, nestling

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himself among the scree and placing his majestic head upon the ground
lengthwise to Eragon and Saphira. He examined them with one gold eye
as large as a polished roundshield and twice as brilliant. A gray smudge of
smoke drifted from his nostrils and was blown to tatters by the wind.

Parts of what I am about to reveal were common knowledge among the
elves, Riders, and learned humans, but much of it was known only to the
leader of the Riders, a mere handful of elves, the humans’ current potentate,
and, of course, the dragons.

Listen now, my hatchlings. When peace was made between dragons and
elves at the end of our war, the Riders were created to ensure that such conflict
would never again arise between our two races. Queen Tarmunora of
the elves and the dragon who had been selected to represent us, whose
name—he paused and conveyed a series of impressions to Eragon: long
tooth, white tooth, chipped tooth; fights won, fights lost; countless eaten
Shrrg and Nagra; seven-and-twenty eggs sired and nineteen offspring
grown to maturity—cannot be expressed in any language, decided that a
common treaty would not suffice. Signed paper means nothing to a dragon.
Our blood runs hot and thick and, given enough time, it was inevitable that
we would clash with the elves again, as we had with the dwarves over the
millennia. But unlike with the dwarves, neither we nor the elves could afford
another war. We were both too powerful, and we would have destroyed
each other. The one way to prevent that and to forge a meaningful accord
was to link our two races with magic.

Eragon shivered, and with a touch of amusement, Glaedr said, Saphira,
if you are wise, you will heat one of these rocks with the fire from your belly
so that your Rider does not freeze.

Thereupon Saphira arched her neck, and a jet of blue flame emanated
from between her serrated fangs and splashed against the scree, blackening
the lichen, which released a bitter smell as it burned. The air grew so
hot that Eragon was forced to turn away. He felt the insects underneath
the rocks being crisped in the inferno. After a minute, Saphira clapped
shut her jaws, leaving a circle of stones five feet across glowing cherry
red.

Thank you, Eragon said to her. He hunched by the edge of the scorched
rocks and warmed his hands over them.

Remember, Saphira, to use your tongue to direct the stream, admonished
Glaedr. Now... it took nine years for the elves’ wisest magicians to devise the
needed spell. When they had, they and the dragons gathered together at
Ilirea. The elves provided the structure of the enchantment, the dragons pro


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vided the strength, and together they melded the souls of elves and dragons.

The joining changed us. We dragons gained the use of language and other
trappings of civilization, while the elves shared in our longevity, since before
that moment, their lives were as short as humans’. In the end, the elves were
the most affected. Our magic, dragons’ magic—which permeates every fiber
of our being—was transmitted to the elves and, in time, gave them their
much-vaunted strength and grace. Humans have never been influenced as
strongly, since you were added to the spell after its completion and it has not
had as much time to work upon you as with the elves. Still—and here
Glaedr’s eye gleamed—it has already gentled your race from the rough
barbarians who first landed in Alagaësia, though you have begun to regress
since the Fall.

“Were dwarves ever part of this spell?” asked Eragon.

No, and that is why there has never been a dwarf Rider. They do not care
for dragons, nor we for them, and they found the idea of being joined with
us repellent. Perhaps it is fortunate that they did not enter into our pact, for
they have escaped the decline of humans and elves.

Decline, Master? queried Saphira in what Eragon would have sworn
was a teasing tone of voice.

Aye, decline. If one or another of our three races suffer, so do they all. By
killing dragons, Galbatorix harmed his own race as well as the elves. The
two of you have not seen this, for you are new to Ellesméra, but the elves are
on the wane; their power is not what it once was. And humans have lost
much of their culture and been consumed by chaos and corruption. Only by
righting the imbalance between our three races shall order return to the
world.

The old dragon kneaded the scree with his talons, crumbling it into
gravel so that he was more comfortable. Layered within the enchantment
Queen Tarmunora oversaw was the mechanism that allows a hatchling to
be linked with his or her Rider. When a dragon decides to give an egg to the
Riders, certain words are said over the egg—which I shall teach you later—
that prevent the dragon inside from hatching until it is brought into contact
with the person with whom it decides to bond. As dragons can remain in
their eggs indefinitely, time is of no concern, nor is the infant harmed. You
yourself are an example of this, Saphira.

The bond that forms between a Rider and dragon is but an enhanced version
of the bond that already exists between our races. The human or elf be


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comes stronger and fairer, while some of the dragon’s fiercer traits are tempered
by a more reasoned outlook.... I see a thought biting at your tongue,
Eragon. What is it?

“It’s just...” He hesitated. “I have a hard time imagining you or Saphira
being any fiercer. Not,” he added anxiously, “that that’s a bad thing.”

The ground shook as if with an avalanche as Glaedr chuckled, rolling
his great big staring eye behind its horny lid and back again. If ever you
met an unbonded dragon, you would not say so. A dragon alone answers to
no one and no thing, takes whatever pleases it, and bears no thought of
kindness for aught but its kith and kin. Fierce and proud were the wild
dragons, even arrogant.... The females were so formidable, it was accounted
a great accomplishment among the Riders’ dragons to mate with one.

The lack of this bond is why Galbatorix’s partnership with Shruikan, his
second dragon, is such a perverted union. Shruikan did not choose Galbatorix
as his partner; he was twisted by certain black magics into serving
Galbatorix’s madness. Galbatorix has constructed a depraved imitation of
the relationship that you, Eragon, and you, Saphira, possess and that he lost
when the Urgals murdered his original dragon.

Glaedr paused and looked between the two of them. His eye was all
that moved. That which links you exceeds any simple connection between
minds. Your very souls, your identities—call it what you will—have been
welded on a primal level. His eye flicked to Eragon. Do you believe that a
person’s soul is separate from his body?

“I don’t know,” said Eragon. “Saphira once took me out of my body and
let me see the world through her eyes.... It seemed like I was no longer
connected to my body. And if the wraiths that a sorcerer calls upon can
exist, then maybe our consciousness is independent of flesh as well.”

Extending the needle-sharp tip of his foreclaw, Glaedr flipped over a
rock to expose a woodrat cowering in its nest. He snapped up the rat
with a flash of his red tongue; Eragon winced as he felt the animal’s life
extinguished.

When the flesh is destroyed, so is the soul, said Glaedr.

“But an animal isn’t a person,” protested Eragon.

After your meditations, do you truly believe that any of us are so different
from a woodrat? That we are gifted with a miraculous quality that other

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creatures do not enjoy and that somehow preserves our beings after death?

“No,” muttered Eragon.

I thought not. Because we are so closely joined, when a dragon or Rider is
injured, they must harden their hearts and sever the connection between
them in order to protect each other from unnecessary suffering, even insanity.
And since the soul cannot be torn from the flesh, you must resist the
temptation to try to take your partner’s soul into your own body and shelter
it there, as that will result in both your deaths. Even if it were possible, it
would be an abomination to have multiple consciousnesses in one body.

“How terrible,” said Eragon, “to die alone, separate even from the one
who is closest to you.”

Everyone dies alone, Eragon. Whether you are a king on a battlefield or a
lowly peasant lying in bed among your family, no one can accompany you
into the void.... Now I will have you practice separating your consciousnesses.
Start by...

Eragon stared at the tray of dinner left in the anteroom of the tree
house. He cataloged the contents: bread with hazelnut butter, berries,
beans, a bowl of leafy greens, two hard-boiled eggs—which, in accordance
with the elves’ beliefs, were unfertilized—and a stoppered jug of
fresh spring water. He knew that each dish was prepared with the utmost
care, that the elves lavished all of their culinary skill upon his meals,
and that not even Islanzadí ate better than him.

He could not bear the sight of the tray.

I want meat, he growled, stomping back into the bedroom. Saphira
looked up at him from her dais. I’d even settle for fish or fowl, anything
besides this never-ending stream of vegetables. They don’t fill up my stomach.
I’m not a horse; why should I be fed like one?

Saphira unfolded her legs, walked to the edge of the teardrop gap overlooking
Ellesméra, and said, I have needed to eat these past few days.
Would you like to join me? You can cook as much meat as you like and the
elves will never know.

That I would, he said, brightening. Should I get the saddle?

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We won’t go that far.

Eragon fetched his supply of salt, herbs, and other seasonings from his
bags and then, careful not to overexert himself, climbed into the gap between
the spikes along Saphira’s spine.

Launching herself off the ground, Saphira let an updraft waft her high
above the city, whereupon she glided off the column of warm air, slipping
down and sideways as she followed a braided stream through Du
Weldenvarden to a pond some miles thence. She landed and hunched
low to the ground, making it easier for Eragon to dismount.

She said, There are rabbits in the grass by the edge of the water. See if you
can catch them. In the meantime, I go to hunt deer.

What, you don’t want to share your own prey?

No, I don’t, she replied grumpily. Though I will if those oversized mice
elude you.

He grinned as she took off, then faced the tangled clumps of grass and
cow parsnip that surrounded the pond and set about procuring his dinner.


Less than a minute later, Eragon collected a brace of dead rabbits from
their nest. It had taken him but an instant to locate the rabbits with his
mind and then kill them with one of the twelve death words. What he
had learned from Oromis had drained the challenge and excitement from
the chase. I didn’t even have to stalk them, he thought, remembering the
years he had spent honing his tracking abilities. He grimaced with sour
amusement. I can finally bag any game I want and it seems meaningless to
me. At least when I hunted with a pebble with Brom, it was still a challenge,
but this... this is slaughter.

The warning of the sword-shaper Rhunön returned to him then:
“When you can have anything you want by uttering a few words, the goal
matters not, only the journey to it.”

I should have paid more attention to her, realized Eragon.

With practiced movements, he drew his old hunting knife, skinned and
gutted the rabbits, and then—putting aside the hearts, lungs, kidneys, and
livers—buried the viscera so that the scent would not attract scavengers.
Next he dug a pit, filled it with wood, and lit a small blaze with magic,

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since he had not thought to bring his flint and steel. He tended the fire
until he had a bed of coals. Cutting a wand of dogwood, he stripped the
bark and seared the wood over the coals to burn off the bitter sap, then
spitted the carcasses on the wand and suspended them between two
forked branches pounded into the ground. For the organs, he placed a flat
stone upon a section of the coals and greased it with fat for a makeshift
frying pan.

Saphira found him crouched by the fire, slowly turning the wand to
cook the meat evenly. She landed with a limp deer hanging from her jaws
and the remains of a second deer clutched in her talons. Measuring her
length out in the fragrant grass, she proceeded to gorge upon her prey,
eating the entire deer, including the hide. Bones cracked between her razor
teeth, like branches snapping in a gale.

When the rabbits were ready, Eragon waved them in the air to cool
them, then stared at the glistening, golden meat, the smell of which he
found almost unbearably enticing.

As he opened his mouth to take the first bite, his thoughts turned unbidden
to his meditations. He remembered his excursions into the minds
of birds and squirrels and mice, how full of energy they felt and how vigorously
they fought for the right to exist in the face of danger. And if this
life is all they have...

Gripped by revulsion, Eragon thrust the meat away, as appalled by the
fact that he had killed the rabbits as if he had murdered two people. His
stomach churned and threatened to make him purge himself.

Saphira paused in her feast to eye him with concern.

Taking a long breath, Eragon pressed his fists against his knees in an attempt
to master himself and understand why he was so strongly affected.
His entire life he had eaten meat, fish, and fowl. He enjoyed it. And yet it
now made him physically ill to consider dining upon the rabbits. He
looked at Saphira. I can’t do it, he said.

It is the way of the world that everything eats everything else. Why do you
resist the order of things?

He pondered her question. He did not condemn those who did partake
of flesh—he knew that it was the only means of survival for many a poor
farmer. But he could no longer do so himself unless faced with starvation.
Having been inside of a rabbit and having felt what a rabbit feels... eating

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one would be akin to eating himself. Because we can better ourselves, he
answered Saphira. Should we give in to our impulses to hurt or kill any who
anger us, to take whatever we want from those who are weaker, and, in general,
to disregard the feelings of others? We are made imperfect and must
guard against our flaws lest they destroy us. He gestured at the rabbits. As
Oromis said, why should we cause unnecessary suffering?

Would you deny all of your desires, then?

I would deny those that are destructive.

You are adamant on this?

Aye.

In that case, said Saphira, advancing upon him, these will make a fine
dessert. In a blink, she gulped down the rabbits and then licked clean the
stone with the organs, abrading the slate with the barbs on her tongue. I,
at least, cannot live on plants alone—that is food for prey, not a dragon. I
refuse to be ashamed about how I must sustain myself. Everything has its
place in the world. Even a rabbit knows that.

I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, he said, patting her on the leg.
This is a personal decision. I won’t force my choice upon anyone.

Very wise, she said with a touch of sarcasm.

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BROKEN EGG AND SCATTERED NEST


“Concentrate, Eragon,” said Oromis, though not unkindly.

Eragon blinked and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to focus on the
glyphs that decorated the curling parchment paper before him. “Sorry,
Master.” Weariness dragged upon him like lead weights tied to his limbs.
He squinted at the curved and spiked glyphs, raised his goose-feather
quill, and began to copy them again.

Through the window behind Oromis, the green shelf on top of the
Crags of Tel’naeír was streaked with shadows from the descending sun.
Beyond, feathery clouds banded the sky.

Eragon’s hand jerked as a line of pain shot up his leg, and he broke the
nib of the quill and sprayed ink across the paper, ruining it. Across from
him, Oromis also started, clutching his right arm.

Saphira! cried Eragon. He reached for her with his mind and, to his bewilderment,
was deflected by impenetrable barriers that she had erected
around herself. He could barely feel her. It was as if he were trying to
grasp an orb of polished granite coated with oil. She kept slipping away
from him.

He looked at Oromis. “Something’s happened to them, hasn’t it?”

“I know not. Glaedr returns, but he refuses to talk to me.” Taking his
blade, Naegling, from the wall, Oromis strode outside and stood upon the
edge of the crags, head uplifted as he waited for the gold dragon to appear.


Eragon joined him, thinking of everything—probable and improbable—
that might have befallen Saphira. The two dragons had left at
noon, flying north to a place called the Stone of Broken Eggs, where the
wild dragons had nested in ages past. It was an easy trip. It couldn’t be Urgals;
the elves don’t allow them into Du Weldenvarden, he told himself.

At last Glaedr came into view high above as a winking speck among
the darkening clouds. As he descended to land, Eragon saw a wound on
the back of the dragon’s right foreleg, a tear in his lapped scales as wide as
Eragon’s hand. Scarlet blood laced the grooves between the surrounding
scales.

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The moment Glaedr touched the ground, Oromis rushed toward him,
only to stop when the dragon growled at him. Hopping on his injured leg,
Glaedr crawled to the edge of the forest, where he curled up beneath the
outstretched boughs, his back to Eragon, and set about licking clean his
wound.

Oromis went and knelt in the clover by Glaedr, keeping his distance
with calm patience. It was obvious that he would wait as long as need be.
Eragon fidgeted as the minutes elapsed. Finally, by some unspoken signal,
Glaedr allowed Oromis to draw near and inspect his leg. Magic glowed
from Oromis’s gedwëy ignasia as he placed his hand over the rent in
Glaedr’s scales.

“How is he?” asked Eragon when Oromis withdrew.

“It looks a fearsome wound, but it is no more than a scratch for one so
large as Glaedr.”

“What about Saphira, though? I still can’t contact her.”

“You must go to her,” said Oromis. “She is hurt, in more ways than one.
Glaedr said little of what transpired, but I have guessed much, and you
would do well to hurry.”

Eragon glanced about for any means of transportation and groaned with
anguish when he confirmed that none existed. “How can I reach her? It’s
too far to run, there’s no trail, and I can’t—”

“Calm thyself, Eragon. What was the name of the steed who bore you
hence from Sílthrim?”

It took Eragon a moment to recall. “Folkvír.”

“Then summon him with your skill at gramarye. Name him and your
need in this, the most powerful of languages, and he will come to your
assistance.”

Letting the magic suffuse his voice, Eragon cried out for Folkvír, sending
his plea echoing over the forested hills toward Ellesméra with all the
urgency he could muster.

Oromis nodded, satisfied. “Well done.”

Twelve minutes later, Folkvír emerged like a silver ghost from the dark

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shadows among the trees, tossing his mane and snorting with excitement.
The stallion’s sides heaved from the speed of his journey.

Throwing a leg over the small elven horse, Eragon said, “I’ll return as
soon as I can.”

“Do what you must,” said Oromis.

Then Eragon touched his heels to Folkvír’s ribs and shouted, “Run,
Folkvír! Run!” The horse leaped forward and bounded into Du Weldenvarden,
threading his way with incredible dexterity between the gnarled
pines. Eragon guided him toward Saphira with images from his mind.

Lacking a trail through the underbrush, a horse like Snowfire would
have taken three or four hours to reach the Stone of Broken Eggs. Folkvír
managed the trip in a bit over an hour.

At the base of the basalt monolith—which ascended from the forest
floor like a mottled green pillar and stood a good hundred feet higher
than the trees—Eragon murmured, “Halt,” then slid to the ground. He
looked at the distant top of the Stone of Broken Eggs. Saphira was up
there.

He walked around the perimeter, searching for a means to achieve the
pinnacle, but in vain, for the weathered formation was impregnable. It
possessed no fissures, crevices, or other faults near enough to the ground
that he could use to climb its sides.

This might hurt, he thought.

“Stay here,” he told Folkvír. The horse looked at him with intelligent
eyes. “Graze if you want, but stay here, okay?” Folkvír nickered and, with
his velvet muzzle, nudged Eragon’s arm. “Yes, good boy. You’ve done
well.”

Fixing his gaze on the crest of the monolith, Eragon gathered his
strength, then said in the ancient language, “Up!”

He realized later that if he had not been accustomed to flying with
Saphira, the experience might have proved unsettling enough to cause
him to lose control of the spell and plunge to his death. The ground
dropped away beneath his feet at a swift clip, while the tree trunks narrowed
as he floated toward the underside of the canopy and the fading
evening sky beyond. Branches clung like grasping fingers to his face and

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shoulders as he pushed through into the open. Unlike during one of
Saphira’s dives, he retained his sense of weight, as if he still stood upon
the loam below.

Rising above the edge of the Stone of Broken Eggs, Eragon moved himself
forward and released his grip on the magic, alighting upon a mossy
patch. He sagged with exhaustion and waited to see if the exertion would
pain his back, then sighed with relief when it did not.

The top of the monolith was composed of jagged towers divided by
deep and wide gullies where naught but a few scattered wildflowers
grew. Black caves dotted the towers, some natural, others clawed out of
the basalt by talons as thick as Eragon’s leg. Their floors were blanketed
with a deep layer of lichen-ridden bones, remnants of the dragons’ ancient
kills. Birds now nested where dragons once had—hawks and falcons
and eagles, who watched him from their perches, ready to attack if he
should threaten their eggs.

Eragon picked his way across the forbidding landscape, careful not to
twist an ankle on the loose flakes of stone or to get too close to the occasional
rifts that split the column. If he fell down one, it would send him
tumbling out into empty space. Several times he had to climb over high
ridges, and twice more he had to lift himself with magic.

Evidence of the dragons’ habitation was visible everywhere, from deep
scratches in the basalt to puddles of melted rock to a number of dull,
colorless scales caught in nooks, along with other detritus. He even
stepped upon a sharp object that, when he bent to examine it, proved to
be a fragment of a green dragon egg.

On the eastern face of the monolith stood the tallest tower, in the center
of which, like a black pit turned on its side, was the largest cave. It
was there that Eragon finally beheld Saphira, curled in a hollow against
the far wall, her back to the opening. Tremors ran her length. The walls
of the cave bore fresh scorch marks, and the piles of brittle bones were
scattered about as if from a fight.

“Saphira,” said Eragon, speaking out loud since her mind was closed to
him.

Her head whipped up, and she stared at him as if he were a stranger,
her pupils contracting to thin black slits as her eyes adjusted to the light
from the setting sun behind him. She snarled once, like a feral dog, and
then twisted away. As she did, she lifted her left wing and exposed a

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long, ragged gash along her upper thigh. His heart caught at the sight.

Eragon knew that she would not let him approach, so he did as Oromis
had with Glaedr; he knelt among the crushed bones and waited. He
waited without word or motion until his legs were numb and his hands
were stiff with cold. Yet he did not resent the discomfort. He paid the
price gladly if it meant he could help Saphira.

After a time, she said, I have been a fool.

We are all fools sometimes.

That makes it no easier when it is your turn to play dunce.

I suppose not.

I have always known what to do. When Garrow died, I knew it was the
right thing to pursue the Ra’zac. When Brom died, I knew that we should go
to Gil’ead and thence to the Varden. And when Ajihad died, I knew that
you should pledge yourself to Nasuada. The path has always been clear to
me. Except now. In this issue alone, I am lost.

What is it, Saphira?

Instead of answering, she turned the subject and said, Do you know why
this is called the Stone of Broken Eggs?

No.

Because during the war between dragons and elves, the elves tracked us to
this location and killed us while we slept. They tore apart our nests, then
shattered our eggs with their magic. That day, it rained blood in the forest
below. No dragon has lived here since.

Eragon remained silent. That was not why he was here. He would wait
until she could bring herself to address the situation at hand.

Say something! demanded Saphira.

Will you let me heal your leg?

Leave well enough alone.

Then I shall remain as mute as a statue and sit here until I turn to dust,

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for I have the patience of a dragon from you.

When they came, her words were halting, bitter, and self-mocking: It
shames me to admit it. When we first came here and I saw Glaedr, I felt
such joy that another member of my race survived besides Shruikan. I had
never even seen another dragon before, except in Brom’s memories. And I
thought... I thought that Glaedr would be as pleased by my existence as I
was by his.

But he was.

You don’t understand. I thought that he would be the mate I never expected
to have and that together we could rebuild our race. She snorted,
and a burst of flame escaped her nostrils. I was mistaken. He does not
want me.

Eragon chose his response with care to avoid offending her and to provide
a modicum of comfort. That’s because he knows you are destined for
someone else: one of the two remaining eggs. Nor would it be proper for him
to mate with you when he is your mentor.

Or perhaps he does not find me comely enough.

Saphira, no dragon is ugly, and you are the fairest of dragons.

I am a fool, she said. But she raised her left wing and kept it in the air as
permission for him to tend to her injury.

Eragon limped to Saphira’s side, where he examined the crimson
wound, glad that Oromis had given him so many scrolls on anatomy to
read. The blow—by claw or tooth, he was not sure—had torn the quadriceps
muscle beneath Saphira’s hide, but not so much as to bare the
bone. Merely closing the surface of the wound, as Eragon had done so
many times, would not be enough. The muscle had to be knitted back
together.

The spell Eragon used was long and complex, and even he did not understand
all its parts, for he had memorized it from an ancient text that
offered little explanation beyond the statement that, given no bones were
broken and the internal organs were whole, “this charm will heal any ailment
of violent origins, excepting that of grim death.” Once he uttered it,
Eragon watched with fascination as Saphira’s muscle writhed beneath his
hand—veins, nerves, and fibers weaving together—and became whole
once more. The wound was big enough that, in his weakened state, he

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dared not heal it with just the energy from his body, so he drew upon
Saphira’s strength as well.

It itches, said Saphira when he finished.

Eragon sighed and leaned his back against the rough basalt, looking at
the sunset through his eyelashes. I fear that you will have to carry me off
this rock. I’m too tired to move.

With a dry rustle, she twisted in place and laid her head on the bones
beside him. I have treated you poorly ever since we came to Ellesméra. I ignored
your advice when I should have listened. You warned me about
Glaedr, but I was too proud to see the truth in your words.... I have failed to
be a good companion for you, betrayed what it means to be a dragon, and
tarnished the honor of the Riders.

No, never that, he said vehemently. Saphira, you haven’t failed your
duty. You may have made a mistake, but it was an honest one, and one
that anyone might have committed in your position.

That does not excuse my behavior toward you.

He tried to meet her eye, but she avoided his gaze until he touched her
upon the neck and said, Saphira, family members forgive one another, even
if they don’t always understand why someone acts in a certain way.... You
are as much my family as Roran—more. Nothing you can do will ever
change that. Nothing. When she did not respond, he reached behind her
jaw and tickled the patch of leathery skin below one of her ears. Do you
hear me, eh? Nothing!

She coughed low in her throat with reluctant amusement, then arched
her neck and lifted her head to escape his dancing fingers. How can I face
Glaedr again? He was in a terrible rage.... The entire stone shook with the
force of his anger.

At least you held your own when he attacked you.

It was the other way around.

Caught by surprise, Eragon raised his eyebrows. Well, in any case, the
only thing to do is to apologize.

Apologize!

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Aye. Go tell him that you are sorry, that this won’t happen again, and
that you want to continue your training with him. I’m sure he will be sympathetic
if you give him the chance.

Very well, she said in a low voice.

You’ll feel better once you do. He grinned. I know from experience.

She grunted and padded to the edge of the cave, where she crouched
and surveyed the rolling forest. We should go. Soon it will be dark. Gritting
his teeth, he forced himself upright—every movement costing him
effort—and climbed onto her back, taking twice the time he usually did.
Eragon?... Thank you for coming. I know what you risked with your back.

He patted her on the shoulder. Are we one again?

We are one.

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THE GIFT OF DRAGONS


The days leading up to the Agaetí Blödhren were the best and worst of
times for Eragon. His back troubled him more than ever, battering down
his health and endurance and destroying his calm of mind; he lived in
constant fear of triggering an episode. Yet, in contrast, he and Saphira had
never been so close. They lived as much in each other’s minds as in their
own. And every now and then Arya would visit the tree house and walk
through Ellesméra with Eragon and Saphira. She never came alone,
though, always bringing either Orik or Maud the werecat.

Over the course of their wanderings, Arya introduced Eragon and
Saphira to elves of distinction: great warriors, poets, and artists. She took
them to concerts held under the thatched pines. And she showed them
many hidden wonders of Ellesméra.

Eragon seized every opportunity to talk with her. He told her about his
upbringing in Palancar Valley, about Roran, Garrow, and his aunt Marian,
stories of Sloan, Ethlbert, and the other villagers, and his love of the
mountains surrounding Carvahall and the flaming sheets of light that
adorned the winter sky at night. He told her about the time a vixen fell
into Gedric’s tanning vats and had to be fished out with a net. He told
her about the joy he found in planting a crop, weeding and nurturing it,
and watching the tender green shoots grow under his care—a joy that he
knew she, of all people, could appreciate.

In turn, Eragon gleaned occasional insights into her own life. He heard
mentions of her childhood, her friends and family, and her experiences
among the Varden, which she spoke about most freely, describing raids
and battles she participated in, treaties she helped to negotiate, her disputes
with the dwarves, and the momentous events she witnessed during
her tenure as ambassador.

Between her and Saphira, a measure of peace entered Eragon’s heart,
but it was a precarious balance that the slightest influence might disrupt.
Time itself was an enemy, for Arya was destined to leave Du Weldenvarden
after the Agaetí Blödhren. Thus, Eragon treasured his moments
with her and dreaded the arrival of the forthcoming celebration.

The entire city bustled with activity as the elves prepared for the
Agaetí Blödhren. Eragon had never seen them so excited before. They
decorated the forest with colored bunting and lanterns, especially around
the Menoa tree, while the tree itself was adorned with a lantern upon the

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tip of each branch, where they hung like glowing teardrops. Even the
plants, Eragon noticed, took on a festive appearance with a collection of
bright new flowers. He often heard the elves singing to them late at night.

Each day hundreds of elves arrived in Ellesméra from their cities scattered
throughout the woods, for no elf would willingly miss the centennial
observance of their treaty with the dragons. Eragon guessed that
many of them also came to meet Saphira. It seems as if I do nothing but
repeat their greeting, he thought. The elves who were absent because of
their responsibilities would hold their own festivities simultaneously and
would participate in the ceremonies at Ellesméra by scrying through enchanted
mirrors that displayed the likeness of those watching, so that no
one felt as if they were being spied upon.

A week before the Agaetí Blödhren, when Eragon and Saphira were
about to return to their quarters from the Crags of Tel’naeír, Oromis said,
“You should both think about what you can bring to the Blood-oath
Celebration. Unless your creations require magic to make or to function,
I suggest that you avoid using gramarye. No one will respect your work if
it’s the product of a spell and not of your own hands. I also suggest you
each make a separate piece. That too is custom.”

In the air, Eragon asked Saphira, Do you have any ideas?

I might have one. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to see if it works before I
tell you. He caught part of an image from her of a bare knuckle of stone
protruding from the forest floor before she concealed it from him.

He grinned. Won’t you give me a hint?

Fire. Lots of fire.

Back in their tree house, Eragon cataloged his skills and thought, I know
more about farming than anything else, but I don’t see how I can turn that
to my advantage. Nor can I hope to compete with the elves with magic or
match their accomplishments with the crafts I am familiar with. Their talent
exceeds that of the finest artisans in the Empire.

But you possess one quality that no one else does, said Saphira.

Oh?

Your identity. Your history, deeds, and situation. Use those to shape your
creation and you will produce something unique. Whatever you make, base

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it upon that which is most important to you. Only then will it have depth
and meaning, and only then will it resonate with others.

He looked at her with surprise. I never realized that you knew so much
about art.

I don’t, she said. You forget I spent an afternoon watching Oromis paint
his scrolls while you flew with Glaedr. Oromis discussed the topic quite a
bit.

Ah, yes. I had forgotten.

After Saphira left to pursue her project, Eragon paced along the edge of
the open portal in the bedroom, pondering what she had said. What’s important
to me? he asked himself. Saphira and Arya, of course, and being a
good Rider, but what can I say about those subjects that isn’t blindingly obvious?
I appreciate beauty in nature, but, again, the elves have already expressed
everything possible on that topic. Ellesméra itself is a monument to
their devotion. He turned his gaze inward and scrutinized himself to determine
what struck the deepest, darkest chords within him. What
stirred him with enough passion—of either love or hate—that he burned
to share it with others?

Three things presented themselves to him: his injury at the hands of
Durza, his fear of one day fighting Galbatorix, and the elves’ epics that so
engrossed him.

A rush of excitement flared within Eragon as a story combining those
elements took form in his mind. Light on his feet, he ran up the twisting
stairs—two at a time—to the study, where he sat before the writing
desk, dipped quill in ink, and held it trembling over a pale sheet of paper.

The nib rasped as he made the first stroke:

In the kingdom by the sea,

In the mountains mantled blue...

The words flowed from his pen seemingly of their own accord. He felt
as if he were not inventing his tale, but merely acting as a conduit to
transport it fully formed into the world. Having never composed a work
of his own before, Eragon was gripped by the thrill of discovery that ac


427



companies new ventures—especially since, previously, he had not suspected
that he might enjoy being a bard.

He labored in a frenzy, not stopping for bread or drink, his tunic
sleeves rolled past his elbows to protect them from the ink flicked from
his quill by the wild force of his writing. So intense was his concentration,
he heard nothing but the beat of his poem, saw nothing but the
empty paper, and thought of nothing but the phrases etched in lines of
fire behind his eyes.

An hour and a half later, he dropped the quill from his cramped hand,
pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood. Fourteen pages lay before
him. It was the most he had ever written at one time. Eragon knew
that his poem could not match those of the elves’ and dwarves’ great authors,
but he hoped it was honest enough that the elves would not laugh
at his effort.

He recited the poem to Saphira when she returned. Afterward, she
said, Ah, Eragon, you have changed much since we left Palancar Valley.
You would not recognize the untested boy who first set out for vengeance, I
think. That Eragon could not have written a lay after the style of the elves. I
look forward to seeing who you become in the next fifty or a hundred years.

He smiled. If I live that long.

“Rough but true,” was what Oromis said when Eragon read him the
poem.

“Then you like it?”

“’Tis a good portrait of your mental state at the present and an engaging
read, but no masterpiece. Did you expect it to be?”

“I suppose not.”

“However, I am surprised that you can give voice to it in this tongue.
No barrier exists to writing fiction in the ancient language. The difficulty
arises when one attempts to speak it, for that would require you to tell
untruths, which the magic will not allow.”

“I can say it,” replied Eragon, “because I believe it’s true.”

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“And that gives your writing far more power.... I am impressed, Eragonfiniarel.
Your poem will be a worthy addition to the Blood-oath Celebration.”
Raising a finger, Oromis reached within his robe and gave Eragon a
scroll tied shut with ribbon. “Inscribed on that paper are nine wards I
want you to place about yourself and the dwarf Orik. As you discovered
at Sílthrim, our festivities are potent and not for those with constitutions
weaker than ours. Unprotected, you risk losing yourself in the web of our
magic. I have seen it happen. Even with these precautions, you must take
care you are not swayed by fancies wafted on the breeze. Be on your
guard, for during this time, we elves are apt to go mad—wonderfully,
gloriously mad, but mad all the same.”

On the eve of the Agaetí Blödhren—which was to last three days—
Eragon, Saphira, and Orik accompanied Arya to the Menoa tree, where a
host of elves were assembled, their black and silver hair flickering in the
lamplight. Islanzadí stood upon a raised root at the base of the trunk, as
tall, pale, and fair as a birch tree. Blagden roosted on the queen’s left
shoulder, while Maud, the werecat, lurked behind her. Glaedr was there,
as well as Oromis garbed in red and black, and other elves Eragon recognized,
such as Lifaen and Narí and, to his distaste, Vanir. Overhead, the
stars glittered in the velvet sky.

“Wait here,” said Arya. She slipped through the crowd and returned
leading Rhunön. The smith blinked like an owl at her surroundings. Eragon
greeted her, and she nodded to him and Saphira. “Well met, Bright
scales and Shadeslayer.” Then she spied Orik and addressed him in Dwarvish,
to which Orik replied with enthusiasm, obviously delighted to converse
with someone in the rough speech of his native land.

“What did she say?” asked Eragon, bending down.

“She invited me to her home to view her work and discuss metal working.”
Awe crossed Orik’s face. “Eragon, she first learned her craft from
Fûthark himself, one of the legendary grimstborithn of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!
What I would give to have met him.”

Together they waited until the stroke of midnight, when Islanzadí
raised her bare left arm so that it pointed toward the new moon like a
marble spear. A soft white orb gathered itself above her palm from the
light emitted by the lanterns that dotted the Menoa tree. Then Islanzadí
walked along the root to the massive trunk and placed the orb in a hol


429



low in the bark, where it remained, pulsing.

Eragon turned to Arya. “Is it begun?”

“It is begun!” She laughed. “And it will end when the werelight expends
itself.”

The elves divided themselves into informal camps throughout the forest
and clearing that encircled the Menoa tree. Seemingly out of nowhere,
they produced tables laden high with fantastic dishes, which from their
unearthly appearance were as much the result of the spellweavers’
handiwork as the cooks’.

Then the elves began to sing in their clear, flutelike voices. They sang
many songs, yet each was but part of a larger melody that wove an enchantment
over the dreamy night, heightening senses, removing inhibitions,
and burnishing the revels with fey magic. Their verses concerned
heroic deeds and quests by ship and horse to forgotten lands and the sorrow
of lost beauty. The throbbing music enveloped Eragon, and he felt a
wild abandon take hold of him, a desire to run free of his life and dance
through elven glades forever more. Beside him, Saphira hummed along
with the tune, her glazed eyes lidded halfway.

What transpired afterward, Eragon was never able to adequately recall.
It was as if he had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. He
could remember certain incidents with vivid clarity—bright, pungent
flashes filled with merriment—but it was beyond him to reconstruct the
order in which they occurred. He lost track of whether it was day or
night, for no matter the time, dusk seemed to pervade the forest. Nor
could he ever say if he had slumbered, or needed sleep, during the celebration....


He remembered spinning in circles while holding the hands of an elf-
maid with cherry lips, the taste of honey on his tongue and the smell of
juniper in the air....

He remembered elves perched on the outstretched branches of the
Menoa tree, like a flock of starlings. They strummed golden harps and
called riddles to Glaedr below and, now and then, pointed a finger at the
sky, whereupon a burst of colored embers would appear in various

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shapes before fading away....

He remembered sitting in a dell, propped against Saphira, and watching
the same elf-maid sway before a rapt audience while she sang:

Away, away, you shall fly away,

O’er the peaks and vales

To the lands beyond.

Away, away, you shall fly away,

And never return to me.

Gone! Gone you shall be from me,

And I will never see you again.

Gone! Gone you shall be from me,

Though I wait for you evermore.

He remembered endless poems, some mournful, others joyful—most
both. He heard Arya’s poem in full and thought it fine indeed, and Islanzadí’s,
which was longer but of equal merit. All the elves gathered to listen
to those two works....

He remembered the wonders the elves had made for the celebration,
many of which he would have deemed impossible beforehand, even with
the assistance of magic. Puzzles and toys, art and weapons, and items
whose function escaped him. One elf had charmed a glass ball so that
every few seconds a different flower bloomed within its heart. Another
elf had spent decades traveling Du Weldenvarden and memorizing the
sounds of the elements, the most beautiful of which he now played from
the throats of a hundred white lilies.

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Rhunön contributed a shield that would not break, a pair of gloves
woven from steel thread that allowed the wearer to handle molten lead
and other such items without harm, and a delicate sculpture of a wren in
flight chiseled from a solid block of metal and painted with such skill
that the bird seemed alive.

A tiered wood pyramid eight inches high and constructed of fifty-eight
interlocking pieces was Orik’s offering, much to the elves’ delight, who
insisted upon disassembling and reassembling the pyramid as often as he
would allow. “Master Longbeard,” they called him, and said, “Clever fingers
mean a clever mind.”...

He remembered Oromis pulling him aside, away from the music, and
asking the elf, “What’s wrong?”

“You need to clear your mind.” Oromis guided him to a fallen log and
had him sit. “Stay here for a few minutes. You will feel better.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need to rest,” protested Eragon.

“You are in no position to judge yourself right now. Stay here until you
can list the spells of changing, great and minor, and then you may rejoin
us. Promise me this.”...

He remembered creatures dark and strange, drifting in from the depths
of the forest. The majority were animals who had been altered by the accumulated
spells in Du Weldenvarden and were now drawn to the
Agaetí Blödhren as a starving man is drawn to food. They seemed to find
nourishment in the presence of the elves’ magic. Most dared reveal themselves
only as pairs of glowing eyes on the outskirts of the lantern light.
One animal that did expose itself was the she-wolf—in the form of a
white-robed woman—that Eragon had encountered before. She lurked
behind a dogwood bush, dagger teeth bared in an amused grin, her yellow
eyes darting from point to point.

But not all the creatures were animals. Some few were elves who had
altered their original forms for functionality or in pursuit of a different
ideal of beauty. An elf covered in brindled fur leaped over Eragon and
continued to gambol about, as often on all fours as on his feet. His head
was narrow and elongated with ears like a cat, his arms hung to his knees,
and his long-fingered hands had rough pads on the palm.

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Later, two identical elf women presented themselves to Saphira. They
moved with languid grace and, when they touched their hands to their
lips in the traditional greeting, Eragon saw that their fingers were joined
by translucent webbing. “We have come far,” they whispered. As they
spoke, three rows of gills pulsed on each side of their slender necks, exposing
pink flesh underneath. Their skin glistened as if with oil. Their
lank hair hung past their narrow shoulders.

He met an elf armored in imbricated scales like a dragon, with a bony
crest upon his head, a line of spikes that ran down his back, and two pallid
flames that ever flickered in the pits of his flared nostrils.

And he met others who were not so recognizable: elves whose outlines
wavered as if seen through water; elves who, when motionless, were indistinguishable
from trees; tall elves with eyes of black, even where the
whites should have been, who possessed an awful beauty that frightened
Eragon and, when they chanced to touch something, passed through it
like shadows.

The ultimate example of this phenomenon was the Menoa tree, which
was once the elf Linnëa. The tree seemed to quicken with life at the activity
in the clearing. Its branches stirred, though no breeze touched
them, at times the creaks of its trunk could be heard to match the flow
of music, and an air of gentle benevolence emanated from the tree and
lay upon those in the vicinity....

And he remembered two attacks from his back, screaming and groaning
in the shadows while the mad elves continued their revels around
him and only Saphira came to guard over him....

On the third day of the Agaetí Blödhren, or so Eragon later learned, he
delivered his verses to the elves. He stood and said, “I am no smith, nor
skilled at carving or weaving or pottery or painting or any of the arts. Nor
can I rival your accomplishments with spells. Thus, all that remains to
me are my own experiences, which I have attempted to interpret
through the lens of a story, though I am also no bard.” Then, in the manner
that Brom had performed lays in Carvahall, Eragon chanted:

In the kingdom by the sea,

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In the mountains mantled blue,
On frigid winter’s final day
Was born a man with but one task:


To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.


Nurtured by the kind and wise
Under oaks as old as time,
He ran with deer and wrestled bears,
And from his elders learned the skills,


To kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.


Taught to spy the thief in black
When he grabs the weak and strong;
To block his blows and fight the fiend
With rag and rock and plant and bone;


And kill the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.


Quick as thought, the years did turn,
’Til the man had come of age,


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His body burned with fevered rage,
While youth’s impatience seared his veins.


Then he met a maiden fair,
Who was tall and strong and wise,
Her brow adorned with Gëda’s Light,
Which shone upon her trailing gown.


In her eyes of midnight blue,
In those enigmatic pools,
Appeared to him a future bright,
Together, where they would not have


To fear the foe in Durza,
In the land of shadows.


So Eragon told of how the man voyaged to the land of Durza, where he
found and fought the foe, despite the cold terror within his heart. Yet
though at last he triumphed, the man withheld the fatal blow, for now
that he had defeated his enemy, he did not fear the doom of mortals. He
did not need to kill the foe in Durza. Then the man sheathed his sword
and returned home and wed his love on summer’s eve. With her, he
spent his many days content until his beard was long and white. But:

In the dark before the dawn,
In the room where slept the man,
The foe, he crept and loomed above


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His mighty rival now so weak.

From his pillow did the man
Raise his head and gaze upon
The cold and empty face of Death,
The king of everlasting night.


Calm acceptance filled the man’s
Aged heart; for long ago,
He’d lost all fear of Death’s embrace,
The last embrace a man will know.


Gentle as a morning breeze,
Bent the foe and from the man
His glowing, pulsing spirit took,
And thence in peace they went to dwell,
Forevermore in Durza,
In the land of shadows.


Eragon fell quiet and, conscious of the eyes upon him, ducked his head
and quickly found his seat. He felt embarrassed that he had revealed so
much of himself.

The elf lord, Däthedr, said, “You underestimate yourself, Shadeslayer. It
seems that you have discovered a new talent.”

Islanzadí raised one pale hand. “Your work shall be added to the great
library in Tialdarí Hall, Eragon-finiarel, so that all who wish can appreciate
it. Though your poem is allegory, I believe that it has helped many of

436



us to better understand the hardships you have faced since Saphira’s egg
appeared to you, for which we are, in no small way, responsible. You
must read it to us again so we may think upon this further.”

Pleased, Eragon bowed his head and did as she commanded. Afterward
was time for Saphira to present her work to the elves. She flew off into
the night and returned with a black stone thrice the size of a large man
clutched in her talons. Landing on her hind legs, she placed the stone upright
in the middle of the bare greensward, in full view of everyone. The
glossy rock had been melted and somehow molded into intricate curves
that wound about each other, like frozen waves. The striated tongues of
rock twisted in such convoluted patterns that the eye had difficulty following
a single piece from base to tip, but rather flitted from one coil to
the next.

As it was his first time seeing the sculpture, Eragon gazed at it with as
much interest as the elves. How did you make this?

Saphira’s eyes twinkled with amusement. By licking the molten rock.
Then she bent and breathed fire long upon the stone, bathing it in a
golden pillar that ascended toward the stars and clawed at them with lucent
fingers. When Saphira closed her jaws, the paper-thin edges of the
sculpture glowed cherry red, while small flames flickered in the dark hollows
and recesses throughout the rock. The flowing strands of rock
seemed to move under the hypnotic light.

The elves exclaimed with wonder, clapping their hands and dancing
about the piece. An elf cried, “Well wrought, Brightscales!”

It’s beautiful, said Eragon.

Saphira touched him on the arm with her nose. Thank you, little one.

Then Glaedr brought out his offering: a slab of red oak that he had
carved with the point of one talon into a likeness of Ellesméra as seen
from high above. And Oromis revealed his contribution: the completed
scroll that Eragon had often watched him illustrate during their lessons.
Along the top half of the scroll marched columns of glyphs—a copy of
“The Lay of Vestarí the Mariner”—while along the bottom half ran a
panorama of a fantastic landscape, rendered with breathtaking artistry,
detail, and skill.

Arya took Eragon’s hand then and drew him through the forest and
toward the Menoa tree, where she said, “Look how the werelight dims.

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We have but a few hours left to us before dawn arrives and we must return
to the world of cold reason.”

Around the tree, the host of elves gathered, their faces bright with eager
anticipation. With great dignity, Islanzadí emerged from within their
midst and walked along a root as wide as a pathway until it angled upward
and doubled back on itself. She stood upon the gnarled shelf overlooking
the slender, waiting elves. “As is our custom, and as was agreed
upon at the end of The Dragon War by Queen Tarmunora, the first Eragon,
and the white dragon who represented his race—he whose name
cannot be uttered in this or any language—when they bound the fates of
elves and dragons together, we have met to honor our blood-oath with
song and dance and the fruits of our labor. Last this celebration occurred,
many long years ago, our situation was desperate indeed. It has improved
somewhat since, the result of our efforts, the dwarves’, and the Varden’s,
though Alagaësia still lies under the black shadow of the Wyrdfell and
we must still live with our shame of how we have failed the dragons.

“Of the Riders of eld, only Oromis and Glaedr remain. Brom and many
others entered the void this past century. However, new hope has been
granted to us in the form of Eragon and Saphira, and it is only right and
proper that they should be here now, as we reaffirm the oath between
our races three.”

At the queen’s signal, the elves cleared a wide expanse at the base of
the Menoa tree. Around the perimeter, they staked a ring of lanterns
mounted upon carved poles, while musicians with flutes, harps, and
drums assembled along the ridge of one long root. Guided by Arya to the
edge of the circle, Eragon found himself seated between her and Oromis,
while Saphira and Glaedr crouched on either side of them like gem-
studded bluffs.

To Eragon and Saphira, Oromis said, “Watch you carefully, for this is of
great importance to your heritage as Riders.”

When all the elves were settled, two elf-maids walked to the center of
the space in the host and stood with their backs to each other. They were
exceedingly beautiful and identical in every respect, except for their hair:
one had tresses as black as a forgotten pool, while the other’s hair
gleamed like burnished silver wire.

“The Caretakers, Iduna and Nëya,” whispered Oromis.

From Islanzadí’s shoulder, Blagden shrieked, “Wyrda!”

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Moving in unison, the two elves raised their hands to the brooches at
their throats, unclasped them, and allowed their white robes to fall away.
Though they wore no garments, the women were clad in an iridescent
tattoo of a dragon. The tattoo began with the dragon’s tail wrapped
around the left ankle of Iduna, continued up her leg and thigh, over her
torso, and then across Nëya’s back, ending with the dragon’s head on
Nëya’s chest. Every scale on the dragon was inked a different color; the
vibrant hues gave the tattoo the appearance of a rainbow.

The elf-maids twined their hands and arms together so that the dragon
appeared to be a continuous whole, rippling from one body to the next
without interruption. Then they each lifted a bare foot and brought it
down on the packed ground with a soft thump.

And again: thump.

On the third thump, the musicians struck their drums in rhythm. A
thump later, the harpists plucked the strings of their gilt instruments, and
a moment after that, those elves with flutes joined the throbbing melody.

Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, Iduna and Nëya began to
dance, marking time with the stamp of their feet on the dirt and undulating
so that it was not they who seemed to move but the dragon upon
them. Round and round they went, and the dragon flew endless circles
across their skin.

Then the twins added their voices to the music, building upon the
pounding beat with their fierce cries, their lyrics verses of a spell so complex
that its meaning escaped Eragon. Like the rising wind that precedes
a storm, the elves accompanied the incantation, singing with one tongue
and one mind and one intent. Eragon did not know the words but found
himself mouthing them along with the elves, swept along by the inexorable
cadence. He heard Saphira and Glaedr hum in concordance, a deep
pulse so strong that it vibrated within his bones and made his skin tingle
and the air shimmer.

Faster and faster spun Iduna and Nëya until their feet were a dusty blur
and their hair fanned about them and they glistened with a film of sweat.
The elf-maids accelerated to an inhuman speed and the music climaxed
in a frenzy of chanted phrases. Then a flare of light ran the length of the
dragon tattoo, from head to tail, and the dragon stirred. At first Eragon
thought his eyes had deceived him, until the creature blinked, raised his
wings, and clenched his talons.

439



A burst of flame erupted from the dragon’s maw and he lunged forward
and pulled himself free of the elves’ skin, climbing into the air,
where he hovered, flapping his wings. The tip of his tail remained connected
to the twins below, like a glowing umbilical cord. The giant beast
strained toward the black moon and loosed an untamed roar of ages past,
then turned and surveyed the assembled elves.

As the dragon’s baleful eye fell upon him, Eragon knew that the creature
was no mere apparition but a conscious being bound and sustained
by magic. Saphira and Glaedr’s humming grew ever louder until it
blocked all other sound from Eragon’s ears. Above, the specter of their
race looped down over the elves, brushing them with an insubstantial
wing. It came to a stop before Eragon, engulfing him in an endless, whirling
gaze. Bidden by some instinct, Eragon raised his right hand, his palm
tingling.

In his mind echoed a voice of fire: Our gift so you may do what you
must.

The dragon bent his neck and, with his snout, touched the heart of Eragon’s
gedwëy ignasia. A spark jumped between them, and Eragon went
rigid as incandescent heat poured through his body, consuming his insides.
His vision flashed red and black, and the scar on his back burned as
if branded. Fleeing to safety, he fell deep within himself, where darkness
grasped him and he had not the strength to resist it.

Last, he again heard the voice of fire say, Our gift to you.

440



IN A STARRY GLADE


Eragon was alone when he woke.

He opened his eyes to stare at the carved ceiling in the tree house he
and Saphira shared. Outside, night still reigned and the sounds of the
elves’ revels drifted from the glittering city below.

Before he noticed more than that, Saphira leaped into his mind, radiating
concern and anxiety. An image passed to him of her standing beside
Islanzadí at the Menoa tree, then she asked, How are you?

I feel... good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. How long have I—

Only an hour. I would have stayed with you, but they needed Oromis,
Glaedr, and me to complete the ceremony. You should have seen the elves’
reaction when you fainted. Nothing like this has occurred before.

Did you cause this, Saphira?

It was not my work alone, nor Glaedr’s. The memories of our race, which
were given form and substance by the elves’ magic, anointed you with what
skill we dragons possess, for you are our best hope to avoid extinction.

I don’t understand.

Look in a mirror, she suggested. Then rest and recover and I shall rejoin
you at dawn.

She left, and Eragon got to his feet and stretched, amazed by the sense
of well-being that pervaded him. Going to the wash closet, he retrieved
the mirror he used for shaving and brought it into the light of a nearby
lantern.

Eragon froze with surprise.

It was as if the numerous physical changes that, over time, alter the appearance
of a human Rider—and which Eragon had already begun to experience
since bonding with Saphira—had been completed while he was
unconscious. His face was now as smooth and angled as an elf’s, with ears
tapered like theirs and eyes slanted like theirs, and his skin was as pale as
alabaster and seemed to emit a faint glow, as if with the sheen of magic. I
look like a princeling. Eragon had never before applied the term to a man,

441



least of all himself, but the only word that described him now was beautiful.
Yet he was not entirely an elf. His jaw was stronger, his brow
thicker, his face broader. He was fairer than any human and more rugged
than any elf.

With trembling fingers, Eragon reached around the nape of his neck in
search of his scar.

He felt nothing.

Eragon tore off his tunic and twisted in front of the mirror to examine
his back. It was as smooth as it had been before the battle of Farthen
Dûr. Tears sprang to Eragon’s eyes as he slid his hand over the place
where Durza had maimed him. He knew that his back would never
trouble him again.

Not only was the savage blight he had elected to keep gone, but every
other scar and blemish had vanished from his body, leaving him as unmarked
as a newborn babe. Eragon traced a line upon his wrist where he
had cut himself while sharpening Garrow’s scythe. No evidence of the
wound remained. The blotchy scars on the insides of his thighs, remnants
from his first flight with Saphira, had also disappeared. For a moment, he
missed them as a record of his life, but his regret was short-lived as he realized
that the damage from every injury he had ever suffered, no matter
how small, had been repaired.

I have become what I was meant to be, he thought, and took a deep
breath of the intoxicating air.

He dropped the mirror on the bed and garbed himself in his finest
clothes: a crimson tunic stitched with gold thread; a belt studded with
white jade; warm, felted leggings; a pair of the cloth boots favored by the
elves; and upon his forearms, leather vambraces the dwarves had given
him.

Descending from the tree, Eragon wandered the shadows of Ellesméra
and observed the elves carousing in the fever of the night. None of them
recognized him, though they greeted him as one of their own and invited
him to share in their saturnalias.

Eragon floated in a state of heightened awareness, his senses thrumming
with the multitude of new sights, sounds, smells, and feelings that assailed
him. He could see in darkness that would have blinded him before.
He could touch a leaf and, by touch alone, count the individual hairs that

442



grew upon it. He could identify the odors wafting about him as well as a
wolf or a dragon. And he could hear the patter of mice in the underbrush
and the noise a flake of bark makes as it falls to earth; the beating of his
heart was as a drum to him.

His aimless path led him past the Menoa tree, where he paused to
watch Saphira among the festivities, though he did not reveal himself to
those in the glade.

Where go you, little one? she asked.

He saw Arya rise from her mother’s side, make her way through the
gathered elves, and then, like a forest sprite, glide underneath the trees
beyond. I walk between the candle and the dark, he replied, and followed
Arya.

Eragon tracked Arya by her delicate scent of crushed pine needles, by
the feathery touch of her foot upon the ground, and by the disturbance
of her wake in the air. He found her standing alone on the edge of a
clearing, poised like a wild creature as she watched the constellations
turn in the sky above.

As Eragon emerged in the open, Arya looked at him, and he felt as if
she saw him for the first time. Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “Is
that you, Eragon?”

“Aye.”

“What have they done to you?”

“I know not.”

He went to her, and together they wandered the dense woods, which
echoed with fragments of music and voices from the festivities. Changed
as he was, Eragon was acutely conscious of Arya’s presence, of the whisper
of her clothes over her skin, of the soft, pale exposure of her neck,
and of her eyelashes, which were coated with a layer of oil that made
them glisten and curl like black petals wet with rain.

They stopped on the bank of a narrow stream so clear, it was invisible
in the faint light. The only thing that betrayed its presence was the
throaty gurgle of water pouring over rocks. Around them, the thick pines
formed a cave with their branches, hiding Eragon and Arya from the
world and muffling the cool, still air. The hollow seemed ageless, as if it

443



were removed from the world and protected by some magic against the
withering breath of time.

In that secret place, Eragon felt suddenly close to Arya, and all his passion
for her sprang to the fore of his mind. He was so intoxicated with
the strength and vitality coursing through his veins—as well as the untamed
magic that filled the forest—he ignored caution and said, “How
tall the trees, how bright the stars... and how beautiful you are, O Arya
Svit-kona.” Under normal circumstances, he would have considered his
deed the height of folly, but in that fey, madcap night, it seemed perfectly
sane.

She stiffened. “Eragon...”

He ignored her warning. “Arya, I’ll do anything to win your hand. I
would follow you to the ends of the earth. I would build a palace for you
with nothing but my bare hands. I would—”

“Will you stop pursuing me? Can you promise me that?” When he
hesitated, she stepped closer and said, low and gentle, “Eragon, this cannot
be. You are young and I am old, and that shall never change.”

“Do you feel nothing for me?”

“My feelings for you,” she said, “are those of a friend and nothing more.
I am grateful to you for rescuing me from Gil’ead, and I find your company
pleasant. That is all.... Relinquish this quest of yours—it will only
bring you heartache—and find someone your own age to spend the long
years with.”

His eyes brimmed with tears. “How can you be so cruel?”

“I am not cruel, but kind. You and I are not meant for each other.”

In desperation, he suggested, “You could give me your memories, and
then I would have the same amount of experience and knowledge as
you.”

“It would be an abomination.” Arya lifted her chin, her face grave and
solemn and brushed with silver from the glimmering stars. A hint of steel
entered her voice: “Hear me well, Eragon. This cannot, nor ever shall be.
And until you master yourself, our friendship must cease to exist, for
your emotions do nothing but distract us from our duty.” She bowed to
him. “Goodbye, Eragon Shadeslayer.” Then she strode past and vanished

444



into Du Weldenvarden.

Now the tears spilled down Eragon’s cheeks and dropped to the moss
below, where they lay unabsorbed, like pearls strewn across a blanket of
emerald velvet. Numb, Eragon sat upon a rotting log and buried his face
in his hands, weeping that his affection for Arya was doomed to remain
unrequited, and weeping that he had driven her further away.

Within moments, Saphira joined him. Oh, little one. She nuzzled him.
Why did you have to inflict this upon yourself? You knew what would happen
if you tried to woo Arya again.

I couldn’t stop myself. He wrapped his arms around his belly and rocked
back and forth on the log, reduced to hiccuping sobs by the strength of
his misery. Putting one warm wing over him, Saphira drew him close to
her side, like a mother falcon with her offspring. He curled up against her
and remained huddled there as night passed into day and the Agaetí
Blödhren came to an end.

445



LANDFALL


Roran stood upon the poop deck of the Red Boar, his arms crossed over
his chest and his feet planted wide apart to steady himself on the rolling
barge. The salty wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his thick beard and
tickled the hairs on his bare forearms.

Beside him, Clovis manned the tiller. The weathered sailor pointed toward
the coastline at a seagull-covered rock silhouetted on the crest of a
rolling hill that extended into the ocean. “Teirm be right on the far side
of that peak.”

Roran squinted into the afternoon sun, which reflected off the ocean in
a blindingly bright band. “We’ll stop here for now, then.”

“You don’t want to go on into the city yet?”

“Not all of us at once. Call over Torson and Flint and have them run
the barges up on that shore. It looks like a good place to camp.”

Clovis grimaced. “Arrgh. I was hoping t’ get a hot meal tonight.” Roran
understood; the fresh food from Narda had long since been eaten, leaving
them with naught but salt pork, salted herring, salted cabbage, sea biscuits
the villagers had made from their purchased flour, pickled vegetables,
and the occasional fresh meat when the villagers slaughtered one of
their few remaining animals or managed to catch game when they landed.

Clovis’s rough voice echoed over the water as he shouted to the skippers
of the other two barges. When they drew near, he ordered them to
pull ashore, much to their vociferous displeasure. They and the other
sailors had counted on reaching Teirm that day and lavishing their pay on
the city’s delights.

After the barges were beached, Roran walked among the villagers and
helped them by pitching tents here and there, unloading equipment,
fetching water from a nearby stream, and otherwise lending his assistance
until everyone was settled. He paused to give Morn and Tara a word of
encouragement, for they appeared despondent, and received a guarded
response in turn. The tavern owner and his wife had been aloof to him
ever since they left Palancar Valley. On the whole, the villagers were in
better condition than when they arrived at Narda due to the rest they
had garnered on the barges, but constant worry and exposure to the harsh
elements had prevented them from recuperating as well as Roran hoped.

446



“Stronghammer, will you sup at our tent tonight?” asked Thane, coming
up to Roran.

Roran declined with as much grace as he could and turned to find himself
confronted by Felda, whose husband, Byrd, had been murdered by
Sloan. She bobbed a quick curtsy, then said, “May I speak with you, Roran
Garrowsson?”

He smiled at her. “Always, Felda. You know that.”

“Thank you.” With a furtive expression, she fingered the tassels that
edged her shawl and glanced toward her tent. “I would ask a favor of you.
It’s about Mandel—” Roran nodded; he had chosen her eldest son to accompany
him into Narda on that fateful trip when he killed the two
guards. Mandel had performed admirably then, as well as in the weeks
since while he crewed the Edeline and learned what he could about piloting
the barges. “He’s become quite friendly with the sailors on our barge
and he’s started playing dice with those lawless men. Not for money—we
have none—but for small things. Things we need.”

“Have you asked him to stop?”

Felda twisted the tassels. “I fear that, since his father died, he no longer
respects me as he once did. He has grown wild and willful.”

We have all grown wild, thought Roran. “And what would you have me
do about it?” he asked gently.

“You have ever dealt generously with Mandel. He admires you. If you
talk with him, he will listen.”

Roran considered the request, then said, “Very well, I will do what I
can.” Felda sagged with relief. “Tell me, though, what has he lost at dice?”

“Food mostly.” Felda hesitated and then added, “But I know he once
risked my grandmother’s bracelet for a rabbit those men snared.”

Roran frowned. “Put your heart at ease, Felda. I will tend to the matter
as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” Felda curtsied again, then slipped away between the
makeshift tents, leaving Roran to mull over what she had said.

447



Roran absently scratched his beard as he walked. The problem with
Mandel and the sailors was a problem that cut both ways; Roran had noticed
that during the trip from Narda, one of Torson’s men, Frewin, had
become close to Odele—a young friend of Katrina. They could cause
trouble when we leave Clovis.

Taking care not to attract undue attention, Roran went through the
camp and gathered the villagers he trusted the most and had them accompany
him to Horst’s tent, where he said, “The five we agreed upon
will leave now, before it gets much later. Horst will take my place while
I’m gone. Remember that your most important task is to ensure Clovis
doesn’t leave with the barges or damage them in any way. They may be
our only means to reach Surda.”

“That, and make sure we aren’t discovered,” commented Orval.

“Exactly. If none of us have returned by nightfall day after tomorrow,
assume we were captured. Take the barges and set sail for Surda, but
don’t stop in Kuasta to buy provisions; the Empire will probably be lying
in wait there. You’ll have to find food elsewhere.”

While his companions readied themselves, Roran went to Clovis’s
cabin on the Red Boar. “Just the five of you be going?” demanded Clovis
after Roran explained their plan.

“That’s right.” Roran let his iron gaze bore into Clovis until the man
fidgeted with unease. “And when I get back, I expect you, these barges,
and every one of your men to still be here.”

“You dare impugn my honor after how I’ve kept our bargain?”

“I impugn nothing, only tell you what I expect. Too much is at stake. If
you commit treachery now, you condemn our entire village to death.”

“That I know,” muttered Clovis, avoiding his eyes.

“My people will defend themselves during my absence. So long as
breath remains in their lungs, they’ll not be taken, tricked, or abandoned.
And if misfortune were to befall them, I’d avenge them even if I had to
walk a thousand leagues and fight Galbatorix himself. Heed my words,
Master Clovis, for I speak the truth.”

“We’re not so fond of the Empire as you seem to believe,” protested
Clovis. “I wouldn’t do them a favor more than the next man.”

448



Roran smiled with grim amusement. “Men will do anything to protect
their families and homes.”

As Roran lifted the door latch, Clovis asked, “And what will you do
once you reach Surda?”

“We will—”

“Not we: you. What will you do? I’ve watched you, Roran. I’ve listened
to you. An’ you seem a good enough sort, even if I don’t care for how you
dealt with me. But I cannot fit it in my head, you dropping that hammer
of yours and taking up the plow again, just because you’ve arrived in
Surda.”

Roran gripped the latch until his knuckles turned white. “When I have
delivered the village to Surda,” he said in a voice as empty as a blackened
desert, “then I shall go hunting.”

“Ah. After that redheaded lass of yours? I heard some talk of that, but I
didn’t put—”

The door slammed behind Roran as he left the cabin. He let his anger
burn hot and fast for a moment—enjoying the freedom of the emotion—
before he began to subdue his unruly passions. He marched to Felda’s
tent, where Mandel was throwing a hunting knife at a stump.

Felda’s right; someone has to talk some sense into him.“ You’re wasting
your time,” said Roran.

Mandel whirled around with surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“In a real fight, you’re more likely to put out your own eye than injure
your enemy. If you don’t know the exact distance between you and your
target...” Roran shrugged. “You might as well throw rocks.”

He watched with detached interest as the younger man bristled with
pride. “Gunnar told me about a man he knew in Cithrí who could hit a
flying crow with his knife eight times out of ten.”

“And the other two times you get killed. It’s usually a bad idea to throw
away your weapon in battle.” Roran waved a hand, forestalling Mandel’s
objections. “Get your kit together and meet me on the hill past the
stream in fifteen minutes. I’ve decided you should come with us to

449



Teirm.”

“Yes, sir!” With an enthusiastic grin, Mandel dove into the tent and began
packing.

As Roran left, he encountered Felda, her youngest daughter balanced
on one hip. Felda glanced between him and Mandel’s activity in the tent,
and her expression tightened. “Keep him safe, Stronghammer.” She set
her daughter on the ground and then bustled about, helping to gather the
items Mandel would need.

Roran was the first to arrive at the designated hill. He squatted on a
white boulder and watched the sea while he readied himself for the task
ahead. When Loring, Gertrude, Birgit, and Nolfavrell, Birgit’s son, arrived,
Roran jumped off the boulder and said, “We have to wait for Mandel;
he’ll be joining us.”

“What for?” demanded Loring.

Birgit frowned as well. “I thought we agreed no one else should accompany
us. Especially not Mandel, since he was seen in Narda. It’s dangerous
enough having you and Gertrude along, and Mandel only increases the
odds that someone will recognize us.”

“I’ll risk it.” Roran met each of their eyes in turn. “He needs to come.” In
the end, they listened to him, and, with Mandel, the six of them headed
south, toward Teirm.

450



TEIRM


In that area, the coastline was composed of low, rolling hills verdant
with lush grass and occasional briars, willows, and poplars. The soft,
muddy ground gave under their feet and made walking difficult. To their
right lay the glittering sea. To their left ran the purple outline of the
Spine. The ranks of snowcapped mountains were laced with clouds and
mist.

As Roran’s company wended past the properties surrounding Teirm—
some freehold farms, others massive estates—they made every effort to
go undetected. When they encountered the road that connected Narda to
Teirm, they darted across it and continued farther east, toward the
mountains, for several more miles before turning south again. Once they
were confident they had circumnavigated the city, they angled back toward
the ocean until they found the southern road in.

During his time on the Red Boar, it had occurred to Roran that officials
in Narda might have deduced that whoever killed the two guards was
among the men who left upon Clovis’s barges. If so, messengers would
have warned Teirm’s soldiers to watch for anyone matching the villagers’
descriptions. And if the Ra’zac had visited Narda, then the soldiers would
also know that they were looking not just for a handful of murderers but
Roran Stronghammer and the refugees from Carvahall. Teirm could be
one huge trap. Yet they could not bypass the city, for the villagers needed
supplies and a new mode of transportation.

Roran had decided that their best precaution against capture was to
send no one into Teirm who had been seen in Narda, except for
Gertrude and himself—Gertrude because only she understood the ingredients
for her medicines, and Roran because, though he was the most
likely to be recognized, he trusted no one else to do what was required.
He knew he possessed the will to act when others hesitated, like the
time he slew the guards. The rest of the group was chosen to minimize
suspicion. Loring was old but a tough fighter and an excellent liar. Birgit
had proven herself canny and strong, and her son, Nolfavrell, had already
killed a soldier in combat, despite his tender age. Hopefully, they would
appear as nothing more than an extended family traveling together. That
is, if Mandel doesn’t throw the scheme awry, thought Roran.

It was also Roran’s idea to enter Teirm from the south, and thus make
it seem even more unlikely that they had come from Narda.

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Evening was nigh when Teirm came into view, white and ghostly in the
gloaming. Roran stopped to inspect what lay before them. The walled
city stood alone upon the edge of a large bay, self-contained and impregnable
to any conceivable attack. Torches glowed between the merlons on
the battlements, where soldiers with bows patrolled their endless circuits.
Above the walls rose a citadel, and then a faceted lighthouse, which
swept its hazy beam across the dark waters.

“It’s so big,” said Nolfavrell.

Loring bobbed his head without taking his eyes off Teirm. “Aye, that it
is.”

Roran’s attention was caught by a ship moored at one of the stone piers
jutting from the city. The three-masted vessel was larger than any he had
seen in Narda, with a high forecastle, two banks of oarlocks, and twelve
powerful ballistae mounted along each side of the deck for shooting javelins.
The magnificent craft appeared equally suited for either commerce
or war. Even more importantly, Roran thought that it might—might—be
able to hold the entire village.

“That’s what we need,” he said, pointing.

Birgit uttered a sour grunt. “We’d have to sell ourselves into slavery to
afford passage on that monster.”

Clovis had warned them that Teirm’s portcullis closed at sunset, so
they quickened their pace to avoid spending the night in the countryside.
As they neared the pale walls, the road filled with a double stream of
people hurrying to and from Teirm.

Roran had not anticipated so much traffic, but he soon realized that it
could help shield his party from unwanted attention. Beckoning to
Mandel, Roran said, “Drop back a ways and follow someone else through
the gate, so the guards don’t think you’re with us. We’ll wait for you on
the other side. If they ask, you’ve come here seeking employment as a
seaman.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mandel fell behind, Roran hunched one shoulder, allowed a limp to
creep into his walk, and began to rehearse the story Loring had concocted
to explain their presence at Teirm. He stepped off the road and ducked
his head as a man drove a pair of lumbering oxen past, grateful for the

452



shadows that concealed his features.

The gate loomed ahead, washed in uncertain orange from the torches
placed in sconces on each side of the entrance. Underneath stood a pair
of soldiers with Galbatorix’s twisting flame stitched onto the front of
their crimson tunics. Neither of the armed men so much as glanced at
Roran and his companions as they shuffled underneath the spiked portcullis
and through the short tunnel beyond.

Roran squared his shoulders and felt some of his tension ease. He and
the others clustered by the corner of a house, where Loring murmured,
“So far, so good.”

When Mandel rejoined them, they set out to find an inexpensive hostel
where they could let a room. As they walked, Roran studied the layout of
the city with its fortified houses—which grew progressively higher toward
the citadel—and the gridlike arrangement of streets. Those north to
south radiated from the citadel like a starburst, while those east to west
curved gently across and formed a spiderweb pattern, creating numerous
places where barriers could be erected and soldiers stationed.

If Carvahall had been built like this, he thought, no one could have defeated
us but the king himself.

By dusk they had acquired lodging at the Green Chestnut, an exceedingly
vile tavern with atrocious ale and flea-infested beds. Its sole advantage
was that it cost next to nothing. They went to sleep without dinner
to save their precious coin, and huddled together to prevent their purses
from being filched by one of the tavern’s other guests.

The next day, Roran and his companions left the Green Chestnut before
dawn to search for provisions and transportation.

Gertrude said, “I have heard tell of a remarkable herbalist, Angela by
name, who lives here and is supposed to work the most amazing cures,
perhaps even a touch of magic. I would go see her, for if anyone has what
I seek, it would be she.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” said Roran. He looked at Mandel. “Accompany
Gertrude, help her with her purchases, and do your best to protect
her if you are attacked. Your nerve may be tested at times, but do nothing
to cause alarm, unless you would betray your friends and family.”

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Mandel touched his forelock and nodded his obedience. He and
Gertrude departed at right angles down a cross street, while Roran and
the rest resumed their hunt.

Roran had the patience of a stalking predator, but even he began to
thrum with restlessness when morning and afternoon slipped by and they
still had not found a ship to carry them to Surda. He learned that the
three-masted ship, the Dragon Wing, was newly built and about to be
launched on her maiden voyage; that they had no chance of hiring it from
the Blackmoor Shipping Company unless they could pay a roomful of the
dwarves’ red gold; and indeed, that the villagers lacked the coin to engage
even the meanest vessel. Nor would taking Clovis’s barges solve their
problems, because it still left unanswered the question of what they
would eat on their trek.

“It would be hard,” said Birgit, “very hard, to steal goods from this place,
what with all the soldiers and how close together the houses are and the
watchmen at the gate. If we tried to cart that much stuff out of Teirm,
they’d want to know what we were doing.”

Roran nodded. That too.

Roran had suggested to Horst that if the villagers were forced to flee
Teirm with naught but their remaining supplies, they could raid for their
food. However, Roran knew that such an act would mean they had become
as monstrous as those he hated. He had no stomach for it. It was
one thing to fight and kill those who served Galbatorix—or even to steal
Clovis’s barges, since Clovis had other means of supporting himself—but
it was quite another to take provisions from innocent farmers who struggled
to survive as much as the villagers had in Palancar Valley. That
would be murder.

Those hard facts weighed upon Roran like stones. Their venture had
always been tenuous at best, sustained in equal parts by fear, desperation,
optimism, and last-minute improvisation. Now he feared that he had
driven the villagers into the den of their enemies and bound them in
place with a chain forged of their own poverty. I could escape alone and
continue my search for Katrina, but what victory would that be if I left my
village to be enslaved by the Empire? Whatever our fate in Teirm, I will
stand firm with those who trusted me enough to forsake their homes upon my
word.

To relieve their hunger, they stopped at a bakery and bought a loaf of

454



fresh rye bread, as well as a small pot of honey to slather it with. While
he paid for the items, Loring mentioned to the baker’s assistant that they
were in the market for ships, equipment, and food.

At a tap on his shoulder, Roran turned. A man with coarse black hair
and a thick slab of belly said, “Pardon me for overhearing your parley
with the young master, but if it’s ships and such you be after, and at a fair
price, then I should guess you’d want to attend the auction.”

“What auction is this?” asked Roran.

“Ah, it’s a sad story, it is, but all too common nowadays. One of our
merchants, Jeod—Jeod Longshanks, as we call him out of hearing—has
had the most abominable run of bad luck. In less than a year, he lost four
of his ships, an’ when he tried to send his goods over land, the caravan
was ambushed and destroyed by some thieving outlaws. His investors
forced him to declare bankruptcy, and now they’re going to sell his property
to recoup their losses. I don’t know ’bout food, but you’d be sure to
find most everything else you’re looking to buy at the auction.”

A faint ember of hope kindled in Roran’s breast. “When will the auction
be held?”

“Why, it’s posted on every message board throughout the city. Day after
tomorrow, to be sure.”

That explained to Roran why they had not learned of the auction before;
they had done their best to avoid the message boards, on the off
chance that someone would recognize Roran from the portrait on his reward
poster.

“Thank you much,” he said to the man. “You may have saved us a great
deal of trouble.”

“My pleasure, so it is.”

Once Roran and his companions filed out of the shop, they huddled together
on the edge of the street. He said, “Do you think we should look
into this?”

“It’s all we have to look into,” growled Loring.

“Birgit?”

455



“You needn’t ask me; it’s obvious. We cannot wait until the day after
tomorrow, though.”

“No. I say we meet with this Jeod and see if we can strike a bargain
with him before the auction opens. Are we agreed?”

They were, and so they set out for Jeod’s house, armed with directions
from a passerby. The house—or rather, mansion—was set on the west
side of Teirm, close to the citadel, among scores of other opulent buildings
embellished with fine scrollwork, wrought-iron gates, statues, and
gushing fountains. Roran could scarcely comprehend such riches; it
amazed him how different the lives of these people were from his own.

Roran knocked on the front door to Jeod’s mansion, which stood next
to an abandoned shop. After a moment, the door was pulled open by a
plump butler garnished with overly shiny teeth. He eyed the four strangers
upon his doorstep with disapproval, then flashed his glazed smile and
asked, “How may I help you, sirs and madam?”

“We would talk with Jeod, if he is free.”

“Have you an appointment?”

Roran thought the butler knew perfectly well that they did not. “Our
stay in Teirm is too brief for us to arrange a proper meeting.”

“Ah, well, then I regret to say that your time would have been better
spent elsewhere. My master has many matters to tend. He cannot devote
himself to every group of ragged tramps that bangs on his door, asking for
handouts,” said the butler. He exposed even more of his glassy teeth and
began to withdraw inside.

“Wait!” cried Roran. “It’s not handouts we want; we have a business
proposition for Jeod.”

The butler lifted one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Aye, it is. Please ask him if he will hear us. We’ve traveled more
leagues than you’d care to know, and it’s imperative we see Jeod today.”

“May I inquire as to the nature of your proposition?”

“It’s confidential.”

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“Very well, sir,” said the butler. “I will convey your offer, but I warn
you that Jeod is occupied at the moment, and I doubt he will wish to
bother himself. By what name shall I announce you, sir?”

“You may call me Stronghammer.” The butler’s mouth twitched as if
amused by the name, then slipped behind the door and closed it.

“If his head were any larger, ’e couldn’t fit in the privy,” muttered Loring
out the side of his mouth. Nolfavrell uttered a bark of laughter at the
insult.

Birgit said, “Let’s hope the servant doesn’t imitate the master.”

A minute later, the door reopened and the butler announced, with a
rather brittle expression, “Jeod has agreed to meet you in the study.” He
moved to the side and gestured with one arm for them to proceed. “This
way.” After they trooped into the sumptuous entryway, the butler swept
past them and down a polished wood hallway to one door among many,
which he opened and ushered them through.

457



JEOD LONGSHANKS


If Roran had known how to read, he might have been more impressed
by the treasure trove of books that lined the study walls. As it was, he
reserved his attention for the tall man with graying hair who stood behind
an oval writing desk. The man—who Roran assumed was Jeod—
looked about as tired as Roran felt. His face was lined, careworn, and sad,
and when he turned toward them, a nasty scar gleamed white from his
scalp to his left temple. To Roran, it bespoke steel in the man. Long and
buried, perhaps, but steel nevertheless.

“Do sit,” said Jeod. “I won’t stand on ceremony in my own house.” He
watched them with curious eyes as they settled in the soft leather armchairs.
“May I offer you pastries and a glass of apricot brandy? I cannot
talk for long, but I see you’ve been on the road for many a week, and I
well remember how dusty my throat was after such journeys.”

Loring grinned. “Aye. A touch of brandy would be welcome indeed.
You’re most generous, sir.”

“Only a glass of milk for my boy,” said Birgit.

“Of course, madam.” Jeod rang for the butler, delivered his instructions,
then leaned back in his chair. “I am at a disadvantage. I believe you have
my name, but I don’t have yours.”

“Stronghammer, at your service,” said Roran.

“Mardra, at your service,” said Birgit.

“Kell, at your service,” said Nolfavrell.

“And I’d be Wally, at your service,” finished Loring.

“And I at yours,” responded Jeod. “Now, Rolf mentioned that you
wished to do business with me. It’s only fair that you know I’m in no position
to buy or sell goods, nor have I gold for investing, nor proud ships
to carry wool and food, gems and spices across the restless sea. What,
then, can I do for you?”

Roran rested his elbows on his knees, then knitted his fingers together
and stared between them as he marshaled his thoughts. A slip of the
tongue could kill us here, he reminded himself. “To put it simply, sir, we

458



represent a certain group of people who—for various reasons—must
purchase a large amount of supplies with very little money. We know
that your belongings will be auctioned off day after tomorrow to repay
your debts, and we would like to offer a bid now on those items we
need. We would have waited until the auction, but circumstances press
us and we cannot tarry another two days. If we are to strike a bargain, it
must be tonight or tomorrow, no later.”

“What manner of supplies do you need?” asked Jeod.

“Food and whatever else is required to outfit a ship or other vessel for a
long voyage at sea.”

A spark of interest gleamed in Jeod’s weary face. “Do you have a certain
ship in mind? For I know every craft that’s plied these waters in the last
twenty years.”

“We’ve yet to decide.”

Jeod accepted that without question. “I understand now why you
thought to come to me, but I fear you labor under a misapprehension.”
He spread his gray hands, indicating the room. “Everything you see here
no longer belongs to me, but to my creditors. I have no authority to sell
my possessions, and if I did so without permission, I would likely be imprisoned
for cheating my creditors out of the money I owe them.”

He paused as Rolf backed into the study, carrying a large silver tray
dotted with pastries, cut-crystal goblets, a glass of milk, and a decanter of
brandy. The butler placed the tray on a padded footstool and then proceeded
to serve the refreshments. Roran took his goblet and sipped the
mellow brandy, wondering how soon courtesy would allow the four of
them to excuse themselves and resume their quest.

When Rolf left the room, Jeod drained his goblet with a single draught,
then said, “I may be of no use to you, but I do know a number of people
in my profession who might...might... be able to help. If you can give me a
bit more detail about what you want to buy, then I’d have a better idea
of who to recommend.”

Roran saw no harm in that, so he began to recite a list of items the villagers
had to have, things they might need, and things they wanted but
would never be able to afford unless fortune smiled greatly upon them.
Now and then Birgit or Loring mentioned something Roran had forgotten—
like lamp oil—and Jeod would glance at them for a moment before

459



returning his hooded gaze to Roran, where it remained with growing intensity.
Jeod’s interest concerned Roran; it was as if the merchant knew,
or suspected, what he was hiding.

“It seems to me,” said Jeod at the completion of Roran’s inventory, “that
this would be enough provisions to transport several hundred people to
Feinster or Aroughs... or beyond. Admittedly, I’ve been rather occupied
for the past few weeks, but I’ve heard of no such host in this area, nor
can I imagine where one might have come from.”

His face blank, Roran met Jeod’s stare and said nothing. On the inside,
he seethed with self-contempt for allowing Jeod to amass enough information
to reach that conclusion.

Jeod shrugged. “Well, be as it may, that’s your own concern. I’d suggest
that you see Galton on Market Street about your food and old Hamill by
the docks for all else. They’re both honest men and will treat you true
and fair.” Reaching over, he plucked a pastry from the tray, took a bite,
and then, when he finished chewing, asked Nolfavrell, “So, young Kell,
have you enjoyed your stay in Teirm?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nolfavrell, and grinned. “I’ve never seen anything quite so
large, sir.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. I—”

Feeling that they were in dangerous territory, Roran interrupted: “I’m
curious, sir, as to the nature of the shop next to your house. It seems odd
to have such a humble store among all these grand buildings.”

For the first time, a smile, if only a small one, brightened Jeod’s expression,
erasing years from his appearance. “Well, it was owned by a woman
who was a bit odd herself: Angela the herbalist, one of the best healers
I’ve ever met. She tended that store for twenty-some years and then, only
a few months ago, up and sold it and left for parts unknown.” He sighed.
“It’s a pity, for she made an interesting neighbor.”

“That’s who Gertrude wanted to meet, isn’t it?” asked Nolfavrell, and
looked up at his mother.

Roran suppressed a snarl and flashed a warning glance strong enough to
make Nolfavrell quail in his chair. The name would mean nothing to

460



Jeod, but unless Nolfavrell guarded his tongue better, he was liable to
blurt out something far more damaging. Time to go, thought Roran. He
put down his goblet.

It was then that he saw the name did mean something to Jeod. The
merchant’s eyes widened with surprise, and he gripped the arms of his
chair until the tips of his fingers turned bone white. “It can’t be!” Jeod focused
on Roran, studying his face as if trying to see past the beard, and
then breathed, “Roran... Roran Garrowsson.”

461



AN UNEXPECTED ALLY


Roran had already pulled his hammer from his belt and was halfway
out of the chair when he heard his father’s name. It was the only thing
that kept him from leaping across the room and knocking Jeod unconscious.
How does he know who Garrow is? Beside him, Loring and Birgit
jumped to their feet, drawing knives from within their sleeves, and even
Nolfavrell readied himself to fight with a dagger in hand.

“It is Roran, isn’t it?” Jeod asked quietly. He showed no alarm at their
weapons.

“How did you guess?”

“Because Brom brought Eragon here, and you look like your cousin.
When I saw your poster with Eragon’s, I realized that the Empire must
have tried to capture you and that you had escaped. Although,” Jeod’s
gaze drifted to the other three, “in all my imaginings, I never suspected
that you took the rest of Carvahall with you.”

Stunned, Roran dropped back into his chair and placed the hammer
across his knees, ready for use. “Eragon was here?”

“Aye. And Saphira too.”

“Saphira?”

Again, surprise crossed Jeod’s face. “You don’t know, then?”

“Know what?”

Jeod considered him for a long minute. “I think the time has come to
drop our pretenses, Roran Garrowsson, and talk openly and without deception.
I can answer many of the questions you must have—such as
why the Empire is pursuing you—but in return, I need to know the reason
you came to Teirm... the real reason.”

“An’ why should we trust you, Longshanks?” demanded Loring. “You
could be working for Galbatorix, you could.”

“I was Brom’s friend for over twenty years, before he was a storyteller
in Carvahall,” said Jeod, “and I did my best to help him and Eragon when
they were under my roof. But since neither of them are here to vouch for

462



me, I place my life in your hands, to do with as you wish. I could shout
for help, but I won’t. Nor will I fight you. All I ask is that you tell me
your story and hear my own. Then you can decide for yourself what
course of action is proper. You’re in no immediate danger, so what harm
is there in talking?”

Birgit caught Roran’s eye with a flick of her chin. “He could just be trying
to save his hide.”

“Maybe,” replied Roran, “but we have to find out whatever it is he
knows.” Hooking an arm underneath his chair, he dragged it across the
room, placed the back of the chair against the door, and then sat in it, so
that no one could burst in and catch them unawares. He jabbed his
hammer at Jeod. “All right. You want to talk? Then let us talk, you and
I.”

“It would be best if you go first.”

“If I do, and we’re not satisfied by your answers afterward, we’ll have to
kill you,” warned Roran.

Jeod folded his arms. “So be it.”

Despite himself, Roran was impressed by the merchant’s fortitude; Jeod
appeared unconcerned by his fate, if a bit grim about the mouth. “So be
it,” Roran echoed.

Roran had relived the events since the Ra’zac’s arrival in Carvahall often
enough, but never before had he described them in detail to another person.
As he did, it struck him how much had happened to him and the
other villagers in such a short time and how easy it had been for the Empire
to destroy their lives in Palancar Valley. Resuscitating old terrors was
painful for Roran, but he at least had the pleasure of seeing Jeod exhibit
unfeigned astonishment as he heard about how the villagers had rousted
the soldiers and Ra’zac from their camp, the siege of Carvahall thereafter,
Sloan’s treachery, Katrina’s kidnapping, how Roran had convinced the villagers
to flee, and the hardships of their journey to Teirm.

“By the Lost Kings!” exclaimed Jeod. “That’s the most extraordinary
tale. Extraordinary! To think you’ve managed to thwart Galbatorix and
that right now the entire village of Carvahall is hiding outside one of the
Empire’s largest cities and the king doesn’t even know it....” He shook his
head with admiration.

463



“Aye, that’s our position,” growled Loring, “and it’s precarious at best, so
you’d better explain well and good why we should risk letting you live.”

“It places me in as much—”

Jeod stopped as someone rattled the latch behind Roran’s chair, trying
to open the door, followed by pounding on the oak planks. In the hallway,
a woman cried, “Jeod! Let me in, Jeod! You can’t hide in that cave
of yours.”

“May I?” murmured Jeod.

Roran clicked his fingers at Nolfavrell, and the boy tossed his dagger to
Roran, who slipped around the writing desk and pressed the flat of the
blade against Jeod’s throat. “Make her leave.”

Raising his voice, Jeod said, “I can’t talk now; I’m in the middle of a
meeting.”

“Liar! You don’t have any business. You’re bankrupt! Come out and
face me, you coward! Are you a man or not that you won’t even look
your wife in the eye?” She paused for a second, as if expecting a response,
then her screeches increased in volume: “Coward! You’re a gutless rat, a
filthy, yellow-bellied sheep-biter without the common sense to run a
meat stall, much less a shipping company. My father would have never
lost so much money!”

Roran winced as the insults continued. I can’t restrain Jeod if she goes on
much longer.

“Be still, woman!” commanded Jeod, and silence ensued. “Our fortunes
might be about to change for the better if you but have the sense to restrain
your tongue and not rail on like a fishmonger’s wife.”

Her answer was cold: “I shall wait upon your pleasure in the dining
room, dear husband, and unless you choose to attend me by the evening
meal and explain yourself, then I shall leave this accursed house, never to
return.” The sound of her footsteps retreated into the distance.

When he was sure that she was gone, Roran lifted the dagger from
Jeod’s neck and returned the weapon to Nolfavrell before reseating himself
in the chair pushed against the door.

Jeod rubbed his neck and then, with a wry expression, said, “If we don’t

464



reach an understanding, you had better kill me; it’d be easier than explaining
to Helen that I shouted at her for naught.”

“You have my sympathy, Longshanks,” said Loring.

“It’s not her fault... not really. She just doesn’t understand why so much
misfortune has befallen us.” Jeod sighed. “Perhaps it’s my fault for not daring
to tell her.”

“Tell her what?” piped Nolfavrell.

“That I’m an agent for the Varden.” Jeod paused at their dumbfounded
expressions. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Roran, have you
heard rumors in the past few months of the existence of a new Rider
who opposes Galbatorix?”

“Mutterings here and there, yes, but nothing I’d give credence to.”

Jeod hesitated. “I don’t know how else to say this, Roran... but there is a
new Rider in Alagaësia, and it’s your cousin, Eragon. The stone he found
in the Spine was actually a dragon egg I helped the Varden steal from
Galbatorix years ago. The dragon hatched for Eragon and he named her
Saphira. That is why the Ra’zac first came to Palancar Valley. They returned
because Eragon has become a formidable enemy of the Empire
and Galbatorix hoped that by capturing you, they could bring Eragon to
bay.”

Roran threw back his head and howled with laughter until tears gathered
at the corners of his eyes and his stomach hurt from the convulsions.
Loring, Birgit, and Nolfavrell looked at him with something akin to fear,
but Roran cared not for their opinions. He laughed at the absurdity of
Jeod’s assertion. He laughed at the terrible possibility that Jeod had told
the truth.

Taking rasping breaths, Roran gradually returned to normal, despite an
occasional outburst of humorless chuckles. He wiped his face on his
sleeve and then regarded Jeod, a hard smile upon his lips. “It fits the facts;
I’ll give you that. But so do a half dozen other explanations I’ve thought
of.”

Birgit said, “If Eragon’s stone was a dragon egg, then where did it come
from?”

“Ah,” replied Jeod, “now there’s an affair I’m well acquainted with....”

465



Comfortable in his chair, Roran listened with disbelief as Jeod spun a
fantastic story of how Brom—grumpy old Brom!—had once been a Rider
and had supposedly helped establish the Varden, how Jeod had discovered
a secret passageway into Urû’baen, how the Varden arranged to filch
the last three dragon eggs from Galbatorix, and how only one egg was
saved after Brom fought and killed Morzan of the Forsworn. As if that
were not preposterous enough, Jeod went on to describe an agreement
between the Varden, dwarves, and elves that the egg should be ferried
between Du Weldenvarden and the Beor Mountains, which was why the
egg and its couriers were near the edge of the great forest when they
were ambushed by a Shade.

A Shade—ha! thought Roran.

Skeptical as he was, Roran attended with redoubled interest when Jeod
began to talk of Eragon finding the egg and raising the dragon Saphira in
the forest by Garrow’s farm. Roran had been occupied at the time—
preparing to leave for Dempton’s mill in Therinsford—but he remembered
how distracted Eragon had been, how he spent every moment he
could outdoors, doing who knows what....

As Jeod explained how and why Garrow died, rage filled Roran that
Eragon had dared keep the dragon secret when it so obviously put everyone
in danger. It’s his fault my father died!

“What was he thinking?” burst out Roran.

He hated how Jeod looked at him with calm understanding. “I doubt
Eragon knew himself. Riders and their dragons are bound together so
closely, it’s often hard to differentiate one from the other. Eragon could
have no more harmed Saphira than he could have sawed off his own leg.”

“He could have,” muttered Roran. “Because of him, I’ve had to do things
just as painful, and I know—he could have.”

“You’ve a right to feel as you do,” said Jeod, “but don’t forget that the
reason Eragon left Palancar Valley was to protect you and all who remained.
I believe it was an extremely hard choice for him to make. From
his point of view, he sacrificed himself to ensure your safety and to
avenge your father. And while leaving may not have had the desired effect,
things would have certainly turned out far worse if Eragon had
stayed.”

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Roran said nothing more until Jeod mentioned that the reason Brom
and Eragon had visited Teirm was to see if they could use the city’s shipping
manifests to locate the Ra’zac’s lair. “And did they?” cried Roran,
bolting upright.

“We did indeed.”

“Well, where are they, then? For goodness’ sake, man, say it; you know
how important this is to me!”

“It seemed apparent from the records—and I later had a message from
the Varden that Eragon’s own account confirmed this—that the Ra’zac’s
den is in the formation known as Helgrind, by Dras-Leona.”

Roran gripped his hammer with excitement. It’s a long way to Dras-
Leona, but Teirm has access to the only open pass between here and the
southern end of the Spine. If I can get everyone safely heading down the
coast, then I could go to this Helgrind, rescue Katrina if she’s there, and follow
the Jiet River down to Surda.

Something of Roran’s thoughts much have revealed themselves on his
face, because Jeod said, “It can’t be done, Roran.”

“What?”

“No one man can take Helgrind. It’s a solid, bare, black mountain of
stone that’s impossible to climb. Consider the Ra’zac’s foul steeds; it
seems likely they would have an eyrie near the top of Helgrind rather
than bed near the ground, where they are most vulnerable. How, then,
would you reach them? And if you could, do you really believe that you
could defeat both Ra’zac and their two steeds, if not more? I have no
doubt you are a fearsome warrior—after all, you and Eragon share
blood—but these are foes beyond any normal human.”

Roran shook his head. “I can’t abandon Katrina. It may be futile, but I
must try to free her, even if it costs me my life.”

“It won’t do Katrina any good if you get yourself killed,” admonished
Jeod. “If I may offer a bit of advice: try to reach Surda as you’ve planned.
Once there, I’m sure you can enlist Eragon’s help. Even the Ra’zac cannot
match a Rider and dragon in open combat.”

In his mind’s eye, Roran saw the huge gray-skinned beasts the Ra’zac
rode upon. He was loath to acknowledge it, but he knew that such crea


467



tures were beyond his ability to kill, no matter the strength of his motivation.
The instant he accepted that truth, Roran finally believed Jeod’s
tale—for if he did not, Katrina was forever lost to him.

Eragon, he thought. Eragon! By the blood I’ve spilled and the gore on my
hands, I swear upon my father’s grave I’ll have you atone for what you’ve
done by storming Helgrind with me. If you created this mess, then I’ll have
you clean it up.

Roran motioned to Jeod. “Continue your account. Let us hear the rest
of this sorry play before the day grows much older.”

Then Jeod spoke of Brom’s death; of Murtagh, son of Morzan; of capture
and escape in Gil’ead; of a desperate flight to save an elf; of Urgals
and dwarves and a great battle in a place called Farthen Dûr, where Eragon
defeated a Shade. And Jeod told them how the Varden left the Beor
Mountains for Surda and how Eragon was even now deep within Du
Weldenvarden, learning the elves’ mysterious secrets of magic and warfare,
but would soon return.

When the merchant fell silent, Roran gathered at the far end of the
study with Loring, Birgit, and Nolfavrell and asked their thoughts. Lowering
his voice, Loring said, “I can’t tell whether he’s lying or not, but any
man who can weave a yarn like that at knifepoint deserves to live. A new
Rider! And Eragon to boot!” He shook his head.

“Birgit?” asked Roran.

“I don’t know. It’s so outlandish....” She hesitated. “But it must be true.
Another Rider is the only thing that would spur the Empire to pursue us
so fiercely.”

“Aye,” agreed Loring. His eyes were bright with excitement. “We’ve
been entangled in far more momentous events than we realized. A new
Rider. Just think about it! The old order is about to be washed away, I
tell you.... You were right all along, Roran.”

“Nolfavrell?”

The boy looked solemn at being asked. He bit his lip, then said, “Jeod
seems honest enough. I think we can trust him.”

“Right, then,” said Roran. He strode back to Jeod, planted his knuckles
on the edge of the desk, and said, “Two last questions, Longshanks. What

468



do Brom and Eragon look like? And how did you recognize Gertrude’s
name?”

“I knew of Gertrude because Brom mentioned that he left a letter for
you in her care. As for what they looked like: Brom stood a bit shorter
than me. He had a thick beard, a hooked nose, and he carried a carved
staff with him. And I dare say he was rather irritable at times.” Roran
nodded; that was Brom. “Eragon was... young. Brown hair, brown eyes,
with a scar on his wrist, and he never stopped asking questions.” Roran
nodded again; that was his cousin.

Roran stuck his hammer back under his belt. Birgit, Loring, and Nolfavrell
sheathed their blades. Then Roran pulled his chair away from the
door, and the four of them resumed their seats like civilized beings.
“What now, Jeod?” asked Roran. “Can you help us? I know you’re in a
difficult situation, but we... we are desperate and have no one else to turn
to. As an agent of the Varden, can you guarantee us the Varden’s protection?
We are willing to serve them if they’ll shield us from Galbatorix’s
wrath.”

“The Varden,” said Jeod, “would be more than happy to have you.
More than happy. I suspect you already guessed that. As for help...” He
ran a hand down his long face and stared past Loring at the rows of books
on the shelves. “I’ve been aware for almost a year that my true identity—
as well as that of many other merchants here and elsewhere who have
assisted the Varden—was betrayed to the Empire. Because of that, I haven’t
dared flee to Surda. If I tried, the Empire would arrest me, and then
who knows what horrors I’d be in for? I’ve had to watch the gradual destruction
of my business without being able to take any action to oppose
or escape it. What’s worse, now that I cannot ship anything to the
Varden and they dare not send envoys to me, I feared that Lord Risthart
would have me clapped in irons and dragged off to the dungeons, since
I’m of no further interest to the Empire. I’ve expected it every day since I
declared bankruptcy.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Birgit, “they want you to flee so they can capture
whoever else you bring with you.”

Jeod smiled. “Perhaps. But now that you are here, I have a means to
leave that they never anticipated.”

“Then you have a plan?” asked Loring.

Glee crossed Jeod’s face. “Oh yes, I have a plan. Did the four of you see

469



the ship Dragon Wing moored at port?”

Roran thought back to the vessel. “Aye.”

“The Dragon Wing is owned by the Blackmoor Shipping Company, a
front for the Empire. They handle supplies for the army, which has mobilized
to an alarming degree recently, conscripting soldiers among the
peasants and commandeering horses, asses, and oxen.” Jeod raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure what it indicates, but it’s possible Galbatorix means
to march on Surda. In any case, the Dragon Wing is to sail for Feinster
within the week. She’s the finest ship ever built, from a new design by
master shipwright Kinnell.”

“And you want to pirate her,” concluded Roran.

“I do. Not only to spite the Empire or because the Dragon Wing is reputed
to be the fastest square-rigged ship of her tonnage, but because
she’s already fully provisioned for a long voyage. And since her cargo is
food, we’d have enough for the whole village.”

Loring uttered a strained cackle. “I ’ope you can sail her yourself, Long-
shanks, ’cause not one of us knows how to handle anything larger than a
barge.”

“A few men from the crews of my ships are still in Teirm. They’re in
the same position I am, unable to fight or flee. I’m confident they’ll jump
at a chance to get to Surda. They can teach you what to do on the Dragon
Wing. It won’t be easy, but I don’t see much choice in the matter.”

Roran grinned. The plan was to his liking: swift, decisive, and unexpected.


“You mentioned,” said Birgit, “that in the past year none of your ships—
nor those from other merchants who serve the Varden—have reached
their destination. Why, then, should this mission succeed when so many
have failed?”

Jeod was quick to answer: “Because surprise is on our side. The law requires
merchant ships to submit their itinerary for approval with the port
authority at least two weeks before departure. It takes a great deal of
time to prepare a ship for launch, so if we leave without warning, it
could be a week or more before Galbatorix can launch intercept vessels.
If luck is with us, we won’t see so much as the topmast of our pursuers.
So,” continued Jeod, “if you are willing to attempt this enterprise, this is

470



what we must do....”


471



ESCAPE


After they considered Jeod’s proposal from every possible angle and
agreed to abide by it—with a few modifications—Roran sent Nolfavrell
to fetch Gertrude and Mandel from the Green Chestnut, for Jeod had offered
their entire party his hospitality.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Jeod, rising, “I must go reveal to my
wife that which I should never have hidden from her and ask if she’ll accompany
me to Surda. You may take your pick of rooms on the second
floor. Rolf will summon you when supper is ready.” With long, slow
steps, he departed the study.

“Is it wise to let him tell that ogress?” asked Loring.

Roran shrugged. “Wise or not, we can’t stop him. And I don’t think he’ll
be at peace until he does.”

Instead of going to a room, Roran wandered through the mansion, unconsciously
evading the servants as he pondered the things Jeod had said.
He stopped at a bay window open to the stables at the rear of the house
and filled his lungs with the brisk and smoky air, heavy with the familiar
smell of manure.

“Do you hate him?”

He started and turned to see Birgit silhouetted in the doorway. She
pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she approached.

“Who?” he asked, knowing full well.

“Eragon. Do you hate him?”

Roran looked at the darkening sky. “I don’t know. I hate him for causing
the death of my father, but he’s still family and for that I love him.... I
suppose that if I didn’t need Eragon to save Katrina, I would have nothing
to do with him for a long while yet.”

“As I need and hate you, Stronghammer.”

He snorted with grim amusement. “Aye, we’re joined at the hip, aren’t
we? You have to help me find Eragon in order to avenge Quimby on the
Ra’zac.”

472



“And to have my vengeance on you afterward.”

“That too.” Roran stared into her unwavering eyes for a moment, acknowledging
the bond between them. He found it strangely comforting
to know that they shared the same drive, the same angry fire that quickened
their steps when others faltered. In her, he recognized a kindred
spirit.

Returning through the house, Roran stopped by the dining room as he
heard the cadence of Jeod’s voice. Curious, he fit his eye to a crack by the
middle door hinge. Jeod stood opposite a slight, blond woman, who Roran
assumed was Helen.

“If what you say is true, how can you expect me to trust you?”

“I cannot,” answered Jeod.

“Yet you ask me to become a fugitive for you?”

“You once offered to leave your family and wander the land with me.
You begged me to spirit you away from Teirm.”

“Once. I thought you were terribly dashing then, what with your sword
and your scar.”

“I still have those,” he said softly. “I made many mistakes with you,
Helen; I understand that now. But I still love you and want you to be
safe. I have no future here. If I stay, I’ll only bring grief to your family.
You can return to your father or you can come with me. Do what will
make you the happiest. However, I beg you to give me a second chance,
to have the courage to leave this place and shed the bitter memories of
our life here. We can start anew in Surda.”

She was quiet for a long time. “That young man who was here, is he
really a Rider?”

“He is. The winds of change are blowing, Helen. The Varden are about
to attack, the dwarves are gathering, and even the elves stir in their ancient
haunts. War approaches, and if we’re fortunate, so does Galbatorix’s
downfall.”

“Are you important among the Varden?”

473



“They owe me some consideration for my part in acquiring Saphira’s
egg.”

“Then you would have a position with them in Surda?”

“I imagine so.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and she did not draw
away.

She whispered, “Jeod, Jeod, don’t press me. I cannot decide yet.”

“Will you think about it?”

She shivered. “Oh yes. I’ll think about it.”

Roran’s heart pained him as he left.

Katrina.

That night at dinner, Roran noticed Helen’s eyes were often upon him,
studying and measuring—comparing him, he was sure, to Eragon.

After the meal, Roran beckoned to Mandel and led him out into the
courtyard behind the house.

“What is it, sir?” asked Mandel.

“I wished to talk with you in private.”

“About what?”

Roran fingered the pitted blade of his hammer and reflected on how
much he felt like Garrow when his father gave a lecture on responsibility;
Roran could even feel the same phrases rising in his throat. And so one
generation passes to the next, he thought. “You’ve become quite friendly
with the sailors as of late.”

“They’re not our enemies,” objected Mandel.

“Everyone is an enemy at this point. Clovis and his men could turn on
us in an instant. It wouldn’t be a problem, though, if being with them
hadn’t caused you to neglect your duties.” Mandel stiffened and color
bloomed in his cheeks, but he did not lower himself in Roran’s esteem by
denying the charge. Pleased, Roran asked, “What is the most important
thing we can do right now, Mandel?”

474



“Protect our families.”

“Aye. And what else?”

Mandel hesitated, uncertain, then confessed, “I don’t know.”

“Help one another. It’s the only way any of us are going to survive. I
was especially disappointed to learn that you’ve gambled food with the
sailors, since that endangers the entire village. Your time would be far
better spent hunting than playing games of dice or learning to throw
knives. With your father gone, it’s fallen upon you to care for your
mother and siblings. They rely on you. Am I clear?”

“Very clear, sir,” replied Mandel with a choked voice.

“Will this ever happen again?”

“Never again, sir.”

“Good. Now I didn’t bring you here just to chastise you. You show
promise, which is why I’m giving you a task that I would trust to no one
else but myself.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Tomorrow morning I need you to return to camp and deliver a message
to Horst. Jeod believes the Empire has spies watching this house, so
it’s vital that you make sure you aren’t followed. Wait until you’re out of
the city, then lose whoever is trailing you in the countryside. Kill him if
you have to. When you find Horst, tell him to...” As Roran outlined his
instructions, he watched Mandel’s expression change from surprise, to
shock, and then to awe.

“What if Clovis objects?” asked Mandel.

“That night, break the tillers on the barges so they can’t be steered. It’s a
dirty trick, but it could be disastrous if Clovis or any of his men arrive at
Teirm before you.”

“I won’t let that happen,” vowed Mandel.

Roran smiled. “Good.” Satisfied that he had resolved the matter of
Mandel’s behavior and that the young man would do everything possible

475



to get the message to Horst, Roran went back inside and bade their host
good night before heading off to sleep.

With the exception of Mandel, Roran and his companions confined
themselves to the mansion throughout the following day, taking advantage
of the delay to rest, hone their weapons, and review their stratagems.

From dawn till dusk, they saw some of Helen as she bustled from one
room to the next, more of Rolf with his teeth like varnished pearls, and
none of Jeod, for the gray-pated merchant had left to walk the city and—
seemingly by accident—meet with the few men of the sea whom he
trusted for their expedition.

Upon his return, he told Roran, “We can count on five more hands. I
only hope it’s enough.” Jeod remained in his study for the rest of the evening,
drawing up various legal documents and otherwise tending to his
affairs.

Three hours before dawn, Roran, Loring, Birgit, Gertrude, and Nolfavrell
roused themselves and, fighting back prodigious yawns, congregated
in the mansion’s entryway, where they muffled themselves in long
cloaks to obscure their faces. A rapier hung at Jeod’s side when he joined
them, and Roran thought the narrow sword somehow completed the
rangy man, as if it reminded Jeod who he really was.

Jeod lit an oil lantern and held it up before them. “Are we ready?” he
asked. They nodded. Then Jeod unlatched the door and they filed outside
to the empty cobblestone street. Behind them, Jeod lingered in the entryway,
casting a longing gaze toward the stairs on the right, but Helen
did not appear. With a shudder, Jeod left his home and closed the door.

Roran put a hand on his arm. “What’s done is done.”

“I know.”

They trotted through the dark city, slowing to a quick walk whenever
they encountered watchmen or a fellow creature of the night, most of
whom darted away at the sight of them. Once they heard footsteps on
top of a nearby building. “The design of the city,” explained Jeod, “makes
it easy for thieves to climb from one roof to another.”

They slowed to a walk again when they arrived at Teirm’s eastern gate.

476



Because the gate opened to the harbor, it was closed only four hours each
night in order to minimize the disruption to commerce. Indeed, despite
the time, several men were already moving through the gate.

Even though Jeod had warned them it might happen, Roran still felt a
surge of fear when the guards lowered their pikes and asked what their
business was. He wet his mouth and tried not to fidget while the elder
soldier examined a scroll that Jeod handed to him. After a long minute,
the guard nodded and returned the parchment. “You can pass.”

Once they were on the wharf and out of earshot of the city wall, Jeod
said, “It’s a good thing he couldn’t read.”

The six of them waited on the damp planking until, one by one, Jeod’s
men emerged from the gray mist that lay upon the shore. They were
grim and silent, with braided hair that hung to the middle of their backs,
tar-smeared hands, and an assortment of scars even Roran respected. He
liked what he saw, and he could tell they approved of him as well. They
did not, however, take to Birgit.

One of the sailors, a large brute of a man, jerked a thumb at her and accused
Jeod, “You didn’t say there’d be a woman along for the fightin’.
How am I supposed to concentrate with some backwoods tramp getting
in m’ way?”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” said Nolfavrell between clenched teeth.

“An’ her runt too?”

In a calm voice, Jeod said, “Birgit has fought the Ra’zac. And her son has
already killed one of Galbatorix’s best soldiers. Can you claim as much,
Uthar?”

“It’s not proper,” said another man. “I wouldn’t feel safe with a woman
at my side; they do naught but bring bad luck. A lady shouldn’t—”

Whatever he was going to say was lost, for at that instant, Birgit did a
very unladylike thing. Stepping forward, she kicked Uthar between his
legs and then grabbed the second man and pressed her knife against his
throat. She held him for a moment, so everyone could see what she had
done, then released her captive. Uthar rolled on the boards by her feet,
holding himself and muttering a stream of curses.

“Does anyone else have an objection?” demanded Birgit. Beside her,

477



Nolfavrell stared with openmouthed amazement at his mother.

Roran pulled his hood lower to conceal his grin. Good thing they haven’t
noticed Gertrude, he thought.

When no one else challenged Birgit, Jeod asked, “Did you bring what I
wanted?” Each sailor reached inside his vest and divulged a weighted club
and several lengths of rope.

Thus armed, they worked their way down the harbor toward the
Dragon Wing, doing their best to escape detection. Jeod kept his lantern
shuttered the whole while. Near the dock, they hid behind a warehouse
and watched the two lights carried by sentries bob around the deck of
the ship. The gangway had been pulled away for the night.

“Remember,” whispered Jeod, “the most important thing is to keep the
alarm from being sounded until we’re ready to leave.”

“Two men above, two men below, right?” asked Roran.

Uthar replied, “That be the custom.”

Roran and Uthar stripped to their breeches, tied the rope and clubs
around their waists—Roran left his hammer behind—and then ran farther
down the wharf, out of the sentries’ sight, where they lowered
themselves into the frigid water.

“Garr, I hate when I have to do this,” said Uthar.

“You’ve done it before?”

“Four times now. Don’t stop moving or you’ll freeze.”

Clinging to the slimy piles underneath the wharf, they swam back up
the way they had come until they reached the stone pier that led to the
Dragon Wing, and then turned right. Uthar put his lips to Roran’s ear. “I’ll
take the starboard anchor.” Roran nodded his agreement.

They both dove under the black water, and there they separated. Uthar
swam like a frog under the bow of the ship, while Roran went straight to
the port anchor and clung to its thick chain. He untied the club from his
waist and fit it between his teeth—as much to stop them from chattering
as to free his hands—and prepared to wait. The rough metal sapped the
warmth from his arms as fast as ice.

478



Not three minutes later, Roran heard the scuff of Birgit’s boots above
him as she walked to the end of the pier, opposite the middle of the
Dragon Wing, and then the faint sound of her voice as she engaged the
sentries in conversation. Hopefully, she would keep their attention away
from the bow.

Now!

Roran pulled himself hand over hand along the chain. His right shoulder
burned where the Ra’zac had bit him, but he pressed on. From the
porthole where the anchor chain entered the ship, he clambered up the
ridges that supported the painted figurehead, over the railing, and onto
the deck. Uthar was already there, dripping and panting.

Clubs in hand, they padded toward the aft of the ship, using whatever
cover they could find. They stopped not ten feet behind the sentries. The
two men leaned on the railing, bandying words with Birgit.

In a flash, Roran and Uthar burst into the open and struck the sentries
on the head before they could draw their sabers. Below, Birgit waved for
Jeod and the rest of their group, and between them they raised the gangway
and slid one end across to the ship, where Uthar lashed it to the railing.


As Nolfavrell ran aboard, Roran tossed his rope to the boy and said,
“Tie and gag these two.”

Then everyone but Gertrude descended belowdecks to hunt for the
remaining sentries. They found four additional men—the purser, the bosun,
the ship’s cook, and the ship’s cook’s assistant—all of whom were
trundled out of bed, knocked on the head if they resisted, and then securely
trussed. In this, Birgit again proved her worth, capturing two men
herself.

Jeod had the unhappy prisoners placed in a line on the deck so they
could be watched at all times, then declared, “We have much to do, and
little time. Roran, Uthar is captain on the Dragon Wing. You and the
others will take your orders from him.”

For the next two hours, the ship was a frenzy of activity. The sailors
tended to the rigging and sails, while Roran and those from Carvahall
worked to empty the hold of extraneous supplies, such as bales of raw
wool. These they lowered overboard to prevent anyone on the wharf

479



from hearing a splash. If the entire village was to fit on the Dragon Wing,
they needed to clear as much space as possible.

Roran was in the midst of fitting a cable around a barrel when he heard
the hoarse cry, “Someone’s coming!” Everyone on deck, except Jeod and
Uthar, dropped to their bellies and reached for their weapons. The two
men who remained standing paced the ship as if they were sentries. Roran’s
heart pounded while he lay motionless, wondering what was about
to happen. He held his breath as Jeod addressed the intruder... then footsteps
echoed on the gangway.

It was Helen.

She wore a plain dress, her hair was bound under a kerchief, and she
carried a burlap sack over one shoulder. She spoke not a word, but
stowed her gear in the main cabin and returned to stand by Jeod. Roran
thought he had never seen a happier man.

The sky above the distant mountains of the Spine had just begun to
brighten when one of the sailors in the rigging pointed north and whistled
to indicate he had spotted the villagers.

Roran moved even faster. What time they had was now gone. He
rushed up on deck and peered at the dark line of people advancing down
the coast. This part of their plan depended on the fact that, unlike other
coastal cities, Teirm’s outer wall had not been left open to the sea, but
rather completely enclosed the bulk of the city in order to ward off frequent
pirate attacks. This meant that the buildings skirting the harbor
were left exposed—and that the villagers could walk right up to the
Dragon Wing.

“Hurry now, hurry!” said Jeod.

At Uthar’s command, the sailors brought out armfuls of javelins for the
great bows on deck, as well as casks of foul-smelling tar, which they
knocked open and used to paint the upper half of the javelins. They then
drew and loaded the ballistae on the starboard side; it took two men per
bow to pull out the sinew cord until it caught on its hook.

The villagers were two-thirds of the way to the ship before the soldiers
patrolling the battlements of Teirm spotted them and trumpeted the
alarm. Even before that first note faded, Uthar bellowed, “Light and fire
’em!”

480



Dashing open Jeod’s lantern, Nolfavrell ran from one ballista to the
next, holding the flame to the javelins until the tar ignited. The instant a
missile caught, the man behind the bow pulled the release line and the
javelin vanished with a heavy thunk. In all, twelve blazing bolts shot from
the Dragon Wing and pierced the ships and buildings along the bay like
roaring, red-hot meteors from the heavens above.

“Draw and reload!” shouted Uthar.

The creak of bending wood filled the air as every man hauled back on
the twisted cords. Javelins were slotted in place. Once again, Nolfavrell
made his run. Roran could feel the vibration in his feet as the ballista in
front of him sent its deadly projectile winging on its way.

The fire quickly spread along the waterfront, forming an impenetrable
barrier that prevented soldiers from reaching the Dragon Wing though
Teirm’s east gate. Roran had counted on the pillar of smoke to hide the
ship from the archers on the battlements, but it was a near thing; a flight
of arrows tugged at the rigging, and one dart embedded itself in the deck
by Gertrude before the soldiers lost sight of the ship.

From the bow, Uthar shouted, “Pick your targets at will!”

The villagers were running pell-mell down the beach now. They
reached the north end of the wharf, and a handful of them stumbled and
fell as the soldiers in Teirm redirected their aim. Children screamed in
terror. Then the villagers regained momentum. They pounded down the
planks, past a warehouse engulfed in flame and along the pier. The panting
mob charged onto the ship in a confused mass of jostling bodies.

Birgit and Gertrude guided the stream of people to the fore and aft
hatches. In a few minutes, the various levels of the ship were packed to
their limit, from the cargo hold to the captain’s cabin. Those who could
not fit below remained huddled on deck, holding Fisk’s shields over their
heads.

As Roran had asked in his message, all able-bodied men from Carvahall
clustered around the mainmast, waiting for instructions. Roran saw
Mandel among them and tossed him a proud salute.

Then Uthar pointed at a sailor and barked, “You there, Bonden! Get
those swabs to the capstans and weigh anchors, then down to the oars.
Double time!” To the rest of the men at the ballistae, he ordered, “Half of
you leave off and take the port ballistae. Drive away any boarding par


481



ties.”

Roran was one of those who switched sides. As he prepared the ballistae,
a few laggards staggered out of the acrid smoke and onto the ship.
Beside him, Jeod and Helen hoisted the six prisoners one by one onto the
gangway and rolled them onto the pier.

Before Roran quite knew it, anchors had been raised, the gangway was
cut loose, and a drum pounded beneath his feet, setting the tempo for
the oarsmen. Ever so slowly, the Dragon Wing turned to starboard—
toward the open sea—and then, with gathering speed, pulled away from
the dock.

Roran accompanied Jeod to the quarterdeck, where they watched the
crimson inferno devour everything flammable between Teirm and the
ocean. Through the filter of smoke, the sun appeared a flat, bloated,
bloody orange disk as it rose over the city.

How many have I killed now? wondered Roran.

Echoing his thoughts, Jeod observed, “This will harm a great many innocent
people.”

Guilt made Roran respond with more force than he intended: “Would
you rather be in Lord Risthart’s prisons? I doubt many will be injured in
the blaze, and those that aren’t won’t face death, like we will if the Empire
catches us.”

“You needn’t lecture me, Roran. I know the arguments well enough.
We did what we had to. Just don’t ask me to take pleasure in the suffering
we’ve caused to ensure our own safety.”

By noon the oars had been stowed and the Dragon Wing sailed under
her own power, propelled by favorable winds from the north. The gusts
of air caused the rigging overhead to emit a low hum.

The ship was miserably overcrowded, but Roran was confident that
with some careful planning they could make it to Surda with a minimum
of discomfort. The worst inconvenience was that of limited rations; if
they were to avoid starvation, food would have to be dispensed in miserly
portions. And in such cramped quarters, disease was an all too likely
possibility.

482



After Uthar gave a brief speech about the importance of discipline on a
ship, the villagers applied themselves to the tasks that required their immediate
attention, such as tending to their wounded, unpacking their
meager belongings, and deciding upon the most efficient sleeping arrangement
for each deck. They also had to choose people to fill the various
positions on the Dragon Wing : who would cook, who would train as
sailors under Uthar’s men, and so forth.

Roran was helping Elain hang a hammock when he became embroiled
in a heated dispute between Odele, her family, and Frewin, who had apparently
deserted Torson’s crew to stay with Odele. The two of them
wanted to marry, which Odele’s parents vehemently opposed on the
grounds that the young sailor lacked a family of his own, a respectable
profession, and the means to provide even a modicum of comfort for
their daughter. Roran thought it best if the enamored couple remained
together—it seemed impractical to try and separate them while they remained
confined to the same ship—but Odele’s parents refused to give
his arguments credence.

Frustrated, Roran said, “What would you do, then? You can’t lock her
away, and I believe Frewin has proved his devotion more than—”

“Ra’zac!”

The cry came from the crow’s nest.

Without a second thought, Roran yanked his hammer from his belt,
whirled about, and scrambled up the ladder through the fore hatchway,
barking his shin on the way. He sprinted toward the knot of people on
the quarterdeck, coming to a halt beside Horst.

The smith pointed.

One of the Ra’zac’s dread steeds drifted like a tattered shadow above
the edge of the coastline, a Ra’zac on its back. Seeing the two monsters
exposed in daylight in no way diminished the creeping horror they inspired
in Roran. He shuddered as the winged creature uttered its terrifying
shriek, and then the Ra’zac’s insectile voice drifted across the water,
faint but distinct: “You shall not essscape!”

Roran looked at the ballistae, but they could not turn far enough to aim
at the Ra’zac or its mount. “Does anyone have a bow?”

483



“I do,” said Baldor. He dropped to one knee and began to string his
weapon. “Don’t let them see me.” Everyone on the quarterdeck gathered
in a tight circle around Baldor, shielding him with their bodies from the
Ra’zac’s malevolent gaze.

“Why don’t they attack?” growled Horst.

Puzzled, Roran searched for an explanation but found none. It was Jeod
who suggested, “Perhaps it’s too bright for them. The Ra’zac hunt at
night, and so far as I know they do not willingly venture forth from their
lairs while the sun is yet in the sky.”

“It’s not just that,” said Gertrude slowly. “I think they’re afraid of the
ocean.”

“Afraid of the ocean?” scoffed Horst.

“Watch them; they don’t fly more than a yard over the water at any
given time.”

“She’s right,” said Roran. At last, a weakness I can use against them!

A few seconds later, Baldor said, “Ready!”

At his word, the ranks of people who stood before him jumped aside,
clearing the path for his arrow. Baldor sprang to his feet and, in a single
motion, pulled the feather to his cheek and loosed the reed shaft.

It was a heroic shot. The Ra’zac was at the extreme edge of a longbow’s
range—far beyond any mark Roran had seen an archer hit—and yet Baldor’s
aim was true. His arrow struck the flying creature on the right flank,
and the beast gave a scream of pain so great that the glass on the deck
was shattered and the stones on the shore were riven in shards. Roran
clapped his hands over his ears to protect them from the hideous blast.
Still screaming, the monster veered inland and dropped behind a line of
misty hills.

“Did you kill it?” asked Jeod, his face pale.

“I fear not,” replied Baldor. “It was naught but a flesh wound.”

Loring, who had just arrived, observed with satisfaction, “Aye. But at
least you hurt him, and I’d wager they’ll think twice about bothering us
again.”

484



Gloom settled over Roran. “Save your triumph for later, Loring. This
was no victory.”

“Why not?” demanded Horst.

“Because now the Empire knows exactly where we are.” The quarterdeck
fell silent as they grasped the implications of what he had said.

485



CHILD’S PLAY


“And this,” said Trianna, “is the latest pattern we’ve invented.”

Nasuada took the black veil from the sorceress and ran it through her
hands, marveling at its quality. No human could throw lace that fine. She
gazed with satisfaction at the rows of boxes on her desk, which contained
samples of the many designs Du Vrangr Gata now produced. “You’ve
done well,” she said. “Far better than I had hoped. Tell your spellcasters
how pleased I am with their work. It means much to the Varden.”

Trianna inclined her head at the praise. “I will convey your message to
them, Lady Nasuada.”

“Have they yet—”

A disturbance at the doors to her quarters interrupted Nasuada. She
heard her guards swear and raise their voices, then a yelp of pain. The
sound of metal clashing on metal rang in the hallway. Nasuada backed
away from the door in alarm, drawing her dagger from its sheath.

“Run, Lady!” said Trianna. The sorceress placed herself in front of
Nasuada and pushed back her sleeves, baring her white arms in preparation
to work magic. “Take the servants’ entrance.”

Before Nasuada could move, the doors burst open and a small figure
tackled her legs, knocking her to the floor. Even as Nasuada fell, a silvery
object flashed through the space she had just occupied, burying itself in
the far wall with a dull thud.

Then the four guards entered, and all was confusion as Nasuada felt
them drag her assailant off her. When Nasuada managed to stand, she saw
Elva hanging in their grip.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Nasuada.

The black-haired girl smiled, then doubled over and retched on the
braided rug. Afterward, she fixed her violet eyes on Nasuada and—in her
terrible, knowing voice—she said, “Have your magician examine the wall,
O Daughter of Ajihad, and see if I have not fulfilled my promise to you.”

Nasuada nodded to Trianna, who glided to the splintered hole in the
wall and muttered a spell. She returned holding a metal dart. “This was

486



buried in the wood.”

“But where did it come from?” asked Nasuada, bewildered.

Trianna gestured toward the open window overlooking the city of
Aberon. “Somewhere out there, I guess.”

Nasuada returned her attention to the waiting child. “What do you
know about this, Elva?”

The girl’s horrible smile widened. “It was an assassin.”

“Who sent him?”

“An assassin trained by Galbatorix himself in the dark uses of magic.”
Her burning eyes grew half-lidded, as if she were in a trance. “The man
hates you. He’s coming for you. He would have killed you if I hadn’t
stopped him.” She lurched forward and retched again, spewing half-
digested food across the floor. Nasuada gagged with revulsion. “And he’s
about to suffer great pain.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I will tell you he stays in the hostel on Fane Street, in the last
room, on the top floor. You had better hurry, or he’ll get away... away.”
She groaned like a wounded beast and clutched her belly. “Hurry, before
Eragon’s spell forces me to stop you from hurting him. You’ll be sorry,
then!”

Trianna was already moving as Nasuada said, “Tell Jörmundur what’s
happened, then take your strongest magicians and hunt down this man.
Capture him if you can. Kill him if you can’t.” After the sorceress left,
Nasuada looked at her men and saw that their legs were bleeding from
numerous small cuts. She realized what it must have cost Elva to hurt
them. “Go,” she told them. “Find a healer who can mend your injuries.”

The warriors shook their heads, and their captain said, “No, Ma’am. We
will stay by your side until we know it’s safe again.”

“As you see fit, Captain.”

The men barricaded the windows—which worsened the already sweltering
heat that plagued Borromeo Castle—then everyone retreated to
her inner chambers for further protection.

487



Nasuada paced, her heart pounding with delayed shock as she contemplated
how close she had come to being killed. What would become of the
Varden if I died? she wondered. Who would succeed me? Dismay gripped
her; she had made no arrangements for the Varden in the event of her
own demise, an oversight that now seemed a monumental failing. I won’t
allow the Varden to be thrown into chaos because I failed to take precautions!


She halted. “I am in your debt, Elva.”

“Now and forever.”

Nasuada faltered, disconcerted as she often was by the girl’s responses,
then continued: “I apologize for not ordering my guards to let you pass,
night or day. I should have anticipated an event like this.”

“You should have,” agreed Elva in a mocking tone.

Smoothing the front of her dress, Nasuada resumed pacing, as much to
escape the sight of Elva’s stone-white, dragon-marked face as to disperse
her own nervous energy. “How did you escape your rooms unaccompanied?”


“I told my caretaker, Greta, what she wanted to hear.”

“That’s all?”

Elva blinked. “It made her very happy.”

“And what of Angela?”

“She left on an errand this morning.”

“Well, be as that may, you have my gratitude for saving my life. Ask
me any boon you want and I shall grant it if it’s within my power.”

Elva glanced around the ornate bedroom, then said, “Do you have any
food? I’m hungry.”

488



PREMONITION OF WAR


Two hours later, Trianna returned, leading a pair of warriors who carried
a limp body between them. At Trianna’s word, the men dropped the
corpse on the floor. Then the sorceress said, “We found the assassin
where Elva said we would. Drail was his name.”

Motivated by a morbid curiosity, Nasuada examined the face of the
man who had tried to kill her. The assassin was short, bearded, and plain-
looking, no different from countless other men in the city. She felt a certain
connection to him, as if his attempt on her life and the fact that she
had arranged his death in return linked them in the most intimate manner
possible. “How was he killed?” she asked. “I see no marks on his
body.”

“He committed suicide with magic when we overwhelmed his defenses
and entered his mind, but before we could take control of his actions.”

“Were you able to learn anything of use before he died?”

“We were. Drail was part of a network of agents based here in Surda
who are loyal to Galbatorix. They are called the Black Hand. They spy on
us, sabotage our war efforts, and—best we could determine in our brief
glimpse into Drail’s memories—are responsible for dozens of murders
throughout the Varden. Apparently, they’ve been waiting for a good
chance to kill you ever since we arrived from Farthen Dûr.”

“Why hasn’t this Black Hand assassinated King Orrin yet?”

Trianna shrugged. “I can’t say. It may be that Galbatorix considers you
to be more of a threat than Orrin. If that’s the case, then once the Black
Hand realizes you are protected from their attacks”— here her gaze
darted toward Elva—“Orrin won’t live another month unless he is
guarded by magicians day and night. Or perhaps Galbatorix has abstained
from such direct action because he wanted the Black Hand to remain
unnoticed. Surda has always existed at his tolerance. Now that it’s become
a threat...”

“Can you protect Orrin as well?” asked Nasuada, turning to Elva.

Her violet eyes seemed to glow. “Maybe if he asks nicely.”

Nasuada’s thoughts raced as she considered how to thwart this new

489



menace. “Can all of Galbatorix’s agents use magic?”

“Drail’s mind was confused, so it’s hard to tell,” said Trianna, “but I’d
guess a fair number of them can.”

Magic, cursed Nasuada to herself. The greatest danger the Varden faced
from magicians—or any person trained in the use of their mind—was not
assassination, but rather espionage. Magicians could spy on people’s
thoughts and glean information that could be used to destroy the Varden.
That was precisely why Nasuada and the entire command structure of
the Varden had been taught to know when someone was touching their
minds and how to shield themselves from such attentions. Nasuada suspected
that Orrin and Hrothgar relied upon similar precautions within
their own governments.

However, since it was impractical for everyone privy to potentially
damaging information to master that skill, one of Du Vrangr Gata’s many
responsibilities was to hunt for anyone who was siphoning off facts as
they appeared in people’s minds. The cost of such vigilance was that Du
Vrangr Gata ended up spying on the Varden as much as on their enemies,
a fact that Nasuada made sure to conceal from the bulk of her followers,
for it would only sow hatred, distrust, and dissent. She disliked
the practice but saw no alternative.

What she had learned about the Black Hand hardened Nasuada’s conviction
that, somehow, magicians had to be governed.

“Why,” she asked, “didn’t you discover this sooner? I can understand
that you might miss a lone assassin, but an entire network of spellcasters
dedicated to our destruction? Explain yourself, Trianna.”

The sorceress’s eyes flashed with anger at the accusation. “Because here,
unlike in Farthen Dûr, we cannot examine everyone’s minds for duplicity.
There are just too many people for us magicians to keep track of.
That is why we didn’t know about the Black Hand until now, Lady
Nasuada.”

Nasuada paused, then inclined her head. “Understood. Did you discover
the identities of any other members of the Black Hand?”

“A few.”

“Good. Use them to ferret out the rest of the agents. I want you to destroy
this organization for me, Trianna. Eradicate them as you would an

490



infestation of vermin. I’ll give you however many men you need.”

The sorceress bowed. “As you wish, Lady Nasuada.”

At a knock on the door, the guards drew their swords and positioned
themselves on either side of the entranceway, then their captain yanked
open the door without warning. A young page stood outside, a fist raised
to knock again. He stared with astonishment at the body on the floor,
then snapped to attention as the captain asked, “What is it, boy?”

“I have a message for Lady Nasuada from King Orrin.”

“Then speak and be quick about it,” said Nasuada.

The page took a moment to compose himself. “King Orrin requests
that you attend him directly in his council chambers, for he has received
reports from the Empire that demand your immediate attention.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I must attend to this. Trianna, you have your orders. Captain, will you
leave one of your men to dispose of Drail?”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

“Also, please have him locate Farica, my handmaid. She will see to it
that my study is cleaned.”

“And what of me?” asked Elva, tilting her head.

“You,” said Nasuada, “shall accompany me. That is, if you feel strong
enough to do so.”

The girl threw back her head, and from her small, round mouth emanated
a cold laugh. “I’m strong enough, Nasuada. Are you?”

Ignoring the question, Nasuada swept forth into the hallway with her
guards clustered around her. The stones of the castle exuded an earthy
smell in the heat. Behind her, she heard the patter of Elva’s footsteps and
was perversely pleased that the ghastly child had to hurry to keep pace
with the adults’ longer stride.

491



The guards remained behind in the vestibule to the council chambers
while Nasuada and Elva proceeded inside. The chambers were bare to
the point of severity, reflecting the militant nature of Surda’s existence.
The country’s kings had devoted their resources to protecting their people
and overthrowing Galbatorix, not to decorating Borromeo Castle
with idle riches as the dwarves had done with Tronjheim.

In the main room lay a rough-hewn table twelve feet long, upon which
a map of Alagaësia was staked open with daggers at the four corners. As
was custom, Orrin sat at the head of the table, while his various advisers—
many of whom, Nasuada knew, vehemently opposed her—
occupied the chairs farther down. The Council of Elders was also present.
Nasuada noticed the concern on Jörmundur’s face as he looked at her and
deduced that Trianna had indeed told him about Drail.

“Sire, you asked for me?”

Orrin rose. “That I did. We have now—” He stopped in midword as he
noticed Elva. “Ah, yes, Shining Brow. I have not had the opportunity to
grant you audience before, though accounts of your feats have reached
my ear and, I must confess, I have been most curious to meet you. Have
you found the quarters I arranged for you satisfactory?”

“They are quite nice, Sire. Thank you.” At the sound of her eerie voice,
the voice of an adult, everyone at the table flinched.

Irwin, the prime minister, bolted upright and pointed a quivering finger
at Elva. “Why have you brought this... this abomination here?”

“You forget your manners, sir,” replied Nasuada, though she understood
his sentiment.

Orrin frowned. “Yes, do restrain yourself, Irwin. However, his point is
valid, Nasuada; we cannot have this child present at our deliberations.”

“The Empire,” she said, “has just tried to assassinate me.” The room
echoed with cries of surprise. “If it were not for Elva’s swift action, I
would be dead. As a result, I have taken her into my confidence; where I
go, she goes.” Let them wonder what it is exactly Elva can do.

“This is indeed distressing news!” exclaimed the king. “Have you caught
the blackguard responsible?”

Seeing the eager expressions of his advisers, Nasuada hesitated. “It

492



would be best to wait until I can give you an account in private, Sire.”

Orrin appeared put out by her response, but he did not pursue the issue.
“Very well. But sit, sit! We have just received the most troubling report.”
After Nasuada took her place opposite him—Elva lurking behind
her—he continued: “It seems that our spies in Gil’ead have been deceived
as to the status of Galbatorix’s army.”

“How so?”

“They believe the army to be in Gil’ead, whereas we have here a missive
from one of our men in Urû’baen, who says that he witnessed a great
host march south past the capital a week and a half ago. It was night, so
he could not be sure of their numbers, but he was certain that the host
was far larger than the sixteen thousand that form the core of Galbatorix’s
troops. There may have been as many as a hundred thousand soldiers,
or more.”

A hundred thousand! A cold pit of fear settled in Nasuada’s stomach.
“Can we trust your source?”

“His intelligence has always been reliable.”

“I don’t understand,” said Nasuada. “How could Galbatorix move that
many men without our knowing of it before? The supply trains alone
would be miles long. It’s been obvious the army was mobilizing, but the
Empire was nowhere near ready to deploy.”

Falberd spoke then, slapping a heavy hand on the table for emphasis:
“We were outfoxed. Our spies must have been deceived with magic to
think the army was still in their barracks in Gil’ead.”

Nasuada felt the blood drain from her face. “The only person strong
enough to sustain an illusion of that size and duration—”

“Is Galbatorix himself,” completed Orrin. “That was our conclusion. It
means that Galbatorix has finally abandoned his lair in favor of open
combat. Even as we speak, the black foe approaches.”

Irwin leaned forward. “The question now is how we should respond.
We must confront this threat, of course, but in what manner? Where,
when, and how? Our own forces aren’t prepared for a campaign of this
magnitude, while yours, Lady Nasuada—the Varden—are already accustomed
to the fierce clamor of war.”

493



“What do you mean to imply?” That we should die for you?

“I but made an observation. Take it how you will.”

Then Orrin said, “Alone, we will be crushed against an army so large.
We must have allies, and above all else we must have Eragon, especially
if we are to confront Galbatorix. Nasuada, will you send for him?”

“I would if I could, but until Arya returns, I have no way to contact the
elves or to summon Eragon.”

“In that case,” said Orrin in a heavy voice, “we must hope that she arrives
before it is too late. I do not suppose we can expect the elves’ assistance
in this affair. While a dragon may traverse the leagues between
Aberon and Ellesméra with the speed of a falcon, it would be impossible
for the elves to marshal themselves and cross that same distance before
the Empire reaches us. That leaves only the dwarves. I know that you
have been friends with Hrothgar for many years; will you send him a plea
for help on our behalf? The dwarves have always promised they would
fight when the time came.”

Nasuada nodded. “Du Vrangr Gata has an arrangement with certain
dwarf magicians that allows us to transfer messages instantaneously. I will
convey your—our—request. And I will ask Hrothgar to send an emissary
to Ceris to inform the elves of the situation so that they are forewarned,
if nothing else.”

“Good. We are quite a ways from Farthen Dûr, but if we can delay the
Empire for even a week, the dwarves might be able to get here in time.”

The discussion that followed was an exceedingly grim one. Various tactics
existed for defeating a larger—although not necessarily superior—
force, but no one at the table could imagine how they might defeat Galbatorix,
especially when Eragon was still so powerless compared to the
ancient king. The only ploy that might succeed would be to surround Eragon
with as many magicians, dwarf and human, as possible, and then attempt
to force Galbatorix to confront them alone. The problem with that
plan, thought Nasuada, is that Galbatorix overcame far more formidable
enemies during his destruction of the Riders, and his strength has only
grown since. She was certain that this had occurred to everyone else as
well. If we but had the elves’ spellweavers to swell our ranks, then victory
might be within our reach. Without them... If we cannot overthrow Galbatorix,
the only avenue left may be to flee Alagaësia across the sundering sea

494



and find a new land in which to build a life for ourselves. There we could
wait until Galbatorix is no more. Even he cannot endure forever. The only
certainty is that, eventually, all things shall pass.

They moved on then from tactics to logistics, and here the debate became
far more acrimonious as the Council of Elders argued with Orrin’s
advisers over the distribution of responsibilities between the Varden and
Surda: who should pay for this or that, provide rations for laborers who
worked for both groups, manage the provisions for their respective warriors,
and how numerous other related subjects should be dealt with.

In the midst of the verbal fray, Orrin pulled a scroll from his belt and
said to Nasuada, “On the matter of finances, would you be so kind as to
explain a rather curious item that was brought to my attention?”

“I’ll do my best, Sire.”

“I hold in my hand a complaint from the weavers’ guild, which asserts
that weavers throughout Surda have lost a good share of their profits because
the textile market has been inundated with extraordinarily cheap
lace—lace they swear originates with the Varden.” A pained look crossed
his face. “It seems foolish to even ask, but does their claim have basis in
fact, and if so, why would the Varden do such a thing?”

Nasuada made no attempt to hide her smile. “If you remember, Sire,
when you refused to lend the Varden more gold, you advised me to find
another way for us to support ourselves.”

“So I did. What of it?” asked Orrin, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, it struck me that while lace takes a long time to make by hand,
which is why it’s so expensive, lace is quite easy to produce using magic
due to the small amount of energy involved. You of all people, as a natural
philosopher, should appreciate that. By selling our lace here and in the
Empire, we have been able to fully fund our efforts. The Varden no
longer want for food or shelter.”

Few things in her life pleased Nasuada so much as Orrin’s incredulous
expression at that instant. The scroll frozen halfway between his chin and
the table, his slightly parted mouth, and the quizzical frown upon his
brow conspired to give him the stunned appearance of a man who had
just seen something he did not understand. She savored the sight.

“Lace?” he sputtered.

495



“Yes, Sire.”

“You can’t fight Galbatorix with lace !”

“Why not, Sire?”

He struggled for a moment, then growled, “Because... because it’s not
respectable, that’s why. What bard would compose an epic about our
deeds and write about lace ?”

“We do not fight in order to have epics written in our praise.”

“Then blast epics! How am I supposed to answer the weavers’ guild? By
selling your lace so cheaply, you hurt people’s livelihoods and undermine
our economy. It won’t do. It won’t do at all.”

Letting her smile become sweet and warm, Nasuada said in her friendliest
tone, “Oh dear. If it’s too much of a burden for your treasury, the
Varden would be more than willing to offer you a loan in return for the
kindness you’ve shown us... at a suitable rate of interest, of course.”

The Council of Elders managed to maintain their decorum, but behind
Nasuada, Elva uttered a quick laugh of amusement.

496



RED BLADE, WHITE BLADE


The moment the sun appeared over the tree-lined horizon, Eragon
deepened his breathing, willed his heart to quicken, and opened his eyes
as he returned to full awareness. He had not been asleep, for he had not
slept since his transformation. When he felt weary and lay himself down
to rest, he entered a state that was unto a waking dream. There he beheld
many wondrous visions and walked among the gray shades of his memories,
yet all the while remained aware of his surroundings.

He watched the sunrise and thoughts of Arya filled his mind, as they
had every hour since the Agaetí Blödhren two days before. The morning
after the celebration, he had gone looking for her in Tialdarí Hall—
intending to try and make amends for his behavior—only to discover that
she had already left for Surda. When will I see her again? he wondered. In
the clear light of day, he had realized just how much the elves’ and dragons’
magic had dulled his wits during the Agaetí Blödhren. I may have
acted a fool, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was no more responsible for
my conduct than if I were drunk.

Still, he had meant every word he said to Arya—even if normally he
would not have revealed so much of himself. Her rejection cut Eragon to
the quick. Freed of the enchantments that had clouded his mind, he was
forced to admit that she was probably right, that the difference between
their ages was too great to overcome. It was a difficult thing for him to
accept, and once he had, the knowledge only increased his anguish.

Eragon had heard the expression “heartbroken” before. Until then, he
always considered it a fanciful description, not an actual physical symptom.
But now he felt a deep ache in his chest—like that of a sore muscle—
and each beat of his heart pained him.

His only comfort was Saphira. In those two days, she had never criticized
what he had done, nor did she leave his side for more than a few
minutes at a time, lending him the support of her companionship. She
talked to him a great deal as well, doing her best to draw him out of his
shell of silence.

To keep himself from brooding over Arya, Eragon took Orik’s puzzle
ring from his nightstand and rolled it between his fingers, marveling at
how keen his senses had become. He could feel every flaw in the twisted
metal. As he studied the ring, he perceived a pattern in the arrangement
of the gold bands, a pattern that had escaped him before. Trusting his in


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stinct, he manipulated the bands in the sequence suggested by his observation.
To his delight, the eight pieces fit together perfectly, forming a
solid whole. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring
how the woven bands caught the light.

You could not do that before, observed Saphira from the bowl in the
floor where she slept.

I can see many things that were once hidden to me.

Eragon went to the wash closet and performed his morning ablutions,
including removing the stubble from his cheeks with a spell. Despite the
fact that he now closely resembled an elf, he had retained the ability to
grow a beard.

Orik was waiting for them when Eragon and Saphira arrived at the
sparring field. His eyes brightened as Eragon lifted his hand and displayed
the completed puzzle ring. “You solved it, then!”

“It took me longer than I expected,” said Eragon, “but yes. Are you here
to practice as well?”

“Eh. I already got in a bit o’ ax work with an elf who took a rather
fiendish delight in cracking me over the head. No... I came to watch you
fight.”

“You’ve seen me fight before,” pointed out Eragon.

“Not for a while, I haven’t.”

“You mean you’re curious to see how I’ve changed.” Orik shrugged in
response.

Vanir approached from across the field. He cried, “Are you ready,
Shadeslayer?” The elf’s condescending demeanor had lessened since their
last duel before the Agaetí Blödhren, but not by much.

“I’m ready.”

Eragon and Vanir squared off against each other in an open area of the
field. Emptying his mind, Eragon grasped and drew Zar’roc as fast as he
could. To his surprise, the sword felt as if it weighed no more than a willow
wand. Without the expected resistance, Eragon’s arm snapped
straight, tearing the sword from his hand and sending it whirling twenty

498



yards to his right, where it buried itself in the trunk of a pine tree.

“Can you not even hold on to your blade, Rider?” demanded Vanir.

“I apologize, Vanir-vodhr,” gasped Eragon. He clutched his elbow, rubbing
the bruised joint to lessen the pain. “I misjudged my strength.”

“See that it does not happen again.” Going to the tree, Vanir gripped
Zar’roc’s hilt and tried to pull the sword free. The weapon remained motionless.
Vanir’s eyebrows met as he frowned at the unyielding crimson
blade, as if he suspected some form of trickery. Bracing himself, the elf
heaved backward and, with the crack of wood, yanked Zar’roc out of the
pine.

Eragon accepted the sword from Vanir and hefted Zar’roc, troubled by
how light it was. Something’s wrong, he thought.

“Take your place!”

This time it was Vanir who initiated the fight. In a single bound, he
crossed the distance between them and thrust his blade toward Eragon’s
right shoulder. To Eragon, it seemed as if the elf moved slower than
usual, as if Vanir’s reflexes had been reduced to the level of a human’s. It
was easy for Eragon to deflect Vanir’s sword, blue sparks flying from the
metal as their blades grated against one another.

Vanir landed with an astonished expression. He struck again, and Eragon
evaded the sword by leaning back, like a tree swaying in the wind.
In quick succession, Vanir rained a score of heavy blows upon Eragon,
each of which Eragon dodged or blocked, using Zar’roc’s sheath as often
as the sword to foil Vanir’s onslaught.

Eragon soon realized that the spectral dragon from the Agaetí Blödhren
had done more than alter his appearance; it had also granted him the
elves’ physical abilities. In strength and speed, Eragon now matched even
the most athletic elf.

Fired by that knowledge and a desire to test his limits, Eragon jumped
as high as he could. Zar’roc flashed crimson in the sunlight as he flew
skyward, soaring more than ten feet above the ground before he flipped
like an acrobat and came down behind Vanir, facing the direction from
which he had started.

A fierce laugh erupted from Eragon. No more was he helpless before

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elves, Shades, and other creatures of magic. No more would he suffer the
elves’ contempt. No more would he have to rely on Saphira or Arya to
rescue him from enemies like Durza.

He charged Vanir, and the field rang with a furious din as they strove
against each other, raging back and forth upon the trampled grass. The
force of their blows created gusts of wind that whipped their hair into
tangled disarray. Overhead, the trees shook and dropped their needles.
The duel lasted long into the morning, for even with Eragon’s newfound
skill, Vanir was still a formidable opponent. But in the end, Eragon would
not be denied. Playing Zar’roc in a circle, he darted past Vanir’s guard and
struck him upon the upper arm, breaking the bone.

Vanir dropped his blade, his face turning white with shock. “How swift
is your sword,” he said, and Eragon recognized the famous line from The
Lay of Umhodan.

“By the gods!” exclaimed Orik. “That was the best swordsmanship I’ve
ever seen, and I was there when you fought Arya in Farthen Dûr.”

Then Vanir did what Eragon had never expected: the elf twisted his
uninjured hand in the gesture of fealty, placed it upon his sternum, and
bowed. “I beg your pardon for my earlier behavior, Eragon-elda. I thought
that you had consigned my race to the void, and out of my fear I acted
most shamefully. However, it seems that your race no longer endangers
our cause.” In a grudging voice, he added: “You are now worthy of the title
Rider.”

Eragon bowed in return. “You honor me. I’m sorry that I injured you so
badly. Will you allow me to heal your arm?”

“No, I shall let nature tend to it at her own pace, as a memento that I
once crossed blades with Eragon Shadeslayer. You needn’t fear that it will
disrupt our sparring tomorrow; I am equally good with my left hand.”

They both bowed again, and then Vanir departed.

Orik slapped a hand on his thigh and said, “Now we have a chance at
victory, a real chance! I can feel it in my bones. Bones like stone, they say.
Ah, this’ll please Hrothgar and Nasuada to no end.”

Eragon kept his peace and concentrated on removing the block from
Zar’roc’s edges, but he said to Saphira, If brawn were all that was required
to depose Galbatorix, the elves would have done it long ago. Still, he could

500



not help being pleased by his heightened prowess, as well as by his long-
awaited reprieve from the torment of his back. Without the constant
bursts of pain, it was as if a haze had been lifted from his mind, allowing
him to think clearly once again.

A few minutes remained before they were supposed to meet with
Oromis and Glaedr, so Eragon took his bow and quiver from where they
hung on Saphira’s back and walked to the range where elves practiced
archery. Since the elves’ bows were much more powerful than his, their
padded targets were both too small and too far away for him. He had to
shoot from halfway down the range.

Taking his place, Eragon nocked an arrow and slowly pulled back the
string, delighted by how easy it had become. He aimed, released the arrow,
and held his position, waiting to see if he would hit his mark. Like a
maddened hornet, the dart buzzed toward the target and buried itself in
the center. He grinned. Again and again, he fired at the target, his speed
increasing with his confidence until he loosed thirty arrows in a minute.

At the thirty-first arrow, he pulled on the string slightly harder than he
had ever done—or was capable of doing—before. With an explosive report,
the yew bow broke in half underneath his left hand, scratching his
fingers and discharging a burst of splinters from the back of the bow. His
hand went numb from the jolt.

Eragon stared at the remains of his weapon, dismayed by the loss. Gar-
row had made it as a birthday present for him over three years ago. Since
then, hardly a week went by when Eragon had not used his bow. It had
helped him to provide food for his family on numerous occasions when
they would have otherwise gone hungry. With it, he had killed his first
deer. With it, he had killed his first Urgal. And through it, he had first
used magic. Losing his bow was like losing an old friend who could be
relied upon in even the worst situation.

Saphira sniffed the two pieces of wood dangling from his grip and said,
It seems you need a new stick thrower. He grunted—in no mood to talk—
and stomped out to retrieve his arrows.

From the open field, he and Saphira flew to the white Crags of
Tel’naeír and presented themselves to Oromis, who was seated on a stool
in front of his hut, gazing out over the cliff with his farseeing eyes. He
said, “Have you entirely recovered, Eragon, from the potent magic of the
Blood-oath Celebration?”

501



“I have, Master.”

A long silence followed as Oromis drank from a cup of blackberry tea
and resumed contemplating the ancient forest. Eragon waited without
complaint; he was used to such pauses when dealing with the old Rider.
At length, Oromis said, “Glaedr explained to me, as best he could, what
was done to you during the celebration. Such a thing has never before occurred
in the history of the Riders.... Once again, the dragons have proved
themselves capable of far more than we imagined.” He sipped his tea.
“Glaedr was uncertain exactly what changes you would experience, so I
would like you to describe the full extent of your transformation, including
your appearance.”

Eragon quickly summarized how he had been altered, detailing the increased
sensitivity of his sight, smell, hearing, and touch, and ending with
an account of his clash with Vanir.

“And how,” asked Oromis, “do you feel about this? Do you resent that
your body was manipulated without your permission?”

“No, no! Not at all. I might have resented it before the battle of Farthen
Dûr, but now I’m just grateful that my back doesn’t hurt anymore. I
would have willingly submitted myself to far greater changes in order to
escape Durza’s curse. No, my only response is gratitude.”

Oromis nodded. “I am glad that you are wise enough to take that position,
for your gift is worth more than all the gold in the world. With it, I
believe that our feet are at last set upon the correct path.” Again, he
sipped his tea. “Let us proceed. Saphira, Glaedr expects you at the Stone
of Broken Eggs. Eragon, you will begin today with the third level of
Rimgar, if you can. I would know everything you are capable of.”

Eragon started toward the square of tamped earth where they usually
performed the Dance of Snake and Crane, then hesitated when the silver-
haired elf remained behind. “Master, won’t you join me?”

A sad smile graced Oromis’s face. “Not today, Eragon. The spells required
by the Blood-oath Celebration exacted a heavy toll from me. That
and my... condition. It took the last of my strength to come sit outside.”

“I am sorry, Master.” Does he resent that the dragons didn’t choose to heal
him as well? wondered Eragon. He immediately discounted the thought;
Oromis would never be so petty.

502



“Do not be. It is no fault of yours that I am crippled.”

As Eragon struggled to complete the third level of the Rimgar, it became
obvious that he still lacked the elves’ balance and flexibility, two
attributes that even the elves had to work to acquire. In a way, he welcomed
those limitations, for if he was perfect, what was left for him to
accomplish?

The following weeks were difficult for Eragon. On one hand, he made
enormous progress with his training, mastering subject after subject that
had once confounded him. He still found Oromis’s lessons challenging,
but he no longer felt as if he were drowning in a sea of his own inadequacy.
It was easier for Eragon to read and write, and his increased
strength meant that he could now cast elven spells that required so much
energy, they would kill any normal human. His strength also made him
aware of how weak Oromis was compared to other elves.

And yet, despite those accomplishments, Eragon experienced a growing
sense of discontent. No matter how hard he tried to forget Arya, every
day that passed increased his yearning, an agony made worse by knowing
that she did not want to see or talk with him. But more than that, it
seemed to him as if an ominous storm was gathering beyond the edge of
the horizon, a storm that threatened to break at any moment and sweep
across the land, devastating everything in its path.

Saphira shared his unease. She said, The world is stretched thin, Eragon.
Soon it will snap and madness will burst forth. What you feel is what we
dragons feel and what the elves feel—the inexorable march of grim fate as
the end of our age approaches. Weep for those who will die in the chaos that
shall consume Alagaësia. And hope that we may win a brighter future by
the strength of your sword and shield and my fangs and talons.

503



VISIONS NEAR AND FAR


The day came when Eragon went to the glade beyond Oromis’s hut,
seated himself on the polished white stump in the center of the mossy
hollow, and—when he opened his mind to observe the creatures around
him—sensed not just the birds, beasts, and insects but also the plants of
the forest.

The plants possessed a different type of consciousness than animals:
slow, deliberate, and decentralized, but in their own way just as cognizant
of their surroundings as Eragon himself was. The faint pulse of the
plants’ awareness bathed the galaxy of stars that wheeled behind his
eyes—each bright spark representing a life—in a soft, omnipresent glow.
Even the most barren soil teemed with organisms; the land itself was
alive and sentient.

Intelligent life, he concluded, existed everywhere.

As Eragon immersed himself in the thoughts and feelings of the beings
around him, he was able to attain a state of inner peace so profound that,
during that time, he ceased to exist as an individual. He allowed himself
to become a nonentity, a void, a receptacle for the voices of the world.
Nothing escaped his attention, for his attention was focused on nothing.

He was the forest and its inhabitants.

Is that what a god feels like? wondered Eragon when he returned to
himself.

He left the glade, sought out Oromis in his hut, and knelt before the
elf, saying, “Master, I have done as you told me to. I listened until I heard
no more.”

Oromis paused in his writing and, with a thoughtful expression, looked
at Eragon. “Tell me.” For an hour and a half, Eragon waxed eloquent
about every aspect of the plants and animals that populated the glade,
until Oromis raised his hand and said, “I am convinced; you heard all
there was to hear. But did you understand it all?”

“No, Master.”

“That is as it should be. Comprehension will come with age.... Well
done, Eragon-finiarel. Well done indeed. If you were my student in Ilirea,

504



before Galbatorix rose to power, you would have just graduated from
your apprenticeship and would be considered a full member of our order
and accorded the same rights and privileges as even the oldest Riders.”
Oromis pushed himself up out of his chair and then remained standing in
place, swaying. “Lend me your shoulder, Eragon, and help me outside. My
limbs betray my will.”

Hurrying to his master’s side, Eragon supported the elf’s slight weight as
Oromis hobbled to the brook that rushed headlong toward the edge of
the Crags of Tel’naeír. “Now that you have reached this stage in your
education, I can teach you one of the greatest secrets of magic, a secret
that even Galbatorix may not know. It is your best hope of matching his
power.” The elf’s gaze sharpened. “What is the cost of magic, Eragon?”

“Energy. A spell costs the same amount of energy as it would to complete
the task through mundane means.”

Oromis nodded. “And where does the energy come from?”

“The spellcaster’s body.”

“Does it have to?”

Eragon’s mind raced as he considered the awesome implications of
Oromis’s question. “You mean it can come from other sources?”

“That is exactly what happens whenever Saphira assists you with a
spell.”

“Yes, but she and I share a unique connection,” protested Eragon. “Our
bond is the reason I can draw upon her strength. To do that with someone
else, I would have to enter...” He trailed off as he realized what
Oromis was driving at.

“You would have to enter the consciousness of the being—or beings—
who was going to provide the energy,” said Oromis, completing Eragon’s
thought. “Today you proved that you can do just that with even the
smallest form of life. Now...” He stopped and pressed a hand against his
chest as he coughed, then continued, “I want you to extract a sphere of
water from the stream, using only the energy you can glean from the forest
around you.”

“Yes, Master.”

505



As Eragon reached out to the nearby plants and animals, he felt
Oromis’s mind brush against his own, the elf watching and judging his
progress. Frowning with concentration, Eragon endeavored to eke the
needed force from the environment and hold it within himself until he
was ready to release the magic....

“Eragon! Do not take it from me! I am weak enough as is.”

Startled, Eragon realized that he had included Oromis in his search. “I’m
sorry, Master,” he said, chastised. He resumed the process, careful to
avoid draining the elf’s vitality, and when he was ready, commanded,
“Up!”

Silent as the night, a sphere of water a foot wide rose from the brook
until it floated at eye level across from Eragon. And while Eragon experienced
the usual strain that results from intense effort, the spell itself
caused him no fatigue.

The sphere was only in the air for a moment when a wave of death
rolled through the smaller creatures Eragon was in contact with. A line of
ants keeled over motionless. A baby mouse gasped and entered the void
as it lost the strength to keep its heart beating. Countless plants withered
and crumbled and became inert as dust.

Eragon flinched, horrified by what he had caused. Given his new respect
for the sanctity of life, he found the crime appalling. What made it
worse was that he was intimately linked with each being as it ceased to
exist; it was as if he himself were dying over and over. He severed the
flow of magic—letting the sphere of water splash across the ground—and
then whirled on Oromis and growled, “You knew that would happen!”

An expression of profound sorrow engulfed the ancient Rider. “It was
necessary,” he replied.

“Necessary that so many had to die?”

“Necessary that you understand the terrible price of using this type of
magic. Mere words cannot convey the feeling of having those whose
minds you share die. You had to experience it for yourself.”

“I won’t do that again,” vowed Eragon.

“Nor will you have to. If you are disciplined, you can choose to draw
the power only from plants and animals that can withstand the loss. It’s

506



impractical in battle, but you may do so in your lessons.” Oromis gestured
at him, and, still simmering, Eragon allowed the elf to lean on him as they
returned to the hut. “You see why this technique was not taught to
younger riders. If it were to become known to a spellweaver of evil disposition,
he or she could wreak vast amounts of destruction, especially
since it would be difficult to stop anyone with access to so much power.”
Once they were back inside, the elf sighed, lowered himself into his
chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

Eragon sat as well. “Since it’s possible to absorb energy from”— he
waved his hand—“from life, is it also possible to absorb it directly from
light or fire or from any of the other forms of energy?”

“Ah, Eragon, if it were, we could destroy Galbatorix in an instant. We
can exchange energy with other living beings, we can use that energy to
move our bodies or to fuel a spell, and we can even store that energy in
certain objects for later use, but we cannot assimilate the fundamental
forces of nature. Reason says that it can be done, but no one has managed
to devise a spell that allows it.”

Nine days later, Eragon presented himself to Oromis and said, “Master,
it struck me last night that neither you nor the hundreds of elven scrolls
I’ve read have mentioned your religion. What do elves believe?”

A long sigh was Oromis’s first answer. Then: “We believe that the
world behaves according to certain inviolable rules and that, by persistent
effort, we can discover those rules and use them to predict events when
circumstances repeat.”

Eragon blinked. That did not tell him what he wanted to know. “But
who, or what, do you worship?”

“Nothing.”

“You worship the concept of nothing?”

“No, Eragon. We do not worship at all.”

The thought was so alien, it took Eragon several moments to grasp
what Oromis meant. The villagers of Carvahall lacked a single overriding
doctrine, but they did share a collection of superstitions and rituals, most
of which concerned warding off bad luck. During the course of his train


507



ing, it had dawned upon Eragon that many of the phenomena that the
villagers attributed to supernatural sources were in fact natural processes,
such as when he learned in his meditations that maggots hatched from fly
eggs instead of spontaneously arising from the dirt, as he had thought before.
Nor did it make sense for him to put out an offering of food to keep
sprites from turning the milk sour when he knew that sour milk was actually
caused by a proliferation of tiny organisms in the liquid. Still, Eragon
remained convinced that otherworldly forces influenced the world
in mysterious ways, a belief that his exposure to the dwarves’ religion had
bolstered. He said, “Where do you think the world came from, then, if it
wasn’t created by the gods?”

“Which gods, Eragon?”

“Your gods, the dwarf gods, our gods... someone must have created it.”

Oromis raised an eyebrow. “I would not necessarily agree with you. But
be as that may, I cannot prove that gods do not exist. Nor can I prove
that the world and everything in it was not created by an entity or entities
in the distant past. But I can tell you that in the millennia we elves
have studied nature, we have never witnessed an instance where the rules
that govern the world have been broken. That is, we have never seen a
miracle. Many events have defied our ability to explain, but we are convinced
that we failed because we are still woefully ignorant about the
universe and not because a deity altered the workings of nature.”

“A god wouldn’t have to alter nature to accomplish his will,” asserted
Eragon. “He could do it within the system that already exists.... He could
use magic to affect events.”

Oromis smiled. “Very true. But ask yourself this, Eragon: If gods exist,
have they been good custodians of Alagaësia? Death, sickness, poverty,
tyranny, and countless other miseries stalk the land. If this is the handiwork
of divine beings, then they are to be rebelled against and overthrown,
not given obeisance, obedience, and reverence.”

“The dwarves believe—”

“Exactly! The dwarves believe. When it comes to certain matters, they
rely upon faith rather than reason. They have even been known to ignore
proven facts that contradict their dogma.”

“Like what?” demanded Eragon.

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“Dwarf priests use coral as proof that stone is alive and can grow, which
also corroborates their story that Helzvog formed the race of dwarves out
of granite. But we elves discovered that coral is actually an exoskeleton
secreted by minuscule animals that live inside the coral. Any magician
can sense the animals if he opens his mind. We explained this to the
dwarves, but they refused to listen, saying that the life we felt resides in
every kind of stone, although their priests are the only ones who are supposed
to be able to detect the life in landlocked stones.”

For a long time, Eragon stared out the window, turning Oromis’s words
over in his mind. “You don’t believe in an afterlife, then.”

“From what Glaedr said, you already knew that.”

“And you don’t put stock in gods.”

“We give credence only to that which we can prove exists. Since we
cannot find evidence that gods, miracles, and other supernatural things
are real, we do not trouble ourselves about them. If that were to change,
if Helzvog were to reveal himself to us, then we would accept the new
information and revise our position.”

“It seems a cold world without something... more.”

“On the contrary,” said Oromis, “it is a better world. A place where we
are responsible for our own actions, where we can be kind to one another
because we want to and because it is the right thing to do instead of being
frightened into behaving by the threat of divine punishment. I won’t
tell you what to believe, Eragon. It is far better to be taught to think
critically and then be allowed to make your own decisions than to have
someone else’s notions thrust upon you. You asked after our religion, and
I have answered you true. Make of it what you will.”

Their discussion—coupled with his previous worries—left Eragon so
disturbed that he had difficulty concentrating on his studies in the following
days, even when Oromis began to show him how to sing to
plants, which Eragon had been eager to learn.

Eragon recognized that his own experiences had already led him to
adopt a more skeptical attitude; in principle, he agreed with much of
what Oromis had said. The problem he struggled with, though, was that
if the elves were right, it meant that nearly all the humans and dwarves

509



were deluded, something Eragon found difficult to accept. That many
people can’t be mistaken, he insisted to himself.

When he asked Saphira about it, she said, It matters little to me, Eragon.
Dragons have never believed in higher powers. Why should we when deer
and other prey consider usto be a higher power? He laughed at that. Only
do not ignore reality in order to comfort yourself, for once you do, you make
it easy for others to deceive you.

That night, Eragon’s uncertainties burst forth in his waking dreams,
which raged like a wounded bear through his mind, tearing disparate images
from his memories and mixing them into such a clamor, he felt as if
he were transported back into the confusion of the battle under Farthen
Dûr. He saw Garrow lying dead in Horst’s house, then Brom dead in the
lonely sandstone cave, and then the face of Angela the herbalist, who whispered,
“Beware, Argetlam, betrayal is clear. And it will come from within
your family. Beware, Shadeslayer!”

Then the crimson sky was torn apart and Eragon again beheld the two
armies from his premonition in the Beor Mountains. The banks of warriors
collided upon an orange and yellow field, accompanied by the harsh
screams of gore-crows and the whistle of black arrows. The earth itself
seemed to burn: green flames belched from scorched holes that dotted the
ground, charring the mangled corpses left in the armies’ wake. He heard the
roar of a gigantic beast from above that rapidly app—

Eragon jolted upright in bed and scrabbled at the dwarf necklace,
which burned at his throat. Using his tunic to protect his hand, he pulled
the silver hammer away from his skin and then sat and waited in the
dark, his heart thudding from the surprise. He felt his strength ebb as
Gannel’s spell thwarted whoever was trying to scry him and Saphira.
Once again, he wondered if Galbatorix himself was behind the spell, or if
it was one of the king’s pet magicians.

Eragon frowned and released the hammer as the metal grew cold again.
Something’s wrong. I know that much, and I’ve known it for a while, as has
Saphira. Too uneasy to resume the trancelike state that had replaced
sleep for him, he crept from their bedroom without waking Saphira and
climbed the spiral staircase to the study. There he unshuttered a white
lantern and read one of Analísia’s epics until sunrise in an attempt to
calm himself.

Just as Eragon put away the scroll, Blagden flew through the open portal
in the eastern wall and, with a flutter of wings, landed on the corner

510



of the carved writing desk. The white raven fixed his beady eyes on Eragon
and croaked, “Wyrda!”

Eragon inclined his head. “And may the stars watch over you, Master
Blagden.”

The raven hopped closer. He cocked his head to the side and uttered a
barking cough, as if he were clearing his throat, then recited in his hoarse
voice:

By beak and bone,

Mine blackened stone

Sees rooks and crooks

And bloody brooks!

“What does that mean?” asked Eragon.

Blagden shrugged and repeated the verse. When Eragon still pressed
him for an explanation, the bird ruffled his feathers, appearing displeased,
and cackled, “Son and father alike, both as blind as bats.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Eragon, jolting upright. “Do you know my father?
Who is he?”

Blagden cackled again. This time he seemed to be laughing.

While two may share two,

And one of two is certainly one,

One might be two.

“A name, Blagden. Give me a name!” When the raven remained silent,
Eragon reached out with his mind, intending to wrench the information
from the bird’s memories.

Blagden was too wily, however. He deflected Eragon’s probe with a

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flick of his thoughts. Shrieking “Wyrda!” he darted forward, plucked a
bright glass stopper from an inkwell, and sped away with his trophy
clutched in his beak. He dove out of sight before Eragon could cast a
spell to bring him back.

Eragon’s stomach knotted as he tried to decipher Blagden’s two riddles.
The last thing he had expected was to hear his father mentioned in
Ellesméra. Finally, he muttered, “That’s it.” I’ll find Blagden later and
wring the truth out of him. But right now... I would have to be a half-wit to
ignore these portents. He jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs, waking
Saphira with his mind and telling her what had transpired during the
night. Retrieving his shaving mirror from the wash closet, Eragon sat between
Saphira’s two front paws so that she could look over his head and
see what he saw.

Arya won’t appreciate it if we intrude on her privacy, warned Saphira.

I have to know if she’s safe.

Saphira accepted that without argument. How will you find her? You
said that after her imprisonment, she erected wards that—like your neck-
lace—prevent anyone from scrying her.

If I can scry the people she’s with, I might be able to figure out how Arya
is. Concentrating on an image of Nasuada, Eragon passed his hand over
the mirror and murmured the traditional phrase, “Dream stare.”

The mirror shimmered and turned white, except for nine people clustered
around an invisible table. Of them, Eragon was familiar with
Nasuada and the Council of Elders. But he could not identify a strange
girl hooded in black who lurked behind Nasuada. This puzzled him, for a
magician could only scry things that he had already seen, and Eragon was
certain he had never laid eyes upon the girl before. He forgot about her,
though, as he noticed that the men, and even Nasuada, were armed for
battle.

Let us hear their words, suggested Saphira.

The instant Eragon made the needed alteration to the spell, Nasuada’s
voice emanated from the mirror: “... and confusion will destroy us. Our
warriors can afford but one commander during this conflict. Decide who
it is to be, Orrin, and quickly too.”

Eragon heard a disembodied sigh. “As you wish; the position is yours.”

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“But, sir, she is untried!”

“Enough, Irwin,” ordered the king. “She has more experience in war
than anyone in Surda. And the Varden are the only force to have defeated
one of Galbatorix’s armies. If Nasuada were a Surdan general—
which would be peculiar indeed, I admit—you would not hesitate to
nominate her for the post. I shall be happy to deal with questions of authority
if they arise afterward, for they will mean I’m still on my feet and
not lying in a grave. As it is, we are so outnumbered I fear we are
doomed unless Hrothgar can reach us before the end of the week. Now,
where is that blasted scroll on the supply train?... Ah, thank you, Arya.
Three more days without—”

After that the discussion turned to a shortage of bowstrings, which Eragon
could glean nothing useful from, so he ended the spell. The mirror
cleared, and he found himself staring at his own face.

She lives, he murmured. His relief was overshadowed, though, by the
larger meaning of what they had heard.

Saphira looked at him. We are needed.

Aye. Why hasn’t Oromis told us about this? He must know of it.

Maybe he wanted to avoid disrupting our training.

Troubled, Eragon wondered what else of import was happening in Alagaësia
that he was unaware of. Roran. With a pang of guilt, Eragon realized
that it had been weeks since he last thought of his cousin, and even
longer since he scryed him on the way to Ellesméra.

At Eragon’s command, the mirror revealed two figures standing against
a pure white background. It took Eragon a long moment to recognize the
man on the right as Roran. He was garbed in travel-worn clothes, a hammer
was stuck under his belt, a thick beard obscured his face, and he
bore a haunted expression that bespoke desperation. To the left was
Jeod. The men surged up and down, accompanied by the thunderous
crash of waves, which masked anything they said. After a while, Roran
turned and walked along what Eragon assumed was the deck of a ship,
bringing dozens of other villagers into view.

Where are they, and why is Jeod with them? demanded Eragon, bewildered.


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Diverting the magic, he scryed in quick succession Teirm—shocked to
see that the city’s wharfs had been destroyed—Therinsford, Garrow’s old
farm, and then Carvahall, whereupon Eragon uttered a wounded cry.

The village was gone.

Every building, including Horst’s magnificent house, had been burned
to the ground. Carvahall no longer existed except as a sooty blot beside
the Anora River. The sole remaining inhabitants were four gray wolves
that loped through the wreckage.

The mirror dropped from Eragon’s hand and shattered across the floor.
He leaned against Saphira, tears burning in his eyes as he grieved anew for
his lost home. Saphira hummed deep in her chest and brushed his arm
with the side of her jaw, enveloping him in a warm blanket of sympathy.
Take comfort, little one. At least your friends are still alive.

He shuddered and felt a hard core of determination coalesce in his
belly. We have remained sequestered from the world for far too long. It’s
high time we leave Ellesméra and confront our fate, whatever it may be. For
now, Roran must fend for himself, but the Varden... the Varden we can
help.

Is it time to fight, Eragon? asked Saphira, an odd note of formality in her
voice.

He knew what she meant: Was it time to challenge the Empire head-
on, time to kill and rampage to the limit of their considerable abilities,
time to unleash every ounce of their rage until Galbatorix lay dead before
them? Was it time to commit themselves to a campaign that could take
decades to resolve?

It is time.

514



GIFTS


Eragon packed his belongings in less than five minutes. He took the
saddle Oromis had given them, strapped it onto Saphira, then slung his
bags over her back and buckled them down.

Saphira tossed her head, nostrils flared, and said, I will wait for you at
the field. With a roar, she launched herself from the tree house, unfolding
her blue wings in midair, and flew off, skimming the forest canopy.

Quick as an elf, Eragon ran to Tialdarí Hall, where he found Orik sitting
in his usual corner, playing a game of Runes. The dwarf greeted him
with a hearty slap on the arm. “Eragon! What brings you here at this time
of the morn? I thought you’d be off banging swords with Vanir.”

“Saphira and I are leaving,” said Eragon.

Orik stopped with his mouth open, then narrowed his eyes, going serious.
“You’ve had news?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Do you want to come?”

“To Surda?”

“Aye.”

A wide smile broke across Orik’s hairy face. “You’d have to clap me in
irons before I’d stay behind. I’ve done nothing in Ellesméra but grow fat
and lazy. A bit of excitement will do me good. When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Gather your things and meet us at the sparring
grounds. Can you scrounge up a week’s worth of provisions for the two
of us?”

“A week’s? But that won’t—”

“We’re flying on Saphira.”

The skin above Orik’s beard turned pale. “We dwarves don’t do well
with heights, Eragon. We don’t do well at all. It’d be better if we could
ride horses, like we did coming here.”

Eragon shook his head. “That would take too long. Besides, it’s easy to

515



ride Saphira. She’ll catch you if you fall.” Orik grunted, appearing both
queasy and unconvinced. Leaving the hall, Eragon sped through the sylvan
city until he rejoined Saphira, and then they flew to the Crags of
Tel’naeír.

Oromis was sitting upon Glaedr’s right forearm when they landed in
the clearing. The dragon’s scales gilded the landscape with countless chips
of golden light. Neither elf nor dragon stirred. Descending from Saphira’s
back, Eragon bowed. “Master Glaedr. Master Oromis.”

Glaedr said, You have taken it upon yourself to return to the Varden, have
you not?

We have, replied Saphira.

Eragon’s sense of betrayal overcame his self-restraint. “Why did you
hide the truth from us? Are you so determined to keep us here that you
must resort to such underhand trickery? The Varden are about to be attacked
and you didn’t even mention it!”

Calm as ever, Oromis asked, “Do you wish to hear why?”

Very much, Master, said Saphira before Eragon could respond. In private,
she scolded him, growling, Be polite!

“We withheld the tidings for two reasons. Chief among them was that
we ourselves did not know until nine days past that the Varden were
threatened, and the true size, location, and movements of the Empire’s
troops remained concealed from us until three days after that, when Lord
Däthedr pierced the spells Galbatorix used to deceive our scrying.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you said nothing of this.” Eragon
scowled. “Not only that, but once you discovered that the Varden were
in danger, why didn’t Islanzadí rouse the elves to fight? Are we not allies?”


“She has roused the elves, Eragon. The forest echoes with the ring of
hammers, the tramp of armored boots, and the grief of those who are
about to be parted. For the first time in a century, our race is set to
emerge from Du Weldenvarden and challenge our greatest foe. The time
has come for elves to once more walk openly in Alagaësia.” Gently,
Oromis added, “You have been distracted of late, Eragon, and I understand
why. Now you must look beyond yourself. The world demands
your attention.”

516



Shamefaced, all Eragon could say was, “I am sorry, Master.” He remembered
Blagden’s words and allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m as blind as
a bat.”

“Hardly, Eragon. You have done well, considering the enormous responsibilities
we have asked you to shoulder.” Oromis looked at him
gravely. “We expect to receive a missive from Nasuada in the next few
days, requesting assistance from Islanzadí and that you rejoin the Varden.
I intended to inform you of the Varden’s predicament then, when you
would still have enough time to reach Surda before swords are drawn. If I
told you earlier, you would have been honor-bound to abandon your
training and rush to the defense of your liegelord. That is why I and Islanzadí
held our tongues.”

“My training won’t matter if the Varden are destroyed.”

“No. But you may be the only person who can prevent them from being
destroyed, for a chance exists—slim but terrible—that Galbatorix
will be present at this battle. It is far too late for our warriors to assist the
Varden, which means that if Galbatorix is indeed there, you shall confront
him alone, without the protection of our spellweavers. Under those
circumstances, it seemed vital that your training continue for as long as
possible.”

In an instant, Eragon’s anger melted away and was replaced with a cold,
hard, and brutally practical mind-set as he understood the necessity for
Oromis’s silence. Personal feelings were irrelevant in a situation as dire as
theirs. With a flat voice, he said, “You were right. My oath of fealty compels
me to ensure the safety of Nasuada and the Varden. However, I’m
not ready to confront Galbatorix. Not yet, at least.”

“My suggestion,” said Oromis, “is that if Galbatorix reveals himself, do
everything you can to distract him from the Varden until the battle is
decided for good or for ill and avoid directly fighting him. Before you go,
I ask but one thing: that you and Saphira vow that—once events per-
mit—you will return here to complete your training, for you still have
much to learn.”

We shall return, pledged Saphira, binding herself in the ancient language.


“We shall return,” repeated Eragon, and sealed their fate.

517



Appearing satisfied, Oromis reached behind himself and produced an
embroidered red pouch that he tugged open. “In anticipation of your departure,
I gathered together three gifts for you, Eragon.” From the pouch,
he withdrew a silver bottle. “First, some faelnirv I augmented with my
own enchantments. This potion can sustain you when all else fails, and
you may find its properties useful in other circumstances as well. Drink it
sparingly, for I only had time to prepare a few mouthfuls.”

He handed the bottle to Eragon, then removed a long black-and-blue
sword belt from the pouch. The belt felt unusually thick and heavy to
Eragon when he ran it through his hands. It was made of cloth threads
woven together in an interlocking pattern that depicted a coiling Lianí
Vine. At Oromis’s instruction, Eragon pulled at a tassel at the end of the
belt and gasped as a strip in its center slid back to expose twelve diamonds,
each an inch across. Four diamonds were white, four were black,
and the remainder were red, blue, yellow, and brown. They glittered cold
and brilliant, like ice in the dawn, casting a rainbow of multicolored
specks onto Eragon’s hands.

“Master...” Eragon shook his head, at a loss for words for several breaths.
“Is it safe to give this to me?”

“Guard it well so that none are tempted to steal it. This is the belt of
Beloth the Wise—who you read of in your history of the Year of Dark-
ness—and is one of the great treasures of the Riders. These are the most
perfect gems the Riders could find. Some we traded for with the
dwarves. Others we won in battle or mined ourselves. The stones have
no magic of their own, but you may use them as repositories for your
power and draw upon that reserve when in need. This, in addition to the
ruby set in Zar’roc’s pommel, will allow you to amass a store of energy so
that you do not become unduly exhausted casting spells in battle, or even
when confronting enemy magicians.”

Last, Oromis brought out a thin scroll protected inside a wooden tube
that was decorated with a bas-relief sculpture of the Menoa tree. Unfurling
the scroll, Eragon saw the poem he had recited at the Agaetí
Blödhren. It was lettered in Oromis’s finest calligraphy and illustrated
with the elf’s detailed ink paintings. Plants and animals twined together
inside the outline of the first glyph of each quatrain, while delicate
scrollwork traced the columns of words and framed the images.

“I thought,” said Oromis, “that you would appreciate a copy for yourself.”


518



Eragon stood with twelve priceless diamonds in one hand and Oromis’s
scroll in the other, and he knew that it was the scroll he deemed the
most precious. Eragon bowed and, reduced to the simplest language by
the depth of his gratitude, said, “Thank you, Master.”

Then Oromis surprised Eragon by initiating the elves’ traditional greeting
and thereby indicating his respect for Eragon: “May good fortune rule
over you.”

“May the stars watch over you.”

“And may peace live in your heart,” finished the silver-haired elf. He
repeated the exchange with Saphira. “Now go and fly as fast as the north
wind, knowing that you—Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer—
carry the blessing of Oromis, last scion of House Thrándurin, he who is
both the Mourning Sage and the Cripple Who Is Whole.”

And mine as well, added Glaedr. Extending his neck, he touched the tip
of his nose to Saphira’s, his gold eyes glittering like swirling pools of embers.
Remember to keep your heart safe, Saphira. She hummed in response.

They parted with solemn farewells. Saphira soared over the tangled
forest and Oromis and Glaedr dwindled behind them, lonely on the crags.
Despite the hardships of his stay in Ellesméra, Eragon would miss being
among the elves, for with them he had found the closest thing to a home
since fleeing Palancar Valley.

I leave here a changed man, he thought, and closed his eyes, clinging to
Saphira.

Before going to meet with Orik, they made one more stop: Tialdarí
Hall. Saphira landed in the enclosed gardens, careful not to damage any of
the plants with her tail or claws. Without waiting for her to crouch, Eragon
leaped straight to the ground, a drop that would have injured him
before.

A male elf came out, touched his lips with his first two fingers, and
asked if he could help them. When Eragon replied that he sought an audience
with Islanzadí, the elf said, “Please wait here, Silver Hand.”

Not five minutes later, the queen herself emerged from the wooded
depths of Tialdarí Hall, her crimson tunic like a drop of blood among the
white-robed elf lords and ladies who accompanied her. After the appropriate
forms of address were observed, she said, “Oromis informed me of

519



your intention to leave us. I am displeased by this, but one cannot resist
the will of fate.”

“No, Your Majesty.... Your Majesty, we came to pay our respects before
departing. You have been most considerate of us, and we thank you
and your House for clothing, lodging, and feeding us. We are in your
debt.”

“Never in our debt, Rider. We but repaid a little of what we owe you
and the dragons for our miserable failure in the Fall. I am gratified,
though, that you appreciate our hospitality.” She paused. “When you arrive
in Surda, convey my royal salutations to Lady Nasuada and King
Orrin and inform them that our warriors will soon attack the northern
half of the Empire. If fortune smiles upon us, we shall catch Galbatorix
off guard and, given time, divide his forces.”

“As you wish.”

“Also, know that I have dispatched twelve of our finest spellweavers to
Surda. If you are still alive when they arrive, they will place themselves
under your command and do their best to shield you from danger both
night and day.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Islanzadí extended a hand and one of the elf lords handed her a shallow,
unadorned wooden box. “Oromis had his gifts for you, and I have mine.
Let them remind you of your time spent with us under the dusky pines.”
She opened the box, revealing a long, dark bow with reflexed limbs and
curled tips nestled on a bed of velvet. Silver fittings chased with dogwood
leaves decorated the ears and grip of the bow. Beside it lay a quiver of
new arrows fletched with white swan feathers. “Now that you share our
strength, it seems only proper that you should have one of our bows. I
sang it myself from a yew tree. The string will never break. And so long
as you use these arrows, you will be hard-pressed to miss your target,
even if the wind should gust during your shot.”

Once again, Eragon was overwhelmed by the elves’ generosity. He
bowed. “What can I say, my Lady? You honor me that you saw fit to give
me the labor of your own hands.”

Islanzadí nodded, as if agreeing with him, then stepped past him and
said, “Saphira, I brought you no gifts because I could think of nothing you
might need or want, but if there is aught of ours you desire, name it and

520



it shall be yours.”

Dragons, said Saphira, do not require possessions to be happy. What use
have we for riches when our hides are more glorious than any treasure hoard
in existence? No, I am content with the kindness that you have shown Eragon.


Then Islanzadí bade them a safe journey. Sweeping around, her red
cape billowing from her shoulders, she made to leave the gardens, only to
stop at the edge of the pleasance and say, “And, Eragon?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“When you meet with Arya, please express my affection to her and tell
her that she is sorely missed in Ellesméra.” The words were stiff and formal.
Without waiting for a reply, she strode away and disappeared among
the shadowed boles that guarded the interior of Tialdarí Hall, followed
by the elf lords and ladies.

It took Saphira less than a minute to fly to the sparring field, where
Orik sat on his bulging pack, tossing his war ax from one hand to the
other and scowling ferociously. “About time you got here,” he grumbled.
He stood and slipped the ax back under his belt. Eragon apologized for
the delay, then tied Orik’s pack onto the back of his saddle. The dwarf
eyed Saphira’s shoulder, which loomed high above him. “And how, by
Morgothal’s black beard, am I supposed to get up there? A cliff has more
handholds than you, Saphira.”

Here, she said. She lay flat on her belly and pushed her right hind leg
out as far as she could, forming a knobby ramp. Pulling himself onto her
shin with a loud huff, Orik crawled up her leg on hands and knees. A
small jet of flame burst from Saphira’s nostrils as she snorted. Hurry up—
that tickles!

Orik paused on the ledge of her haunches, then placed one foot on either
side of Saphira’s spine and carefully walked his way up her back toward
the saddle. He tapped one of the ivory spikes between his legs and
said, “There be as good a way to lose your manhood as ever I’ve seen.”

Eragon grinned. “Don’t slip.” When Orik lowered himself onto the front
of the saddle, Eragon mounted Saphira and sat behind the dwarf. To hold
Orik in place when Saphira turned or inverted, Eragon loosened the
thongs that were meant to secure his arms and had Orik put his legs
through them.

521



As Saphira rose to her full height, Orik swayed, then clutched the spike
in front of him. “Garr! Eragon, don’t let me open my eyes until we’re in
the air, else I fear I’ll be sick. This is unnatural, it is. Dwarves aren’t meant
to ride dragons. It’s never been done before.”

“Never?”

Orik shook his head without answering.

Clusters of elves drifted out of Du Weldenvarden, gathered along the
edge of the field, and with solemn expressions watched Saphira lift her
translucent wings in preparation to take off.

Eragon tightened his grip as he felt her mighty thews bunch underneath
his legs. With a rush of acceleration, Saphira launched herself into the azure
sky, flapping swift and hard to rise above the giant trees. She wheeled
over the vast forest—spiraling upward as she gained altitude—and then
aimed herself south, toward the Hadarac Desert.

Though the wind was loud in Eragon’s ears, he heard an elf woman in
Ellesméra raise her clear voice in song, as he had when they first arrived.
She sang:

Away, away, you shall fly away,

O’er the peaks and vales

To the lands beyond.

Away, away, you shall fly away,

And never return to me....

522



THE MAW OF THE OCEAN


The obsidian seas heaved underneath the Dragon Wing, propelling the
ship high in the air. There it teetered on the precipitous crest of a foam-
capped swell before pitching forward and racing down the face of the
wave into the black trough below. Billows of stinging mist drove through
the frigid air as the wind groaned and howled like a monstrous spirit.

Roran clung to the starboard rigging at the waist of the ship and
retched over the gunwale; nothing came up but sour bile. He had prided
himself that his stomach never bothered him while on Clovis’s barges,
but the storm they raced before was so violent that even Uthar’s men—
seasoned tars each and every one—had difficulty keeping their whisky
down.

It felt like a boulder of ice clouted Roran between the shoulder blades
as a wave struck the ship crossways, drenching the deck before draining
through the scuppers and pouring back into the frothing, furrowed, furious
ocean from whence it came. Roran wiped the salty water from his
eyes with fingers as clumsy as frozen lumps of wood, and squinted toward
the inky horizon to the aft.

Maybe this will shake them off our scent. Three black-sailed sloops had
pursued them ever since they passed the Iron Cliffs and rounded what
Jeod dubbed Edur Carthungavë and Uthar identified as Rathbar’s Spur.
“The tailbone of the Spine, that’s what it be,” Uthar said, grinning. The
sloops were faster than the Dragon Wing, weighed down with villagers as
it was, and had quickly gained upon the merchant ship until they were
close enough to exchange volleys of arrows. Worst of all, it seemed that
the lead sloop carried a magician, for its arrows were uncannily accurate,
splitting ropes, destroying ballistae, and clogging the blocks. From their
attacks, Roran deduced that the Empire no longer cared about capturing
him and only wanted to stop him from finding sanctuary with the
Varden. He had just been preparing the villagers to repel boarding parties
when the clouds above ripened to a bruised purple, heavy with rain, and
a ravening tempest blew in from the northwest. At the present, Uthar
had the Dragon Wing tacked crossways to the wind, heading toward the
Southern Isles, where he hoped to elude the sloops among the shoals and
coves of Beirland.

A sheet of horizontal lightning flickered between two bulbous thunderheads,
and the world became a tableau of pale marble before darkness
reigned once more. Every blinding flash imprinted a motionless scene

523



upon Roran’s eyes that lingered, pulsing, long after the brazen bolts vanished.


Then came another round of forked lightning, and Roran saw—as if in
a series of monochrome paintings—the mizzen topmast twist, crack, and
topple into the thrashing sea, port amidships. Grabbing a lifeline, Roran
pulled himself to the quarterdeck and, in unison with Bonden, hacked
through the cables that still connected the topmast to the Dragon Wing
and dragged the stern low in the water. The ropes writhed like snakes as
they were cut.

Afterward, Roran sank to the deck, his right arm hooked through the
gunwale to hold himself in place as the ship dropped twenty... thirty...
feet between waves. A swell washed over him, leaching the warmth from
his bones. Shivers racked his body.

Don’t let me die here, he pleaded, though whom he addressed, he knew
not. Not in these cruel waves. My task is yet unfinished. During that long
night, he clung to his memories of Katrina, drawing solace from them
when he grew weary and hope threatened to desert him.

The storm lasted two full days and broke during the wee hours of the
night. The following morning brought with it a pale green dawn, clear
skies, and three black sails riding the northern horizon. To the southwest,
the hazy outline of Beirland lay underneath a shelf of clouds gathered
about the ridged mountain that dominated the island.

Roran, Jeod, and Uthar met in a small fore cabin—since the captain’s
stateroom was given over to the infirm—where Uthar unrolled sea charts
on the table and tapped a point above Beirland. “This’d be where we are
now,” he said. He reached for a larger map of Alagaësia’s coastline and
tapped the mouth of the Jiet River. “An’ this’d be our destination, since
food won’t last us to Reavstone. How we get there, though, without being
overtaken is beyond me. Without our mizzen topgallant, those accursed
sloops will catch us by noon tomorrow, evening if we manage the
sails well.”

“Can we replace the mast?” asked Jeod. “Vessels of this size carry spars
to make just such repairs.”

Uthar shrugged. “We could, provided we had a proper ship’s carpenter
among us. Seeing as we don’t, I’d rather not let inexperienced hands

524



mount a spar, only to have it crash down on deck and perhaps injure
somebody.”

Roran said, “If it weren’t for the magician or magicians, I’d say we
should stand and fight, since we far outnumber the crews of the sloops.
As it is, I’m chary of battle. It seems unlikely that we could prevail, considering
how many ships sent to help the Varden have disappeared.”

Grunting, Uthar drew a circle around their current position. “This’d be
how far we can sail by tomorrow evening, assuming the wind stays with
us. We could make landfall somewhere on Beirland or Nía if we wanted,
but I can’t see how that’d help us. We’d be trapped. The soldiers on those
sloops or the Ra’zac or Galbatorix himself could hunt us at his leisure.”

Roran scowled as he considered their options; a fight with the sloops
appeared inevitable.

For several minutes, the cabin was silent except for the slap of waves
against the hull. Then Jeod placed his finger on the map between Beirland
and Nía, looked at Uthar, and asked, “What about the Boar’s Eye?”

To Roran’s amazement, the scarred sailor actually blanched. “I’d not risk
that, Master Jeod, not on my life. I’d rather face the sloops an’ die in the
open sea than go to that doomed place. There has consumed twice as
many ships as in Galbatorix’s fleet.”

“I seem to recall reading,” said Jeod, leaning back in his chair, “that the
passage is perfectly safe at high tide and low tide. Is that not so?”

With great and evident reluctance, Uthar admitted, “Aye. But the Eye
is so wide, it requires the most precise timing to cross without being destroyed.
We’d be hard-pressed to accomplish that with the sloops near on
our tail.”

“If we could, though,” pressed Jeod, “if we could time it right, the
sloops would be wrecked or—if their nerve failed them—forced to circumvent
Nía. It would give us time to find a place to hide along Beirland.”


“If, if... You’d send us to the crushing deep, you would.”

“Come now, Uthar, your fear is unreasoning. What I propose is dangerous,
I admit, but no more than fleeing Teirm was. Or do you doubt your
ability to sail the gap? Are you not man enough to do it?”

525



Uthar crossed his bare arms. “You’ve never seen the Eye, have you, sir?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“It’s not that I’m not man enough, but that the Eye far exceeds the
strength of men; it puts to shame our biggest ships, our grandest buildings,
an’ anything else you’d care to name. Tempting it would be like trying
to outrun an avalanche; you might succeed, but then you just as well
might be ground into dust.”

“What,” asked Roran, “is this Boar’s Eye?”

“The all-devouring maw of the ocean,” proclaimed Uthar.

In a milder tone, Jeod said, “It’s a whirlpool, Roran. The Eye forms as
the result of tidal currents that collide between Beirland and Nía. When
the tide waxes, the Eye rotates north to west. When the tide wanes, it
rotates north to east.”

“That doesn’t sound so dangerous.”

Uthar shook his head, queue whipping the sides of his wind-burned
neck, and laughed. “Not so dangerous, he says! Ha!”

“What you fail to comprehend,” continued Jeod, “is the size of the vortex.
On average, the center of the Eye is a league in diameter, while the
arms of the pool can be anywhere from ten to fifteen miles across. Ships
unlucky enough to be snared by the Eye are borne down to the floor of
the ocean and dashed against the jagged rocks therein. Remnants of the
vessels are often found as flotsam on the beaches of the two islands.”

“Would anyone expect us to take this route?” Roran queried.

“No, an’ for good reason,” growled Uthar. Jeod shook his head at the
same time.

“Is it even possible for us to cross the Eye?”

“It’d be a blasted fool thing to do.”

Roran nodded. “I know it’s not something you want to risk, Uthar, but
our options are limited. I’m no seaman, so I must rely upon your judgment:
Can we cross the Eye?”

526



The captain hesitated. “Maybe, maybe not. You’d have t’ be stark raving
mad to go nearer’n five miles of that monster.”

Pulling out his hammer, Roran banged it on the table, leaving a dent a
half-inch deep. “Then I’m stark raving mad!” He held Uthar’s gaze until
the sailor shifted with discomfort. “Must I remind you, we’ve only gotten
this far by doing what quibbling worrywarts said couldn’t, or shouldn’t,
be done? We of Carvahall dared to abandon our homes and cross the
Spine. Jeod dared to imagine we could steal the Dragon Wing. What will
you dare, Uthar? If we can brave the Eye and live to tell the tale, you
shall be hailed as one of the greatest mariners in history. Now answer me
and answer me well and true: Can this be done?”

Uthar drew a hand over his face. When he spoke, it was in a low voice,
as if Roran’s outburst had caused him to abandon all bluster. “I don’t
know, Stronghammer.... If we wait for the Eye to subside, the sloops may
be so close to us that if we escape, they’d escape. An’ if the wind should
falter, we’d be caught in the current, unable to break free.”

“As captain, are you willing to attempt it? Neither Jeod nor I can
command the Dragon Wing in your place.”

Long did Uthar stare down at the charts, one hand clasped over the
other. He drew a line or two from their position and worked a table of
figures that Roran could make nothing of. At last he said, “I fear we sail
to our doom, but aye, I’ll do my best to see us through.”

Satisfied, Roran put away his hammer. “So be it.”

527



RUNNING THE BOAR’S EYE


The sloops continued to draw closer to the Dragon Wing over the
course of the day. Roran watched their progress whenever he could, concerned
that they would get near enough to attack before the Dragon
Wing reached the Eye. Still, Uthar seemed able to outrun them, at least
for a little while longer.

At Uthar’s orders, Roran and the other villagers worked to tidy up the
ship after the storm and prepare for the ordeal that was to come. Their
work ended at nightfall, when they extinguished every light on board in
an attempt to confuse their pursuers as to the Dragon Wing ’s heading.
The ruse succeeded in part, for when the sun rose, Roran saw that the
sloops had fallen back to the northwest another mile or so, though they
soon made up the lost distance.

Late that morning, Roran climbed the mainmast and pulled himself up
into the crow’s nest a hundred and thirty feet above the deck, so high
that the men below appeared no larger than his little finger. The water
and sky seemed to rock perilously about him as the Dragon Wing heeled
from side to side.

Taking out the spyglass he had brought with him, Roran put it to his
eye and adjusted it until the sloops came into focus not four miles astern
and approaching faster than he would have liked. They must have realized
what we intend to do, he thought. Sweeping the glass around, he searched
the ocean for any sign of the Boar’s Eye. He stopped as he descried a great
disk of foam the size of an island, gyrating from north to east. We’re late,
he thought, a pit in his stomach. High tide had already passed and the
Boar’s Eye was gathering in speed and strength as the ocean withdrew
from land. Roran trained the glass over the edge of the crow’s nest and
saw that the knotted rope Uthar had tied to the starboard side of the
stern—to detect when they entered the pull of the whirlpool—now
floated alongside the Dragon Wing instead of trailing behind as was usual.
The one thing in their favor was that they were sailing with the Eye’s
current and not against it. If it had been the other way around, they
would have had no choice but to wait until the tide turned.

Below, Roran heard Uthar shout for the villagers to man the oars. A
moment later, the Dragon Wing sprouted two rows of poles along each
side, making the ship look like nothing more than a giant water strider.
At the beat of an ox-hide drum, accompanied by Bonden’s rhythmic
chant as he set the tempo, the oars arched forward, dipped into the sea of

528



green, and swept back across the surface of the water, leaving white
streaks of bubbles in their wake. The Dragon Wing accelerated quickly,
now moving faster than the sloops, which were still outside the Eye’s influence.


Roran watched with horrified fascination the play that unfolded around
him. The essential plot element, the crux upon which the outcome depended,
was time. Though they were late, was the Dragon Wing, with its
oars and sails combined, fast enough to traverse the Eye? And could the
sloops—which had deployed their own oars now—narrow the gap between
them and the Dragon Wing enough to ensure their own survival?
He could not tell. The pounding drum measured out the minutes; Roran
was acutely aware of each moment as it trickled by.

He was surprised when an arm reached over the edge of the basket and
Baldor’s face appeared, looking up at him. “Give me a hand, won’t you? I
feel like I’m about to fall.”

Bracing himself, Roran helped Baldor into the basket. Baldor handed
Roran a biscuit and a dried apple and said, “Thought you might like some
lunch.” With a nod of thanks, Roran tore into the biscuit and resumed
gazing through the spyglass. When Baldor asked, “Can you see the Eye?”
Roran passed him the glass and concentrated on eating.

Over the next half hour, the foam disk increased the speed of its revolutions
until it spun like a top. The water around the foam bulged and
began to rise, while the foam itself sank from view into the bottom of a
gigantic pit that continued to deepen and enlarge. The air over the vortex
filled with a cyclone of twisting mist, and from the ebony throat of the
abyss came a tortured howl like the cries of an injured wolf.

The speed with which the Boar’s Eye formed amazed Roran. “You’d
better go tell Uthar,” he said.

Baldor climbed out of the nest. “Tie yourself to the mast or you may
get thrown off.”

“I will.”

Roran left his arms free when he secured himself, making sure that, if
needed, he could reach his belt knife to cut himself free. Anxiety filled
him as he surveyed the situation. The Dragon Wing was but a mile past
the median of the Eye, the sloops were but two miles behind her, and the
Eye itself was quickly building toward its full fury. Worse, disrupted by

529



the whirlpool, the wind sputtered and gasped, blowing first from one direction
and then the other. The sails billowed for a moment, then fell
slack, then filled again as the confused wind swirled about the ship.

Perhaps Uthar was right, thought Roran. Perhaps I’ve gone too far and
pitted myself against an opponent that cannot be overcome by sheer determination.
Perhaps I am sending the villagers to their deaths. The forces of
nature were immune to intimidation.

The gaping center of the Boar’s Eye was now almost nine and a half
miles in circumference, and how many fathoms deep no one could say,
except for those who had been trapped within it. The sides of the Eye
slanted inward at a forty-five-degree angle; they were striated with shallow
grooves, like wet clay being molded on a potter’s wheel. The bass
howl grew louder, until it seemed to Roran that the entire world must
crumble to pieces from the intensity of the vibrations. A glorious rainbow
emerged from the mist over the whirling chasm.

The current moved faster than ever, driving the Dragon Wing at a
breakneck pace as it whipped around the rim of the whirlpool and making
it more and more unlikely that the ship could break free at the Eye’s
southern edge. So prodigious was her velocity, the Dragon Wing tilted far
to the starboard, suspending Roran out over the rushing water.

Despite the Dragon Wing ’s progress, the sloops continued to gain on
her. The enemy ships sailed abreast less than a mile away, their oars moving
in perfect accord, two fins of water flying from each prow as they
plowed the ocean. Roran could not help but admire the sight.

He tucked the spyglass away in his shirt; he had no need of it now. The
sloops were close enough for the naked eye, while the whirlpool was increasingly
obscured by the clouds of white vapor thrown off the lip of
the funnel. As it was pulled into the deep, the vapor formed a spiral lens
over the gulf, mimicking the whirlpool’s appearance.

Then the Dragon Wing tacked port, diverging from the current in
Uthar’s bid for the open sea. The keel chattered across the puckered water,
and the ship’s speed dropped in half as the Dragon Wing fought the
deadly embrace of the Boar’s Eye. A shudder ran up the mast, jarring Roran’s
teeth, and the crow’s nest swung in the new direction, making him
giddy with vertigo.

Fear gripped Roran when they continued to slow. He slashed off his
bindings and—with reckless disregard for his own safety—swung himself

530



over the edge of the basket, grabbed the ropes underneath, and shinnied
down the rigging so quickly that he lost his grip once and fell several feet
before he could catch himself. He jumped to the deck, ran to the fore
hatchway, and descended to the first bank of oars, where he joined Baldor
and Albriech on an oak pole.

They said not a word, but labored to the sound of their own desperate
breathing, the frenzied beat of the drum, Bonden’s hoarse shouts, and the
roar of the Boar’s Eye. Roran could feel the mighty whirlpool resisting
with every stroke of the oar.

And yet their efforts could not keep the Dragon Wing from coming to
a virtual standstill. We’re not going to make it, thought Roran. His back
and legs burned from the exertion. His lungs stabbed. Between the
drumbeats, he heard Uthar ordering the hands above deck to trim the
sails to take full advantage of the fickle wind.

Two places ahead of Roran, Darmmen and Hamund surrendered their
oar to Thane and Ridley, then lay in the middle of the aisle, their limbs
trembling. Less than a minute later, someone else collapsed farther down
the gallery and was immediately replaced by Birgit and another woman.

If we survive, thought Roran, it’ll only be because we have enough people
to sustain this pace however long is necessary.

It seemed an eternity that he worked the oar in the murky, smoky
room, first pushing, then pulling, doing his best to ignore the pain mounting
within his body. His neck ached from hunching underneath the low
ceiling. The dark wood of the pole was streaked with blood where his
skin had blistered and torn. He ripped off his shirt—dropping the spyglass
to the floor—wrapped the cloth around the oar, and continued rowing.


At last Roran could do no more. His legs gave way and he fell on his
side, slipping across the aisle because he was so sweaty. Orval took his
place. Roran lay still until his breath returned, then pushed himself onto
his hands and knees and crawled to the hatchway.

Like a fever-mad drunk, he pulled himself up the ladder, swaying with
the motion of the ship and often slumping against the wall to rest. When
he came out on deck, he took a brief moment to appreciate the fresh air,
then staggered aft to the helm, his legs threatening to cramp with every
step.

531



“How goes it?” he gasped to Uthar, who manned the wheel.

Uthar shook his head.

Peering over the gunwale, Roran espied the three sloops perhaps a half
mile away and slightly more to the west, closer to the center of the Eye.
The sloops appeared motionless in relation to the Dragon Wing.

At first, as Roran watched, the positions of the four ships remained unchanged.
Then he sensed a shift in the Dragon Wing ’s speed, as if the
ship had crossed some crucial point and the forces restraining her had
diminished. It was a subtle difference and amounted to little more than a
few additional feet per minute—but it was enough that the distance between
the Dragon Wing and the sloops began to increase. With every
stroke of the oars, the Dragon Wing gained momentum.

The sloops, however, could not overcome the whirlpool’s dreadful
strength. Their oars gradually slowed until, one by one, the ships drifted
backward and were drawn toward the veil of mist, beyond which waited
the gyrating walls of ebony water and the gnashing rocks at the bottom of
the ocean floor.

They can’t keep rowing, realized Roran. Their crews are too small and
they’re too tired. He could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the
fate of the men on the sloops.

At that precise instant, an arrow sprang from the nearest sloop and
burst into green flame as it raced toward the Dragon Wing. The dart
must have been sustained by magic to have flown so far. It struck the
mizzen sail and exploded into globules of liquid fire that stuck to whatever
they touched. Within seconds, twenty small fires burned along the
mizzenmast, the mizzen sail, and the deck below.

“We can’t put it out,” shouted one of the sailors with a panicked expression.


“Chop off whatever’s burning an’ throw it overboard!” roared Uthar in
reply.

Unsheathing his belt knife, Roran set to work excising a dollop of green
fire from the boards by his feet. Several tense minutes elapsed before the
unnatural blazes were removed and it became clear that the conflagrations
would not spread to the rest of the ship.

532



Once the cry of “All clear!” was sounded, Uthar relaxed his grip on the
steering wheel. “If that was the best their magician can do, then I’d say
we have nothing more to fear of him.”

“We’re going to get out of the Eye, aren’t we?” asked Roran, eager to
confirm his hope.

Uthar squared his shoulders and flashed a quick grin, both proud and
disbelieving. “Not quite this cycle, but we’ll be close. We won’t make real
progress away from that gaping monster until the tide slacks off. Go tell
Bonden to lower the tempo a bit; I don’t want them fainting at the oars
if’n I can help it.”

And so it was. Roran took another shift rowing and, by the time he returned
to the deck, the whirlpool was subsiding. The vortex’s ghastly
howl faded into the usual noise of the wind; the water assumed a calm,
flat quality that betrayed no hint of the habitual violence visited upon
that location; and the contorted fog that had writhed above the abyss
melted under the warm rays of the sun, leaving the air as clear as oiled
glass. Of the Boar’s Eye itself—as Roran saw when he retrieved the spyglass
from among the rowers—nothing remained but the selfsame disk of
yellow foam rotating upon the water.

And in the center of the foam, he thought he could discern, just barely,
three broken masts and a black sail floating round and round and round
in an endless circle. But it might have been his imagination.

Leastways, that’s what he told himself.

Elain came up beside him, one hand resting on her swollen belly. In a
small voice, she said, “We were lucky, Roran, more lucky than we had
reason to expect.”

“Aye,” he agreed.

533



TO ABERON


Underneath Saphira, the pathless forest stretched wide to each white
horizon, fading as it did from the deepest green to a hazy, washed-out
purple. Martins, rooks, and other woodland birds flitted above the
gnarled pines, uttering shrieks of alarm when they beheld Saphira. She
flew low to the canopy in order to protect her two passengers from the
arctic temperatures in the upper reaches of the sky.

Except for when Saphira fled the Ra’zac into the Spine, this was the
first time she and Eragon had had the opportunity to fly together over a
great stretch of distance without having to stop or hold back for companions
on the ground. Saphira was especially pleased with the trip, and she
delighted in showing Eragon how Glaedr’s tutelage had enhanced her
strength and endurance.

After his initial discomfort abated, Orik said to Eragon, “I doubt I could
ever be comfortable in the air, but I can understand why you and Saphira
enjoy it so. Flying makes you feel free and unfettered, like a fierce-eyed
hawk hunting his prey! It sets my heart a-pounding, it does.”

To reduce the tedium of the journey, Orik played a game of riddles
with Saphira. Eragon excused himself from the contest as he had never
been particularly adept at riddles; the twist of thought necessary to solve
them always seemed to escape him. In this, Saphira far exceeded him. As
most dragons are, she was fascinated by puzzles and found them quite
easy to unravel.

Orik said, “The only riddles I know are in Dwarvish. I will do mine best
to translate them, but the results may be rough and unwieldy.” Then he
asked:

Tall I am young.

Short I am old.

While with life I do glow,

Urûr’s breath is my foe.

Not fair, growled Saphira. I know little of your gods. Eragon had no need

534



to repeat her words, for Orik had granted permission for her to project
them directly into his mind.

Orik laughed. “Do you give up?”

Never. For a few minutes, the only sound was the sweep of her wings,
until she asked, Is it a candle?

“Right you are.”

A puff of hot smoke floated back into Orik’s and Eragon’s faces as she
snorted. I do poorly with such riddles. I’ve not been inside a house since the
day I hatched, and I find enigmas difficult that deal with domestic subjects.
Next she offered:

What herb cures all ailments?

This proved a terrible poser for Orik. He grumbled and groaned and
gnashed his teeth in frustration. Behind him, Eragon could not help but
grin, for he saw the answer plain in Saphira’s mind. Finally, Orik said,
“Well, what is it? You have bested me with this.”

By the black raven’s crime, and by this rhyme,

the answer would be thyme.

Now it was Orik’s turn to cry, “Not fair! This is not mine native
tongue. You cannot expect me to grasp such wordplay!”

Fair is fair. It was a proper riddle.

Eragon watched the muscles at the back of Orik’s neck bunch and knot
as the dwarf jutted his head forward. “If that is your stance, O Irontooth,
then I’d have you solve this riddle that every dwarf child knows.”

I am named Morgothal’s Forge and Helzvog’s Womb.

I veil Nordvig’s Daughter and bring gray death,

535



And make the world anew with Helzvog’s Blood.

What be I?

And so they went, exchanging riddles of increasing difficulty while Du
Weldenvarden sped past below. Gaps in the thatched branches often revealed
patches of silver, sections of the many rivers that threaded the forest.
Around Saphira, the clouds billowed in a fantastic architecture: vaulting
arches, domes, and columns; crenelated ramparts; towers the size of
mountains; and ridges and valleys suffused with a glowing light that made
Eragon feel as if they flew through a dream.

So fast was Saphira that, when dusk arrived, they had already left Du
Weldenvarden behind and entered the auburn fields that separated the
great forest from the Hadarac Desert. They made their camp among the
grass and hunkered round their small fire, utterly alone upon the flat face
of the earth. They were grim-faced and said little, for words only emphasized
their insignificance in that bare and empty land.

Eragon took advantage of their stop to store some of his energy in the
ruby that adorned Zar’roc’s pommel. The gem absorbed all the power he
gave it, as well as Saphira’s when she lent her strength. It would, concluded
Eragon, be a number of days before they could saturate both the
ruby and the twelve diamonds concealed within the belt of Beloth the
Wise.

Weary from the exercise, he wrapped himself in blankets, lay beside
Saphira, and drifted into his waking sleep, where his night phantasms
played out against the sea of stars above.

Soon after they resumed their journey the following morning, the rippling
grass gave way to tan scrub, which grew ever more scarce until, in
turn, it was replaced by sunbaked ground bare of all but the most hardy
plants. Reddish gold dunes appeared. From his vantage on Saphira, they
looked to Eragon like lines of waves forever sailing toward a distant
shore.

As the sun began its descent, he noticed a cluster of mountains in the
distant east and knew he beheld Du Fells Nángoröth, where the wild
dragons had gone to mate, to raise their young, and eventually to die. We

536



must visit there someday, said Saphira, following his gaze.

Aye.

That night, Eragon felt their solitude even more keenly than before, for
they were camped in the emptiest region of the Hadarac Desert, where
so little moisture existed in the air that his lips soon cracked, though he
smeared them with nalgask every few minutes. He sensed little life in the
ground, only a handful of miserable plants interspersed with a few insects
and lizards.

As he had when they fled Gil’ead through the desert, Eragon drew water
from the soil to replenish their waterskins, and before he allowed the
water to drain away, he scryed Nasuada in the pool’s reflection to see if
the Varden had been attacked yet. To his relief, they had not.

On the third day since leaving Ellesméra, the wind rose up behind
them and wafted Saphira farther than she could have flown on her own,
carrying them entirely out of the Hadarac Desert.

Near the edge of the waste, they passed over a number of horse-
mounted nomads who were garbed in flowing robes to ward against the
heat. The men shouted in their rough tongue and shook their swords and
spears at Saphira, though none of them dared loose an arrow at her.

Eragon, Saphira, and Orik bivouacked for the night at the southernmost
end of Silverwood Forest, which lay along Lake Tüdosten and was named
so because it was composed almost entirely of beeches, willows, and
trembling poplars. In contrast to the endless twilight that lay beneath the
brooding pines of Du Weldenvarden, Silverwood was filled with bright
sunshine, larks, and the gentle rustling of green leaves. The trees seemed
young and happy to Eragon, and he was glad to be there. And though all
signs of the desert had vanished, the weather remained far warmer than
he was accustomed to at that time of year. It felt more like summer than
spring.

From there they flew straight to Aberon, the capital of Surda, guided
by directions Eragon gleaned from the memories of birds they encountered.
Saphira made no attempt to conceal herself along the way, and
they often heard cries of amazement and alarm from the villages she

537



swept over.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Aberon, a low, walled city
centered around a bluff in an otherwise flat landscape. Borromeo Castle
occupied the top of the bluff. The rambling citadel was protected by
three concentric layers of walls, numerous towers, and, Eragon noted,
hundreds of ballistae made for shooting down a dragon. The rich amber
light from the low sun cast Aberon’s buildings in sharp relief and illuminated
a plume of dust rising from the city’s western gate, where a line of
soldiers sought entrance.

As Saphira descended toward the inner ward of the castle, she brought
Eragon into contact with the combined thoughts of the people in the
capital. The noise overwhelmed him at first—how was he supposed to
listen for foes and still function at the same time?—until he realized that,
as usual, he was concentrating too much on specifics. All he had to do
was sense people’s general intentions. He broadened his focus, and the
individual voices clamoring for his attention subsided into a continuum
of the emotions surrounding him. It was like a sheet of water that lay
draped over the nearby landscape, undulating with the rise and fall of
people’s feelings and spiking whenever someone was racked by extremes
of passion.

Thus, Eragon was aware of the alarm that gripped the people below as
word of Saphira spread. Careful, he told her. We don’t want them to attack
us.

Dirt billowed into the air with each beat of Saphira’s powerful wings as
she settled in the middle of the courtyard, sinking her claws into the bare
ground to steady herself. The horses tethered in the yard neighed with
fear, creating such an uproar that Eragon finally inserted himself in their
minds and calmed them with words from the ancient language.

Eragon dismounted after Orik, eyeing the many soldiers that lined the
parapets and the drawn ballistae they manned. He did not fear the weapons,
but he had no desire to become engaged in a fight with his allies.

A group of twelve men, some soldiers, hurried out of the keep toward
Saphira. They were led by a tall man with the same dark skin as Nasuada,
only the third person Eragon had met with such a complexion. Halting
ten paces away, the man bowed—as did his followers—then said, “Welcome,
Rider. I am Dahwar, son of Kedar. I am King Orrin’s seneschal.”

Eragon inclined his head. “And I, Eragon Shadeslayer, son of none.”

538



“And I, Orik, Thrifk’s son.”

And I, Saphira, daughter of Vervada, said Saphira, using Eragon as her
mouthpiece.

Dahwar bowed again. “I apologize that no one of higher rank than myself
is present to greet guests as noble as you, but King Orrin, Lady
Nasuada, and all the Varden have long since marched to confront Galbatorix’s
army.” Eragon nodded. He had expected as much. “They left orders
that if you came here seeking them, you should join them directly,
for your prowess is needed if we are to prevail.”

“Can you show us on a map how to find them?” asked Eragon.

“Of course, sir. While I have that fetched, would you care to step out
of the heat and partake of some refreshments?”

Eragon shook his head. “We have no time to waste. Besides, it is not I
who needs to see the map but Saphira, and I doubt she would fit in your
halls.”

That seemed to catch the seneschal off guard. He blinked and ran his
eyes over Saphira, then said, “Quite right, sir. In either case, our hospitality
is yours. If there is aught you and your companions desire, you have
but to ask.”

For the first time, Eragon realized that he could issue commands and
expect them to be followed. “We need a week’s worth of provisions. For
me, only fruit, vegetables, flour, cheese, bread—things like that. We also
need our waterskins refilled.” He was impressed that Dahwar did not
question his avoidance of meat. Orik added his requests then for jerky,
bacon, and other such products.

Snapping his fingers, Dahwar sent two servants running back into the
keep to collect the supplies. While everyone in the ward waited for the
men to return, he asked, “May I assume by your presence here, Shade-
slayer, that you completed your training with the elves?”

“My training shall never end so long as I’m alive.”

“I see.” Then, after a moment, Dahwar said, “Please excuse my impertinence,
sir, for I am ignorant of the ways of the Riders, but are you not
human? I was told you were.”

539



“That he is,” growled Orik. “He was... changed. And you should be glad
he was, or our predicament would be far worse than it is.” Dahwar was
tactful enough not to pursue the subject, but from his thoughts Eragon
concluded that the seneschal would have paid a handsome price for further
details—any information about Eragon or Saphira was valuable in
Orrin’s government.

The food, water, and map were soon brought by two wide-eyed pages.
At Eragon’s word, they deposited the items beside Saphira, looking terribly
frightened as they did, then retreated behind Dahwar. Kneeling on
the ground, Dahwar unrolled the map—which depicted Surda and the
neighboring lands—and drew a line northwest from Aberon to Cithrí. He
said, “Last I heard, King Orrin and Lady Nasuada stopped here for provender.
They did not intend to stay, however, because the Empire is advancing
south along the Jiet River and they wished to be in place to confront
Galbatorix’s army when it arrives. The Varden could be anywhere
between Cithrí and the Jiet River. This is only my humble opinion, but I
would say the best place to look for them would be the Burning Plains.”

“The Burning Plains?”

Dahwar smiled. “You may know them by their old name, then, the
name the elves use: Du Völlar Eldrvarya.”

“Ah, yes.” Now Eragon remembered. He had read about them in one of
the histories Oromis assigned him. The plains—which contained huge
deposits of peat—lay along the eastern side of the Jiet River where
Surda’s border crossed it and had been the site of a skirmish between the
Riders and the Forsworn. During the fight, the dragons inadvertently lit
the peat with the flames from their mouths and the fire had burrowed
underground, where it remained smoldering ever since. The land had
been rendered uninhabitable by the noxious fumes that poured out of
the glowing vents in the charred earth.

A shiver crawled down Eragon’s left side as he recalled his premonition:
banks of warriors colliding upon an orange and yellow field, accompanied
by the harsh screams of gore-crows and the whistle of black arrows. He
shivered again. Fate is converging upon us, he said to Saphira. Then, gesturing
at the map: Have you seen enough?

I have.

In short order, he and Orik packed the supplies, remounted Saphira,

540



and from her back thanked Dahwar for his service. As Saphira was about
to take off again, Eragon frowned; a note of discord had entered the
minds he was monitoring. “Dahwar, two grooms in the stables have gotten
into an argument and one of them, Tathal, intends to commit murder.
You can stop him, though, if you send men right away.”

Dahwar widened his eyes in an expression of astonishment, and even
Orik twisted round to look at Eragon. The seneschal asked, “How do you
know this, Shadeslayer?”

Eragon merely said, “Because I am a Rider.”

Then Saphira unfurled her wings, and everyone on the ground ran back
to avoid being battered by the rush of air as she flapped downward and
soared into the sky. As Borromeo Castle dwindled behind them, Orik
said, “Can you hear my thoughts, Eragon?”

“Do you want me to try? I haven’t, you know.”

“Try.”

Frowning, Eragon concentrated his attention on the dwarf’s consciousness
and was surprised to find Orik’s mind well protected behind thick
mental barriers. He could sense Orik’s presence, but not his thoughts and
feelings. “Nothing.”

Orik grinned. “Good. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten my old
lessons.”

By unspoken consent, they did not stop for the night, but rather forged
onward through the blackened sky. Of the moon and stars they saw no
sign, no flash or pale gleam to breach the oppressive gloom. The dead
hours bloated and sagged and, it seemed to Eragon, clung to each second
as if reluctant to surrender to the past.

When the sun finally returned—bringing with it its welcome light—
Saphira landed by the edge of a small lake so Eragon and Orik could
stretch their legs, relieve themselves, and eat breakfast without the constant
movement they experienced on her back.

They had just taken off again when a long, low brown cloud appeared
on the edge of the horizon, like a smudge of walnut ink on a sheet of
white paper. The cloud grew wider and wider as Saphira approached it,
until by late morning it obscured the entire land beneath a pall of foul

541



vapors.
They had reached the Burning Plains of Alagaësia.


542



THE BURNING PLAINS


Eragon coughed as Saphira descended through the layers of smoke, angling
toward the Jiet River, which was hidden behind the haze. He
blinked and wiped back tears. The fumes made his eyes smart.

Closer to the ground, the air cleared, giving Eragon an unobstructed
view of their destination. The rippling veil of black and crimson smoke
filtered the sun’s rays in such a way that everything below was bathed in
a lurid orange. Occasional rents in the besmirched sky allowed pale bars
of light to strike the ground, where they remained, like pillars of translucent
glass, until they were truncated by the shifting clouds.

The Jiet River lay before them, as thick and turgid as a gorged snake, its
crosshatched surface reflecting the same ghastly hue that pervaded the
Burning Plains. Even when a splotch of undiluted light happened to fall
upon the river, the water appeared chalky white, opaque and opalescent—
almost as if it were the milk of some fearsome beast—and seemed
to glow with an eerie luminescence all its own.

Two armies were arrayed along the eastern banks of the oozing waterway.
To the south were the Varden and the men of Surda, entrenched
behind multiple layers of defense, where they displayed a fine panoply of
woven standards, ranks of proud tents, and the picketed horses of King
Orrin’s cavalry. Strong as they were, their numbers paled in comparison
to the size of the force assembled in the north. Galbatorix’s army was so
large, it measured three miles across on its leading edge and how many in
length it was impossible to tell, for the individual men melded into a
shadowy mass in the distance.

Between the mortal foes was an empty span of perhaps two miles. This
land, and the land that the armies camped on, was pocked with countless
ragged orifices in which danced green tongues of fire. From those sickly
torches billowed plumes of smoke that dimmed the sun. Every scrap of
vegetation had been scorched from the parched soil, except for growths
of black, orange, and chartreuse lichen that, from the air, gave the earth a
scabbed and infected appearance.

It was the most forbidding vista Eragon had clapped eyes upon.

Saphira emerged over the no-man’s-land that separated the grim armies,
and now she twisted and dove toward the Varden as fast as she dared, for
so long as they remained exposed to the Empire, they were vulnerable to

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attacks from enemy magicians. Eragon extended his awareness as far as he
could in every direction, hunting for hostile minds that could feel his
probing touch and would react to it—the minds of magicians and those
trained to fend off magicians.

What he felt instead was the sudden panic that overwhelmed the
Varden’s sentinels, many of whom, he realized, had never before seen
Saphira. Fear made them ignore their common sense, and they released a
flock of barbed arrows that arched up to intercept her.

Raising his right hand, Eragon cried, “Letta orya thorna!” The arrows
froze in place. With a flick of his wrist and the word “Gánga,” he redirected
them, sending the darts boring toward the no-man’s-land, where
they could bury themselves in the barren soil without causing harm. He
missed one arrow, though, which was fired a few seconds after the first
volley.

Eragon leaned as far to his right as he could and, faster than any normal
human, plucked the arrow from the air as Saphira flew past it.

Only a hundred feet above the ground, Saphira flared her wings to slow
her steep descent before alighting first on her hind legs and then her front
legs as she came to a running stop among the Varden’s tents.

“Werg,” growled Orik, loosening the thongs that held his legs in place.
“I’d rather fight a dozen Kull than experience such a fall again.” He let
himself hang off one side of the saddle, then dropped to Saphira’s foreleg
below and, from there, to the ground.

Even as Eragon dismounted, dozens of warriors with awestruck expressions
gathered around Saphira. From within their midst strode a big bear
of a man whom Eragon recognized: Fredric, the Varden’s weapon master
from Farthen Dûr, still garbed in his hairy ox-hide armor. “Come on, you
slack-jawed louts!” roared Fredric. “Don’t stand here gawking; get back to
your posts or I’ll have the lot of you chalked up for extra watches!” At
his command, the men began to disperse with many a grumbled word
and backward glance. Then Fredric drew nearer and, Eragon could tell,
was startled by the change in Eragon’s countenance. The bearded man did
his best to conceal the reaction by touching his brow and saying, “Welcome,
Shadeslayer. You’ve arrived just in time.... I can’t tell you how
ashamed I am you were attacked. The honor of every man here has been
blackened by this mistake. Were the three of you hurt?”

“No.”

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Relief spread across Fredric’s face. “Well, there’s that to be grateful for.
I’ve had the men responsible pulled from duty. They’ll each be whipped
and reduced in rank.... Will that punishment satisfy you, Rider?”

“I want to see them,” said Eragon.

Sudden concern emanated from Fredric; it was obvious he feared that
Eragon wanted to enact some terrible and unnatural retribution on the
sentinels. Fredric did not voice his concern, however, but said, “If you’d
follow me, then, sir.”

He led them through the camp to a striped command tent where
twenty or so miserable-looking men were divesting themselves of their
arms and armor under the watchful eye of a dozen guards. At the sight of
Eragon and Saphira, the prisoners all went down on one knee and remained
there, gazing at the ground. “Hail, Shadeslayer!” they cried.

Eragon said nothing, but walked along the line of men while he studied
their minds, his boots sinking through the crust of the baked earth with
an ominous crunch. At last he said, “You should be proud that you reacted
so quickly to our appearance. If Galbatorix attacks, that’s exactly
what you should do, though I doubt arrows would prove any more effective
against him than they were against Saphira and me.” The sentinels
glanced at him with disbelief, their upturned faces tinted the color of
tarnished brass by the variegated light. “I only ask that, in the future, you
take a moment to identify your target before shooting. Next time I might
be too distracted to stop your missiles. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Shadeslayer!” they shouted.

Stopping before the second-to-last man in the line, Eragon held out the
arrow he had snared from Saphira’s back. “I believe this is yours, Harwin.”

With an expression of wonder, Harwin accepted the arrow from Eragon.
“So it is! It has the white band I always paint on my shafts so I can
find them later. Thank you, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon nodded and then said to Fredric so all could hear, “These are
good and true men, and I want no misfortune to befall them because of
this event.”

“I will see to it personally,” said Fredric, and smiled.

545



“Now, can you take us to Lady Nasuada?”

“Yes, sir.”

As he left the sentinels, Eragon knew that his kindness had earned him
their undying loyalty, and that tidings of his deed would spread throughout
the Varden.

The path Fredric took through the tents brought Eragon into close contact
with more minds than he had ever touched before. Hundreds of
thoughts, images, and sensations pressed against his consciousness. Despite
his effort to keep them at a distance, he could not help absorbing
random details of people’s lives. Some revelations he found shocking,
some meaningless, others touching or, conversely, disgusting, and many
embarrassing. A few people perceived the world so differently, their
minds leaped out at him on account of that very difference.

How easy it is to view these men as nothing more than objects that I and a
few others can manipulate at will. Yet they each possess hopes and dreams,
potential for what they might achieve and memories of what they have already
accomplished. And they all feel pain.

A handful of the minds he touched were aware of the contact and recoiled
from it, hiding their inner life behind defenses of varying strength.
At first Eragon was concerned—imagining that he had discovered a great
many enemies who had infiltrated the Varden—but then he realized
from his quick glimpse that they were the individual members of Du
Vrangr Gata.

Saphira said, They must be scared out of their wits, thinking that they’re
about to be assaulted by some strange magician.

I can’t convince them otherwise while they block me like this.

You should meet them in person, and soon too, before they decide to band
together and attack.

Aye, although I don’t think they pose a threat to us.... Du Vrangr Gata—
their very name betrays their ignorance. Properly, in the ancient language, it
should be Du Gata Vrangr.

Their trip ended near the back of the Varden, at a large red pavilion
flying a pennant embroidered with a black shield and two parallel swords
slanting underneath. Fredric pulled back the flap and Eragon and Orik en


546



tered the pavilion. Behind them, Saphira pushed her head through the
opening and peered over their shoulders.

A broad table occupied the center of the furnished tent. Nasuada stood
at one end, leaning on her hands, studying a slew of maps and scrolls. Eragon’s
stomach clenched as he saw Arya opposite her. Both women were
armored as men for battle.

Nasuada turned her almond-shaped face toward him. “Eragon?” she
whispered.

He was unprepared for how glad he was to see her. With a broad grin,
he twisted his hand over his sternum in the elves’ gesture of fealty and
bowed. “At your service.”

“Eragon!” This time Nasuada sounded delighted and relieved. Arya, too,
appeared pleased. “How did you get our message so quickly?”

“I didn’t; I learned about Galbatorix’s army from my scrying and left
Ellesméra the same day.” He smiled at her again. “It’s good to be back
with the Varden.”

While he spoke, Nasuada studied him with a wondering expression.
“What has happened to you, Eragon?”

Arya must not have told her, said Saphira.

And so Eragon gave a full account of what had befallen Saphira and
him since they left Nasuada in Farthen Dûr so long ago. Much of what he
said, he sensed that she had already heard, either from the dwarves or
from Arya, but she let him speak without interrupting. Eragon had to be
circumspect about his training. He had given his word not to reveal
Oromis’s existence without permission, and most of his lessons were not
to be shared with outsiders, but he did his best to give Nasuada a good
idea of his skills and their attendant risks. Of the Agaetí Blödhren, he
merely said, “... and during the celebration, the dragons worked upon me
the change you see, giving me the physical abilities of an elf and healing
my back.”

“Your scar is gone, then?” asked Nasuada. He nodded. A few more sentences
served to end his narrative, briefly mentioning the reason they had
left Du Weldenvarden and then summarizing their journey thence. She
shook her head. “What a tale. You and Saphira have experienced so
much since you left Farthen Dûr.”

547



“As have you.” He gestured at the tent. “It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished.
It must have taken an enormous amount of work to get the
Varden to Surda.... Has the Council of Elders caused you much trouble?”

“A bit, but nothing extraordinary. They seem to have resigned themselves
to my leadership.” Her mail clinking together, Nasuada seated herself
in a large, high-backed chair and turned to Orik, who had yet to
speak. She welcomed him and asked if he had aught to add to Eragon’s
tale. Orik shrugged and provided a few anecdotes from their stay in
Ellesméra, though Eragon suspected that the dwarf kept his true observations
a secret for his king.

When he finished, Nasuada said, “I am heartened to know that if we
can weather this onslaught, we shall have the elves by our side. Did any
of you happen to see Hrothgar’s warriors during your flight from Aberon?
We are counting on their reinforcements.”

No, answered Saphira through Eragon. But then, it was dark and I was
often above or between clouds. I could have easily missed a camp under
those conditions. In any case, I doubt we would have crossed paths, for I
flew straight from Aberon, and it seems likely the dwarves would choose a
different route—perhaps following established roads—rather than march
through the wilderness.

“What,” asked Eragon, “is the situation here?”

Nasuada sighed and then told of how she and Orrin had learned about
Galbatorix’s army and the desperate measures they had resorted to since
in order to reach the Burning Plains before the king’s soldiers. She finished
by saying, “The Empire arrived three days ago. Since then, we’ve
exchanged two messages. First they asked for our surrender, which we
refused, and now we wait for their reply.”

“How many of them are there?” growled Orik. “It looked a mighty
number from Saphira’s back.”

“Aye. We estimate Galbatorix mustered as many as a hundred thousand
soldiers.”

Eragon could not contain himself: “A hundred thousand! Where did
they come from? It seems impossible that he could find more than a
handful of people willing to serve him.”

548



“They were conscripted. We can only hope that the men who were
torn from their homes won’t be eager to fight. If we can frighten them
badly enough, they may break ranks and flee. Our numbers are greater
than in Farthen Dûr, for King Orrin has joined forces with us and we
have received a veritable flood of volunteers since we began to spread the
word about you, Eragon, although we are still far weaker than the Empire.”


Then Saphira asked, and Eragon was forced to repeat the dreadful question:
What do you think our chances of victory are?

“That,” said Nasuada, putting emphasis on the word, “depends a great
deal upon you and Eragon, and the number of magicians seeded throughout
their troops. If you can find and destroy those magicians, then our
enemies shall be left unprotected and you can slay them at will. Outright
victory, I think, is unlikely at this point, but we might be able to hold
them at bay until their supplies run low or until Islanzadí can come to
our assistance. That is... if Galbatorix doesn’t fly into battle himself. In
that case, I fear retreat will be our only option.”

Just then, Eragon felt a strange mind approaching, one that knew he
was watching and yet did not shrink from the contact. One that felt cold
and hard, calculating. Alert for danger, Eragon turned his gaze toward the
rear of the pavilion, where he saw the same black-haired girl who had
appeared when he scryed Nasuada from Ellesméra. The girl stared at him
with violet eyes, then said, “Welcome, Shadeslayer. Welcome, Saphira.”

Eragon shivered at the sound of her voice, the voice of an adult. He wet
his dry mouth and asked, “Who are you?”

Without answering, the girl brushed back her glossy bangs and exposed
a silvery white mark on her forehead, exactly like Eragon’s gedwëy ignasia.
He knew then whom he faced.

No one moved as Eragon went to the girl, accompanied by Saphira,
who extended her neck farther into the pavilion. Dropping to one knee,
Eragon took the girl’s right hand in his own; her skin burned as if with
fever. She did not resist him, but merely left her hand limp in his grip. In
the ancient language—and also with his mind, so that she would understand—
Eragon said, “I am sorry. Can you forgive me for what I did to
you?”

The girl’s eyes softened, and she leaned forward and kissed Eragon upon
the brow. “I forgive you,” she whispered, for the first time sounding her

549



age. “How could I not? You and Saphira created who I am, and I know
you meant no harm. I forgive you, but I shall let this knowledge torture
your conscience: You have condemned me to be aware of all the suffering
around me. Even now your spell drives me to rush to the aid of a man
not three tents away who just cut his hand, to help the young flag carrier
who broke his left index finger in the spokes of a wagon wheel, and to
help countless others who have been or are about to be hurt. It costs me
dearly to resist those urges, and even more if I consciously cause someone
discomfort, as I do by saying this.... I cannot even sleep at night for the
strength of my compulsion. That is your legacy, O Rider.” By the end, her
voice had regained its bitter, mocking edge.

Saphira interposed herself between them and, with her snout, touched
the girl in the center of her mark. Peace, Changeling. You have much anger
in your heart.

“You don’t have to live like this forever,” said Eragon. “The elves taught
me how to undo a spell, and I believe I can free you of this curse. It
won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

For a moment, the girl seemed to lose her formidable self-control. A
small gasp escaped her lips, her hand trembled against Eragon’s, and her
eyes glistened with a film of tears. Then just as quickly, she hid her true
emotions behind a mask of cynical amusement. “Well, we shall see. Either
way, you shouldn’t try until after this battle.”

“I could save you a great deal of pain.”

“It wouldn’t do to exhaust you when our survival may depend on your
talents. I do not deceive myself; you are more important than me.” A sly
grin crossed her face. “Besides, if you remove your spell now, I won’t be
able to help any of the Varden if they are threatened. You wouldn’t want
Nasuada to die because of that, would you?”

“No,” admitted Eragon. He paused for a long time, considering the issue,
then said, “Very well, I will wait. But I swear to you: If we win this
fight, I shall right this wrong.”

The girl tilted her head to one side. “I will hold you to your word,
Rider.”

Rising from her chair, Nasuada said, “Elva was the one who saved me
from an assassin in Aberon.”

550



“Did she? In that case, I am in your debt... Elva... for protecting my
liegelord.”

“Come now,” said Nasuada. “I must introduce the three of you to Orrin
and his nobles. Have you met the king before, Orik?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I’ve never been this far west.”

As they left the pavilion—Nasuada in the lead, with Elva by her side—
Eragon tried to position himself so he could talk with Arya, but when he
neared her, she quickened her pace until she was level with Nasuada.
Arya never even looked at him while she walked, a slight that caused
him more anguish than any physical wound he had endured. Elva glanced
back at him, and he knew that she was aware of his distress.

They soon arrived at another large pavilion, this one white and yellow—
although it was difficult to determine the exact hue of the colors,
given the garish orange that glazed everything on the Burning Plains.
Once they were granted entrance, Eragon was astonished to find the tent
crammed with an eccentric collection of beakers, alembics, retorts, and
other instruments of natural philosophy. Who would bother toting all this
onto a battlefield? he wondered, bewildered.

“Eragon,” said Nasuada, “I would like you to meet Orrin, son of Larkin
and monarch of the realm of Surda.”

From the depths of the tangled piles of glass emerged a rather tall,
handsome man with shoulder-length hair held back by the gold coronet
resting upon his head. His mind, like Nasuada’s, was protected behind
walls of iron; it was obvious he had received extensive training in that
skill. Orrin seemed pleasant enough to Eragon from their discussion, if a
bit green and untried when it came to commanding men in war and more
than a little odd in the head. On the whole, Eragon trusted Nasuada’s
leadership more.

After fending off scores of questions from Orrin about his stay among
the elves, Eragon found himself smiling and nodding politely as one earl
after another paraded past, each of whom insisted on shaking his hand,
telling him what an honor it was to meet a Rider, and inviting him to
their respective estates. Eragon dutifully memorized their many names
and titles—as he knew Oromis would expect—and did his best to maintain
a calm demeanor, despite his growing frustration.

We’re about to engage one of the largest armies in history, and here we

551



are, stuck exchanging pleasantries.

Patience, counseled Saphira. There aren’t that many more.... Besides,
look at it this way: if we win, they’ll owe us an entire year of free dinners,
what with all their promises.

He stifled a chuckle. I think it would dismay them to know what it takes
to feed you. Not to mention that you could empty their cellars of beer and
wine in a single night.

I would never, she sniffed, then relented. Maybe in two nights.

When at last they won free of Orrin’s pavilion, Eragon asked Nasuada,
“What shall I do now? How can I serve you?”

Nasuada eyed him with a curious expression. “How do you think you
can best serve me, Eragon? You know your own abilities far better than I
do.” Even Arya watched him now, waiting to hear his response.

Eragon gazed up at the bloody sky while he pondered her question. “I
shall take control of Du Vrangr Gata, as they once asked me to, and organize
them underneath me so I can lead them into battle. Working together
will give us the best chance of foiling Galbatorix’s magicians.”

“That seems an excellent idea.”

Is there a place, asked Saphira, where Eragon can leave his bags? I don’t
want to carry them or this saddle any longer than I have to.

When Eragon repeated her question, Nasuada said, “Of course. You
may leave them in my pavilion, and I will arrange to have a tent erected
for you, Eragon, where you can keep them permanently. I suggest,
though, that you don your armor before parting with your bags. You
might need it at any moment.... That reminds me: we have your armor
with us, Saphira. I shall have it unpacked and brought to you.”

“And what of me, Lady?” asked Orik.

“We have several knurlan with us from Dûrgrimst Ingeitum who have
lent their expertise to the construction of our earthen defenses. You may
take command of them if you wish.”

Orik seemed heartened by the prospect of seeing fellow dwarves, especially
ones from his own clan. He clapped his fist to his chest and said, “I

552



think I will at that. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it at once.” Without a
backward glance, he trundled off through the camp, heading north toward
the breastwork.

Returning to her pavilion with the four who remained, Nasuada said to
Eragon, “Report to me once you have settled matters with Du Vrangr
Gata.” Then she pushed aside the entrance flap to the pavilion and disappeared
with Elva through the dark opening.

As Arya started to follow, Eragon reached toward her and, in the ancient
language, said, “Wait.” The elf paused and looked at him, betraying
nothing. He held her gaze without wavering, staring deep into her eyes,
which reflected the strange light around them. “Arya, I won’t apologize
for how I feel about you. However, I wanted you to know that Iam sorry
for how I acted during the Blood-oath Celebration. I wasn’t myself that
night; otherwise, I would have never been so forward with you.”

“And you won’t do it again?”

He suppressed a humorless laugh. “It wouldn’t get me anywhere if I
did, now would it?” When she remained silent, he said, “No matter. I
don’t want to trouble you, even if you—” He bit off the end of his sentence
before he made a remark he knew he would regret.

Arya’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Eragon. You
must understand that.”

“I understand,” he said, but without conviction.

An awkward pause stretched between them. “Your flight went well, I
trust?”

“Well enough.”

“You encountered no difficulty in the desert?”

“Should we have?”

“No. I only wondered.” Then, in an even gentler voice, Arya asked,
“What of you, Eragon? How have you been since the celebration? I heard
what you said to Nasuada, but you mentioned nothing other than your
back.”

“I...” He tried to lie—not wanting her to know how much he had

553



missed her—but the ancient language stopped the words dead in his
mouth and rendered him mute. Finally, he resorted to a technique of the
elves: telling only part of the truth in order to create an impression opposite
the whole truth. “I’m better than before,” he said, meaning, in his
mind, the condition of his back.

Despite his subterfuge, Arya appeared unconvinced. She did not press
him on the subject, though, but rather said, “I am glad.” Nasuada’s voice
emanated from inside the pavilion, and Arya glanced toward it before
facing him again. “I am needed elsewhere, Eragon.... We are both needed
elsewhere. A battle is about to take place.” Lifting the canvas flap, she
stepped halfway into the gloomy tent, then hesitated and added, “Take
care, Eragon Shadeslayer.”

Then she was gone.

Dismay rooted Eragon in place. He had accomplished what he wanted
to, but it seemed to have changed nothing between him and Arya. He
balled his hands into fists and hunched his shoulders and glared at the
ground without seeing it, simmering with frustration.

He started when Saphira nosed him on the shoulder. Come on, little
one, she said gently. You can’t stay here forever, and this saddle is beginning
to itch.

Going to her side, Eragon pulled on her neck strap, muttering under his
breath when it caught in the buckle. He almost hoped the leather would
break. Undoing the rest of the straps, he let the saddle and everything
tied to it fall to the ground in a jumbled heap. It feels good to have that
off, said Saphira, rolling her massive shoulders.

Digging his armor out of the saddlebags, Eragon outfitted himself in the
bright dress of war. First he pulled his hauberk over his elven tunic, then
strapped his chased greaves to his legs and his inlaid bracers to his forearms.
On his head went his padded leather cap, followed by his coif of
tempered steel and then his gold and silver helm. Last of all, he replaced
his regular gloves with his mail-backed gauntlets.

Zar’roc he hung on his left hip using the belt of Beloth the Wise.
Across his back, he placed the quiver of white swan feathers Islanzadí
had given him. The quiver, he was pleased to find, could also hold the
bow the elf queen had sung for him, even when it was strung.

After depositing his and Orik’s belongings into the pavilion, Eragon and

554



Saphira set out together to find Trianna, the current leader of Du Vrangr
Gata. They had gone no more than a few paces when Eragon sensed a
nearby mind that was shielded from his view. Assuming that it was one
of the Varden’s magicians, they veered toward it.

Twelve yards from their starting point, they came upon a small green
tent with a donkey picketed in front. To the left of the tent, a blackened
iron cauldron hung from a metal tripod placed over one of the malodorous
flames birthed deep within the earth. Cords were strung about the
cauldron, over which were draped nightshade, hemlock, rhododendron,
savin, bark of the yew tree, and numerous mushrooms, such as death cap
and spotted cort, all of which Eragon recognized from Oromis’s lessons
on poison. And standing next to the cauldron, wielding a long wood paddle
with which she stirred the brew, was Angela the herbalist. At her feet
sat Solembum.

The werecat uttered a mournful meow, and Angela looked up from
her task, her corkscrew hair forming a billowing thundercloud around her
glistening face. She frowned, and her expression became positively ghoulish,
for it was lit from beneath by the flickering green flame. “So you’ve
returned, eh!”

“We have,” said Eragon.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Have you seen Elva yet? Have
you seen what you did to that poor girl?”

“Aye.”

“Aye!” cried Angela. “How inarticulate can a person be? All this time in
Ellesméra being tutored by the elves, and aye is the best you can manage?
Let me tell you something, blockhead: anyone who is stupid enough to
do what you did deserves—”

Eragon clasped his hands behind his back and waited as Angela informed
him, in many explicit, detailed, and highly inventive terms, exactly
how great a blockhead he was; what kind of ancestors he must possess
to be such a monumental blockhead—she even went so far as to insinuate
that one of his grandparents had mated with an Urgal—and the
quite hideous punishments he ought to receive for his idiocy. If anyone
else had insulted him in that manner, Eragon would have challenged
them to a duel, but he tolerated her spleen because he knew he could
not judge her behavior by the same standards as he did others, and because
he knew her outrage was justified; he had made a dreadful mistake.

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When she finally paused for breath, he said, “You’re quite right, and I’m
going to try to remove the spell once the battle is decided.”

Angela blinked three times, one right after the other, and her mouth
remained open for a moment in a small “O” before she clamped it shut.
With a glare of suspicion, she asked, “You’re not saying that just to placate
me, are you?”

“I would never.”

“And you really intend to undo your curse? I thought such things were
irrevocable.”

“The elves have discovered many uses of magic.”

“Ah... Well, then, that’s settled, isn’t it?” She flashed him a wide smile
and then strode past him to pat Saphira on her jowls. “It’s good to see you
again, Saphira. You’ve grown.”

Well met indeed, Angela.

As Angela returned to stirring her concoction, Eragon said, “That was
an impressive tirade you gave.”

“Thank you. I worked on it for several weeks. It’s a pity you didn’t get
to hear the ending; it’s memorable. I could finish it for you if you want.”

“No, that’s all right. I can imagine what it’s like.” Glancing at her out of
the corner of his eye, Eragon then said, “You don’t seem surprised by how
I’ve changed.”

The herbalist shrugged. “I have my sources. It’s an improvement, in my
opinion. You were a bit... oh, how shall I say it?...unfinished before.”

“That I was.” He gestured at the hanging plants. “What do you plan to
do with these?”

“Oh, it’s just a little project of mine—an experiment, if you will.”

“Mmm.” Examining the pattern of colors on a dried mushroom that
dangled before him, Eragon asked, “Did you ever figure out if toads exist
or not?”

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“As a matter of fact, I did! It seems that all toads are frogs, but not all
frogs are toads. So in that sense, toads don’t really exist, which means that
I was right all along.” She stopped her patter abruptly, leaned to the side,
grabbed a mug from a bench next to her, and offered it to Eragon. “Here,
have a cup of tea.”

Eragon glanced at the deadly plants surrounding them and then back at
Angela’s open face before he accepted the mug. Under his breath—so the
herbalist would not hear—he muttered three spells to detect poison.
Only once he ascertained that the tea was free of contamination did he
dare drink. The tea was delicious, though he could not identify the ingredients.


At that moment, Solembum padded over to Saphira and began to arch
his back and rub himself up against her leg, just as any normal cat would.
Twisting her neck, Saphira bent down and with the tip of her nose
brushed the werecat the length of his spine. She said, I met someone in
Ellesméra who knows you.

Solembum stopped rubbing and cocked his head. Is that so?

Yes. Her name was Quickpaw and The Dream Dancer and also Maud.

Solembum’s golden eyes widened. A deep, throaty purr rumbled in his
chest, and he rubbed against Saphira with renewed vigor.

“So,” said Angela, “I assume you already spoke with Nasuada, Arya, and
King Orrin.” He nodded. “And what did you think of dear old Orrin?”

Eragon chose his words with care, for he was aware that they were talking
about a king. “Well... he seems to have a great many interests.”

“Yes, he’s as balmy as a moonstruck fool on Midsummer Night Eve. But
then everyone is, in one way or another.”

Amused by her forthrightness, Eragon said, “He must be crazy to have
carted so much glass all the way from Aberon.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “What’s this now?”

“Haven’t you seen the inside of his tent?”

“Unlike some people,” she sniffed, “I don’t ingratiate myself with every
monarch I meet.” So he described for her the mass of instruments Orrin

557



had brought to the Burning Plains. Angela abandoned her stirring as he
spoke and listened with great interest. The instant he finished, she began
bustling around the cauldron, gathering the plants off the lines—often using
tongs to do so—and saying, “I think I had best pay Orrin a visit. The
two of you will have to tell me about your trip to Ellesméra at a later
time.... Well, go on, both of you. Be gone!”

Eragon shook his head as the short little woman drove him and Saphira
away from her tent, and he still holding the cup of tea. Talking with her is
always...

Different? suggested Saphira.

Exactly.

558



THE CLOUDS OF WAR


From there it took them almost half an hour to locate Trianna’s tent,
which apparently served as the unofficial headquarters of Du Vrangr
Gata. They had difficulty finding the tent because few people knew of its
existence, and even fewer could tell them where it lay because the tent
was hidden behind a spur of rock that served to conceal it from the gaze
of enemy magicians in Galbatorix’s army.

As Eragon and Saphira approached the black tent, the entrance was
thrust open and Trianna strode out, her arms bare to the elbow in preparation
to use magic. Behind her clustered a group of determined if fright-
ened-looking spellcasters, many of whom Eragon had seen during the battle
in Farthen Dûr, either fighting or healing the wounded.

Eragon watched as Trianna and the others reacted with the now-
expected surprise at his altered appearance. Lowering her arms, Trianna
said, “Shadeslayer, Saphira. You should have told us sooner that you were
here. We’ve been preparing to confront and battle what we thought was
a mighty foe.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Eragon, “but we had to report to
Nasuada and King Orrin immediately after we landed.”

“And why have you graced us with your presence now? You never
deigned to visit us before, we who are more your brethren than any in
the Varden.”

“I have come to take command of Du Vrangr Gata.” The assembled
spellcasters muttered with surprise at his announcement, and Trianna
stiffened. Eragon felt several magicians probe his consciousness in an attempt
to divine his true intentions. Instead of guarding himself—which
would blind him to impending attacks—Eragon retaliated by jabbing the
minds of the would-be invaders hard enough that they retreated behind
their own barriers. As he did, Eragon had the satisfaction of seeing two
men and a woman flinch and avert their gazes.

“By whose order?” demanded Trianna.

“By Nasuada’s.”

“Ah,” said the sorceress with a triumphant smile, “but Nasuada has no
direct authority over us. We help the Varden of our own free will.”

559



Her resistance puzzled Eragon. “I’m sure Nasuada would be surprised
to hear that, after everything she, and her father, have done for Du
Vrangr Gata. It might give her the impression that you no longer wanted
the support and protection of the Varden.” He let the threat hang in the
air for a moment. “Besides, I seem to remember you were willing to give
me this post before. Why not now?”

Trianna lifted an eyebrow. “You refused my offer, Shadeslayer... or have
you forgotten?” Composed as she was, a trace of defensiveness colored
her response, and Eragon suspected she knew her position was untenable.
She seemed more mature to him than when they last met, and he had to
remind himself of the hardships she must have endured since: marching
across Alagaësia to Surda, supervising the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata,
and preparing for war.

“We could not accept then. It was the wrong time.”

Abruptly changing tack, she asked, “Why does Nasuada believe you
should command us anyway? Surely you and Saphira would be more useful
elsewhere.”

“Nasuada wants me to lead you, Du Vrangr Gata, in the coming battle,
and so I shall.” Eragon thought it best not to mention that it was his idea.

A dark scowl gave Trianna a fierce appearance. She pointed at the cluster
of spellcasters behind her. “We have devoted our lives to the study of
our art. You have been casting spells for less than two years. What makes
you more qualified for this task than any of us?... No matter. Tell me:
What is your strategy? How do you plan to employ us?”

“My plan is simple,” he said. “The lot of you will join minds and search
for enemy spellcasters. When you find one, I’ll add my strength to yours,
and together we can crush the spellcaster’s resistance. Then we can slay
the troops that previously were protected by his or her wards.”

“And what will you be doing the rest of the time?”

“Fighting alongside Saphira.”

After an awkward silence, one of the men behind Trianna said, “It’s a
good plan.” He quailed as Trianna cast an angry glare at him.

She slowly faced Eragon again. “Ever since the Twins died, I have led

560



Du Vrangr Gata. Under my guidance, they have provided the means to
fund the Varden’s war effort, ferreted out the Black Hand—Galbatorix’s
network of spies that tried to assassinate Nasuada—as well as performing
innumerable other services. I do not boast when I say these are no mean
accomplishments. And I’m certain I can continue to produce such results....
Why, then, does Nasuada want to depose me? How have I displeased
her?”

Everything became clear to Eragon, then. She has grown accustomed to
power and doesn’t want to surrender it. But more than that, she thinks that
my replacing her is a criticism of her leadership.

You need to resolve this debate, and quickly too, said Saphira. Our time
grows short.

Eragon racked his brain for a way to establish his authority in Du
Vrangr Gata without further alienating Trianna. At last he said, “I didn’t
come here to stir up trouble. I came to ask for your help.” He spoke to
the entire congregation but looked only at the sorceress. “I am strong, yes.
Saphira and I could probably defeat any number of Galbatorix’s pet magicians.
But we cannot protect everyone in the Varden. We cannot be
everywhere. And if the Empire’s battle-mages join forces against us, then
even we will be hard-pressed to survive.... We cannot fight this battle
alone. You are quite right, Trianna—you have done well with Du Vrangr
Gata, and I’m not here to usurp your authority. It’s only that—as a magician—
I need to work with Du Vrangr Gata, and—as a Rider—I may also
need to give you orders, orders that I have to know will be obeyed without
question. The chain of command must be established. That said, you
will retain the greater part of your autonomy. Most times I’ll be too busy
to devote my attention to Du Vrangr Gata. Nor do I intend to ignore
your counsel, for I’m aware that you have far more experience than I....
So I ask again, will you help us, for the good of the Varden?”

Trianna paused, then bowed. “Of course, Shadeslayer—for the good of
the Varden. It will be an honor to have you lead Du Vrangr Gata.”

“Then let us begin.”

Over the next few hours, Eragon talked with every one of the assembled
magicians, although a fair number were absent, being occupied with
one task or another to help the Varden. He did his best to acquaint himself
with their knowledge of magic. He learned that the majority of men
and women in Du Vrangr Gata had been introduced to their craft by a
relative, and usually in profound secrecy to avoid attracting attention

561



from those who feared magic—and, of course, Galbatorix himself. Only a
handful had received proper apprenticeships. As a result, most of the
spellcasters knew little about the ancient language—none could truly
speak it fluently—their beliefs about magic were often distorted by religious
superstitions, and they were ignorant of numerous applications of
gramarye.

No wonder the Twins were so desperate to extract your vocabulary of the
ancient language when they tested you in Farthen Dûr, observed Saphira.
With it they could have easily conquered these lesser magicians.

They’re all we have to work with, though.

True. I hope you can see now I was right about Trianna. She places her
own desires before the good of the many.

You were right, he agreed. But I don’t condemn her for it. Trianna deals
with the world in the best way she can, as do we all. I understand that,
even if I don’t approve, and understanding—as Oromis said—breeds empathy.


A bit more than a third of the spellcasters specialized as healers. Those
Eragon sent on their way after giving them a quintet of new spells to
memorize, enchantments that would allow them to treat a greater range
of injuries. The remaining spellcasters Eragon worked with to establish a
clear chain of command—he appointed Trianna his lieutenant and let her
ensure that his orders were carried out—and to weld their disparate personalities
into a cohesive fighting unit. Trying to convince magicians to
cooperate, he discovered, was like trying to get a pack of dogs to share a
meat bone. Nor did it help that they were in evident awe of him, for he
could find no way of using his influence to smooth relations among the
contentious magicians.

In order to gain a better idea of their exact proficiency, Eragon had
them cast a series of spells. As he watched them struggle with enchantments
that he now considered simple, Eragon became aware of just how
far his own powers had advanced. To Saphira, he marveled, And to think
I once had trouble lifting a pebble in the air.

And to think, she replied, Galbatorix has had over a century to hone his
talent.

The sun was low in the west, intensifying the fermented orange light
until the Varden’s camp, the livid Jiet River, and the entirety of the

562



Burning Plains glowed in the mad, marbled effulgence, as if in a scene
from a lunatic’s dreams. The sun was no more than a finger’s breadth
above the horizon when a runner arrived at the tent. He told Eragon that
Nasuada ordered him to attend her at once. “An’ I think you’d better
hurry, Shadeslayer, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

After extracting a promise from Du Vrangr Gata that they would be
ready and willing when he called upon them for assistance, Eragon ran
alongside Saphira through the rows of gray tents toward Nasuada’s pavilion.
A harsh tumult above them caused Eragon to lift his eyes from the
treacherous ground long enough to glance overhead.

What he saw was a giant flock of birds wheeling between the two armies.
He spotted eagles, hawks, and falcons, along with countless greedy
crows and their larger, dagger-beaked, blue-backed, rapacious cousin, the
raven. Each bird shrieked for blood to wet its throat and enough hot
meat to fill its belly and sate its hunger. By experience and instinct, they
knew that whenever armies appeared in Alagaësia, they could expect to
feast on acres of carrion.

The clouds of war are gathering, observed Eragon.

563



NAR GARZHVOG


Eragon entered the pavilion, Saphira pushing her head through after
him. He was met by a steely rasp as Jörmundur and a half-dozen of
Nasuada’s commanders drew their swords at the intruders. The men
lowered their weapons as Nasuada said, “Come here, Eragon.”

“What is your bidding?” Eragon asked.

“Our scouts report that a company of some hundred Kull approach
from the northeast.”

Eragon frowned. He had not expected to encounter Urgals in this battle,
since Durza no longer controlled them and so many had been killed
in Farthen Dûr. But if they had come, they had come. He felt his blood-
lust rise and allowed himself a savage grin as he contemplated destroying
Urgals with his new strength. Clapping his hand to Zar’roc’s hilt, he said,
“It will be a pleasure to eliminate them. Saphira and I can handle it by
ourselves, if you want.”

Nasuada watched his face carefully as she said, “We can’t do that, Eragon.
They’re flying a white flag, and they have asked to talk with me.”

Eragon gaped at her. “Surely you don’t intend to grant them an audience?”


“I will offer them the same courtesies I would to any foe who arrives
under the banner of truce.”

“They’re brutes, though. Monsters! It’s folly to allow them into the
camp.... Nasuada, I have seen the atrocities Urgals commit. They relish
pain and suffering and deserve no more mercy than a rabid dog. There is
no need for you to waste time over what is surely a trap. Just give the
word and I and every last one of your warriors will be more than willing
to kill these foul creatures for you.”

“In this,” said Jörmundur, “I agree with Eragon. If you won’t listen to us,
Nasuada, at least listen to him.”

First Nasuada said to Eragon in a murmur low enough that no one else
could hear, “Your training is indeed unfinished if you are so blinded.”
Then she raised her voice, and in it Eragon heard the same adamantine
notes of command that her father had possessed: “You all forget that I

564



fought in Farthen Dûr, the same as you, and that I saw the savagery of
the Urgals.... However, I also saw our own men commit acts just as heinous.
I shall not denigrate what we have endured at the Urgals’ hands,
but neither shall I ignore potential allies when we are so greatly outnumbered
by the Empire.”

“My Lady, it’s too dangerous for you to meet with a Kull.”

“Too dangerous?” Nasuada raised an eyebrow. “While I am protected
by Eragon, Saphira, Elva, and all the warriors around me? I think not.”

Eragon gritted his teeth with frustration. Say something, Saphira. You
can convince her to abandon this harebrained scheme.

No, I won’t. Your mind is clouded on this issue.

You can’t agree with her! exclaimed Eragon, aghast. You were there in
Yazuac with me; you know what the Urgals did to the villagers. And what
about when we left Teirm, my capture at Gil’ead, and Farthen Dûr? Every
time we’ve encountered Urgals, they’ve tried to kill us or worse. They’re
nothing more than vicious animals.

The elves believed the same thing about dragons during Du Fyrn
Skulblaka.

At Nasuada’s behest, her guards tied back the front and side panels of
the pavilion, leaving it open for all to see and allowing Saphira to crouch
low next to Eragon. Then Nasuada seated herself in her high-backed
chair, and Jörmundur and the other commanders arranged themselves in
two parallel rows so that anyone who sought an audience with her had to
walk between them. Eragon stood at her right hand, Elva by her left.

Less than five minutes later, a great roar of anger erupted from the
eastern edge of the camp. The storm of jeers and insults grew louder and
louder until a single Kull entered their view, walking toward Nasuada
while a mob of the Varden peppered him with taunts. The Urgal—or
ram, as Eragon remembered they were called—held his head high and
bared his yellow fangs, but did not otherwise react to the abuse directed
at him. He was a magnificent specimen, eight and a half feet tall, with
strong, proud—if grotesque—features, thick horns that spiraled all the
way around, and a fantastic musculature that made it seem he could kill a
bear with a single blow. His only clothing was a knotted loincloth, a few
plates of crude iron armor held together with scraps of mail, and a curved
metal disk nestled between his two horns to protect the top of his head.

565



His long black hair was in a queue.

Eragon felt his lips tighten in a grimace of hate; he had to struggle to
keep from drawing Zar’roc and attacking. Yet despite himself, he could
not help but admire the Urgal’s courage in confronting an entire army of
enemies alone and unarmed. To his surprise, he found the Kull’s mind
strongly shielded.

When the Urgal stopped before the eaves of the pavilion, not daring to
come any closer, Nasuada had her guards shout for quiet to settle the
crowd. Everyone looked at the Urgal, wondering what he would do next.

The Urgal lifted his bulging arms toward the sky, inhaled a mighty
breath, and then opened his maw and bellowed at Nasuada. In an instant,
a thicket of swords pointed at the Kull, but he paid them no attention
and continued his ululation until his lungs were empty. Then he looked
at Nasuada, ignoring the hundreds of people who, it was obvious, longed
to kill him, and growled in a thick, guttural accent, “What treachery is
this, Lady Nightstalker? I was promised safe passage. Do humans break
their word so easily?”

Leaning toward her, one of Nasuada’s commanders said, “Let us punish
him, Mistress, for his insolence. Once we have taught him the meaning of
respect, then you can hear his message, whatever it is.”

Eragon longed to remain silent, but he knew his duty to Nasuada and
the Varden, so he bent down and said in Nasuada’s ear, “Don’t take offense.
This is how they greet their war chiefs. The proper response is to
then butt heads, but I don’t think you want to try that.”

“Did the elves teach you this?” she murmured, never taking her eyes off
the waiting Kull.

“Aye.”

“What else did they teach you of the Urgals?”

“A great deal,” he admitted reluctantly.

Then Nasuada said to the Kull and also to her men beyond, “The
Varden are not liars like Galbatorix and the Empire. Speak your mind;
you need fear no danger while we hold council under the conditions of
truce.”

566



The Urgal grunted and raised his bony chin higher, baring his throat;
Eragon recognized it as a gesture of friendship. To lower one’s head was a
threat in their race, for it meant that an Urgal intended to ram you with
his horns. “I am Nar Garzhvog of the Bolvek tribe. I speak for my people.”
It seemed as if he chewed on each word before spitting it out. “Urgals
are hated more than any other race. Elves, dwarves, humans all hunt
us, burn us, and drive us from our halls.”

“Not without good reason,” pointed out Nasuada.

Garzhvog nodded. “Not without reason. Our people love war. Yet how
often are we attacked just because you find us as ugly as we find you?
We have thrived since the fall of the Riders. Our tribes are now so large,
the harsh land we live in can no longer feed us.”

“So you made a pact with Galbatorix.”

“Aye, Lady Nightstalker. He promised us good land if we killed his
enemies. He tricked us, though. His flame-haired shaman, Durza, bent
the minds of our war chiefs and forced our tribes to work together, as is
not our way. When we learned this in the dwarves’ hollow mountain, the
Herndall, the dams who rule us, sent my brood mate to Galbatorix to ask
why he used us so.” Garzhvog shook his ponderous head. “She did not return.
Our finest rams died for Galbatorix, then he abandoned us like a
broken sword. He is drajl and snake-tongued and a lack-horned betrayer.
Lady Nightstalker, we are fewer now, but we will fight with you if you
let us.”

“What is the price?” asked Nasuada. “Your Herndall must want something
in return.”

“Blood. Galbatorix’s blood. And if the Empire falls, we ask that you
give us land, land for breeding and growing, land to avoid more battles in
the future.”

Eragon guessed Nasuada’s decision by the set of her face, even before
she spoke. So apparently did Jörmundur, for he leaned toward her and
said in an undertone, “Nasuada, you can’t do this. It goes against nature.”

“Nature can’t help us defeat the Empire. We need allies.”

“The men will desert before they’ll fight with Urgals.”

“That can be worked around. Eragon, will they keep their word?”

567



“Only so long as we share a common enemy.”

With a sharp nod, Nasuada again lifted her voice: “Very well, Nar
Garzhvog. You and your warriors may bivouac along the eastern flank of
our army, away from the main body, and we shall discuss the terms of
our pact.”

“Ahgrat ukmar,” growled the Kull, clapping his fists to his brow. “You
are a wise Herndall, Lady Nightstalker.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Herndall?”

“No, Nightstalker.”

Garzhvog made a ruk-ruk sound in his throat that Eragon interpreted as
laughter. “Nightstalker is the name we gave your sire because of how he
hunted us in the dark tunnels under the dwarf mountain and because of
the color of his hide. As his cub, you are worthy of the same name.” With
that he turned on his heel and strode out of the camp.

Standing, Nasuada proclaimed, “Anyone who attacks the Urgals shall be
punished as if he attacked a fellow human. See that word of this is posted
in every company.”

No sooner had she finished than Eragon noticed King Orrin approaching
at a quick pace, his cape flapping around him. When he was close
enough, he cried, “Nasuada! Is it true you met with an Urgal? What do
you mean by it, and why wasn’t I alerted sooner? I don’t—”

He was interrupted as a sentry emerged from the ranks of gray tents,
shouting, “A horseman approaches from the Empire!”

In an instant, King Orrin forgot his argument and joined Nasuada as she
hurried toward the vanguard of the army, followed by at least a hundred
people. Rather than stay among the crowd, Eragon pulled himself onto
Saphira and let her carry him to their destination.

When Saphira halted at the ramparts, trenches, and rows of sharpened
poles that protected the Varden’s leading edge, Eragon saw a lone soldier
riding at a furious clip across the bleak no-man’s-land. Above him, the
birds of prey swooped low to discover if the first course of their feast had

568



arrived.

The soldier reined in his black stallion some thirty yards from the
breastwork, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the
Varden. He shouted, “By refusing King Galbatorix’s generous terms of
surrender, you choose death as your fate. No more shall we negotiate.
The hand of friendship has turned into the fist of war! If any of you still
hold regard for your rightful sovereign, the all-knowing, all-powerful
King Galbatorix, then flee! None may stand before us once we set forth
to cleanse Alagaësia of every miscreant, traitor, and subversive. And
though it pains our lord—for he knows that most of these rebellious acts
are instigated by bitter and misguided leaders—we shall gently chastise
the unlawful territory known as Surda and return it to the benevolent
rule of King Galbatorix, he who sacrifices himself day and night for the
good of his people. So flee, I say, or suffer the doom of your herald.”

With that the soldier untied a canvas sack and flourished a severed
head. He threw it into the air and watched it fall among the Varden, then
turned his stallion, dug in his spurs, and galloped back toward the dark
mass of Galbatorix’s army.

“Shall I kill him?” asked Eragon.

Nasuada shook her head. “We will have our due soon enough. I won’t
violate the sanctity of envoys, even if the Empire has.”

“As you—” He yelped with surprise and clutched Saphira’s neck to
keep from falling as she reared above the ramparts, planting her front legs
upon the chartreuse bank. Opening her jaws, Saphira uttered a long, deep
roar, much like Garzhvog had done, only this roar was a defiant challenge
to their enemies, a warning of the wrath they had roused, and a clarion
call to all who hated Galbatorix.

The sound of her trumpeting voice frightened the stallion so badly, he
jinked to the right, slipped on the heated ground, and fell on his side. The
soldier was thrown free of the horse and landed in a gout of fire that
erupted at that very instant. He uttered a single cry so horrible, it made
Eragon’s scalp prickle, then was silent and still forevermore.

The birds began to descend.

The Varden cheered Saphira’s accomplishment. Even Nasuada allowed
herself a small smile. Then she clapped her hands and said, “They will attack
at dawn, I think. Eragon, gather Du Vrangr Gata and prepare your


569



self for action. I will have orders for you within the hour.” Taking Orrin
by the shoulder, she guided him back toward the center of the compound,
saying, “Sire, there are decisions we must make. I have a certain
plan, but it will require...”

Let them come, said Saphira. The tip of her tail twitched like that of a
cat stalking a rabbit. They will all burn.

570



WITCH’S BREW


Night had fallen on the Burning Plains. The roof of opaque smoke covered
the moon and stars, plunging the land into profound darkness that
was broken only by the sullen glow of the sporadic peat fires, and by the
thousands of torches each army lit. From Eragon’s position near the fore
of the Varden, the Empire looked a dense nest of uncertain orange lights
as large as any city.

As Eragon buckled the last piece of Saphira’s armor onto her tail, he
closed his eyes to maintain better contact with the magicians from Du
Vrangr Gata. He had to learn to locate them at a moment’s notice; his life
would depend on communicating with them in a quick and timely manner.
In turn, the magicians had to learn to recognize the touch of his mind
so they did not block him when he needed their assistance.

Eragon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” He opened his eyes to see Orik
clambering up the low knuckle of rock where he and Saphira sat. The
dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left
hand.

Hunkering beside Eragon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head.
“How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”

Every consciousness feels different, explained Saphira. Just like no two
voices sound exactly the same.

“Ah.”

Eragon asked, “What brings you here?”

Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company
in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you
don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”

And I wish I did, thought Eragon. Murtagh had been the only human
who matched Eragon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí
Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Eragon’s few pleasures during
their time together. I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old
friend.

Remembering how Murtagh was killed—dragged underground by Urgals
in Farthen Dûr—forced Eragon to confront a sobering truth: No mat


571



ter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated
who lived and who died in war.

Orik must have sensed his mood, for he clapped Eragon on the shoulder
and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel,
knowing they have to face you before long!”

Gratitude made Eragon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”

The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow
between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t
much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster brothers
now, eh?”

Through Eragon, Saphira asked, What about the other dwarves? Aren’t
they under your command?

A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll
be joining us before long. Seeing as Eragon’s a member of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two
of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galbatorix’s
magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”

“A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Eragon
asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”

“She made the right choice.”

“You agree with her!”

“I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”

Silence enveloped them after that. Eragon sat against Saphira and stared
out at the Empire, trying to prevent his growing anxiety from overwhelming
him. Minutes dragged by. To him, the interminable waiting before
a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. He oiled Saphira’s saddle,
polished rust off his hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing himself
with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.

Over an hour later, he paused as he sensed two beings approaching
from across the no-man’s-land. Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed,
he woke Orik—who had dozed off—and told him what he had discovered.


572



The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met
the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would
betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”

“We should still find out what she was doing,” said Eragon.

Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo
as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light,
Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length
cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a
surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over
the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from
pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter
down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.

Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Angela flashed them a bright
smile. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful of you.” As she spoke,
the werecat shivered along his length, fur rippling. Then his outline
blurred as if seen through cloudy water, resolving once more into the
nude figure of a shaggy-haired boy. Angela dipped her hand into a leather
purse at her belt and passed a child’s tunic and breeches back to Solembum,
along with the small black dagger he fought with.

“What were you doing out there?” asked Orik, peering at them with a
suspicious gaze.

“Oh, this and that.”

“I think you better tell us,” said Eragon.

Her face hardened. “Is that so? Don’t you trust Solembum and me?”
The werecat bared his pointed teeth.

“Not really,” admitted Eragon, but with a small smile.

“That’s good,” said Angela. She patted him on the cheek. “You’ll live
longer. If you must know, then, I was doing my best to help defeat the
Empire, only my methods don’t involve yelling and running around with
a sword.”

“And what exactly are your methods?” growled Orik.

Angela paused to roll up her cloak into a tight bundle, which she stored
in her purse. “I’d rather not say; I want it to be a surprise. You won’t have

573



to wait long to find out. It’ll start in a few hours.”

Orik tugged on his beard. “What will start? If you can’t give us a
straight answer, we’ll have to take you to Nasuada. Maybe she can wring
some sense out of you.”

“It’s no use dragging me off to Nasuada,” said Angela. “She gave me
permission to cross lines.”

“So you say,” challenged Orik, ever more belligerent.

“And so I say,” announced Nasuada, walking up to them from behind,
as Eragon knew she would. He also sensed that she was accompanied by
four Kull, one of whom was Garzhvog. Scowling, he turned to face them,
making no attempt to hide his anger at the Urgals’ presence.

“My Lady,” muttered Eragon.

Orik was not as composed; he jumped back with a mighty oath, grasping
his war ax. He quickly realized that they were not under attack and
gave Nasuada a terse greeting. But his hand never left the haft of his
weapon and his eyes never left the hulking Urgals. Angela seemed to
have no such inhibitions. She paid Nasuada the respect due to her, then
addressed the Urgals in their own harsh language, to which they answered
with evident delight.

Nasuada drew Eragon off to the side so they could have a measure of
privacy. There, she said, “I need you to put aside your feelings for a moment
and judge what I am about to tell you with logic and reason. Can
you do that?” He nodded, stiff-faced. “Good. I’m doing everything I can to
ensure we don’t lose tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, though, how well we
fight, or how well I lead the Varden, or even if we rout the Empire if
you, ” she poked him in the chest, “are killed. Do you understand?” He
nodded again. “There’s nothing I can do to protect you if Galbatorix reveals
himself; if he does, you will face him alone. Du Vrangr Gata poses
no more of a threat to him than they do to you, and I’ll not have them
eradicated without reason.”

“I have always known,” said Eragon, “that I would face Galbatorix alone
but for Saphira.”

A sad smile touched Nasuada’s lips. She looked very tired in the flickering
torchlight. “Well, there’s no reason to invent trouble where none exists.
It’s possible Galbatorix isn’t even here.” She did not seem to believe

574



her own words, though. “In any case, I can at least keep you from dying
from a sword in the gut. I heard what the dwarves intend to do, and I
thought I could improve upon the concept. I asked Garzhvog and three
of his rams to be your guards, so long as they agreed—which they have—
to let you examine their minds for treachery.”

Eragon went rigid. “You can’t expect me to fight with those monsters.
Besides, I already accepted the dwarves’ offer to defend Saphira and me.
They would take it poorly if I rejected them in favor of Urgals.”

“Then they can both guard you,” retorted Nasuada. She searched his
face for a long time, looking for what he could not tell. “Oh, Eragon. I’d
hoped you could see past your hate. What else would you do in my position?”
She sighed when he remained silent. “If anyone has cause to hold a
grudge against the Urgals, it is I. They killed my father. Yet I cannot allow
that to interfere with deciding what’s best for the Varden.... At least
ask Saphira’s opinion before you say yea or nay. I can order you to accept
the Urgals’ protection, but I would rather not.”

You’re being foolish, observed Saphira without prompting.

Foolish to not want Kull watching my back?

No, foolish to refuse help, no matter where it comes from, in our present
situation. Think. You know what Oromis would do, and you know what he
would say. Don’t you trust his judgment?

He can’t be right about everything, said Eragon.

That’s no argument.... Search yourself, Eragon, and tell me whether I
speak the truth. You know the correct path. I would be disappointed if you
could not bring yourself to embrace it.

Saphira and Nasuada’s cajoling only made Eragon more reluctant to
agree. Still, he knew he had no choice. “All right, I’ll let them guard me,
but only if I find nothing suspicious in their minds. Will you promise
that, after this battle, you won’t make me work with an Urgal again?”

Nasuada shook her head. “I can’t do that, not when it might hurt the
Varden.” She paused and said, “Oh, and Eragon?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“In the event of my death, I have chosen you as my successor. If that

575



should happen, I suggest you rely upon Jörmundur’s advice—he has more
experience than the other members of the Council of Elders—and I
would expect you to place the welfare of those underneath you before
all else. Am I clear, Eragon?”

Her announcement caught him by surprise. Nothing meant more to her
than the Varden. Offering it to him was the greatest act of trust she
could make. Her confidence humbled and touched him; he bowed his
head. “I would strive to be as good a leader as you and Ajihad have been.
You honor me, Nasuada.”

“Yes, I do.” Turning away from him, she rejoined the others.

Still overwhelmed by Nasuada’s revelation, and finding his anger tempered
by it, Eragon slowly walked back to Saphira. He studied Garzhvog
and the other Urgals, trying to gauge their mood, but their features were
so different from those he was accustomed to, he could discern nothing
more than the broadest of emotions. Nor could he find any empathy
within himself for the Urgals. To him, they were feral beasts that would
kill him as soon as not and were incapable of love, kindness, or even true
intelligence. In short, they were lesser beings.

Deep within his mind, Saphira whispered, I’m sure Galbatorix is of the
same opinion.

And for good reason, he growled, intending to shock her. Suppressing his
revulsion, he said out loud, “Nar Garzhvog, I am told that the four of you
agreed to allow me within your minds.”

“That is so, Firesword. Lady Nightstalker told us what was required.
We are honored to have the chance to battle alongside such a mighty
warrior, and one who has done so much for us.”

“What do you mean? I have killed scores of your kin.” Unbidden, excerpts
from one of Oromis’s scrolls rose in Eragon’s memory. He remembered
reading that Urgals, both male and female, determined their rank in
society through combat, and that it was this practice, above all else, that
had led to so many conflicts between Urgals and other races. Which
meant, he realized, that if they admired his feats in battle, then they may
have accorded him the same status as one of their war chiefs.

“By killing Durza, you freed us from his control. We are in your debt,
Firesword. None of our rams will challenge you, and if you visit our halls,
you and the dragon, Flametongue, will be welcomed as no outsiders ever

576



before.”

Of all the responses Eragon had expected, gratitude was the last, and it
was the one he was least prepared to deal with. Unable to think of anything
else, he said, “I won’t forget.” He switched his gaze to the other Urgals,
then returned it to Garzhvog and his yellow eyes. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, Rider.”

As Eragon reached toward Garzhvog’s consciousness, it reminded him
of how the Twins invaded his mind when he first entered Farthen Dûr.
That observation was swept away as he immersed himself in the Urgal’s
identity. The very nature of his search—looking for malevolent intent
perhaps hidden somewhere in Garzhvog’s past—meant Eragon had to
examine years of memories. Unlike the Twins, Eragon avoided causing
deliberate pain, but he was not overly gentle. He could feel Garzhvog
flinch with occasional pangs of discomfort. Like dwarves and elves, the
mind of an Urgal possessed different elements than a human mind. Its
structure emphasized rigidity and hierarchy—a result of the tribes the
Urgals organized themselves into—but it felt rough and raw, brutal and
cunning: the mind of a wild animal.

Though he made no effort to learn more about Garzhvog as an individual,
Eragon could not help absorbing pieces of the Urgal’s life. Garzhvog
did not resist. Indeed, he seemed eager to share his experiences, to convince
Eragon that Urgals were not his born enemies. We cannot afford to
have another Rider rise up who seeks to destroy us, said Garzhvog. Look
well, O Firesword, and see if we are truly the monsters you call us....

So many images and sensations flashed between them, Eragon almost
lost track: Garzhvog’s childhood with the other members of his brood in
a ramshackle village built deep in the heart of the Spine; his dam brushing
his hair with an antler comb and singing a soft song; learning to hunt
deer and other prey with his bare hands; growing larger and larger until it
was apparent that the old blood still flowed in his veins and he would
stand over eight feet tall, making him a Kull; the dozens of challenges he
made, accepted, and won; venturing out of the village to gain renown, so
he might mate, and gradually learning to hate, distrust, and fear—yes, fear
—a world that had condemned his race; fighting in Farthen Dûr; discovering
they had been manipulated by Durza; and realizing that their only
hope of a better life was to put aside old differences, befriend the
Varden, and see Galbatorix overthrown. Nowhere was there evidence
that Garzhvog lied.

577



Eragon could not understand what he had seen. Tearing himself from
Garzhvog’s mind, he dove into each of the three remaining Urgals. Their
memories confirmed the facts presented by Garzhvog. They made no attempt
to conceal that they had killed humans, but it had been done at
the command of Durza when the sorcerer controlled them, or when
fighting humans over food or land. We did what we had to in order to care
for our families, they said.

When he finished, Eragon stood before Garzhvog and knew the Urgal’s
bloodline was as regal as any prince’s. He knew that, though uneducated,
Garzhvog was a brilliant commander and as great a thinker and philosopher
as Oromis himself. He’s certainly brighter than me, admitted Eragon
to Saphira. Baring his throat as a sign of respect, he said out loud, “Nar
Garzhvog,” and for the first time, he was aware of the lofty origins of the
title nar. “I am proud to have you at my side. You may tell the Herndall
that so long as the Urgals remain true to their word and do not turn
against the Varden, I shall not oppose you.” Eragon doubted that he
would ever like an Urgal, but the iron certitude of his prejudice only a
few minutes before now seemed ignorant, and he could not retain it in
good conscience.

Saphira flicked him on the arm with her barbed tongue, making the
mail clink together. It takes courage to admit you were wrong.

Only if you are afraid of looking foolish, and I would have looked far
more foolish if I persisted with an erroneous belief.

Why, little one, you just said something wise. Despite her teasing, he
could sense her warm pride in what he had accomplished.

“Again, we are in your debt, Firesword,” said Garzhvog. He and the
other Urgals pressed their fists against their jutting brows.

Eragon could tell that Nasuada wanted to know the details of what had
just transpired but that she restrained herself. “Good. Now that this is
settled, I must be off. Eragon, you’ll receive my signal from Trianna when
the time has arrived.” With that she strode away into the darkness.

As Eragon settled against Saphira, Orik sidled up to him. “It’s lucky we
dwarves are going to be here, eh? We’ll watch the Kull like hawks, we
will. We won’t let them catch you while your back is turned. The moment
they attack, we’ll cut their legs out from under them.”

“I thought you agreed with Nasuada’s accepting the Urgals’ offer.”

578



“That doesn’t mean I trust them or want to be right alongside them,
now does it?” Eragon smiled and did not bother to argue; it would be impossible
to convince Orik that the Urgals were not rapacious killers when
he himself had refused to consider the possibility until sharing an Urgal’s
memories.

The night lay heavy around them as they waited for dawn. Orik removed
a whetstone from his pocket and proceeded to hone the edge of
his curved ax. Once they arrived, the six other dwarves did the same, and
the rasp of metal on stone filled the air with a grating chorus. The Kull
sat back to back, chanting death songs under their breaths. Eragon spent
the time casting wards about himself, Saphira, Nasuada, Orik, and even
Arya. He knew that it was dangerous to protect so many, but he could
not bear it if they were harmed. When he finished, he transferred what
power he dared into the diamonds embedded within the belt of Beloth
the Wise.

Eragon watched with interest as Angela clad herself in green and black
armor and then, taking out a carved-wood case, assembled her staff-
sword from two separate handles that attached in the middle and two
blades of watered steel that threaded into the ends of the resulting pole.
She twirled the completed weapon around her head a few times before
seeming satisfied that it would hold up to the shock of battle.

The dwarves eyed her with disapproval, and Eragon heard one grumble,
“... blasphemy that any but Dûrgrimst Quan should wield the hûthvír.”

After that the only sound was the discordant music of the dwarves
honing their blades.

It was near dawn when the cries began. Eragon and Saphira noticed
them first because of their heightened senses, but the agonized screams
were soon loud enough for the others to hear. Rising to his feet, Orik
looked out toward the Empire, where the cacophony originated. “What
manner of creatures are they torturing to extract such fearsome howls?
The sound chills the marrow in my bones, it does.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t have to wait very long,” said Angela. Her
former cheer had deserted her; she looked pale, drawn, and gray in the
face, as if she were ill.

From his post by Saphira, Eragon asked, “You did this?”

579



“Aye. I poisoned their stew, their bread, their drink—anything I could
get my hands on. Some will die now, others will die later as the various
toxins take their toll. I slipped the officers nightshade and other such poisons
so they will hallucinate in battle.” She tried to smile, but without
much success. “Not a very honorable way to fight, I suppose, but I’d
rather do this than be killed. Confusion to our enemies and all that.”

“Only a coward or a thief uses poison!” exclaimed Orik. “What glory is
there in defeating a sick opponent?” The screams intensified even as he
spoke.

Angela gave an unpleasant laugh. “Glory? If you want glory, there are
thousands more troops I didn’t poison. I’m sure you will have your fill of
glory by the end of today.”

“Is this why you needed the equipment in Orrin’s tent?” asked Eragon.
He found her deed repugnant but did not pretend to know whether it
was good or evil. It was necessary. Angela had poisoned the soldiers for
the same reason Nasuada had accepted the Urgals’ offer of friendship—
because it might be their only hope of survival.

“That’s right.”

The soldiers’ wails increased in number until Eragon longed to plug his
ears and block out the sound. It made him wince and fidget, and it put
his teeth on edge. He forced himself to listen, though. This was the cost
of resisting the Empire. It would be wrong to ignore it. So he sat with his
hands clenched into fists and his jaw forming painful knots while the
Burning Plains echoed with the disembodied voices of dying men.

580



THE STORM BREAKS


The first horizontal rays of dawn already streaked across the land when
Trianna said to Eragon, It is time. A surge of energy erased Eragon’s
sleepiness. Jumping to his feet, he shouted the word to everyone around
him, even as he clambered into Saphira’s saddle, pulling his new bow
from its quiver. The Kull and dwarves surrounded Saphira, and together
they hurried down the breastwork until they reached the opening that
had been cleared during the night.

The Varden poured through the gap, quiet as they could be. Rank
upon rank of warriors marched past, their armor and weapons padded
with rags so no sound would alert the Empire of their approach. Saphira
joined the procession when Nasuada appeared on a roan charger in the
midst of the men, Arya and Trianna by her side. The five of them acknowledged
each other with quick glances, nothing more.

During the night, the mephitic vapors had accumulated low to the
ground, and now the dim morning light gilded the turgid clouds, turning
them opaque. Thus, the Varden managed to cross three-quarters of the
no-man’s-land before they were seen by the Empire’s sentries. As the
alarm horns rang out before them, Nasuada shouted, “Now, Eragon! Tell
Orrin to strike. To me, men of the Varden! Fight to win back your
homes. Fight to guard your wives and children! Fight to overthrow Galbatorix!
Attack and bathe your blades in the blood of our enemies!
Charge!” She spurred her horse forward, and with a great bellow, the
men followed, shaking their weapons above their heads.

Eragon conveyed Nasuada’s order to Barden, the spellcaster who rode
with King Orrin. A moment later, he heard the drumming of hooves as
Orrin and his cavalry—accompanied by the rest of the Kull, who could
run as fast as horses—galloped out of the east. They charged into the
Empire’s flank, pinning the soldiers against the Jiet River and distracting
them long enough for the Varden to cross the remainder of the distance
between them without opposition.

The two armies collided with a deafening roar. Pikes clashed against
spears, hammers against shields, swords against helms, and above it all
whirled the hungry gore-crows uttering their harsh croaks, driven into a
frenzy by the smell of fresh meat below.

Eragon’s heart leaped within his chest. I must now kill or be killed. Almost
immediately he felt his wards drawing upon his strength as they de


581



flected attacks from Arya, Orik, Nasuada, and Saphira.

Saphira held back from the leading edge of the battle, for they would
be too exposed to Galbatorix’s magicians at the front. Taking a deep
breath, Eragon began to search for those magicians with his mind, firing
arrows all the while.

Du Vrangr Gata found the first enemy spellcaster. The instant he was
alerted, Eragon reached out to the woman who made the discovery, and
from there to the foe she grappled with. Bringing the full power of his
will to bear, Eragon demolished the magician’s resistance, took control of
his consciousness—doing his best to ignore the man’s terror—determined
which troops the man was guarding, and slew the man with one of the
twelve words of death. Without pause, Eragon located the minds of each
of the now-unprotected soldiers and killed them as well. The Varden
cheered as the knot of men went limp.

The ease with which he slew them amazed Eragon. The soldiers had
had no chance to escape or fight back. How different from Farthen Dûr, he
thought. Though he marveled at the perfection of his skills, the deaths
sickened him. But there was no time to dwell on it.

Recovering from the Varden’s initial assault, the Empire began to man
their engines of war: catapults that cast round missiles of hard-baked ceramic,
trebuchets armed with barrels of liquid fire, and ballistae that
bombarded the attackers with a hail of arrows six feet long. The ceramic
balls and the liquid fire caused terrific damage when they landed. One
ball exploded against the ground not ten yards from Saphira. As Eragon
ducked behind his shield, a jagged fragment spun toward his head, only to
be stopped dead in the air by one of his wards. He blinked at the sudden
loss of energy.

The engines soon stalled the Varden’s advance, sowing mayhem wherever
they aimed. They have to be destroyed if we’re going to last long
enough to wear down the Empire, realized Eragon. It would be easy for
Saphira to dismantle the machines, but she dared not fly among the soldiers
for fear of an attack by magic.

Breaking through the Varden lines, eight soldiers stormed toward
Saphira, jabbing at her with pikes. Before Eragon could draw Zar’roc, the
dwarves and Kull eliminated the entire group.

“A good fight!” roared Garzhvog.

582



“A good fight!” agreed Orik with a bloody grin.

Eragon did not use spells against the engines; they would be protected
against any conceivable enchantment. Unless... Extending himself, he
found the mind of a soldier who tended one of the catapults. Though he
was sure the soldier was defended by some magician, Eragon was able to
gain dominance over him and direct his actions from afar. He guided the
man up to the weapon, which was being loaded, then had him use his
sword to hack at the skein of twisted rope that powered the machine.
The rope was too thick to sever before the soldier was dragged away by
his comrades, but the damage was already done. With a mighty crack, the
partially wound skein broke, sending the arm of the catapult flying
backward and injuring several men. His lips curled in a grim smile, Eragon
proceeded to the next catapult and, in short order, disabled the remainder
of the engines.

Returning to himself, Eragon became aware of dozens of the Varden
collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been overwhelmed.
He uttered a dreadful curse and flung himself back along the
trail of magic as he searched for the man who cast the fatal spell, entrusting
the welfare of his body to Saphira and his guards.

For over an hour, Eragon hunted Galbatorix’s magicians, but to little
avail, for they were wily and cunning and did not directly attack him.
Their reticence puzzled Eragon until he tore from the mind of one spellcaster—
moments before he committed suicide—the thought,... ordered
not to kill you or the dragon... not to kill you or the dragon.

That answers my question, he said to Saphira, but why does Galbatorix
still want us alive? We’ve made it clear we support the Varden.

Before she could respond, Nasuada appeared before them, her face
streaked with filth and gore, her shield covered with dents, blood sheeting
down her left leg from a wound on her thigh. “Eragon,” she gasped. “I
need you, both of you, to fight, to show yourselves and embolden the
men... to frighten the soldiers.”

Her condition shocked Eragon. “Let me heal you first,” he cried, afraid
she might faint. I should have put more wards around her.

“No! I can wait, but we are lost unless you stem the tide of soldiers.”
Her eyes were glazed and empty, blank holes in her face. “We need... a
Rider.” She swayed in her saddle.

583



Eragon saluted her with Zar’roc. “You have one, my Lady.”

“Go,” she said, “and may what gods there are watch over you.”

Eragon was too high on Saphira’s back to strike his enemies below, so
he dismounted and positioned himself by her right paw. To Orik and
Garzhvog, he said, “Protect Saphira’s left side. And whatever you do,
don’t get in our way.”

“You will be overrun, Firesword.”

“No,” said Eragon, “I won’t. Now take your places!” As they did, he put
his hand on Saphira’s leg and looked her in one clear-cut sapphire eye.
Shall we dance, friend of my heart?

We shall, little one.

Then he and she merged their identities to a greater degree than ever
before, vanquishing all differences between them to become a single entity.
They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line.
Once there, Eragon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the ravenous
jet of flame that consumed a dozen soldiers, cooking them in their
mail, nor whose arm it was that brought Zar’roc down in an arc, cleaving
a soldier’s helm in half.

The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke
wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the
knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the
carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament
toward noon.

From the minds of those around them, Eragon and Saphira caught
glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great
ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path
with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves
of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glittered
like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light.
Next they saw Eragon running alongside Saphira. He moved faster than
the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields
with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who opposed
him. Shot and dart cast at him fell to the pestilent ground ten feet
away, stopped by his wards.

It was harder for Eragon—and, by extension, Saphira—to fight his own

584



race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. Every time he
saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, he thought, This
could be me. But he and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood
before them, he died.

Three times they sallied forth and three times Eragon and Saphira slew
every man in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main
body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last
attack, Eragon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya,
Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and himself in order to keep the spells from exhausting
him too quickly. For though his strength was great, so too were
the demands of battle.

Ready? he asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirmative.


A cloud of arrows whistled toward Eragon the instant he dove back
into combat. Fast as an elf, he dodged the bulk of them—since his magic
no longer protected him from such missiles—caught twelve on his shield,
and stumbled as one struck his belly and one his side. Neither shaft
pierced his armor, but they knocked the wind out of him and left bruises
the size of apples. Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this before,
he told himself.

Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Eragon darted from one to the next,
knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of lightning.
The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier managed
to drive his pike through Eragon’s hauberk, slicing his left triceps.

The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

Eragon took advantage of the distraction to fortify himself with energy
stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three remaining
soldiers.

Sweeping her tail over him, Saphira knocked a score of men out of his
way. In the lull that followed, Eragon looked over at his throbbing arm
and said, “Waíse heill.” He also healed his bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s
ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Then the two of them pressed onward.

Eragon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their
enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every man

585



they killed, another stepped forth to take his place. A sense of hopelessness
engulfed Eragon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden
to retreat toward their own camp. He saw his despair mirrored in the
faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when he passed
them in battle.

All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire, raged Eragon. There
are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and
the belt are almost depleted.

You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.

I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take
it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden,
since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.

As the long hours dragged by, Eragon grew sore and weary and—
stripped of many of his arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor
injuries. His left arm went numb from the countless blows that hammered
his mangled shield. A scratch on his forehead kept blinding him
with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. He thought one of his fingers
might be broken.

Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her
mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a
javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the
shoulder. Eragon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell
but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground
with hundreds of drops of blood.

Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.

And the sun began its descent toward evening.

As Eragon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a
trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted,
“The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”

Dwarves? Eragon blinked and glanced around, confused. He saw nothing
but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through him as he understood.
The dwarves! He climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the
air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the battlefield.


586



It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning
Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled
helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his
iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Eragon
and Saphira.

Eragon howled at the top of his lungs and returned the gesture, brandishing
Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made him forget his
wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to
his, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers
hesitated with fear.

“What did you see?” cried Orik as Saphira dropped back to earth. “Is it
Hrothgar? How many warriors did he bring?”

Ecstatic with relief, Eragon stood in his stirrups and shouted, “Take
heart, King Hrothgar is here! And it looks like every single dwarf is behind
him! We’ll crush the Empire!” After the men stopped cheering, he
added, “Now take your swords and remind these flea-bitten cowards why
they should fear us. Charge!”

Just as Saphira leaped toward the soldiers, Eragon heard a second cry,
this one from the west: “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

“Blast it,” he snarled. We can’t let a ship land if it’s bringing reinforcements
for the Empire. Contacting Trianna, he said, Tell Nasuada that
Saphira and I will take care of this. We’ll sink the ship if it’s from Galbatorix.


As you wish, Argetlam, replied the sorceress.

Without hesitation, Saphira took flight, circling high over the trampled,
smoking plain. As the relentless clamor of combat faded from his ears,
Eragon took a deep breath, feeling his mind clear. Below, he was surprised
by how scattered both armies had become. The Empire and the
Varden had disintegrated into a series of smaller groups contending
against one another over the entire breadth and width of the Burning
Plains. It was into this confused tumult that the dwarves inserted themselves,
catching the Empire from the side—as Orrin had done earlier with
his cavalry.

Eragon lost sight of the battle when Saphira turned to her left and
soared through the clouds in the direction of the Jiet River. A gust of
wind blew the peat smoke out of their way and unveiled a large three


587



masted ship riding upon the orange water, rowing against the current
with two banks of oars. The ship was scarred and damaged and flew no
colors to declare its allegiance. Nevertheless, Eragon readied himself to
destroy the vessel. As Saphira dove toward it, he lifted Zar’roc overhead
and loosed his savage war cry.

588



CONVERGENCE


Roran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars
swish through the water. He had just finished a stint rowing and a cold,
jagged ache permeated his right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with
this reminder of the Ra’zac? He wiped the sweat from his face and ignored
the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was obscured
by a bank of sooty clouds.

Elain joined him at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly.
“The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in
Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”

He feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east
from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the
Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall,
their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.

Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they received
an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that
was before he was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were defeated,
he would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, he
convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to
live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and
assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed.
And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the
supplies they wanted.

Since then, Roran often wondered if he made the right choice. By now
everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and short-
tempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge they were sailing
toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I
really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me
one step closer to finding Katrina?

“Perhaps we should have,” he said to Elain.

Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead,
darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so
that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It produced
an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The
sailors on deck looked about fearfully and muttered charms of protection,
pulling out stone amulets to ward off the evil eye.

589



“Listen,” said Elain. She tilted her head. “What is that?”

Roran strained his ears and caught the faint ring of metal striking metal.
“That,” he said, “is the sound of our destiny.” Twisting, he shouted back
over his shoulder, “Captain, there’s fighting just ahead!”

“Man the ballistae!” roared Uthar. “Double-time on those oars, Bonden.
An’ every able-bodied man jack among you better be ready or you’ll be
using your guts for pillows!”

Roran remained where he was as the Dragon Wing exploded with activity.
Despite the increase in noise, he could still hear swords and shields
clanging together in the distance. The screams of men were audible now,
as were the roars of some giant beast.

He glanced over as Jeod joined them at the prow. The merchant’s face
was pale. “Have you ever been in battle before?” asked Roran.

The knob in Jeod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and shook his head.
“I got into plenty of fights along with Brom, but never anything of this
scale.”

“A first for both of us, then.”

The bank of smoke thinned on the right, providing them with a
glimpse of a dark land that belched forth fire and putrid orange vapor and
was covered with masses of struggling men. It was impossible to tell who
was the Empire and who was the Varden, but it was apparent to Roran
that the battle could tip in either direction given the right nudge. We can
provide that nudge.

Then a voice echoed over the water as a man shouted, “A ship! A ship
is coming up the Jiet River!”

“You should go belowdecks,” said Roran to Elain. “It won’t be safe for
you here.” She nodded and hurried to the fore hatchway, where she
climbed down the ladder, closing the opening behind her. A moment
later, Horst bounded up to the prow and handed Roran one of Fisk’s
shields.

“Thought you might need that,” said Horst.

“Thanks. I—”

590



Roran stopped as the air around them vibrated, as if from a mighty
concussion. Thud. His teeth jarred together. Thud. His ears hurt from the
pressure. Close upon the heels of the second impact came a third—
thud—and with it a raw-throated yell that Roran recognized, for he had
heard it many times in his childhood. He looked up and beheld a gigantic
sapphire dragon diving out of the shifting clouds. And on the dragon’s
back, at the juncture between its neck and shoulders, sat his cousin, Eragon.


It was not the Eragon he remembered, but rather as if an artist had
taken his cousin’s base features and enhanced them, streamlined them,
making them both more noble and more feline. This Eragon was garbed
like a prince, in fine cloth and armor—though tarnished by the grime of
war—and in his right hand he wielded a blade of iridescent red. This Eragon,
Roran knew, could kill without hesitation. This Eragon was powerful
and implacable.... This Eragon could slay the Ra’zac and their mounts
and help him to rescue Katrina.

Flaring its translucent wings, the dragon pulled up sharply and hung before
the ship. Then Eragon met Roran’s eyes.

Until that moment, Roran had not completely believed Jeod’s story
about Eragon and Brom. Now, as he stared at his cousin, a wave of confused
emotions washed over him. Eragon is a Rider! It seemed inconceivable
that the slight, moody, overeager boy he grew up with had turned
into this fearsome warrior. Seeing him alive again filled Roran with unexpected
joy. Yet, at the same time, a terrible, familiar anger welled up inside
him over Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and the siege of Carvahall.
In those few seconds, Roran knew not whether he loved or hated Eragon.

He stiffened with alarm as a vast and alien being touched his mind.
From that consciousness emanated Eragon’s voice: Roran?

“Aye.”

Think your answers and I’ll hear them. Is everyone from Carvahall with
you?

Just about.

How did you... No, we can’t go into it; there’s no time. Stay where you are
until the battle is decided. Better yet, go back farther down the river, where
the Empire can’t attack you.

591



We have to talk, Eragon. You have much to answer for.

Eragon hesitated with a troubled expression, then said, I know. But not
now, later. With no visible prompting, the dragon veered away from the
ship and flew off to the east, vanishing in the haze over the Burning
Plains.

In an awed voice, Horst said, “A Rider! A real Rider! I never thought I’d
see the day, much less that it would be Eragon.” He shook his head. “I
guess you told us the truth, eh, Longshanks?” Jeod grinned in response,
looking like a delighted child.

Their words sounded muted to Roran as he stared at the deck, feeling
like he was about to explode with tension. A host of unanswerable questions
assailed him. He forced himself to ignore them. I can’t think about
Eragon now. We have to fight. The Varden must defeat the Empire.

A rising tide of fury consumed him. He had experienced this before, a
berserk frenzy that allowed him to overcome nearly any obstacle, to
move objects he could not shift ordinarily, to face an enemy in combat
and feel no fear. It gripped him now, a fever in his veins, quickening his
breath and setting his heart a-pounding.

He pushed himself off the railing, ran the length of the ship to the
quarterdeck, where Uthar stood by the wheel, and said, “Ground the
ship.”

“What?”

“Ground the ship, I say! Stay here with the rest of the soldiers and use
the ballistae to wreak what havoc you can, keep the Dragon Wing from
being boarded, and guard our families with your lives. Understand?”

Uthar stared at him with flat eyes, and Roran feared he would not accept
the orders. Then the scarred sailor grunted and said, “Aye, aye,
Stronghammer.”

Horst’s heavy tread preceded his arrival at the quarterdeck. “What do
you intend to do, Roran?”

“Do?” Roran laughed and spun widdershins to stand toe to toe with the
smith. “Do? Why, I intend to alter the fate of Alagaësia!”

592



ELDEST


Eragon barely noticed as Saphira carried him back into the swirling
confusion of the battle. He had known that Roran was at sea, but it never
occurred to him that Roran might be heading for Surda, nor that they
would reunite in this manner. And Roran’s eyes! His eyes seemed to bore
into Eragon, questioning, relieved, enraged...accusing. In them, Eragon saw
that his cousin had learned of Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and had not
yet forgiven him.

It was only when a sword bounced off his greaves that Eragon returned
his attention to his surroundings. He unleashed a hoarse shout and slashed
downward, cutting away the soldier who struck him. Cursing himself for
being so careless, Eragon reached out to Trianna and said, No one on that
ship is an enemy. Spread the word that they’re not to be attacked. Ask
Nasuada if, as a favor to us, she can send a herald to explain the situation
to them and see that they stay away from the fighting.

As you wish, Argetlam.

From the western flank of the battle, where she alighted, Saphira traversed
the Burning Plains in a few giant leaps, stopping before Hrothgar
and his dwarves. Dismounting, Eragon went to the king, who said, “Hail,
Argetlam! Hail, Saphira! The elves seem to have done more for you than
they promised.” Beside him stood Orik.

“No, sir, it was the dragons.”

“Really? I must hear your adventures once our bloody work here is
done. I’m glad you accepted my offer to become Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. It
is an honor to have you as mine kin.”

“And you mine.”

Hrothgar laughed, then turned to Saphira and said, “I still haven’t forgotten
your vow to mend Isidar Mithrim, dragon. Even now, our artisans
are assembling the star sapphire in the center of Tronjheim. I look forward
to seeing it whole once again.”

She bowed her head. As I promised, so it shall be.

After Eragon repeated her words, Hrothgar reached out with a gnarled
finger and tapped one of the metal plates on her side. “I see you wear our

593



armor. I hope it has served you well.”

Very well, King Hrothgar, said Saphira through Eragon. It has saved me
many an injury.

Hrothgar straightened and lifted Volund, a twinkle in his deep-set eyes.
“Well then, shall we march out and test it once again in the forge of
war?” He looked back at his warriors and shouted, “Akh sartos oen dûrgrimst!”


“Vor Hrothgarz korda! Vor Hrothgarz korda!”

Eragon looked at Orik, who translated with a mighty yell, “By Hrothgar’s
hammer!” Joining the chant, Eragon ran with the dwarf king toward
the crimson ranks of soldiers, Saphira by his side.

Now at last, with the help of the dwarves, the battle turned in favor of
the Varden. Together they pushed back the Empire, dividing them,
crushing them, forcing Galbatorix’s vast army to abandon positions they
had held since morn. Their efforts were helped by the fact that more of
Angela’s poisons had taken effect. Many of the Empire’s officers behaved
irrationally, giving orders that made it easier for the Varden to penetrate
deeper into the army, sowing chaos as they went. The soldiers seemed to
realize that fortune no longer smiled upon them, for hundreds surrendered,
or defected outright and turned on their former comrades, or
threw down their weapons and fled.

And the day passed into the late afternoon.

Eragon was in the midst of fighting two soldiers when a flaming javelin
roared past overhead and buried itself in one of the Empire’s command
tents twenty yards away, igniting the fabric. Dispatching his opponents,
Eragon glanced back and saw dozens of fiery missiles arcing out from the
ship on the Jiet River. What are you playing at, Roran? wondered Eragon
before charging the next batch of soldiers.

Soon afterward, a horn echoed from the rear of the Empire’s army, then
another and another. Someone began to pound a sonorous drum, the
peals of which stilled the field as everyone looked about for the source of
the beat. Even as Eragon watched, an ominous figure detached itself from
the horizon in the north and rose up in the lurid sky over the Burning
Plains. The gore-crows scattered before the barbed black shadow, which
balanced motionless upon the thermals. At first Eragon thought it a
Lethrblaka, one of the Ra’zac’s mounts. Then a ray of light escaped the

594



clouds and struck the figure crossways from the west.

A red dragon floated above them, glowing and sparkling in the sunbeam
like a bed of blood-red coals. His wing membranes were the color
of wine held before a lantern. His claws and teeth and the spikes along
his spine were white as snow. In his vermilion eyes there gleamed a terrible
glee. On his back was fixed a saddle, and in that saddle sat a man
garbed in polished steel armor and armed with a hand-and-a-half sword.

Dread clutched at Eragon. Galbatorix managed to get another dragon to
hatch!

Then the man in steel raised his left hand and a shaft of crackling ruby
energy sprang from his palm and smote Hrothgar on the breast. The
dwarf spellcasters cried out with agony as the energy from their bodies
was consumed trying to block the attack. They collapsed, dead, then
Hrothgar clutched his heart and toppled to the ground. The dwarves gave
a great groan of despair as they saw their king fall.

“No!” cried Eragon, and Saphira roared in protest. He glared with hate
at the enemy Rider. I’ll kill you for that.

Eragon knew that, as they were, he and Saphira were too tired to confront
such a mighty opponent. Glancing around, Eragon spotted a horse
lying in the mud, a spear through its side. The stallion was still alive. Eragon
put his hand on its neck and murmured, Sleep, brother. Then he
transferred the horse’s remaining vitality into himself and Saphira. It was
not enough energy to restore all their strength, but it soothed their aching
muscles and stopped their limbs from shaking.

Rejuvenated, Eragon leaped onto Saphira, shouting, “Orik, take command
of your kinsmen!” Across the field, he saw Arya gaze at him with
concern. He put her out of his mind as he tightened the saddle straps
around his legs. Then Saphira launched herself toward the red dragon,
pumping her wings at a furious rate to gain the necessary speed.

I hope you remember your lessons with Glaedr, he said. He tightened his
grip on his shield.

Saphira did not answer him but roared out with her thoughts at the
other dragon, Traitor! Egg breaker, oath breaker, murderer! Then as one,
she and Eragon assaulted the minds of the pair, seeking to overwhelm
their defenses. The consciousness of the Rider felt strange to Eragon, as if
it contained multitudes; scores of distinct voices whispered in the caverns

595



of his mind, like imprisoned spirits begging for release.

The instant they made contact, the Rider retaliated with a blast of pure
force greater than any even Oromis was capable of summoning. Eragon
retreated deep behind his own barriers, frantically reciting a scrap of doggerel
Oromis taught him to use in such predicaments:

Under a cold and empty winter sky

Stood a wee, small man with a silver sword.

He jumped and stabbed in a fevered frenzy,

Fighting the shadows massed before him....

The siege on Eragon’s mind abated as Saphira and the red dragon
crashed together, two incandescent meteors colliding head-on. They
grappled, kicking each other’s bellies with their hind legs. Their talons
produced hideous screeches as they grated against Saphira’s armor and the
red dragon’s flat scales. The red dragon was smaller than Saphira, but
thicker in his legs and shoulders. He managed to kick her off for a moment,
then they closed again, each struggling to get their jaws around the
other’s neck.

It was all Eragon could do to keep hold of Zar’roc as the dragons tumbled
toward the ground, battering one another with terrible blows from
their feet and tails. No more than fifty yards above the Burning Plains,
Saphira and the red dragon disengaged, struggling to regain altitude. Once
she halted her descent, Saphira reared her head, like a snake about to
strike, and loosed a thick torrent of fire.

It never reached its destination; twelve feet from the red dragon, the
fire bifurcated and passed harmlessly on either side. Blast it, thought Eragon.
Even as the red dragon opened its maw to retaliate, Eragon cried,
“Skölir nosu fra brisingr!” He was just in time. The conflagration swirled
around them but did not even scorch Saphira’s scales.

Now Saphira and the red dragon raced up through the striated smoke
into the clear, chill sky beyond, darting back and forth as they tried to
climb above their opponent. The red dragon nipped Saphira’s tail, and
she and Eragon yelped with shared pain. Panting from the effort, Saphira
executed a tight backward loop, ending up behind the dragon, who then

596



pivoted to the left and tried to spiral up and over Saphira.

While the dragons dueled with increasingly complex acrobatics, Eragon
became aware of a disturbance on the Burning Plains: the spellcasters of
Du Vrangr Gata were beset by two new magicians from the Empire.
These magicians were far more powerful than those who had preceded
them. They had already killed one of Du Vrangr Gata and were battering
past the barriers of a second. Eragon heard Trianna scream with her mind,
Shadeslayer! You have to help us! We can’t stop them. They’ll kill all the
Varden. Help us, it’s the—

Her voice was lost to him as the Rider stabbed at his consciousness.
“This must end,” spat Eragon between clenched teeth as he strove to
withstand the onslaught. Over Saphira’s neck, he saw the red dragon dive
toward them, angling beneath Saphira. Eragon dared not open his mind
enough to talk with Saphira, so he said out loud, “Catch me!” With two
strokes of Zar’roc, he severed the straps around his legs and jumped off
Saphira’s back.

This is insane, thought Eragon. He laughed with giddy exhilaration as
the feeling of weightlessness took hold of him. The rush of air tore off his
helm and made his eyes water and sting. Releasing his shield, Eragon
spread out his arms and legs, as Oromis had taught him, in order to stabilize
his flight. Below, the steel-clad Rider noticed Eragon’s action. The red
dragon shied to Eragon’s left but could not evade him. Eragon lashed out
with Zar’roc as the dragon’s flank flashed by, and he felt the blade sink
into the creature’s hamstring before his momentum carried him past.

The dragon roared in agony.

The impact of the blow sent Eragon spinning up, down, and around. By
the time he managed to stop his rotation, he had plummeted through the
cloud cover and was heading toward a swift and fatal landing on the
Burning Plains. He could stop himself with magic if he had to, but it
would drain his last reserves of energy. He glanced over both his shoulders.
Come on, Saphira, where are you?

As if in answer, she dropped out of the foul smoke, her wings pressed
tight against her body. She swooped underneath him and opened her
wings a bit to slow her fall. Careful not to impale himself on one of her
spikes, Eragon maneuvered himself back into the saddle, welcoming the
return of gravity as she pulled out of the dive.

Never do that to me again, she snapped.

597



He surveyed the steaming blood that laced Zar’roc’s blade. It worked,
didn’t it?

His satisfaction disappeared as he realized that his stunt had placed
Saphira at the mercy of the red dragon. He hurtled at her from above,
harrying her this way and that as he forced her toward the ground.
Saphira tried to maneuver out from under him, but every time she did,
he dove at her, biting and buffeting her with his wings in order to make
her change course.

The dragons twisted and lunged until their tongues lolled out of their
mouths, their tails drooped, and they gave up flapping and merely glided.

His mind once again closed to all contact, friendly or not, Eragon said
out loud, “Land, Saphira; it’s no good. I’ll fight him on the ground.”

With a grunt of weary resignation, Saphira descended to the nearest flat
open area, a small stone plateau set along the western edge of the Jiet
River. The water had turned red from the blood pouring into it from the
battle. Eragon jumped off Saphira once she alighted on the plateau and
tested his footing. It was smooth and hard, with nothing to trip on. He
nodded, pleased.

A few seconds later, the red dragon rushed by overhead and settled on
the opposite side of the plateau. He held his left hind leg off the ground
to avoid aggravating his wound: a long gash that nearly severed the muscle.
The dragon trembled his entire length, like an injured dog. He tried
to hop forward, then stopped and snarled at Eragon.

The enemy Rider unbuckled his legs and slid down the uninjured side
of his dragon. Then he walked around the dragon and examined his leg.
Eragon let him; he knew how much pain it would cause the man to see
the damage inflicted on his bonded partner. He waited too long, though,
for the Rider muttered a few indecipherable words, and within the span
of three seconds the dragon’s injury was healed.

Eragon shivered with fear. How could he do that so quickly, and with
such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly
was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.

Eragon clung to that knowledge as he stepped forward to confront the
Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red
dragon circled in the background.

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The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his
head toward Eragon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend himself. Their blades
collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Eragon shoved back his
opponent and started a complex series of blows. He stabbed and parried,
dancing on light feet as he forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward
the edge of the plateau.

When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Eragon’s
attacks, no matter how clever. It’s as if he can anticipate my every
move, thought Eragon, frustrated. If he were rested, it would have been
easy for him to defeat the Rider, but as it was, he could make no headway.
The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his
technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Eragon’s.

Eragon felt a touch of panic when his initial surge of energy began to
subside and he had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch
across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored
in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to
maintain his exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step
forward. Then another. And before Eragon knew it, they had returned to
the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging
blows.

Zar’roc grew so heavy in his hand, Eragon could barely lift it. His shoulder
burned, he gasped for breath, and sweat poured off his face. Not even
his desire to avenge Hrothgar could help him to overcome his exhaustion.


At last Eragon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down,
he rolled back onto his feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside
Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward—spinning it in a
quick circle by his side—suddenly seemed familiar to Eragon, as did all
his preceding swordsmanship. He stared with growing horror at his enemy’s
hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored
helm, and shouted, “I know you!”

He threw himself at the Rider, trapping both swords between their
bodies, hooked his fingers underneath the helm, and ripped it off. And
there in the center of the plateau, on the edge of the Burning Plains of
Alagaësia, stood Murtagh.

599



INHERITANCE


Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air
coalesced between them and struck Eragon in the middle of his chest,
tossing him twenty feet across the plateau.

Eragon heard Saphira growl as he landed on his back. His vision flashed
red and white, then he curled into a ball and waited for the pain to recede.
Any delight he felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by
the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of
shock, confusion, and anger boiled within him.

Lowering his sword, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with his steel-encased
hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never
would give up.”

A chill crept along Eragon’s spine, for he recognized the scene from his
premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth: A man sprawled in
the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—his face concealed
behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Eragon’s view and
pointed at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself. Past and future
had converged. Now Eragon’s doom would be decided.

Pushing himself to his feet, he coughed and said, “Murtagh... how can
you be alive? I watched the Urgals drag you underground. I tried to scry
you but saw only darkness.”

Murtagh uttered a mirthless laugh. “You saw nothing, just as I saw
nothing the times I tried to scry you during my days in Urû’baen.”

“You died, though!” shouted Eragon, almost incoherent. “You died under
Farthen Dûr. Arya found your bloody clothes in the tunnels.”

A shadow darkened Murtagh’s face. “No, I did not die. It was the
Twins’ doing, Eragon. They took control of a group of Urgals and arranged
the ambush in order to kill Ajihad and capture me. Then they ensorcelled
me so I could not escape and spirited me off to Urû’baen.”

Eragon shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened.
“But why did you agree to serve Galbatorix? You told me you hated him.
You told me—”

“Agree!” Murtagh laughed again, and this time his outburst contained

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an edge of madness. “I did not agree. First Galbatorix punished me for
spiting his years of protection during my upbringing in Urû’baen, for defying
his will and running away. Then he extracted everything I knew
about you, Saphira, and the Varden.”

“You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!”

“I had no choice.”

“Ajihad was right to lock you up. He should have let you rot in your
cell, then none of this—”

“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me,
Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language.
We cannot disobey him now.”

Pity and disgust welled inside of Eragon. “You have become your father.”


A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m
stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic
you’ve never even dreamed of.... Spells so powerful, the elves dare not utter
them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were
lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy... Secrets,
terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your
desires.”

Eragon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things
that should remain secrets.”

“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing
more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait
to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Eragon. “You look like an elf
now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Eragon remained silent,
Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon
enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.

Following his gaze, Eragon saw the Twins standing at the front of the
Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the
dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Eragon was
sure the hairless magicians were grinning and laughing as they slaughtered
the men with whom they once pledged solemn friendship. What the
Twins failed to notice—and what was clearly visible to Eragon and
Murtagh from their vantage point—was that Roran was crawling toward

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them from the side.

Eragon’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized his cousin. You fool! Get
away from them! You’ll be killed.

Just as he opened his mouth to cast a spell that would transport Roran
out of danger—no matter the cost—Murtagh said, “Wait. I want to see
what he’ll do.”

“Why?”

A bleak smile crossed Murtagh’s face. “The Twins enjoyed tormenting
me when I was their captive.”

Eragon glanced at him, suspicious. “You won’t hurt him? You won’t
warn the Twins?”

“Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal.” Upon my word as a Rider.

Together they watched as Roran hid behind a mound of bodies. Eragon
stiffened as the Twins looked toward the pile. For a moment, it seemed
they had spotted him, then they turned away and Roran jumped up. He
swung his hammer and bashed one of the Twins in the head, cracking
open his skull. The remaining Twin fell to the ground, convulsing, and
emitted a wordless scream until he too met his end under Roran’s hammer.
Then Roran planted his foot upon the corpses of his foes, lifted his
hammer over his head, and bellowed his victory.

“What now?” demanded Eragon, turning away from the battlefield.
“Are you here to kill me?”

“Of course not. Galbatorix wants you alive.”

“What for?”

Murtagh’s lips quirked. “You don’t know? Ha! There’s a fine jest. It’s
not because of you; it’s because of her. ” He jabbed a finger at Saphira.
“The dragon inside Galbatorix’s last egg, the last dragon egg in the world,
is male. Saphira is the only female dragon in existence. If she breeds, she
will be the mother of her entire race. Do you see now? Galbatorix
doesn’t want to eradicate the dragons. He wants to use Saphira to rebuild
the Riders. He can’t kill you, either of you, if his vision is to become reality....
And what a vision it is, Eragon. You should hear him describe it,
then you might not think so badly of him. Is it evil that he wants to unite

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Alagaësia under a single banner, eliminate the need for war, and restore
the Riders?”

“He’s the one who destroyed the Riders in the first place!”

“And for good reason,” asserted Murtagh. “They were old, fat, and corrupt.
The elves controlled them and used them to subjugate humans.
They had to be removed so that we could start anew.”

A furious scowl contorted Eragon’s features. He paced back and forth
across the plateau, his breathing heavy, then gestured at the battle and
said, “How can you justify causing so much suffering on the basis of a
madman’s ravings? Galbatorix has done nothing but burn and slaughter
and amass power for himself. He lies. He murders. He manipulates. You
know this! It’s why you refused to work for him in the first place.” Eragon
paused, then adopted a gentler tone: “I can understand that you were
compelled to act against your will and that you aren’t responsible for killing
Hrothgar. You can try to escape, though. I’m sure that Arya and I
could devise a way to neutralize the bonds Galbatorix has laid upon
you.... Join me, Murtagh. You could do so much for the Varden. With us,
you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated.”

For a moment, as Murtagh gazed down at his notched sword, Eragon
hoped he would accept. Then Murtagh said in a low voice, “You cannot
help me, Eragon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths,
and he will never do that.... He knows our true names, Eragon.... We are
his slaves forever.”

Though he wanted to, Eragon could not deny the sympathy he felt for
Murtagh’s plight. With the utmost gravity, he said, “Then let us kill the
two of you.”

“Kill us! Why should we allow that?”

Eragon chose his words with care: “It would free you from Galbatorix’s
control. And it would save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of
people. Isn’t that a noble enough cause to sacrifice yourself for?”

Murtagh shook his head. “Maybe for you, but life is still too sweet for
me to part with it so easily. No stranger’s life is more important than
Thorn’s or my own.”

As much as he hated it—hated the entire situation, in fact—Eragon
knew then what had to be done. Renewing his attack on Murtagh’s mind,

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he leaped forward, both feet leaving the ground as he lunged toward
Murtagh, intending to stab him through the heart.

“Letta!” barked Murtagh.

Eragon dropped back to the ground as invisible bands clamped around
his arms and legs, immobilizing him. To his right, Saphira discharged a jet
of rippling fire and sprang at Murtagh like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

“Rïsa!” commanded Murtagh, extending a clawlike hand as if to catch
her.

Saphira yelped with surprise as Murtagh’s incantation stopped her in
midair and held her in place, floating several feet above the plateau. No
matter how much she wriggled, she could not touch the ground, nor
could she fly any higher.

How can he still be human and have the strength to do that? wondered
Eragon. Even with my new abilities, such a task would leave me gasping for
air and unable to walk. Relying upon his experience counteracting
Oromis’s spells, Eragon said, “Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un
eka!”

Murtagh made no attempt to stop him, only gave him a flat stare, as if
he found Eragon’s resistance a pointless inconvenience. Baring his teeth,
Eragon redoubled his efforts. His hands went cold, his bones ached, and
his pulse slowed as the magic sapped his energy. Without being asked,
Saphira joined forces with him, granting him access to the formidable resources
of her body.

Five seconds passed....

Twenty seconds... A thick vein pulsed on Murtagh’s neck.

A minute...

A minute and a half... Involuntary tremors racked Eragon. His quadriceps
and hamstrings fluttered, and his legs would have given way if he
were free to move.

Two minutes passed....

At last Eragon was forced to release the magic, else he risked falling unconscious
and passing into the void. He sagged, utterly spent.

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He had been afraid before, but only because he thought he might fail.
Now he was afraid because he did not know what Murtagh was capable
of.

“You cannot hope to compete with me,” said Murtagh. “No one can,
except for Galbatorix.” Walking up to Eragon, he pointed his sword at
Eragon’s neck, pricking his skin. Eragon resisted the impulse to flinch. “It
would be so easy to take you back to Urû’baen.”

Eragon gazed deep into his eyes. “Don’t. Let me go.”

“You just tried to kill me.”

“And you would have done the same in my position.” When Murtagh
remained silent and expressionless, Eragon said, “We were friends once.
We fought together. Galbatorix can’t have twisted you so much that
you’ve forgotten.... If you do this, Murtagh, you’ll be lost forever.”

A long minute passed where the only sound was the hue and cry of the
clashing armies. Blood trickled down Eragon’s neck from where the
sword point cut him. Saphira lashed her tail with helpless rage.

Finally, Murtagh said, “I was ordered to try and capture you and
Saphira.” He paused. “I have tried.... Make sure we don’t cross paths again.
Galbatorix will have me swear additional oaths in the ancient language
that will prevent me from showing you such mercy when next we meet.”
He lowered his sword.

“You’re doing the right thing,” said Eragon. He tried to step back but
was still held in place.

“Perhaps. But before I let you go...” Reaching out, Murtagh pried Zar’roc
from Eragon’s fist and unbuckled Zar’roc’s red sheath from the belt of Be-
loth the Wise. “If I have become my father, then I will have my father’s
blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is
only right, then, that I should also wield the sword Misery. Misery and
Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar’roc should have gone to Morzan’s eldest
son, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth.”

A cold pit formed in Eragon’s stomach. It can’t be.

A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh’s face. “I never told you my
mother’s name, did I? And you never told me yours. I’ll say it now:

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Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father.
The Twins figured out the connection while they were digging around in
your head. Galbatorix was quite interested to learn that particular piece
of information.”

“You’re lying!” cried Eragon. He could not bear the thought of being
Morzan’s son. Did Brom know? Does Oromis know?... Why didn’t they tell
me? He remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in his family
would betray him. She was right.

Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient
language, then put his lips to Eragon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we
are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”

“You’re wrong,” growled Eragon, struggling against the spell. “We’re
nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold.
He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my
inheritance from you, brother. Farewell.”

Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto
Thorn. Not once did he look at Eragon as the dragon crouched, raised its
wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished
below the horizon did the web of magic release Eragon and Saphira.

Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to
Eragon and touched him on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little
one?

I’m fine. But he was not, and she knew it.

Walking to the edge of the plateau, Eragon surveyed the Burning Plains
and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death
of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were
able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the
river or chasing them back from whence they came.

Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had
sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt
to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses
from both sides of the conflict, enough men and dwarves to populate an
entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into
the peat fires.

606



Now that the fighting had subsided, the hawks and eagles, the crows
and ravens, descended like a shroud over the field.

Eragon closed his eyes, tears leaking from under the lids.

They had won, but he had lost.

607



REUNION


Eragon and Saphira picked their way between the corpses that littered
the Burning Plains, moving slowly on account of their wounds and their
exhaustion. They encountered other survivors staggering through the
scorched battlefield, hollow-eyed men who looked without truly seeing,
their gazes focused somewhere in the distance.

Now that his bloodlust had subsided, Eragon felt nothing but sorrow.
The fighting seemed so pointless to him. What a tragedy that so many
must die to thwart a single madman. He paused to sidestep a thicket of
arrows planted in the mud and noticed the gash on Saphira’s tail where
Thorn had bitten her, as well as her other injuries. Here, lend me your
strength; I’ll heal you.

Tend to those in mortal danger first.

Are you sure?

Quite sure, little one.

Acquiescing, he bent down and mended a soldier’s torn neck before
moving on to one of the Varden. He made no distinction between friend
and foe, treating both to the limit of his abilities.

Eragon was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he paid little attention to
his work. He wished he could repudiate Murtagh’s claim, but everything
Murtagh had said about his mother—their mother—coincided with the
few things Eragon knew about her: Selena left Carvahall twenty-some
years ago, returned once to give birth to Eragon, and was never seen
again. His mind darted back to when he and Murtagh first arrived in Far-
then Dûr. Murtagh had discussed how his mother had vanished from
Morzan’s castle while Morzan was hunting Brom, Jeod, and Saphira’s egg.
After Morzan threw Zar’roc at Murtagh and nearly killed him, Mother must
have hidden her pregnancy and then gone back to Carvahall in order to protect
me from Morzan and Galbatorix.

It heartened Eragon to know that Selena had cared for him so deeply. It
also grieved him to know she was dead and they would never meet, for
he had nurtured the hope, faint as it was, that his parents might still be
alive. He no longer harbored any desire to be acquainted with his father,
but he bitterly resented that he had been deprived of the chance to have
a relationship with his mother.

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Ever since he was old enough to understand that he was a fosterling,
Eragon had wondered who his father was and why his mother left him to
be raised by her brother, Garrow, and his wife, Marian. Those answers
had been thrust upon him from such an unexpected source, and in such
an unpropitious setting, it was more than he could make sense of at the
moment. It would take months, if not years, to come to terms with the
revelation.

Eragon always assumed he would be glad to learn the identity of his father.
Now that he had, the knowledge revolted him. When he was
younger, he often entertained himself by imagining that his father was
someone grand and important, though Eragon knew the opposite was far
more likely. Still, it never occurred to him, even in his most extravagant
daydreams, that he might be the son of a Rider, much less one of the Forsworn.


It turned a daydream into a nightmare.

I was sired by a monster.... My father was the one who betrayed the Riders
to Galbatorix. It left Eragon feeling sullied.

But no...As he healed a man’s broken spine, a new way of viewing the
situation occurred to him, one that restored a measure of his self-
confidence: Morzan may be my parent, but he is not my father. Garrow was
my father. He raised me. He taught me how to live well and honorably,
with integrity. I am who I am because of him. Even Brom and Oromis are
more my father than Morzan. And Roran is my brother, not Murtagh.

Eragon nodded, determined to maintain that outlook. Until then, he
had refused to completely accept Garrow as his father. And even though
Garrow was dead, doing so relieved Eragon, gave him a sense of closure,
and helped to ameliorate his distress over Morzan.

You have grown wise, observed Saphira.

Wise? He shook his head. No, I’ve just learned how to think. That much,
at least, Oromis gave me. Eragon wiped a layer of dirt off the face of a
fallen banner boy, making sure he really was dead, then straightened,
wincing as his muscles spasmed in protest. You realize, don’t you, that
Brom must have known about this. Why else would he choose to hide in
Carvahall while he waited for you to hatch?... He wanted to keep an eye
upon his enemy’s son. It unsettled him to think that Brom might have
considered him a threat. And he was right too. Look what ended up hap


609



pening to me!

Saphira ruffled his hair with a gust of her hot breath. Just remember,
whatever Brom’s reasons, he always tried to protect us from danger. He died
saving you from the Ra’zac.

I know.... Do you think he didn’t tell me about this because he was afraid
I might emulate Morzan, like Murtagh has?

Of course not.

He looked at her, curious. How can you be so certain? She lifted her
head high above him and refused to meet his eyes or to answer. Have it
your way, then. Kneeling by one of King Orrin’s men, who had an arrow
through the gut, Eragon grabbed his arms to stop him from writhing.
“Easy now.”

“Water,” groaned the man. “For pity’s sake, water. My throat is as dry as
sand. Please, Shadeslayer.” Sweat beaded his face.

Eragon smiled, trying to comfort him. “I can give you a drink now, but
it’d be better if you wait until after I heal you. Can you wait? If you do, I
promise you can have all the water you want.”

“You promise, Shadeslayer?”

“I promise.”

The man visibly struggled against another wave of agony before saying,
“If I must.”

With the aid of magic, Eragon drew out the shaft, then he and Saphira
worked to repair the man’s innards, using some of the warrior’s own energy
to fuel the spell. It took several minutes. Afterward, the man examined
his belly, pressing his hands against the flawless skin, then gazed at
Eragon, tears brimming in his eyes. “I... Shadeslayer, you...”

Eragon handed him his waterskin. “Here, keep it. You have greater
need of it than I.”

A hundred yards beyond, Eragon and Saphira breached an acrid wall of
smoke. There they came upon Orik and ten other dwarves—some
women—arrayed around the body of Hrothgar, who lay upon four
shields, resplendent in his golden mail. The dwarves tore at their hair,

610



beat their breasts, and wailed their lamentations to the sky. Eragon
bowed his head and murmured, “Stydja unin mor’ranr, Hrothgar
Könungr.”

After a time, Orik noticed them and rose, his face red from crying and
his beard torn free of its usual braid. He staggered over to Eragon and,
without preempt, asked, “Did you kill the coward responsible for this?”

“He escaped.” Eragon could not bring himself to explain that the Rider
was Murtagh.

Orik stamped his fist into his hand. “Barzûln!”

“But I swear to you upon every stone in Alagaësia that, as one of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum, I’ll do everything I can to avenge Hrothgar’s death.”

“Aye, you’re the only one besides the elves strong enough to bring this
foul murderer to justice. And when you find him... grind his bones to
dust, Eragon. Pull his teeth and fill his veins with molten lead; make him
suffer for every minute of Hrothgar’s life that he stole.”

“Wasn’t it a good death? Wouldn’t Hrothgar have wanted to die in battle,
with Volund in his hand?”

“In battle, yes, facing an honest foe who dared stand and fight like a
man. Not brought low by a magician’s trickery....” Shaking his head, Orik
looked back at Hrothgar, then crossed his arms and tucked his chin
against his collarbone. He took several ragged breaths. “When my parents
died of the pox, Hrothgar gave me a life again. He took me into his hall.
He made me his heir. Losing him...” Orik pinched the bridge of his nose
between his thumb and forefinger, covering his face. “Losing him is like
losing my father again.”

The grief in his voice was so clear, Eragon felt as if he shared the
dwarf’s sorrow. “I understand,” he said.

“I know you do, Eragon.... I know you do.” After a moment, Orik wiped
his eyes and gestured at the ten dwarves. “Before anything else is done,
we have to return Hrothgar to Farthen Dûr so he can be entombed with
his predecessors. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum must choose a new grimstborith,
and then the thirteen clan chiefs—including the ones you see here—will
select our next king from among themselves. What happens next, I know
not. This tragedy will embolden some clans and turn others against our
cause....” He shook his head again.

611



Eragon put his hand on Orik’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that now.
You have but to ask, and my arm and my will are at your service.... If you
want, come to my tent and we can share a cask of mead and toast Hrothgar’s
memory.”

“I’d like that. But not yet. Not until we finish pleading with the gods to
grant Hrothgar safe passage to the afterlife.” Leaving Eragon, Orik returned
to the circle of dwarves and added his voice to their keening.

Continuing on through the Burning Plains, Saphira said, Hrothgar was a
great king.

Aye, and a good person. Eragon sighed. We should find Arya and
Nasuada. I couldn’t even heal a scratch right now, and they need to know
about Murtagh.

Agreed.

They angled south toward the Varden’s encampment, but before they
traveled more than a few yards, Eragon saw Roran approaching from the
Jiet River. Trepidation filled him. Roran stopped directly in front of
them, planted his feet wide apart, and stared at Eragon, working his jaw
up and down as if he wanted to talk but was unable to get the words past
his teeth.

Then he punched Eragon on the chin.

It would have been easy for Eragon to avoid the blow, but he allowed
it to land, rolling away from it a bit so Roran did not break his knuckles.

It still hurt.

Wincing, Eragon faced his cousin. “I guess I deserved that.”

“That you did. We have to talk.”

“Now?”

“It can’t wait. The Ra’zac captured Katrina, and I need your help to rescue
her. They’ve had her ever since we left Carvahall.”

So that’s it. In an instant, Eragon realized why Roran appeared so grim
and haunted, and why he had brought the entire village to Surda. Brom

612



was right, Galbatorix sent the Ra’zac back to Palancar Valley. Eragon
frowned, torn between his responsibility to Roran and his duty to report
to Nasuada. “There’s something I need to do first, and then we can talk.
All right? You can accompany me if you want....”

“I’ll come.”

As they traversed the pockmarked land, Eragon kept glancing at Roran
out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he said in a low voice, “I missed you.”

Roran faltered, then responded with a curt nod. A few steps later, he
asked, “This is Saphira, right? Jeod said that was her name.”

“Aye.”

Saphira peered at Roran with one of her glittering eyes. He bore her
scrutiny without turning away, which was more than most people could
do. I have always wanted to meet Eragon’s nest-mate.

“She speaks!” exclaimed Roran when Eragon repeated her words.

This time Saphira addressed him directly: What? Did you think I was as
mute as a rock lizard?

Roran blinked. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that dragons were so
intelligent.” A grim smile twisted his lips. “First Ra’zac and magicians,
now dwarves, Riders, and talking dragons. It seems the whole world has
gone mad.”

“It does seem that way.”

“I saw you fight that other Rider. Did you wound him? Is that why he
fled?”

“Wait. You’ll hear.”

When they reached the pavilion Eragon was searching for, he swept
back the flap and ducked inside, followed by Roran and Saphira, who
pushed her head and neck in after them. In the center of the tent,
Nasuada sat on the edge of the table, letting a maid remove her twisted
armor while she carried on a heated discussion with Arya. The cut on her
thigh had been healed.

Nasuada stopped in the middle of her sentence as she spotted the new

613



arrivals. Running toward them, she threw her arms around Eragon and
cried, “Where were you? We thought you were dead, or worse.”

“Not quite.”

“The candle still burns,” murmured Arya.

Stepping back, Nasuada said, “We couldn’t see what happened to you
and Saphira after you landed on the plateau. When the red dragon left
and you didn’t appear, Arya tried to contact you but felt nothing, so we
assumed...” She trailed off. “We were just debating the best way to transport
Du Vrangr Gata and an entire company of warriors across the river.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just so tired after the fight,
I forgot to lower my barriers.” Then Eragon brought Roran forward.
“Nasuada, I would like to introduce my cousin, Roran. Ajihad may have
mentioned him to you before. Roran, Lady Nasuada, leader of the Varden
and my liegelord. And this is Arya Svit-kona, the elves’ ambassador.” Roran
bowed to each of them in turn.

“It is an honor to meet Eragon’s cousin,” said Nasuada.

“Indeed,” added Arya.

After they finished exchanging greetings, Eragon explained that the entire
village of Carvahall had arrived on the Dragon Wing, and that Roran
was the one responsible for killing the Twins.

Nasuada lifted a dark eyebrow. “The Varden are in your debt, Roran,
for stopping their rampage. Who knows how much damage the Twins
would have caused before Eragon or Arya could have confronted them?
You helped us to win this battle. I won’t forget that. Our supplies are
limited, but I will see that everyone on your ship is clothed and fed, and
that your sick are treated.”

Roran bowed even lower. “Thank you, Lady Nasuada.”

“If I weren’t so pressed for time, I would insist upon knowing how and
why you and your village evaded Galbatorix’s men, traveled to Surda, and
then found us. Even just the bare facts of your trek make an extraordinary
tale. I still intend to learn the specifics—especially since I suspect it
concerns Eragon—but I must deal with other, more urgent matters at the
moment.”

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“Of course, Lady Nasuada.”

“You may go, then.”

“Please,” said Eragon, “let him stay. He should be here for this.”

Nasuada gave him a quizzical look. “Very well. If you want. But enough
of this dawdling. Jump to the meat of the matter and tell us about the
Rider!”

Eragon began with a quick history of the three remaining dragon eggs—
two of which had now hatched—as well as Morzan and Murtagh, so that
Roran would understand the significance of his news. Then he proceeded
to describe his and Saphira’s fight with Thorn and the mysterious Rider,
paying special attention to his extraordinary powers. “As soon as he spun
his sword around, I realized we had dueled before, so I threw myself at
him and tore off his helm.” Eragon paused.

“It was Murtagh, wasn’t it?” asked Nasuada quietly.

“How... ?”

She sighed. “If the Twins survived, it only made sense that Murtagh had
as well. Did he tell you what really happened that day in Farthen Dûr?”
So Eragon recounted how the Twins betrayed the Varden, recruited the
Urgals, and kidnapped Murtagh. A tear rolled down Nasuada’s cheek. “It’s
a pity that this befell Murtagh when he has already endured so much
hardship. I enjoyed his company in Tronjheim and believed he was our
ally, despite his upbringing. I find it hard to think of him as our enemy.”
Turning to Roran, she said, “It seems I am also personally in your debt for
slaying the traitors who murdered my father.”

Fathers, mothers, brothers, cousins, thought Eragon. It all comes down to
family. Summoning his courage, he completed his report with Murtagh’s
theft of Zar’roc and then his final, terrible secret.

“It can’t be,” whispered Nasuada.

Eragon saw shock and revulsion cross Roran’s face before he managed
to conceal his reactions. That, more than anything else, hurt Eragon.

“Could Murtagh have been lying?” asked Arya.

“I don’t see how. When I questioned him, he told me the same thing in

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the ancient language.”

A long, uncomfortable silence filled the pavilion.

Then Arya said, “No one else can know about this. The Varden are
demoralized enough by the presence of a new Rider. And they’ll be even
more upset when they learn it’s Murtagh, whom they fought alongside
and came to trust in Farthen Dûr. If word spreads that Eragon Shade-
slayer is Morzan’s son, the men will grow disillusioned and few people
will want to join us. Not even King Orrin should be told.”

Nasuada rubbed her temples. “I fear you’re right. A new Rider...” She
shook her head. “I knew it was possible for this to occur, but I didn’t
really believe it would, since Galbatorix’s remaining eggs had gone so
long without hatching.”

“It has a certain symmetry,” said Eragon.

“Our task is doubly hard now. We may have held our own today, but
the Empire still far outnumbers us, and now we face not one but two
Riders, both of whom are stronger than you, Eragon. Do you think you
could defeat Murtagh with the help of the elves’ spellcasters?”

“Maybe. But I doubt he’d be foolish enough to fight them and me together.”


For several minutes, they discussed the effect Murtagh could have on
their campaign and strategies to minimize or eliminate it. At last Nasuada
said, “Enough. We cannot decide this when we are bloody and tired and
our minds are clouded from fighting. Go, rest, and we shall take this up
again tomorrow.”

As Eragon turned to leave, Arya approached and looked him straight in
the eye. “Do not allow this to trouble you overmuch, Eragon-elda. You
are not your father, nor your brother. Their shame is not yours.”

“Aye,” agreed Nasuada. “Nor imagine that it has lowered our opinion of
you.” She reached out and cupped his face. “I know you, Eragon. You
have a good heart. The name of your father cannot change that.”

Warmth blossomed inside Eragon. He looked from one woman to the
next, then twisted his hand over his chest, overwhelmed by their friendship.
“Thank you.”

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Once they were back out in the open, Eragon put his hands on his hips
and took a deep breath of the smoky air. It was late in the day, and the
garish orange of noon had subsided into a dusky gold light that suffused
the camp and battlefield, giving it a strange beauty. “So now you know,”
he said.

Roran shrugged. “Blood always tells.”

“Don’t say that,” growled Eragon. “Don’t ever say that.”

Roran studied him for several seconds. “You’re right; it was an ugly
thought. I didn’t mean it.” He scratched his beard and squinted at the
bloated sun resting upon the horizon. “Nasuada wasn’t what I expected.”

That forced a tired chuckle out of Eragon. “The one you were expecting
was her father, Ajihad. Still, she’s as good a leader as he was, if not
better.”

“Her skin, is it dyed?”

“No, that’s the way she is.”

Just then, Eragon felt Jeod, Horst, and a score of other men from Carvahall
hurrying toward them. The villagers slowed as they rounded a tent
and glimpsed Saphira. “Horst!” exclaimed Eragon. Stepping forward, he
grasped the smith in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again!”

Horst gaped at Eragon, then a delighted grin spread across his face.
“Blast if it isn’t good to see you as well, Eragon. You’ve filled out since
you left.”

“You mean since I ran away.”

Meeting the villagers was a strange experience for Eragon. Hardship had
altered some of the men so much, he barely recognized them. And they
treated him differently than before, with a mixture of awe and reverence.
It reminded him of a dream, where everything familiar is rendered alien.
He was disconcerted by how out of place he felt among them.

When Eragon came to Jeod, he paused. “You know about Brom?”

“Ajihad sent me a message, but I’d like to hear what happened directly
from you.”

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Eragon nodded, grave. “As soon as I have the chance, we’ll sit down together
and have a long talk.”

Then Jeod moved on to Saphira and bowed to her. “I waited my entire
life to see a dragon, and now I have seen two in the same day. I am indeed
lucky. However, you are the dragon I wanted to meet.”

Bending her neck, Saphira touched Jeod on the brow. He shivered at
the contact. Give him my thanks for helping to rescue me from Galbatorix.
Otherwise, I would still be languishing in the king’s treasury. He was
Brom’s friend, and so he is our friend.

After Eragon repeated her words, Jeod said, “Atra esterní ono thelduin,
Saphira Bjartskular,” surprising them with his knowledge of the ancient
language.

“Where did you go?” Horst asked Roran. “We looked high and low for
you after you took off in pursuit of those two magicians.”

“Never mind that now. Return to the ship and have everyone disembark;
the Varden are sending us food and shelter. We can sleep on solid
ground tonight!” The men cheered.

Eragon watched with interest as Roran issued his commands. When at
last Jeod and the villagers departed, Eragon said, “They trust you. Even
Horst obeys you without question. Do you speak for all of Carvahall
now?”

“I do.”

Heavy darkness was advancing upon the Burning Plains by the time
they found the small two-man tent the Varden had assigned Eragon.
Since Saphira could not fit her head through the opening, she curled up
on the ground beside and prepared to keep watch.

As soon as I get my strength back, I’ll see to your wounds, promised Eragon.


I know. Don’t stay up too late talking.

Inside the tent, Eragon found an oil lantern that he lit with steel and
flint. He could see perfectly well without it, but Roran needed the light.

They sat opposite each other: Eragon on the bedding laid out along one

618



side of the tent, Roran on a folding stool he found leaning in a corner. Eragon
was uncertain how to begin, so he remained silent and stared at the
lamp’s dancing flame.

Neither of them moved.

After uncounted minutes, Roran said, “Tell me how my father died.”

“Our father.” Eragon remained calm as Roran’s expression hardened. In
a gentle voice, he said, “I have as much right to call him that as you. Look
within yourself; you know it to be true.”

“Fine. Our father, how did he die?”

Eragon had recounted the story upon several occasions. But this time he
hid nothing. Instead of just listing the events, he described what he had
thought and felt ever since he had found Saphira’s egg, trying to make
Roran understand why he did what he did. He had never been so anxious
before.

“I was wrong to hide Saphira from the rest of the family,” Eragon concluded,
“but I was afraid you might insist on killing her, and I didn’t realize
how much danger she put us in. If I had... After Garrow died, I decided
to leave in order to track down the Ra’zac, as well as to avoid putting
Carvahall in any more danger.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “It
didn’t work, but if I had remained, the soldiers would have come far
sooner. And then who knows? Galbatorix might have even visited Palancar
Valley himself. I may be the reason Garrow—Father—died, but that
was never my intention, nor that you and everyone else in Carvahall
should suffer because of my choices....” He gestured helplessly. “I did the
best I could, Roran.”

“And the rest of it—Brom being a Rider, rescuing Arya at Gil’ead, and
killing a Shade at the dwarves’ capital—all that happened?”

“Aye.” As quickly as he could, Eragon summarized what had taken
place since he and Saphira set forth with Brom, including their sojourn to
Ellesméra and his own transformation during the Agaetí Blödhren.

Leaning forward, Roran rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his
hands, and gazed at the dirt between them. It was impossible for Eragon
to read his emotions without reaching into his consciousness, which he
refused to do, knowing it would be a terrible mistake to invade Roran’s
privacy.

619



Roran was silent for so long, Eragon began to wonder if he would ever
respond. Then: “You have made mistakes, but they are no greater than
my own. Garrow died because you kept Saphira secret. Many more have
died because I refused to give myself up to the Empire.... We are equally
guilty.” He looked up, then slowly extended his right hand. “Brother?”

“Brother,” said Eragon.

He gripped Roran’s forearm, and they pulled each other into a rough
embrace, wrestling to and fro as they used to do at home. When they
separated, Eragon had to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Galbatorix
should surrender now that we’re together again,” he joked. “Who
can stand against the two of us?” He lowered himself back onto the bedding.
“Now you tell me, how did the Ra’zac capture Katrina?”

All happiness vanished from Roran’s face. He began to speak in a low
monotone, and Eragon listened with growing amazement as he wove an
epic of attacks, sieges, and betrayal, of leaving Carvahall, crossing the
Spine, and razing the docks of Teirm, of sailing through a monstrous
whirlpool.

When at last he finished, Eragon said, “You are a greater man than I. I
couldn’t have done half those things. Fight, yes, but not convince everyone
to follow me.”

“I had no choice. When they took Katrina—” Roran’s voice broke. “I
could either give up and die, or I could try to escape Galbatorix’s trap, no
matter the cost.” He fixed his burning eyes on Eragon. “I have lied and
burned and slaughtered to get here. I no longer have to worry about protecting
everyone from Carvahall; the Varden will see to that. Now I have
only one goal in life, to find and rescue Katrina, if she’s not already dead.
Will you help me, Eragon?”

Reaching over, Eragon grabbed his saddlebags from the corner of the
tent—where the Varden had deposited them—and removed a wooden
bowl and the silver flask of enchanted faelnirv Oromis had given him. He
took a small sip of the liqueur to revitalize himself and gasped as it raced
down his throat, making his nerves tingle with cold fire. Then he poured
faelnirv into the bowl until it formed a shallow pool the width of his
hand.

“Watch.” Gathering up his burst of new energy, Eragon said, “Draumr
kópa.”

620



The liqueur shimmered and turned black. After a few seconds, a thin
key of light appeared in the center of the bowl, revealing Katrina. She lay
slumped against an invisible wall, her hands suspended above her with
invisible manacles and her copper hair splayed like a fan across her back.

“She’s alive!” Roran hunched over the bowl, grasping at it as if he
thought he could dive through the faelnirv and join Katrina. His hope
and determination melded with a look of such tender affection, Eragon
knew that only death could stop Roran from trying to free her.

Unable to sustain the spell any longer, Eragon let the image fade away.
He leaned against the wall of the tent for support. “Aye,” he said wearily,
“she’s alive. And chances are, she’s imprisoned in Helgrind, in the Ra’zac’s
lair.” Eragon grasped Roran by the shoulders. “The answer to your question,
brother, is yes. I will travel to Dras-Leona with you. I will help you
rescue Katrina. And then, together, you and I shall kill the Ra’zac and
avenge our father.”

END OF BOOK TWO


THE STORY WILL CONTINUE IN
BOOK THREE OF INHERITANCE


621



PRONUNCIATION GUIDE AND GLOSSARY


ON THE ORIGIN OF NAMES:

To the casual observer, the various names an intrepid traveler will encounter
throughout Alagaësia might seem but a random collection of labels
with no inherent integrity, culture, or history. However, as with any
land that has been repeatedly colonized by different cultures—and in this
case, different races—Alagaësia quickly accumulated layers of names
from the elves, dwarves, humans, and even Urgals. Thus, we can have
Palancar Valley (a human name), the Anora River and Ristvak’baen
(elven names), and Utgard Mountain (a dwarf name) all within a few
square miles of each other.

While this is of great historical interest, practically it often leads to confusion
as to the correct pronunciation. Unfortunately, there are no set
rules for the neophyte. Each name must be learned upon its own terms,
unless you can immediately place its language of origin. The matter grows
even more confusing when you realize that in many places the spelling
and pronunciation of foreign words were altered by the resident population
to conform to their own language. The Anora River is a prime example.
Originally anora was spelled äenora, which means broad in the
ancient language. In their writings, the humans simplified the word to
anora, and this, combined with a vowel shift wherein äe (ay-eh) was said
as the easier a (uh), created the name as it appears in Eragon’s time.

To spare readers as much difficulty as possible, the following list is
provided, with the understanding that these are only rough guidelines to
the actual pronunciation. The enthusiast is encouraged to study the
source languages in order to master their true intricacies.

PRONUNCIATION:

Aiedail — AY-uh-dale

Ajihad — AH-zhi-hod

Alagaësia — al-uh-GAY-zee-uh

Arya — AR-ee-uh

Carvahall — CAR-vuh-hall

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Dras-Leona — DRAHS lee-OH-nuh
Du Weldenvarden — doo WELL-den-VAR-den
Ellesméra — el-uhs-MEER-uh
Eragon — EHR-uh-gahn
Farthen Dûr — FAR-then DURE (dure rhymes with lure )
Galbatorix — gal-buh-TOR-icks
Gil’ead — GILL-ee-id
Glaedr — GLAY-dur
Hrothgar — HROTH-gar
Islanzadí — iss-lan-ZAH-dee
Jeod — JODE (rhymes with code )
Murtagh — MUR-tag (mur rhymes with purr )
Nasuada — nah-SOO-ah-dah
Nolfavrell — NOLL-fah-vrel (noll rhymes with toll )
Oromis — OR-uh-miss
Ra’zac — RAA-zack
Saphira — suh-FEAR-uh
Shruikan — SHREW-kin
Sílthrim — SEAL-thrim (síl is a hard sound to transcribe; it’s made by

flicking the tip of the tongue off the roof of the mouth.)
Teirm — TEERM
Trianna — TREE-ah-nuh

623



Tronjheim — TRONJ-heem
Urû’baen — OO-roo-bane
Vrael — VRAIL
Yazuac — YAA-zoo-ack
Zar’roc — ZAR-rock

THE ANCIENT LANGUAGE:
adurna — water
Agaetí Blödhren — Blood-oath Celebration
Aiedail — The Morning Star
Argetlam — Silver Hand
Atra esterní ono thelduin/Mor’ranr lífa unin hjarta onr/Un du evarínya

ono varda. — May good fortune rule over you/Peace live in your

heart/And the stars watch over you.
Atra guliä un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waíse skölir fra rauthr. — May
luck and happiness follow you and may you be a shield from misfortune.


Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya. — Let us be warded from listeners.
Bjartskular — Brightscales
blöthr — halt; stop
Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un eka! — Reduce the magic that

holds Saphira and me!
brisingr — fire
Dagshelgr — Hallowed Day
draumr kópa — dream stare

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Du Fells Nángoröth — The Blasted Mountains
Du Fyrn Skulblaka — The Dragon War
Du Völlar Eldrvarya — The Burning Plains
Du Vrangr Gata — The Wandering Path
Du Weldenvarden — The Guarding Forest
dvergar — dwarves
ebrithil — master
edur — a tor or prominence
Eka fricai un Shur’tugal. — I am a Rider and friend.
elda — a gender-neutral honorific of great praise
Eyddr eyreya onr! — Empty your ears!
fairth — a picture taken by magical means
finiarel — an honorific for a young man of great promise
Fricai Andlát — death friend (a poisonous mushroom)
Gala O Wyrda brunhvitr/Abr Berundal vandr-fódhr/Burthro laufsblädar

ekar undir/Eom kona dauthleikr... — Sing O white-browed Fate/Of ill-
marked Berundal/Born under oaken leaves/To mortal woman...
gánga aptr — to go backward
gánga fram — to go forward
Gath sem oro un lam iet. — Unite that arrow with my hand.
gedwëy ignasia — shining palm
Gëuloth du knífr. — Dull the knife.
haldthin — thornapple

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Helgrind — The Gates of Death
hlaupa — run
hljödhr — silent
jierda — break; hit
kodthr — catch
Kvetha Fricai. — Greetings, Friend.
lethrblaka — a bat; the Ra’zac’s mounts (literally, leather-flapper)
letta — stop
Letta orya thorna! — Stop those arrows!
Liduen Kvaedhí — Poetic Script
Losna kalfya iet. — Release my calves.
malthinae — to bind or hold in place; confine
nalgask — a mixture of beeswax and hazelnut oil used to moisten the


skin
Osthato Chetowä — the Mourning Sage
Reisa du adurna. — Raise/Lift the water.
rïsa — rise
Sé mor’ranr ono finna. — May you find peace.
Sé onr sverdar sitja hvass! — May your swords stay sharp!
Sé orúm thornessa hávr sharjalví lífs. — May this serpent have life’s


movement.
skölir — shield
Skölir nosu fra brisingr! — Shield us from fire!


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sköliro — shielded
skulblaka — dragon (literally, scale-flapper)
Stydja unin mor’ranr, Hrothgar Könungr. — Rest in peace, King Hroth


gar.
svit-kona — a formal honorific for an elf woman of great wisdom
thrysta — thrust; compress
Thrysta vindr. — Compress the air.
Togira Ikonoka — the Cripple Who Is Whole
the Varden — the Warders
Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal. — Upon my word as a Rider.
Vinr Älfakyn — Elf Friend
vodhr — a male honorific of middling praise
vor — a male honorific for a close friend
Waíse heill. — Be healed.
Wiol ono. — For you.
wyrda — fate
Wyrdfell — elven name for the Forsworn
yawë — a bond of trust
zar’roc — misery

THE DWARF LANGUAGE:

Akh sartos oen dûrgrimst! — For family and clan!

Ascûdgamln — fists of steel

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Astim Hefthyn — Sight Guard (inscription on a necklace given to Eragon)
Az Ragni — The River
Az Sweldn rak Anhûin — The Tears of Anhûin
Azt jok jordn rast. — Then you may pass.
barzûl — to curse someone with ill fate
Barzûl knurlar! — Curse them!
barzûln — to curse someone with multiple misfortunes
Beor — cave bear (elf word)
dûrgrimst — clan (literally, our hall/home)
eta — no
Etzil nithgech! — Stop there!
Farthen Dûr — Our Father

Feldûnost — frostbeard (a species of goat native to the Beor Mountains)
Formv Hrethcarach... formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tar-
nag, dûr encesti rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzûlegûr dûr dûrgrimst, Az
Sweldn rak Anhûin, môgh tor rak Jurgenvren? Né ûdim etal os rast knurlag.
Knurlag ana... — This Shadeslayer... this Dragon Rider has no place in
Tarnag, our holiest of cities! Do you forget the curse our clan, The Tears
of Anhûin, bears from the Dragon War? We will not let him pass. He is...

grimstborith — clan chief
grimstcarvlorss — arranger of the house
Gûntera Arûna — Gûntera Bless
Hert dûrgrimst? Fild rastn? — What clan? Who passes?
hírna — likeness; statue

628



hûthvir — double-bladed staff weapon used by Dûrgrimst Quan
Ignh az voth! — Bring the food!
IIf gauhnith. — A peculiar dwarf expression that means “It is safe and

good.” Commonly uttered by the host of a meal, it is a holdover from
days when poisoning of guests was prevalent among the clans.
Ingeitum — fire workers; smiths
Isidar Mithrim — Star Rose
Jok is frekk dûrgrimstvren? — Do you want a clan war?
knurl — stone; rock

knurla — dwarf (literally, one of stone)
Knurlag qana qirânû Dûrgrimst Ingeitum! Qarzûl ana Hrothgar oen
volfild — He was made a member of Clan Ingeitum! Cursed is Hrothgar
and all who—


knurlagn — men
Knurlhiem — Stonehead
Knurlnien — Heart of Stone
Nagra — giant boar, native to the Beor Mountains
oeí — yes; affirmative
Orik Thrifkz menthiv oen Hrethcarach Eragon rak Dûrgrimst Ingeitum.

Wharn, az vanyali-carharûg Arya. Né oc Ûndinz grimstbelardn. — Orik,
Thrifk’s son, and Shadeslayer Eragon of Clan Ingeitum. Also, the elf-
courier Arya. We are Ûndin’s hall-guests.

Os il dom qirânû carn dûr thargen, zeitmen, oen grimst vor formv edaris
rak skilfz. Narho is belgond... — Let our flesh, honor, and hall be made as
one by this blood of mine. I do pledge...

otho — faith

629



Ragni Hefthyn — River Guard
Shrrg — giant wolf, native to the Beor Mountains
Smer voth. — Serve the food.
Tronjheim — Helm of Giants
Urzhad — cave bear
vanyali — elf (The dwarves borrowed this word from the ancient lan


guage, wherein it means magic. )
Vor Hrothgarz korda! — By Hrothgar’s hammer!
vrron — enough
werg — an exclamation of disgust (the dwarves’ equivalent of ugh )


THE URGAL LANGUAGE:

Ahgrat ukmar. — It is done.

drajl — spawn of maggots

nar — a gender-neutral title of great respect